Coming Down With, Coming Down To

I have a cold. At least that's what I hope. All I need now is the flu, or something worse.

The holidays are coming up and I've got stacks of papers to read. And I'm going move, though not by choice. I'll talk more about that later. So if my posts are shorter or less frequent during the next week or two, you know why.

I know, you didn't come to this blog to hear me whine. Whatever else is going on, my life is still better than it was. Or, at least, I'm feeling better about it all, even if I'm not feeling so good now.

Perhaps the irony of my situation is that something I forecast is coming true. I had a feeling that some things in my life would change after my surgery--some by design, others by circumstance. Well, I guess this is a case of the latter coming true. As with so many predictions, it's coming true, though sooner than, and not quite the way, I intended.

Now I have to attend to my needs and get whatever sleep I can. G'night, all.

More Remembrances

I know that yesterday's post talked about Transgender Remembrance Day and the stories of several transgenders who were murdered. However, I want to revisit the topic to discuss three more LGBT murder victims whose stories caught my eye.

Jorge Steven Lopez Mercado spent all of his 19 years in Puerto Rico. Last week, his burned and dismembered body was found on the side of a road in the town of Cayey. Dressed in women's clothes, he was picked up in a red-light district by a man who offered him money for sex. According to testimony, the man brought Jorge to his house and, upon finding out that he was a man, began beating him.

The chief police investigator said he "had it coming to him" because of his "lifestyle." And the man who beat him is pleading "gay panic."

Then there is Terri Benally, a Navajo transwoman in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She was beaten to death on 7 July of this year: the very day I was undergoing my gender reassignment surgery. Perhaps this is one reason why it's probably a good thing I've had this surgery at this fairly late stage of my life: I now know that feelings of guilt are a futile reaction to a tragedy. Yes, I was getting my life--or, more precisely, I was becoming whole--on the very day someone destroyed her body.

All I can do now is to give the life I've had to create for myself as well as the one I've been given. Having two lives means living in two spirits. Maybe that's the real meaning of the term "two-spirited," which is what the Navajos called transgenders. (It's a term I sometimes use to refer to myself.) Having two spirits is what gives us the strength we need to live our lives with meaning, which is the only appropriate response to someone else losing his or her life.

Finally, I am going to mention someone whose death should give pause even to someone who doesn't care about transgenders. Ronnie Antonio Paris may not be what most people would call transgender. But his father, Ronnie Paris beat him to death for "acting like a sissy" and because he feared his child would grow up to be "less of a man."

Ronnie Antonio Paris was three years old.

Transgender Remembrance Day

Today is Transgender Remembrance Day.

I missed the rally that was held at the LGBT Community Center of New York. However, on Sunday, I plan to attend a memorial service to be held in a church near the Center.

On one hand, I am glad that we observe this day, which is the anniversary of Rita Hester's murder in Boston in 1998. She was stabbed in the chest at least twenty times just a few weeks after Matthew Shepard was beaten, kidnapped, tied to a fence and left to die in a bitterly cold Wyoming desert night.

If people pay any attention at all to murders or other crimes against people who are (or perceived to be) gay or simply not conforming to prescribed gender roles, Shepard's and Hester's murders are two of the major reasons why.

Yet something makes me uneasy about Transgender Remembrance Day. It's not that it reminds me of the fact that we are twelve times as likely to be murdered as anyone else; rather, the observances make me realize that, too often, the dangers we face are recognized--if indeed they are recognized--only after one of us is killed. Or so it seems.

Also, when I read the names and stories of those of us--or those who were perceived as one of us--who were killed, I am distrubed to see how much more brutal and grisly our murders are than most others. The way Rita Hester was killed was not unusual at all, at least for a trans woman: It seems that when trans women are attacked, the attackers not only want to kill us; they also use as as punching bags, voodoo dolls and bonfires for their rage. Lisa Black was stabbed in the eye and beaten twenty times with a hammer; Christiaan D'Arcy was strangled, bound and locked in the trunk of a car that was set on fire and Michelle Byrne was tortured with a hot electric iron to her breasts before her killers cut off her hands and feet and finally beheaded her.

I learned about Lisa, Christiaan and Michelle from this site. None of their stories received any media attention outside the victims' local LGBT newspapers. Nor, at first, did the murder of Gwen Araujo seven years ago in California.

