Guiding Through My Language

Today Dominick had to take an examination for his teaching certification. He's been working as a paraprofessional while he completes the necessary coursework for his license. If he passes, it's not the end: There are others, for teaching generally and for his specialty, which is Special Education, that he will have to pass. And, if I'm not mistaken, he'll have yet another exam to take for his specialty within Special Ed: working with physically handicapped children. (SE also includes kids with learning disabilities, which some of his pupils also have, and emotional development defecits.) He has my respect and admiration for working with such needy kids.

Anyway, he had to go to Brooklyn to take the test. He was on his way there when I called him on his cell phone. When he told me Bishop Kearney High School, I knew exactly where he had to go. And when he told me he was at Flatbush and Nostrand Avenues, I could tell him exactly how to get there. After all, Bishop Kearney is only a few blocks from where I grew up, and Flatbush and Nostrand is where I studied with Allen Ginsburg while working on my MFA.

He said I gave even better directions than his GPS system. Of course, I said: I know that area as well as I know any place. A few blocks from Kearney are the apartment where my family and I lived until we moved to a house a few more blocks away when I was eight years old. Very often, in my dreams, I end up in places that look like that apartment, that house and those streets, at least as I remember them.

I am shedding tears now, as I did when Dominick asked how I knew that neighborhood so well. "The houses are nice, just like you said they were!," he exclaimed. "Like I remember them," I said.

"Yes."

"It used to be an Italian neighborhood. Around there, a lot of Hasidic Jews live now."

"Yeah, I saw some."

I have to admit, that made me a little sadder. Not because they're Jews, or Hasidim specifically. Rather, I think, it's for the same reasons people lament changes in the places to which they return in their dreams, in their memories: Whoever comes in cannot see the place in the same way as those who left, for whatever reasons, and those who followed them, whether or not by choice. Even if they share your tongue, they cannot feel the same way about the stories, jokes, confidences, impressions or any other communication you shared with the people who shared that time and place with you. It's not that they're obtuse or stupid; they simply don't share your references, as the academics would say.

I'm reminded of this from Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young:

There is a town in north Ontario,
With dream comfort memory to spare,
And in my mind I still need a place to go,
All my changes were there.

Blue, blue windows behind the stars,
Yellow moon on the rise,
Big birds flying across the sky,
Throwing shadows on our eyes.
Leave us

Helpless, helpless, helpless

Baby can you hear me now?
The chains are locked
and tied across the door,
Baby, sing with me somehow.

Blue, blue windows behind the stars,
Yellow moon on the rise,
Big birds flying across the sky,
Throwing shadows on our eyes.
Leave us

Helpless, helpless, helpless.



Just about anybody who's ever lost a loved one--or more precisely, remembers how it felt--can understand, at least a little, what I'm saying, what that song is saying. It doesn't matter whether your spouse died or left you--or that you left--there are things you said to each other that you can't say ever again because they would not make sense to anyone else. One could say the same about other family members, friends or even classmates or former coworkers.

I recall now the time I visited Jay, my now-former friend who's been living in France for close to two decades. At the time of the visit, he'd been married to his French wife for a year, if I recall correctly, and he'd been living in France for four or five years. And he was feeling--not homesick, he said, for he'd come to feel that America was "insane"--but a longing for someone who understood his language, if you will. Speaking French wasn't a problem: I wished, and still wish, I could speak it as well as he did. The problem was meeting someone who knew what he meant when he said. "Woody Allen is a dick." (This was not long after the scandal with his daughter.) Even if he could render it into French, it still wouldn't resonate for them in the way the English original struck his fellow American.

Now that's got me to thinking about what language I might lose in my transition to womanhood. Of course, I could never tell some of the jokes I told and heard when I was Nick, or even say the same words of encouragement (when I could muster them) I might've said to a male co-worker, bike buddy or other companion in some activity or another. If I were to say them now, no man would take them in the same way as they might've back when I was in boy-drag. And, of course, they wouldn't make any sense--or they'd simply be offensive--to another woman.

The other day, one of my students told me her boyfriend, the father of her child, had been cheating on her. She broke down in tears; at that moment, any advice I could've given would have been pointless; all she really wanted and needed was my shoulder. I gave it to her, and she thanked me, but somehow I felt deficient: I just knew there was something one of her female friends could have said or could have done for her, and I had no clue to what it was. Even the hug I gave her, I later thought, couldn't have communicated something she could have gotten from one of "the girls," as we say.

In other words, I felt that somehow my knowledge of her language, and that of my newly-adopted nation, if you will, wasn't as strong as I thought it was.

Well, at least I knew then why she missed a few classes and when I saw her last week, she looked as if she were about to have a nervous breakdown.

She asked me if I'd ever been cheated on. Yes, I said. And what did I do, she wondered. I dumped that person. She didn't want to hear that. But, I continued, that wasn't necessarily what she should do, especially if she wants to keep, or even see, her child. So, she replied, yes, she wants to talk to her boyfriend. I advised her not to do it alone: Bring a friend, mediator or someone with you, I advised.

Now there's an example of trying to speak a new language and guiding someone through territory that I once knew, albeit in a very different way from the way she now knows it. And I was calling on a language I used to speak every day, if you will, in guiding Dominick through a place he didn't know. I'm still learning the language of doing that.

Space Entitlement

I still recall the first time a man tried to give me his seat on the subway. And I refused. I would learn that it was a dead-giveaway (as if I needed one) that I was still en femme, not anywhere near living as I am now.

And then I think of the times I offered my seat to infirm or handicapped men. Just about all of them politely refuse. Then there was that old man with a cane who boarded a dolmus near Ephesus, Turkey. I'd rested my bag on the seat next to mine; when the man boarded the bus, I lifted it and motioned toward him. "Bey! Geceler!": Sir, come and sit here.

The ticket attendant/conductor explained that the man understood what I said. But, he added, the man was a Muslim fundamentalist, so he couldn't sit with a woman. And, even if I got up and moved my bag after, the man couldn't sit by me because in the rows in front of me sat a woman--and her husband. Ditto for the row in back of us.

Today on the bus, a black woman who was probably my age, give or take, got out of her seat and motioned for me to sit. I hesitated; she insisted without saying a word. To tell you the truth, I was glad to sit because my shoulder bag was full of papers and other things.

I've always been a klutz with etiquette. Sometimes I think I have a gene that makes me as incapable of it as I am of charm. I mean, if you know me, you'd have some idea of how many socially unacceptable things I've done.

Did I do the right, or socially acceptable, thing in taking that woman's seat? Somehow I figured she has a harder life than mine so she should have the seat. I know, I was making a lot of assumptions in that moment. But I really don't want to take something from someone who needs or deserves something more than I do.

It's really strange: As a man, I had--as nearly all men do--a sense of entitlement about my space. Females would step aside or squeeze around me on narrow sidewalks and other public venues. And, when they sat next to me on trains, buses or in other public venues, they'd pull invisible strait jackets around their arms and knees. I made no effort to claim the space; it was ceded to me.

Now, I wasn't one of those guys who sat with his legs as far apart as he could spread them while pregnant women and old men with canes practically folded into each other like parts of an accordion. Actually, I was too ornery to be truly obnoxious; then again, if you're ornery, you don't need to be obnoxious. (What did I just say?) So I kept my knees close to each other, not out of courtesy, but to avoid counter-transgression: By keeping out of their space, I kept them out of mine.