Araujo was killed in October of 2002, just a few weeks before Laci Peterson. Of course, that was a brutal crime, and it deserved all of the media attention it received. However, it's hard not to think that her murder got all that press because she was a pretty white cis-gender woman from an All-American family in an upscale Bay Area suburb. On the other hand, Gwen came from the "wrong" side of the Bay: Newark, a poor-to-working-class town in which a large percentage of the residents are Hispanic, as Gwen was. And, of course, she was trans.

At least her case was solved. The same can't be said for 92 percent of the other murders of transgender people that have been reported since 1975. I learned of this terrible statistic while researching an article I wrote four years ago.

Why are so few of our murders solved? Probably for the same reasons those same homicides committed against us receive so little attention. When one of us is killed, too many people see it as "just" the death of a deviant or a social misfit. Also, too many of us die alone: We have been disowned by families, friends and former co-workers--if, indeed, we ever had them in the first place. A corollary to that is that so many of us are poor: A study done in 2006, a prosperous year for the economy, indicated that 35 percent of all transgenders in San Francisco were unemployed and 59 percent were earning $15,300 a year or less. Plus--and this is one of the few stereotypes about us that has any truth--too many of us are sex workers. It's not that we have any more desire or inclination to such a job than anyone else has; it's that too many of us don't have other options. After all, what else can a teenager do if she's dropped out of school because she's been beat up too many times and her family has kicked her out--or she's run from the abuse she was facing for being who she is?

Finally, there is pure and simple misogyny. Crimes against women still aren't taken seriously by too may law enforcement officials and society generally; a "man" who "becmes" a "woman" is seen as bringing trouble on herself.

So, knowing these things, why am I against the "Hate Crimes Law? I think it has the opposite effect from what's intended: By saying that a murder or beating is worse when it's committed against members of one group, one is setting up a class system of justice. A crime is a crime, no matter who commits it against whom. If someone stabs someone, shoots that person, then douses him or her with gasoline and lights a match, it's a horrible crime, no matter who the victim is, and should be treated as such. That's how it has to be seen if we're to have policies that are actually equitable.

Besides, someone can argue or decide that the murder of a trans or gay person, or a member of any stigmatized group is not a hate crime. The defense tried to argue that Matthew Shepard's murder was a robbery gone wrong. Then they tried to invoke the "gay panic" defense. If such tactics work, as they do in many cases we never hear about, the victim becomes, to those who are adjudicating his or her case, simply another sexual deviant who won't be missed.

And, of course, people like me have to educate both in the sense most people think of that word and through example.

Finally, in the meantime, we need to remember Gwen. And Rita. And all of the others.

Rain Again (!)

Rain today again. More people absent from classes. The ones who came looked tired. You can tell it's almost the end of the semester: Students are looking ahead to the holidays and dreading their final exams and papers. Soon I'll be competing with about 500 other faculty members at the college for the title of Public Enemy Number One. Then, after the semester is over, some of the students will return to liking me, if they ever did. What can I say?

In Sickness and In Stress

Today it seemed like everyone was sick or in a crisis, or both.

On Monday and Tuesday, I noticed that more students were absent than I would normally expect. And, in one of my classes today, only half of the students were present. Other profs have told me that a lot of their students been missing, too, this week.

Last night, two students came to my office before one of my classes. Before they could say anything, I told them to go home and to send in the next assignment by e-mail. They looked sick; there was no point to demanding that they come to class.

Today, my between-class office hour was taken up by two students who were on the verge of tears. One thought I was "picking on" her because I spilled lots of ink on her paper. I wasn't "picking on" her, but I was certainly was making demands of her. As I explained to her, I think she was trying to express ideas that deserved no less than the kind of work I was demanding of her.

I guess that teaching is supposed to have moments like that. At least, that's what teaching seems to bring my way sometimes. I'm not complaining about that; if I didn't want to have encounters like that, I would've stopped teaching after the first month. And, even though her reaction wasn't unique, it still surprised me a little: She thanked me.

Thanking someone is not always easy. Nor is getting thanks.

Then another student actually broke down while talking to me. I won't get into the particulars, but it didn't have to do with my comments on her paper! Suffice it to say that she's just having a very difficult time for all sorts of reasons, none of which have to do with her work ethic. I mean, when you're in a country that's not the one in which you were born and raised and are working 50 hours a week while you're taking organic chemistry, human anatomy, my class and another class (I forget which), you're going to have at least a little stress.