And I notice now that there is a sort of inverse entitlement: When I am offered a seat or space, I am expected to take it--because a man offered it to me. The same when a man opens a door for me: He seems to expect that I will pass in front of him and can't understand how it could be any other way. I'm not complaining about this; in fact, I rather enjoy it. But, I'm realizing now that such courtesies as men afford come from their sense of entitlement. In other words, because taking that space is their prerogative, they also have the option of giving it to me, a middle-aged (or getting there) woman.

So this leads me to another dilemma: On one hand, I respect, and am even thankful for, such men. After all, if they're giving me their seats, they're probably not the sort who would only give up their seats to women if they're young and pretty enough. Such men most likely rise for pregnant and infirm women, or those who are toting babies and small children.

And I find that, for the most part, those men are either older or darker than I am. The Latino men, I've found, are most accomodating in this way; American black men and their brethren from Africa, the Middle East and South Asia and the Caribbean also extend such quotidien chivalries. As I mentioned, men over forty are more likely to give up their space than those younger, but in all of the groups of men I've mentioned, I've received such treatment from adolescent boys as well.

But a woman giving me her seat: Now what do I make of that?

Quand Sera-ce Fini?

Nothing let up today. The rain, for one thing. But also the incessant demands, some of them rational, others capricious, imperious and puerile at the same time. It's as if everyone in the world suddenly realizes the semester is about to end and wants you to save their rear ends. I'm not talking only about students: If anything, I've probably had fewer procrastinators this semester in spite of the fact that I've been teaching many more students. I'm talking about some faculty members and administrators who tell you that they have a deadline for something or another and want you to help them make it.

And then there are all the papers I have to read. Just when I think I've made a dent in the pile of papers, I turn around, and when I turn back, there are even more papers than there were before I started reading. In a perverse way, I feel like I'm enacting the Sorcerer's Apprentice scene from Fantasia: the one where the brooms multiply.

As much as I love writing and literature, I tell people that if they want to teach, they should do Phys Ed classes. I mean, what does a gym teacher bring home with him or her? And how much preparation does it take to lead a class in calisthentics or a game? One of my high-school gym teachers was an alcoholic who just let people do what they wanted: a fine thing to do with a bunch of boys who are geysers of hormones.

So I have scarcely seen daylight, much less sunlight, for the past two weeks or so. And I have been no other places but the college and my apartment, where I seem only to read papers or sleep when I can. I'm getting old and fat and I'm always tired.

I know this will let up in a couple of weeks. But, really, when you have no contact with anything else but whatever you have to do in the moment, that moment seems like forever. I feel the way that Theresa must have felt when she wrote, "Sometimes I think the rain will never end." Imagine that, from an eleven-year-old kid. Then again, she came from one of those homes where life was nothing but the present: an extended version of the present moment. I realize now that lots of people live that way, some by choice, others (like Theresa) because they don't have any other choice and still more who probably just don't know any other way.

Yes, I know the rain will end, eventually. But I want it now. That, and the surgery and whatever follows.

In Another Year

Tonight I met with one of my classes for the last time. Some of them might remember the class, or remember me, in another year.

In another year they will mourn you...The poet Thomas McGrath wrote that about a soldier killed in Korea. Well, I don't think that anyone in that class has anything to mourn. For some, they're one step closer to graduating or attaining what other goals they had. Maybe if someone gets a grade that brings down his or her GPA...Then again, that person wouldn't be mourning. He or she would be too pissed for that.

In another year they will grieve. You don't pass a certain age without grieving something. And what am I grieving? That at work, I'm being pulled in a direction I never wanted to go.

Today I talked briefly with my department chair about the course on hip-hop and poetry I'm scheduled to teach next semester. She mentioned, among other things, the possibility of writing an article or even a book from that course.

Just what I need: Something else to take me away from my own writing. And away from friends, bike riding, reading for pleasure and almost anything that has mattered for me.

And so I can do what? Well, for all the work that book or article would take, it's not going to get me tenure. Then again, I'm not thrilled about the idea of becoming a professor. I'm full-time this year, and I'm supposed to introduce myself and sign my communications as "Professor Valinotti." I still don't like being called "Professor." I much prefer having a name.

So I'm being called "professor" and I might actually become one. Up to now, I've been--at least for a few students--a guide, teacher, and on occaI'sion, something like a role model. Or so I'm told. Students sometimes tell me I'm "different" from their other instructors. I'm not quite sure of what they mean by that.

One way I know I'm different: I'm not a scholar. Yes, I've studied a few things, but I could never study to the exclusion of everything else. Or focus in on some arcane area, like the role of duels in 19th Century literature (Yes, I knew of someone who was writing his dissertation on that!). My reading follows my inclination and whims; I have never done it in a systematic way so I could grind an axe. And I can't talk--or hear someone else talking--nonstop about something really arcane. The most boring thing I ever did was to attend an academic conference.

I'm a writer, an artist, who makes her living in the classroom. I don't want to be pulled into being a critic/scholar, who by definition is a failure. I mean, no one ever chooses to become one; one ends up as one by failing at whatever he or she is talking about.

So why will I miss those students I saw tonight? Well, if nothing else, I had the opportunity to help them become whatever they want to be. Not bad work, really. I just don't want to become one of those profs who destroy whatever creativity they had (if they had any) by picking on writers who did what they couldn't do.

School Sucks

Another crazy, busy Tuesday after an all-nighter at the college. Lately it seems that my every waking hour is spent at the college, or doing things related to, or for the sake of, my job at the college.

I've hardly done any bike riding lately and worry that I'm gaining the weight that I lost in the fall. If I get to see Dominick once a week, I'm lucky. Even Mildred, who lives right across the street, doesn't see much of me.

I wish I could see more of them, of Bruce, of Nina, of Regina and my parents: anyone with whom I don't have to discuss work! Needless to say, I'd love to read something that's not some convoluted collection of minutiae or any other collection of words that would not be listened to, much less taken seriously, were it in any other environment.

What Did They Notice?

Someone must have noticed. How could they not? We were sitting around a table in a conference room, and I was at one end.

And what was I doing while my fellow committee members were deciding on the fate of classes, acasemic departments, this college, the state of higher education and the epistomological ramifications of our telelogical contretemps? (What did I just say?) Was I contributing in any meaningful way? Was I dutifully taking notes? Or was I even giving moral support to my fellow committee members? (As if I could do anything moral or they would want to be supported by me!)

Well, the answers to that string of inane rhetorical questions are, working backward: no, no, no and....OK, should I tell you?

While they were debating the very structure of every student's curriculum, I was nodding off. Yes, I was fighting a valiant yet in-vain effort to keep my eyes open and head upright, much less to say anything meaningful and germane. I know I actually did doze off for a minute or two. And I think at least a couple of the other members saw, but pretended not to notice. They remind me of some former neigbors years ago upon seeing me in women's clothes for the first time.

So why was I nodding off? Well, I guess I was turning into a bear today: It's unseasonably cold, and I just want to curl up, and for my cats to curl up with me. And, let's face it, most meetings are rather boring, especially when people argue over minutiae. Maybe my volunteering for that committee wasn't such a hot idea after all. I could've been doing my required service to the department or college in some other way. I could've been planning parties, collecting money or some other such thing. But, no, I had to throw myself into what most people would regard as the most important committee in an academic department. I guess you could say I simply found another way to be egotistical. Oh well.

I could also say that my department chair nudged me into it. When someone doesn't have authority over you, it's a suggestion. But when your boss says, "I think it would be a good idea for you to...," well. that's another story.


One thing I'll never be is a policy wonk. I discovered that when I was more actively involved in advocacy for the LGBT community. I also learned just how politically inept I am: I inadvertently got myself caught in the cross-fire between people who are even more opinionated than I am.

The latter hasn't happened on this job, at least not yet. But there is another parallel between my current situation and my days of advocacy: For whatever reasons, some people wanted to give me responsibilities, interesting work that requires creativity and opportunities to interact with people who have influence. I got my current job, really, by decree; I hadn't even asked for it. But I sense now that some--including two faculty members who were at that table--resent me for it. I didn't take anything away from them, so I don't know why they feel that way. They probably think I played a card or two, while they had to slave away in PhD programs. And they most likely believe that I don't belong on that committee. Perhaps I don't, but not for the reasons they think.

And now I'm scheduled to teach a class that I proposed. I can feel the resentment, or at least disdain, of those two faculty members, as well as a few other people. They think I don't deserve to do that, just as I don't belong on my current job or have any business being on that committee.

One thing that I learned while advocating for the community, and that my experience of this college underscores, is that when people are around people who differ from themselves, it doesn't necessarily make them more open or tolerant. Rather than accepting people who've suffered and learned, they decide that someone who hasn't suffered in the same ways, and learned the same things. as they've experienced are not worthy of their consideration. Really, they're not so different from a smug, haughty young woman who puffed that I can't be a real woman because I'm not capable of conceiving children. Or Elizabeth, once my closest friend, who denied my membership in her gender because I haven't had a period or I am "too egotistical." (That, from someone who wants you to sit rapt with attention when she whines about getting hurt in the same ways, by the same sort of men, as she did 25 years ago!)

Then again, she knows what she's talking about. After all, she got her PhD in Gender Studies. Now there's an incentive to further my education, or rather, my schooling.

And I'm nodding off again. Pretend you didn't notice. Thanks! You made this girl's day (night, actually)!

Seven Months to the 7th

Seven months from today....Seven months....Seven months...

The countdown continues. I can't believe it's been five months since I started this blog. Or that it's only another month to yet another milestone in the countdown.

And what kind of a countdown is this? I've used the word "milestone," which makes sense. After all, I'm on a journey. My destination is getting closer; I want the miles to go even faster. Which they probably will. Yet they seem interminable, in part because I'm anxious to get to where I'm going, but also because it's someplace new. I think now of the first long trip my family took together, to Lake George, Montreal and Niagara Falls. I had heard of all of those places, and seen a few photos, but I still could just barely imagine them. So, they were abstractions in the same way as anything else we know only through pictures.

And those signs along the way: Lake George 56. Montreal 347. (I don't remember the exact numbers now.) I'd see the signs, and the mileage markers on the sides of the highways. Mile 257, or whatever. I could look and see how far we'd gone, and how far we had to go. And I had an idea, a conceptualization, of where we were going, although I didn't know what it was like.

I guess the operation, and my life afterward, are sort of like that. I know what the operation is and why I've always wanted it. And I have a vision of the sort of life I'd like to have after the operation. I'm sure that much will be different from what I anticipate: Isn't that always the case when we try to predict the future? The time I have lived as Justine has varied, in many ways, from my what I imagined it would be like: What I have lost and what I have gained were not what I anticipated. But it's also been much, much more joyful--and fulfilling--a time than I ever imagined it would be.

And it's gone by more quickly. I know that time goes faster when you get older. But I think this isn't just a matter of age: I feel I learned, through necessity and choice, so much that I might not have ever learned, and more than I learned in the thirty or even forty years before I started my transition.

I want the time to keep on flying. Before I know it, I'll be at the six-month marker: half a year. Intellectually, I know that that date will be no more significant than any other, though I may feel something I'm not imagining right now. Will it feel like reaching some milestone birthday, as I did this year? Or will it be like a turn from which the road begins a long straightaway, climb toward the clouds or descent toward the sea?

Seven months till surgery...at least it's not forty years of depression, which is what I expereinced before my transition. If I were still depressed, I wouldn't have scheduled the surgery and had that, or anything else, to look forward to. And I wouldn't laugh or cry just because. Isn't it ironic that I almost never cried during all those years of depression? But I almost never smiled, either. For me, both have become bodily functions: I can actually feel poisons being released from my body when I shed tears or shake with laughter.

And I wouldn't be counting down, either. Seven months...I'll be there, from where I am now.

The Bears

For the last couple of months, it seems that everyone's been talking about the economy. It's not just public figures, either: It seems that everywhere you go, someone's talking about his or her own, or someone else's, layoff, foreclosure, bankruptcy or some such thing. Sometimes I think even Buddhist monks on mountaintops in Nepal are talking about derivatives and adjustable-rate mortgages.

A time like this one is usually referred to as a "bear" market. I can understand why: It's as if the world is retreating grumpily. A lot of people looked that way today, even the ones walking down Broadway and toting full holiday shopping bags from boutiques and department stores. Do they feel guilt? Are they shopping to keep up appearances? Or are they simply worn down by the relative lack of festivity that seems to be the tone for this holiday season?

Now, I'm not the most festive person at Christmastime. I'm not unhappy; indeed, I have much to look forward to in the upcoming holidays and, I anticipate and hope, later. This Christmas will be the first I spend with any of my family since I started my transition. I hope that we can bring each other as much, or even more, happiness than we did during my August visit--my first since "coming out." Mom says my visit seemed to lift Dad out of a bit of a depression. Imagine that: Me, making my father happy. Now you know why, in spite of my lack of religiosity, I still believe in miracles.

Well, OK, I'm overstating things a bit. Somehow I knew that he had it in him to accept me for who I am, though I am still surprised to the degree to which he's done that. And Mom--well, she always knew that what I needed wasn't always what other people wanted from, or hoped for, me. And she's spoken up for me to a brother and others who won't speak to me. So it was never a question of whether she loved, or would accept, me.

Which leads me to wonder...All of those cheerless, shell-shocked and world-weary people I've been seeing: When weren't they that way? Of course, as I've never seen most of them before (and probably never will), if I hold any image of them in my mind, it will be of the moue so many of them wore. But I also know--or, at least I can fairly safely assume--that a few months, maybe even only a few days, ago some, if not most, of them were not as I saw them today. Were they among those people who looked ahead and saw nothing but unending progress, or at least increases in the agreed-upon values of whatever they owned? Were they not worried about jobs, families or those other things they hold, and that hold them, together?

So many of the people I saw today looked as if they were ready to retreat into caves and wait this--or something else--out. I noticed it this week at school, too. Of course, the semester is nearing its end. And the cold weather and gray skies we've had almost without interruption can make anybody drowsy, no matter how much he or she imbibes at Starbuck's (assuming, of course, he or she can still afford it).