Other students talked to me after classes about one thing and another. They, and everyone else, seemed to be suffering some combination of fatigue and stress. No wonder: They're all working, and some are raising kids or caring for other family members.

This sure ain't college the old-fashioned way. No wonder so many of the students--and some faculty members--I've seen during the past few days look sick or stressed or both.

What Came My Way--And What Came of-- Yesterday

Yesterday I had two surprises. One of them wasn't pleasant; the other might be.

First to the unhappy surprise: One of my brothers--the one who broke off contact with me after I "came out"--wrote an anonymous comment to this blog. One of the reasons I didn't post it is that he addressed it to me by my old name. If he wants to refer to me that way for the rest of our lives (assuming, of course, he ever thinks about or talks to me again), that is his right. As we say in the old country, he can call me whatever the hell he wants. But it would have been a bit incongruent, to say the least, to have something on my blog that's addressed to someone who does not exist.

Then he disputed much of what I've said about the relationship I had with him and his kids. Of course we all see things differently, but I never said that I was a court reporter. Rather, I write more about how I have experienced one thing and another. I don't expect him or anyone else to have experienced anything in quite the same way as I have. He claims that I was making my relationship with his kids seem closer than it was. He is right about this: I didn't see a lot of his kids. But I always enjoyed whatever time I had with them, and I thought about them often between visits--as I do now. I never said anything more--or less--than that.

He also took issue with the way I "came out" to him and the rest of my family. Maybe, with that wonderful gift called 20/20 hindsight, I could see a better way of having done it than I did. But given all of our circumstances at the time, and with what I could discern from talking to other people who had to do the same, I made the best decisions I could at the time. Perhaps someone else would have done better. It just happens that I'm not someone else.

Also, he complained how much I revealed about him and his family and expressed his belief that it cast them in a bad light. The irony is that his comment revealed more about him and them than I ever could have. So, in keeping with his wishes to the degree that I can (I can't be his male sibling or go by my old name.), I didn't post his comments. I will say no more about him and his family unless he decides to be in touch with me again. And I will continue to harbor no ill will toward him or them.

The other surprise came in my e-mail box. After opening her message by introducing herself, she wrote, "I've been trying to find some old friends and for some reason, your name sprang to mind."

I'd love to know for what reason. She didn't mention money or children. The latter is not surprising, as we did nothing that could have made them possible. And, as far as I know, we don't have some common relative.

The tone of the e-mail was friendly, as she recounted some of the things she's done since we were last in touch, which had to have been at least twenty-five years ago. She moved, trained for a new career, worked it for about fifteen years, then lost it in the recent economic turmoil. Now she's teaching in what she described as a "career college."

In her message, she said that she followed the name by which she knew me until it became the name I have now. (Well, she didn't say it that way, but it's the best way I can summarize what she told me.) And voila!--She found out that the guy she used to know is now a girl. And, along the way, said guy got married and did a few other things that weren't quite in keeping with either the young man she knew or the woman I am.

She also mentioned that she's still single (I advised her not to be in a rush to get married.) and that she's undergoing a religious conversion. Ironically enough, it was through her old religion that I met her.

All right, now I'm going to reveal another secret: When I was in college, I became involved with a Christian fellowship. In fact, I got involved enough to write for, then edit, its newsletter and to be a housemate of its leader.

All the while, I identified myself as gay. I did so mainly because I didn't know how else to identify myself: I wasn't terribly attracted to women. I wasn't terribly attracted to men, either, though I had relationships with a couple. But, somehow I thought that if I had no real interest in being involved with a woman, I must be gay. And while the thought of it scared the shit out of me, at least it allowed me to function, in some way, as a male. Although I knew that I am female, the thought of doing what it would have taken--at least at that time in my life--to live at one was simply unfathomable. Translation: It really scared the shit out of me.

So I was looking for some sort of refuge and solace, you might say. Yes, I was in a lot of emotional and spiritual pain. Why did I have to live my life with the conflicts I had with my gender identity and sexuality?, I wondered. Actually, within myself, I screamed that question. And I screamed it at God, as I understood--and desperately wanted to believe--in Him. Others were beseeching the Lord for his grace and forgiveness; I was crying "Why? Why? Why?"