When I was a kid and I saw all those photos of the 1929 stock market crash and the Depression, it seemed as if skies were always gray, or graying. As I have some imagination and knowledge of photography, I don't think it's only because of those black-and-white images. Of course, I'm sure that the mood of the times influenced photographers to shoot and edit in a way that reflected the way things felt, much as Picasso had his "blue" period.

Still, I wonder--against what my intellect tells--whether the weather induced a bearish mood in investors as well as other people. Or whether people were unhappy. Then again, that time is called "The Depression," isn't it?

Does this mean I am suffering from extreme cognitive dissonance for looking ahead and feeling optimistic, at least about some things (beginning with my planned visit and surgery)? Minds much greater than mine, such as Randy Pausch, have said that sometimes a little cognitive dissonance isn't such a bad thing.

Happy as I am, I have to admit that after running some errands and having lunch, I felt sleepy this afternoon. On the other hand, I have had to catch up on my sleep on other Saturdays this semester, so I guess that doesn't mean anything.

I don't want to forget how to empathise. But, even though the thought of hibernation on cold, gray, wet days is appealing, I really don't want to be a bear. I was one for too long.

The Doctors

Another trip to the doctor's today. It seems that everywhere I go, I'm around doctors.

Of course, today I went to a "real" doctor for some testing. I say "real" in homage to something Jimmy, the owner/bartender of a place I used to frequent back in the day, used to say, "If he can't take our yer appendix, he ain't a doktuh."

The "real" doctor is part of the practice at Callen-Lorde, where my regular doctor practices. Today I went to be tested for STDs as well as Hepatitis A, B and C. I'm negative for HIV/AIDS and STDs. (That's because I'm such a goood girl!;-) Just ask Dominick. ) They'll know about Hep when they get the lab results. And I'll have to go for those same tests again as the date for my surgery grows nearer.

More testing. You'd think I was in school or something.

OK, so I am. Except this time I'm on the other end of the classroom. Karma is funny that way. I was once a student who dreaded, or was bored by, most of my teachers and profs. And now I'm that same object of fear and disdain--for some students, anyway.

I also think now of how, as a student, and throughout my life as a man, I dated women who were, with two exceptions, older than I was. And now I'm the older woman.

Does that mean that if I'm a patient for long enough, or if I'm a bad enough patient, I'll become a doctor, too? Of course that's a joke; I realized long ago that I don't have the temprament or aptitude for such things, or even for all the science courses I'd have to take.

These days, when I'm not around MDs, I'm around the other kind of doctor: the kind who can't take out your appendix. Of course, I'm talking about PhDs. The professors and administrators in question have earned them in all kinds of subjects: from English all the way to specialties of which I'm not aware.

And then there are the "Ed" doctorates. They've earned Doctorates in Education, which are called EdD's rather than PhD's. How they're different, I don't know. But I know this: No one is more adamant about being called "Doctor" than an Ed Doctorate.

At one time, I thought about going for a PhD. I went so far as to retake the GRE and to send out applications. Every one of them resulted in a rejection. I haven't subjected myself to that process again because, well, I only wanted the PhD for career reasons. At this point in my life, I don't think it will matter: If you want to become one of those professors who become monuments on campus, you have to start when you're young.

Plus, my two now-former friends are both PhDs. Each of them met my transition with a lot of verbiage that was both puerile and opaque, as so much of academic discourse is. And then they decided they didn't want me as a friend anymore. One has a PhD in Gender Studies (actually, Comparative Literature with a specialty in that area), the other's degree is in clinical psychology. So, as you can imagine, I'm not as impressed by such credentials as I once was.

Maybe that's all part of my karma, too. When I was young, I flaunted my reading and education--what little I had--totally convinced that I knew more than everyone else. Of course I do, but these days I don't say it out loud! And I also believed--as I still believe, in some way--that people become teachers and professors because they've failed at other things. I used to think there was nothing more pathetic than someone who grew up wanting to spend the rest of his or her life in school buildings.

Well, guess what? I'm teaching because I've never been able to sustain a living as a writer, and even when I accomplished other tasks in other jobs I've had, I never felt like I was successful. And I still don't feel that I'm a particularly good teacher, and I know I'm not meant to be a scholar. I mean, I'm having a hard enough time filling in the blanks for the course I'm scheduled to teach next semester: the one for which I was stupid enough to write a proposal.

I guess there are some tasks you have to leave to doctors. And I'm not one.

The Cold: Opening

I know the weather has been growing colder; that is the way at this time of year. But I cannot ever recall feeling cold, so much of the time, as I have for the past few days.

For the past month or so, I've been spending practically all of my waking hours--and I've stayed a few nights--at the college. All summer, it was cold inside the main building, where I was working. It seems that the air conditioner has only one setting, and once it's turned on (some time in June), it can't be turned off until October. And, it seems, during the three winters that I've been there, it was usually too warm. Maybe it will overheat again. But for now, I wrap myself in a shawl as I work in my office, stand at the front of a classroom or navigate the hallways.

For a long time, I've noticed that women are more likely to complain that it's too cold, while it's usually the men who complain about the heat. I'd always suspected that it had to do with hormones, biochemistry or some other innate physical characterisitic.

Before I began to take hormones, I learned, from various accounts, that in time I could start to feel cold more often than I had previously. I first began to notice that, ironically enough, during my first spring on hormones. The first thaw used to feel like the first heat of summer. But in those April and even May days, I sometimes felt shivers and goosebumps inside the sweaters and jackets I wore. I never knew the hormones would work that quickly!

I guess estrogen is not an insulator. That makes sense, given what I've observed and reported so far. It seems that somehow or another, estrogen removes a layer of skin. I feel the cold; I feel almost everything more than I did as Nick. If that's true, I feel the cold more often for the same reason I can cry or giggle over--well, over no apparent cause. And why I'm also more sensitive to sound and light than I once was.

That also seems to be the reason why women cover themselves more. I rarely see a female coworker without a blazer, some other kind of jacket, a sweater or something else covering her blouse or shirt. It has to do with the cold, but I think it also has to do with being exposed, without a filter between one's self and surroundings.

Now I can actually feel it on my skin when someone's looking at me and I can't see him or her. Somehow I think men (some, anyway) know this and use it to make us crazy. Others terrorize us: They look at the bodies of women as if they're pieces of meat. Even my body.

That, I think is what cold really is: exposure, or at least our vulnerability to it. Along with it, though, comes other kinds of feelings, as I've discovered. That includes the joy that sometimes fills me and flows. It seems that when anyone is drawn to me, that is what they are responding to. People have told me as much. I wouldn't trade them for anything, including not feeling cold again.

Turning and Heading Straight for Womanhood

Another night at the college. Another weekend gone; another Thanksgiving passed.

And another season is just about gone. We've had some pretty wintry weather, but that season isn't quite here yet.

At least I had the holiday and spent it with fine people. Otherwise, it wasn't terribly eventful. Still, I get the feeling that the Thanksgiving weekend that just passed was a turning point of some sort, as other Thanksgiving weekends Awere.

I'm thinking of a few in particular. There was that day after Thanksgiving when I was about fifteen, which I've described in an earlier post. I guess what changed that weekend was that I understood--could articulate to myself--for the first time that I was, and would most likely always be, alone no matter who was present or who reached out to me. How else could I feeel when I knew that the only way I could, or at least knew how to, live was in complete alienation from my true self.

There was the holiday weekend of my freshman year in college. It was the first time since the semester started that I was able to spend more than part of a day with more than one member of my family. (I never imagined, though at times I thought I wanted, that I would go entire years without seeing anyone related to me.) The afternoon before Thanksgiving, I went back to my high school for the only time after my graduation. I could see that in those few months since we got our diplomas, we'd changed. I knew then that I would not be in contact with any of my classmates again, at least not for a very long time.

Then, a few years--a geological age, at that time in my life--later, I remember skinny-dipping with Toni, my girlfriend at the time, in the ocean at Sandy Hook. The day had been mild for that time of year, and the water had not yet turned cold. My grandmother had died not long before; my time living in Paris and my time in school were already fading into the past. Toni was ostensibly attending a hairdressing school, but we were spending most of our days drinking, smoking dope and fucking. Those things could not, at that moment, ameliorate the pain of knowing that I was alone and all I could do--or wanted to do--was more of the same: drink, drugs and sex with someone who probably wanted escape as badly as I did, if for different reasons. The future was not uncertain, I knew it was aimed at me at point-blank range. But I was still trying to dodge it.

Thanksgiving weekend of 1992 saw me near the end of the first semester of my second year of teaching, and a few months away from my master's degree. The previous June, I talked for the first time about the molestation I incurred as a child. One might think I was ready to take life head-on: Not only had I talked about, and sought help for, those childhood traumas, I was clean and sober. So what did I do? I went out with three different women that weekend. I knew that dealing with the molestation wouldn't be my only struggle.

And then there was 2002: my last "as" Nick, and the last I would spend with all of my immediate family, except Mike, and their in-laws. I was going to work as Nick but living the rest of my life as Justine. I knew that situation wouldn't continue for too much longer. Still, I resisted the temptation to "come out" to them then: If anyone had a negative reaction, the others might feed off it, I thought.

And now this year, when I am moving toward integrating myself as the woman I am. Somehow, this weekend, I started to realize that I wasn't leaving an old self or life behind me anymore. That phase has passed; I feel more strongly, somehow, that my life is no longer about having lived as a man, if it ever was. Somehow I had always suspected that being a woman is about not having one's past as a resource, and knowing that one couldn't always live today on yesterday's lessons, if they could be called that.

But at least it's not a descent into isolation: I do have, after all, people who know and love me as a woman, as I know and love them. And myself.

If winter isn't already here, it's coming and whatever the cold kills may be buried under snow. And the season will turn once again.

Cats in the November Rain

This November's ending with rain, again. It hasn't stopped all day, but it didn't show any signs of turning into a torrent. And the temperature was just enough to prevent the rain from turning into snow or sleet.

In other words, if November has to end with precipitation, this is perfect. This kind of cold, steady rain, falling in a sad patter from a gray sky, echoes a lament of, and through, tree limbs just lately laid bare.

The last November of my current life...I suppose this is the way it was supposed to end. That's November: Gone is October's blaze of colors, yet to come--possibly--is snow, which is beautiful, at least until it turns to slush.

If living through the one month of the year that loses whatever adornments the land and the season offer affects me this much, when I'm taking hormones but don't yet to have the anatomy to go with them, what will next November--when, save for those pesky "Y" chromosomes, I'll be "all woman"-- be like?

Dominick says that, really, I'm a woman in mind, body and spirit already. I would certainly say that I'm number three on that list, and possibly number one. But as for my body: Maybe I'm more female than I was before I started this process. Still, I have a ways to go, as they say. And, the truth be told, I always will, in every sense: there is always something else to learn about this person I am becoming because I have always been and wanted to be.

This year is old; sometimes I feel I am, too. An old man, on his way out? An old woman? What a way to start one's life!

On days like this, sometimes I think cats are the smartest living creatures. They curl up and cuddle up to anything that feels soft and warm, physically or psychically. Blankets are prized targets, but the favorites are human bodies. Poor Charlie and Max: They have only one--mine! Two guys, and they have a middle-aged woman with a body like mine!

I used to have another cat named Charlie. A friend of someone in a poetry workshop I took had a cat that had just given birth to kittens. I went to that woman's house, not far from where I grew up in Brooklyn. Charlie looked at me as if he knew me: He knew me well enough to know that I was going to take him home! Throughout his life, he always seemed to get along better with women. Judith, whom I met when she was a chaplain at Housing Works, said that Charlie knew that I'm a woman even though I was in boy drag, beard and all.

Charlie (the current one) and Max are very female-friendly, too. And, it seems, they can't get enough of me---especially during a late November rain.

Another Weekend Passing

This weekend's gone by so quickly. In almost no way did the days go as I'd intended. No cycling, no time with friends, didn't get as much done with my schoolwork as I'd planned. Others have done worse, I suppose.

So why am I so tired? My doctor, therapist, social worker and other trans people told me I'd feel really tired sometimes because of the changes my body is undergoing. But it's been how long already? Must be something else.

Changing, Again

Today I slept late, went into two stores and, after deciding that I had better things to do than wait on the line in either one, went home.



Somewhere in there I went to a nice little pizza shop that's been around forever and not far from me. But I hadn't gone to it before because it's not on the way to or from other places I usually go. The sauce on the slice I ate was thick and tasted like not much time had passed since it was whole tomatoes. And that was on a slice that was reheated!



Finally, I went to one of those cheap stores along Broadway and bought a knockaround pair of sweat pants and a few pairs of pantyhose. And, before I went home, I stopped at my favorite street-food vendor. Three very friendly Palestinians make some of the best chicken on basmati rice, shwarma and falafel I've had anywhere. Probably the only better shwarma I've had was in Istanbul.



Just what I needed: more food, after yesterday! Maybe I do need to eat for the self to whom I am going to give birth. Several women--including three who have given birth--have told me, in the exact same words, that I am doing just that: giving birth to my self.

Does that mean that the people who know me now are seeing an embryo?

Maybe that's the reason I've thought about changing careers, even moving someplace far away, after the operation. In spite--or maybe because--of all that's been happening at the college, I feel that I will have no place in it, or in any academic institution. Take that back: I feel out of place now. In fact, I feel more like a stranger than I did the day I started to work at the college. That, in spite of how much time I'm spending on, and effort I'm putting into, my work there.

Sometimes I feel that college, and education as I've known it, are irrelevant and obsolete. The schools I've attended and in which I've taught have taught me to be the sorts of people I imitated for all of these years; none could--or probably would--teach me anything about how to give birth to myself, and to put what I have been to a peaceful, respectful rest. Everything, especially gender, is part of some binary system or another. And that is the idea I represent every time I stand before a class.

Great stuff to think about on your day off, isn't it?

Thanksgiving

So...This is my last Thanksgiving before the surgery. That I am looking forward to it is, in itself, a major reason to be thankful. And everyone with whom I spent this day knows it.

So what else inspires my gratitude right now? That I'm alive, obviously: I could just as easily not be, for any number of reasons or causes. But here I is, as I say in my best English-prof way.