Plus, I still had that totally desperate wish for something better (translation: easier) than what I had and what I knew.

Desperate: Now there's a word that describes much of what I've done in my life. I was trying to hold the truth about myself at bay. All of those drinking games and physical contests with men couldn't keep it away. Nor could the love of another woman, or the desires of a man. Nor, for that matter, could immersion in the Scriptures or a life dedicated to the dictates of the Holy Spirit, whatever those were.

Interestingly enough, being part of that Christian fellowship probably got me, at least in some ways, through those college years. Because I was editing that newsletter, I was always in contact with some people who studied hard and weren't malicious. The fellowship's leader, with whom I roomed for a year, probably got me to study, or just to do something constructive, when I was ready to give up. (He talked me out of leaving school at least once.) And, even though I essentially renounced my gender identity and sexual self, the people in the fellowship probably kept me more intact emotionally than I might have been because, at least, none of the males would challenge me to beer-drinking or beard-growing contests, or goad me into raping women. I admit that I did more than my share of drinking "on the sly" and a couple of times the fellowship's leader brought me back to the house when I couldn't get there under my own power.

And, it was in that fellowship that I met Elizabeth, who would become my best friend for many years afterward. She wants to forget that now. But I can't really judge her: After all, if the woman who e-mailed me yesterday or anyone else I knew from those days had tried to contact me, say, ten or fifteen years ago, I wouldn't have responded. I was trying to forget those days and to make some kind of a life for myself among people who didn't know my past. If you've been reading this blog, you know how well that worked!

Anyway, I am very interested to see what, if anything, comes of the contact I've just had with a friend I hadn't seen or heard from since my days at Rutgers, nearly three decades ago.

Georgia Today

You learn something, however insignificant it might seem, every day. Or so I've heard.

So, what did I learn today? No, not The Meaning of Life or the key to the Unified Theory of Creation (if indeed there is such a thing!). How to make a kajillion dollars with my laptop? If only...

Today I learned that this date is the birthday of someone I've loved, hated and now love more than I ever did before. No, I'm not talking about a family member, friend or former lover. In fact, I have never met this person; I know about this person only from what she created.

OK, so now I've narrowed it down to 51 per cent of the population. (Why is that considered a "minority?" All right, I know I'm not the first one to ask that question.) So who is this grande dame (I've narrowed things a bit more) of whom I speak?

Of course, she's none other than Georgia O'Keeffe. Back when I first encountered her work--in a book--I loved the way she used the colors and shapes she saw around her. I hadn't seen anything like it; I still haven't.

You might say that when I saw this painting--a reproduction, anyway--I understood, for the first time, something that now seems entirely elementary to me: The purpose of art is not only to represent how something looks; it is to convey the way something feels. It took me many more years to understand just how rigorous the work that underlies such an enterprise is. To show how something feels in a way that's entirely yours yet reaches people whom you'll never meet: Really, what else is there for an artist to do?

Plus...How can I say this?: No artist (at least no artist of whom I know anything) is more essentially female than O'Keeffe. Many people have labelled her work as "ultra-feminine," as often as not in a pejorative way, because of paintings like "Pink Tulip," the one I've linked. I made that same mistake for a time in my life, which is what led to my disenchantment with her work. That was also the time in my life when I found myself hating--or at least ridiculing--all of the Impressionist painters except for Cezanne, Mozart and just about all of the Russian composers--and Pink Floyd. And, for good measure, let's not forget Henry James and John Milton.

Now, I'm not saying all of those artists, composers and painters were "feminine," whatever that means. They simply began to make me feel things that made me uncomfortable for feeling. I'm not talking about my gender identity or sexuality, though some would argue that the discomfort I felt with the works of all those artists I mentioned had to do with my discomfort with myself. That, as reductive and glib as it seems, is a pretty good, if not complete, explanation.

So what reminded me of Georgia O'Keeffe and the fact that today is her birthday? Well, Edward Byrne's blog, One Poet's Notes, paid homage to her. And he posted a reproduction of "Red Rust Hills" along with his and another writer's musings about her and her work.

It seems like a particularly appropriate piece for this date, the fifteenth of November, which feels--even on a day as mild as today has been--most like the date on which the season seems to turn from being a segue out of summer and the beginning of the descent into winter. Is it ironic--or appropriate, or simply a coincidence--that Georgia O'Keeffe was born on this date?