What else? That someone else could share her gratitude over the same, as Toni did last night. She's a student at the college, and has been at least since I started working there. She's worked as hard as anyone I've ever seen--and done it with as much style--even as the complications in her life seemed to grow more and more relentless. The latest? That her significant other was cheating on her with one of her friends, and that the house in which she'd been renting became the latest foreclosure statistic. Still, she is grateful for what she has and what she's accomplished. That made me grateful that I have a shoulder she could cry on.

Wanna know more? Well, I could sleep in today and still make it to two homes to which I'd been invited. And I could ride my bike to one, and from there to the other. And be treated so warmly, so hospitably by everyone in both houses. Everyone looked happy, and happy to see me, as I was happy to see them.

Who were they? Dominick, his mother and grandmother at my first gathering; Millie, her family and a couple of friends at the other. Even though I know I will see them again very soon, I wished I had more time with both of them. But the time I had is something for which I am thankful.

Along with the abundance of love was a bounty of good food. I might whine about the weight I probably gained today. But I'd lost some before today; I should think I could lose today's gain, and more. That I can even think that way is yet another reason for gratitude.

And afterward, when I got home, I was able to talk with my mother. My father was asleep by that time, but Mom was alert, if tired. The parents of so many other people my age are long dead; I wish mine were healthier, but at least they're still in this life. And I have a ticket to go and spend a week with them at Christmastime.

As I left, Millie and I embraced. "I am sooo blessed, I intoned as a tear flickered down my cheek.

"I know you are. And good for you!"

Now tell me...What else could I ask for now? That loneliness I used to feel--which seems to be a common denominator of transgender people before they "come out"--seems to be something that doesn't find me, even when I look for it just to see if it's still there.

When I got home and sat in my chair, Charlie and Max were at each side of me and took turns nudging their way into my lap. Both purred loudly.

November Rain

A few days of rain in late November, it seems, will not stop, will never end. Today it's not falling as relentlessly as it pummeled the ground, the windows, and the bare tree branches yesterday. But it's still raining, even if not forever.

But back then it seemed like forever, or at least for the rest of my life, however long it would be. It was the day after Thanksgiving when I was fifteen, if I remember correctly. In those days, we used to go to the cemetery on what the department stores call Black Friday. We'd been living in New Jersey for a couple of years by that point; those drives to and from the cemetery on Long Island seemed as if they would never end, either.

Rain cascaded against the windshield faster than the wipers could sweep it away. A film of that rainwater trapped the reflections of headlights and streetlamps as it oozed across the winshield of the Ford station wagon--longer than a boat, with fake woodgrain paneling on the sides--that whisked tires over slick pavement. That same almost-gelatinous mix of water and captured incandescence nearly clung to the side-door and back-panel windows.

Except for the radio, the inside of that car was silent. In the rear of the car, where the seats folded in and left a flat surface on which Tony and Vin, my two youngest brothers, stretched out and fell asleep. To my right, Michael, older than them but not me, flopped on the door, never even stirring when the car rocked. In front of him, my mother, normally a light sleeper, slumped slightly forward, the darkness enveloping her.

Don't talk to the driver. And don't do anything to disturb someone's sleep. I couldn't--still can't--remember who, if anybody, told me those things. All I knew was that Dad was looking straight ahead, at whatever he could see, and there was no way I was going to talk to him, not about what I was feeling, anyway. And I wasn't going to talk to Mom at that moment, either, even though if there was somebody in the family I could've talked to, she was the one. But I wasn't sure that I could get her to understand what I was feeling at that moment-- in fact, what I'd been feeling for as long as I could rememeber--as wind started to whip the rain around and seemingly through me, even though I sat inside that car filed with darkness, the rain glazing the windshield.

Grandpa probably wouldn't have understood, either. But I found myself wishing he were present even more than I did the day after he died, when I was eight years old. I recalled the train rides I took with him: always at the front, by the conductor, where we could look out the front door. It always seemed that a station was not far away, in clear view, even when we were in a tunnel.

But the rain seemed to build layers, like a glacier, on the station wagon's winshield, even with the wiper blades snapping back and forth at their highest possible speed. I don't know how my father saw through it, or whether he did: I could see only nebulae of car lights and street lamps, as if Van Gogh and Munch collaborated on one of Toulouse-Lautrec's paintings of a Parisian dance club. Of course, in those days, I didn't know about Munch or Toulouse-Lautrec, and I only knew about Van Gogh from Don McLean's song Vincent:

Starry, starry night
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze
Swirling clouds in violet haze
Reflect in Vincent's eyes of china blue

Colors changing hue
Morning fields of amber grain
Weathered faces lined in pain
Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand

Everything about those stanzas, except for "Are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand," made sense to me, as I heard them on the radio. I didn't fancy myself as an artist in those days, for I thought they all were like Vincent, Michelangelo or Rodin. I knew I didn't have their talents, and even in that station wagon immersed in November rain en route from the cemetery, I didn't think that my pain was anything like theirs. In fact, I didn't even think of it as pain; when it's all you know, you think it's normal. Suffering may be normal, but one's particular kind of pain may not be.

No, all I knew at that moment was that night had fallen early, the rain was falling hard and relentlessly, and at that moment I couldn't leave the inside of that car, where I couldn't talk to anybody, even if I'd known how to say what I felt and they could've understood that language. (Somehow, my mother understood it just about perfectly when I "came out" to her decades later.) And I didn't even know that I could speak that language, much less that it was my native tongue, if you will.

The radio deejay followed Vincent with the final overture of "We're Not Gonna Take It" from Tommy:

Listening to you, I get the music.
Gazing at you, I get the heat.
Following you, I climb the mountains.
I get excitement at your feet.

Right behind you, I see the millions.
On you, I see the glory.
From you, I get opinions.
From you, I get the story.

I wasn't paying close attention to the lyrics. Mainly, I heard the drumming and guitar, relentless as the rain but clearer than the winshield would've been if we'd been riding through a sunny day. Like most kids my age, I felt a surge of emotion that would've been empowering if I could have honestly told myself, much less anyone else, what demons I wanted to conquer. But, of course, as I began to learn my own language--much, much later--I would see that "conquer" and "demons" were part of the wrong metaphor. Still, the music made me feel, if not uplifted, at least--well, as if I were weathering the storm, or that storm.

I am playing that song on my CD player now. And I feel I can make it through the November rain--which is so much less daunting now! For that reason, that song, that piece of music, means much more to me, in a more visceral way, than The March of the Valkyries ever could.

That night, after we returned to New Jersey, the downpours still hadn't let up, and there were even more bare trees. My brothers went to bed; Dad was doing something to the car, and Mom turned on the TV. I sat with her, pretending to pay attention to the TV show. She knew I wanted to talk, but I didn't know what to say. Take that back: I knew exactly what to say. But I couldn't: I didn't think I could make it make sense, not even she would understand. So, I excused myself. "I'm going into my room to read."

"OK." Although I really did go into my room to read, she knew full well that wasn't the reason why I excused myself. About half an hour later, she knocked on the door to my room and opened it slowly.


"Are you OK?"

I nodded.

"Really?"

"Well, I'm feeling sad."

"Why?"

"Somehow that trip made me sadder. I know Grandpa's been dead for a long time. But I miss him even more now."

"I do too."

She knew, looking at me, that something was troubling me. For starters, I felt guilty: Although she clearly empathised with me, the way I elicited it wasn't honest. Yes, I missed Grandpa--still do--but that wasn't the reason why I thought the November rain would never end.

Transgender Remembrance Day

Last night I went with Dominick to a Transgender Remembrance Day service on Long Island. Someone he calls "Dad" was one of the guest speakers. As it turned out, I'd met him before, at the LGBT Community Center in Manhattan.

He was Dominick's Spanish teacher in high school. Dominick's parents divorced when he was a small child, so his father really wasn't part of his life. That teacher, therefore, became the nearest person Dominick would have to a male parent.

Anyway, that service took place in a Unitarian church. I had been to Unitarian churches maybe once or twice before: when I was searching or had all but given up, I'm not sure of which. Dominick liked what he saw of that church; the people were indeed friendly, as he remarked. Also, he noticed, they seemed to accept everyone. I pointed out that it's one of the reasons the Unitarians were founded, and they were, along with the Quakers, spiritual leaders of the Abolition movement.

I, too, liked the people very much. But I also remarked on the homogeneity of the people there. "For me, it's cultural shock to be in a room full of white, mostly middle-class people."

"I know how you feel," Dominick said.

"We work in multicultural environments. I'm in a college where 80 percent of the students are black. Being around people who are different from me is normal now."

He laughed with a twinge of recognition. "I never feel like I'm around my own people."

"That's exactly what all those transgender people said tonight. That's how I felt through most of my life."

"But you know, while I think it's great to be in New York with all these different kinds of people, I'm not so sure that it teaches people how to live with people who are different from themselves."

"Well, if a person's not ready, nothing and no one can teach them."

"It's what you learn at home."

He's right, at least to a point. For most people, chances are that if they don't learn tolerance from their families, they won't learn it from anyone else, anywhere else. But the operative phrase is "chances are." I wondered, "Are you really bound by that?"

"Well, pretty much...I see it in kids."

"I know what you mean. But just because your family did something, it doesn't mean you have to do it, too."

I was thinking of the murdered transgendered people whose names we read at the service. I was one of the few people who also had the name of the victim's killer: Antonio Williams. Where did he learn to hate a man in woman's clothes enough to shoot him in the head with a semi-automatic rifle? Even if his parents (if he had them) or any other adult in his childhood taught him to hate cross-dressers, how could they intensify that hatred enough to kill in such a brutal way? How did any of those who killed those people whose names we read learn to hate a transgender, drag queen or king, or anyone else who deviates from proscribed gender roles, enough to stab her multiple times in the torso, head and groin or to plug her with ten, fifteen or twenty bullets. Those are some of the stories I remember from last night.

"My" victim, Brian Mc Glothlin, was only 25 years old when Antonio Williams killed him on 23 December of last year. The 23rd: the day after Corey, a friend of mine, committed suicide in 1982. I spent the last night of his life with him: He'd called me, and I just knew he couldn't wait. He didn't talk about ending his life; rather, he alluded to its futility and pointless pain. "Why do I have to live a life in a man's body but feel like a woman?"

That was exactly the question I asked myself nearly every day for forty years. I didn't tell him that; rather, I said some things that now seem vague about feeling out of place and misunderstood. Back then, I was nowhere near acknowledging my own truth; I wasn't even near admitting that I had problems with drugs and alcohol. I held him; he actually fell asleep in my arms. I'd hoped somehow that he could sleep it off, or I could hug all of that self-hatred out of him. How could I, when I was so filled with hatred of myself?

Somehow Corey's death has always seemed as violent--like a murder, at least in a spiritual sense--as those of any of those whose names we read last night. Which is why after I pronounced my last sentence-- "For his deed, the gunman is now serving a six-year prison sentence"--I could not stop crying as I stepped off the altar and walked back to the pew where Dominick and I had been sitting.

I never met Brian Mc Glothlin. I've never been to Cincinnati, where he was killed. Yet I felt, at that moment, as if I'd lost a member of my family, or at least my community. Intellectually, I know that I couldn't've prevented Brian's or Corey's death. But sometimes I still find myself echoing Camus's character who believes his failure to say "hello" to someone contributed to that person's suicide. Maybe, just maybe, if I'd more openly acknowledged how I felt--that I, a woman, loved Corey, whatever her gender--if I'd only shared that,,,,Could I have started a chain of love, or short-circuited a chain of hatred that would have prevented the horrible deaths of Corey, Brian and any number of people who, whether they were killed by their own or someone else's hand?

Of course the "sensible" answer is "no." But does the fact that I was not, at that time in my life, capable of being anything like an agent of peace and understanding (and maybe I'm still not) absolve me from blame for what I didn't do--or, more important, its consequences?

If for no other reason, going to that memorial was good for me because I most likely wasn't the only person there who'd asked herself such questions. Or who'd come to remember people they'd never met but with whom they felt a spiritual kinship. Isn't that the purpose of a remembrance (as opposed to a mere memorial), after all?

Another Fall, Again?

Another cold, blustery day. Most of the trees are bare now; the remaining leaves swirl and rustle, echoing the last flickering of a flame.

And I wonder now about my job, as lots of people are, although my concern is different. I was observed by a senior prof three weeks ago. Two days earlier, I observed an adjunct prof. I--and I assume the other faculty members--received a notice saying that we had to submit our observation report within a week of the observation. That's what I did, but the prof who observed me hasn't.

But that, in and of itself, is not the problem. Here's what's bothering me: A few days after the observation, this prof told me my class was "really good" and he was "glad" that I was "teaching a basic skill" rather than "having them talk about their feelings." But when I saw him yesterday, he apologized, then said, "Well, I have to go back and look at my notes."

Cady Ann, the secretary, says not to "sweat it." She says I worry too much. But what am I supposed to think? Plus, I know I'm under all kinds of scrutiny this semsester, and if I were to get a poor, or even a mediocre or merely good observation, I might not be reappointed. Then what?

I know Cady Ann and other people think I'm a worrywart and try to pacify me. But they don't realize that I had one evaluator tell me to my face that my class was fine, then slam me on the report. That professor also took longer than normal to submit her report. And, after my transition, I went back to a former boss, looking for work. He said "there were problems" with my work; that I was "erratic." Well, for one thing, I'd had nothing but very good and excellent reports. (I guess I always had to be either excellent or very good. ) And, for another. he himself praised my work when I was working for him.

Unfortunately, the academic world is full of people who will tell you something one day, then its exact opposite, or something that simply contradicts it, the next day. Is it any wonder that so many of our students are put off? They live lives in which whatever worked today might not work tomorrow, and parents, guardians and other people who are in their lives today are gone tomorrow, for no apparent reason. They see the college as another place that has the dysfunction and is run by the seemingly fickle fate of the homes and neighborhoods from which they come.

All right. If Cady Ann wants to call me a worrywart and you want to call me something more clinical or vulgar, well, I won't protest. After all, I don't want anything that has even the slightest possibility of keeping me from getting my surgery, or that could cloud life after it. My original plan was to keep a low profile this year; things seem not to have worked that way. Of course, being visible makes you a target, which is what I didn't want. Then again, I haven't been trying to gain notice, except perhaps in a professional way.