Enough Rain, Already!

More rain today. So far, this has to be one of the rainiest autumns I can remember. And there was lots of rain, or so it seemed, this past spring, as I was counting the days until my surgery.

Does that mean that my new life is still a seedling and that one day, after all of this rain, it will flower?

All right...I'll spare you the hokey metaphors and imagery. I know that sometimes I can be as corny as Iowa in July and more syrupy than Vermont in October. I'll try to keep those evil twins bound to each other in a tight space!

All that rain...No wonder Charlie and Max are curling up on me every chance they get. They seem to know when I'm about to sit or lie down. I wonder whether it has to do with my body language, or something else.

And it seems that ever since I've come home from the surgery, they can't get enough of me. I thought the novelty of me would wear off. I guess it hasn't, at least not yet. All I can say is: Keep it coming!

Millie and I talked about Thanksgiving today. For the past few years, I've spent the holiday with her, Johnny and their kids and grandkids. In fact, I've spent several other holidays with them, and this past Fourth of July was the first since I moved into this neighborhood that I hadn't spent with them. I had an acceptable excuse: I was leaving for my surgery that day!

Speaking of holidays...It seems that some of the stores have been decorated with, and selling, Christmas items for about a month already. It's as if they skipped over Halloween (not really a holiday, I know, but some stores have had interesting displays for it) and are forgetting about Thanksgiving. About the only acknowledgements of the latter holiday I've seen are at Parisi's Bakery, which announced that they are taking orders for pies, and supermarkets that are advertising turkeys.

The rest are hanging their hopes on Christmas. They all hope for the best, though a few proprietors and salespeople I know say they don't expect things to be good.

But all anybody can really do is to hope for the best, I guess. That's what we do when we undertake anything, whether it's starting a new business or new life.

So far, so good. I just wish this rain would let up.

On Nurturing

At least the November Overcast turned into rain, though not very heavy. But some strong wind came with it. That took out one thing I was going to do today: a bike ride. Under normal circumstances, I might've gone out for a bit. But I got back on the bike less than a week ago, and I don't want to put too much strain on parts of my body that are still pretty tender.

The weather, however, was not responsible for cancelling another thing I'd planned for today: lunch with Bruce. We missed our lunch date because he wasn't feeling well. Something--the way I know Bruce, to be precise--told me that he was making his malady seem less serious than it was. My hunch was right. Now I wish I'd called him during the week.

He has pneumonia. He told me he's been sleeping through much of this week and when he's awake, he coughs a lot. In a way, it may be just as well that I didn't call, for he certainly needs whatever rest he can get. At least that's what he said when I called him today. But I wish I'd gone with my hunch. I'd've caught the next train and showed up at his door with a large vat of chicken soup (home-made, of course) in my hands.

Carolyn has been coming by, he said, and she'll be there this weekend. That's good, and not surprising--they've been together for at least fifteen years. Still, I want to go and help him. He says he just might take me up on my offer to come by his place during the week. I hope he does.

Bruce has said that my transition brought out a "maternal instinct" that, he said, I always had, even thought I didn't want to acknowledge it. And he's said that the surgery seems to have further accentuated it. Marci never told me that would happen!

Speaking of maternal...Yesterday, on my way to class, I saw Anne for the first time since May. She is a biology professor from France who's conducted genetic research and has worked with a leading researcher in her field on trying to find out whether and to what degree transgenderism and homosexuality are congenital.

This semester, she's on maternity leave. She gave birth around the same time I was having my surgery. During her pregnancy and just after I had my surgery, she expressed her belief that we had a common bond: We were both bringing a new life into this world. "I am giving birth to someone who will always be part of me," she said. "And you are giving birth to your self."

Although I believe I have been giving birth to myself, I wouldn't have made that comparison myself. I don't disagree with it; I just wasn't sure that I would've placed what I was doing on the same plane as bringing a brand-new life into this world. "But that is exactly what you are doing!." she averred.

OK, she said it. So did Regina. So did a few other women I know--all of whom have given birth. I guess I have to go along with them. But I'll fight it real, real hard. ;-)

I don't mind thinking of myself as someone who brought a life in this world or has the capacity to nurture herself or someone else. Still, I am somewhat reluctant to compare myself to any woman who's given birth, whether or not she gives me "permission" to do so and includes me in her world. After all, I still can't even fathom what it must have taken of my mother for her to give birth to, and raise, me. I can't imagine that whatever struggles I'm having in learning about this new life, my new home, can compare to what my mother did for me.