Then again, I suppose everything I'm doing and experiencing could have positive outcomes; after all, knowing that you've accomplished something--which is a distinct possibility for this year--usually leaves a good feeling. And that wouldn't be a bad way to end this school year and come to my surgery, would it?

I hope for those things. But for now, there are waiting, worrying along with the hoping, if not believing. Hoping and believing don't come as naturally to me as worrying does, but, well, what else can I do?

And then there is the end of this fall. Or so it seems. One more season gone in my current life. It's been an intense, both in the best and worst senses, time. Which is good, even beautiful. I must admit, I am feeling a little sad because I know I won't hold on to as much of this as I would have tried to keep if I'd had times like these earlier in my life. Why? Well, because I've been busy, and moving forward. Of course both of those things are good, and good for me. But I also wonder whether I'm losing some part of myself.

Then again, being backward- rather than forward-looking has never left me saner, happier or in any other way better. But it's what I did for so much of my life. I'm still learning to live with hope, if not belief, if only because the past is less and less of an option for me. Somehow I think it has to do with my gender transition. I don't know why, but I think women don't have as much of an option of living in--or yearning for--the past as much as men do. It may have to do with the fact that many women give up their names--and lives that went along with them--when they get married. Even when they don't, there's still an unwritten, unspoken expectation that they will follow their husbands.


But I also think there's something more basic, possibly hormonal, that I can't explain. I mean, why is it that the audience for O'Reilly, Hannity and Colmes, Rush Limbaugh and Fox (Faux) News consists mainly of men, mostly past a certain age, but also younger ones who think they're entering a world in which women, blacks, gays, and whomever else you can think of, usurped some of the privileges they believe their fathers or grandfathers had at one time.

In other words, they see a fall coming and they don't want to give up their garden, whatever's growing in it. Do words like entitlement and perogative ring a bell?

Giving up whatever certainties one had in one's life is always difficult. I just wish I could do it more gracefully. And worry less, like everyone says I should.

Sleep and Darkness and Cold

It's been one of those days during which the cold goes straight for your bones. Of course, there have been much colder days than today--not for a long time, though. That must be the reason why it feels absolutely frigid tonight: We've had a mild fall, which was preceded by summer, a warm spring and a mild winter. Most of us simply are not used to this kind of weather right now.

But the cold today: The best thing you can say about it is that it wasn't wet. I don't mind cold or wet; having both is just miserable. So it wasn't all bad, really. The thing is, now we know that even if winter is not here, it will cast a shadow over everything that comes before the spring. And some will die from it; that happens every year.

I think this is the time that seperates those who capitulated to the darkness from those who will die from the cold, and those who will survive. I'm thinking again of Toni, who killed herself in early November--just after we turned back the clocks and the days were thus shorter--four years ago. She, like most people--I include myself--feared the darkness even more than the cold. I think that's why people like her are/were so affected by the change in the seasons. After all, there are ways to prepare for, and even live with the cold. It's much harder to make peace with darkness. Is it any wonder that most people--again, I include myself--fear blindness more than any other physical disability that might befall them?

And I am feeling very sleepy right now. My eyes have closed just about any time I've sat still--including the subway ride home from the campus. I missed the stop--Roosevelt Avenue in Jackson Heights--where I was going to transfer to the local train so I could go to Steinway Street, the site of my bank and a few errands I'd wanted to run. So I disembarked at Queens Plaza, the following stop, and took the local train two stations back to Steinway.

It wasn't a big deal: It added maybe a couple of minutes to my trip and I wasn't trying to make any appointments. But I practically sleep-walked off the train, to the bank and the pizzeria (an old one, where the owner is very nice to me and makes a great Sicilian pie) and to the two stores I wanted to visit. In one of them, I couldn't even muster the energy to try on a pair of sweat pants, which I've been wanting to buy. The prospect of removing my coat, shoes, skirt and possibly my tights, and having to put them back on, daunted me. At least when I got home I could take off my clothes and slip into my robe, a.k.a. my kitty magnet. I mean, think about it: Two guys locked up in the house all day. And a woman comes home, puts on a plush robe and lies down. How do you expect them to behave, even when said woman looks like me?

You know I'm really tired if I'm making jokes like that.

A New Rhythm: Blame It On The Moon--Or Hormones?

Another night at the college. Yes, I am out of my mind. What can I tell ya?

So will tomorrow be like Tuesday, which also followed a night of my staying at the college? I felt fine through my morning classes. But during my midday break, I started to nod off in my office and dragged myself through my afternoon class. Tomorrow I have those classes, plus an evening class.

A couple of weeks ago, I told my mother that I've been turning into something of a night owl: I will often stay up to two or three in the morning to read, write or do some research on one thing or another on the Internet. And then, if I can sleep late that morning, I do.

I'm not sure of why I do this. Could it be the hormones, and the changes that have resulted from taking them? Or does it have something to do with age?

My mother used to fall asleep around the time the Johnny Carson show ended--or even later. If she was still awake, she'd watch some movie or another that was shown only in the wee hours of morning, and fall asleep to that. And I have known other women who stayed up later than their husbands or boyfriends. The housewives would iron clothes or prepare foods they were going to cook the next day, or even later. Others would read or engage in other solitary activities. Their reasons were the same: They could get things done at those hours when no one else was awake and making demands on them.

Now, when I'm at home, the only ones who make demands of me are Charlie and Max. And what do they want? To be fed and watered, And stroked. Or sometimes they want to use me for a rubbing post, or they want to curl up with me. The difference is that they don't whine or complain; they purr. They both have deep, resonant purrs, and when they're both curled up with me, it's much better than being in a vibra-massage chair! And they don't seem to mind when I live by a lunar schedule: They sleep when and where they feel like it.

Lunar...I wonder if that's the answer to the questions I posed. Maybe I'm living by more of a lunar cycle now. If astrology, any number of religions and mythologies you can name, and at least half of all the poets and artists who ever lived--not to mention more than a few scientists --are right, then the hormones probably are responsible for the change in my quotidien cycles.

I don't think any of them (except, perhaps, for a few of the scientists) said anything like that directly. But it always seems that that the moon and femaleness, or at least femininity, are always linked in everything from poem to postulate. Moon deities have been, more often than not, female. And various forms of insanity have been considered feminine and lunar. So, too, have the tides, long before any scientist established the connection between them and lunar magnetism.

Tides--Moon--Estrogen? I'm willing to go along with that one. Both the sea and the moon have been described as harsh mistresses. I have never been called anything like that. Harsh, yes. Mistress...Well, actually, a girlfriend of mine used to call me her mistress. I guess you could say she opened the door of my closet, at least a little.

You can't keep the moon and the tides in a closet. I guess I should have known. Actually, I did but I acted as if I didn't.

Wasn't there a pop song called "Blame It On The Moon?" Could I blame it on the hormones? It wouldn't fit the meter or rhythm of that line very well, would it. I guess that I'd need a new rhythm. I kinda hope that: After all, I have been developing a new rhythm, haven't I?

And who or what is there to blame for that?