All I can do, I suppose, is to give myself, and anyone else who loves and trusts me, the best of whatever kind of care we need. Yes, we have a "sacred duty," as Helmer says in A Doll's House to our families. But, as Nora says when she's leaving him, we also have "another duty just as sacred" to ourselves. If we don't tend to that, we can't help anyone else.

I know. I haven't said anything new. Sometimes I just have to remind myself.

November Overcast: Coming Into The Cold

Today was another November Overcast day, as yesterday was. The trees seemed to have about half as many leaves on them as they had yesterday. Oddly enough, the leaves haven't lost much of their color yet. So, in the winds that whorled about with greater force as the day wore on, red and yellow whirlpools spun on the ground as the gray sky seemed to stand still.

And as the day wore on, it got colder. This morning was definitely chillier than last night, and this afternoon almost frosty compared to the morning. That may have had to do with the stiffening wind.

I noticed the cold even more after entering the college's main building and my office. Now, I'm not using that sensation as a metaphor for my emotional state or the vibes I felt upon arriving at the college. I'm sure that it really was colder. All of my female students and colleagues said so, without my prompting. That's usually a sure sign.

I remember having the same sensation during my first November, December and winter after I started to take hormones. My then-doctor warned me about other possible side-effects, but not about any increased sensitivity to cold. Maybe he didn't warn me of that because it simply never would have occured to him, being male.

And it was funny that the winter before I started taking hormones was one of the warmest on record, while the following winter was one of the coldest and snowiest. National Weather Service data confirms it. Likewise, last winter was relatively a mild, if grey, season as I awaited my operation. Will this winter be another cold and snowy one? Or will it just feel that way?

I've been convinced that this sensitivity to cold is at least partially hormonal. But now I'm starting to wonder whether it has something to do with what organs you have. Or am I noticing the cold more now than I did last year because I'm still recovering from the surgery. I'm feeling well, but I'm sure that my system is more vulnerable than it was at this time last year. Maybe I'll get some of that old fortitude back. But even if I don't, that will be all right. I'll think of that old Civil Rights chant: "I aint what I wanna be. I ain't what I oughta be. But thank God I'm not what I was."

Besides, even after the spectacle of October, there is something beautiful about the austerity of the light through branches that are losing their leaves.

Learning About Home

Jonathan, one of my colleagues, and I left the college together tonight. We walked down a short path that leads to a promenade that borders the oldest cemetery in the state as well as two college buildings before passing under a Long Island Railroad trestle.

Along the way, I couldn't help but to notice that the reds and yellows of the leaves that had not yet fallen were more vivid in the darkness, with the lights from the buildings reflecting off them from behind, than they were in daylight. That is because the day was heavily overcast, although no rain fell. The light of this day was definitely late-fall, tending toward winter: It has lost the October glow and is darkening into the more stark light of a winter sky. For another week or two, we will see more color on those trees than anywhere else, even though the leaves seem to be falling off more rapidly with each day. Then the branches will be bare of leaves, not to mention color.

Every year, it seems that the department in which I teach holds its Open House on a day like this one. As in years past, it began at 4pm, just as the sky is about to start growing darker. This year, there seemed to be more camaraderie than in last year's Open House, even though the organizers of last year's event tried to make it a festive commemoration to the newly-elected Obama. I think part of it had to do with the topic of the readings and presentations: Home.

At least it's a topic that everyone can relate to, in whatever way. As I've mentioned in another post, it seemed, for much of my life, to be an abstraction: After all, how could I be at home anywhere if I wasn't at home in my own skin?

I was uneasy, not because I was giving a presentation, but because I saw the department secretary and the coordinator who'd accused me of something I didn't do. I was going to avoid them, but they both apologized to me. They seemed sincere to me, so I assumed that they were and accepted their apologies.

Of all the readings, presentations and performances, mine was scheduled to come last. I was a bit intimidated, because the two readings that preceded mine (There were eight in all.) were dramatic and done by a pair, then a group, of people. And I was going to read poems and a short prose selection by myself.

I read three pieces in all. Actually, I recited one from memory: Palais d'Hiver,one of my own short poems. I preceded it with a selection from Jacobo Timerman's Prisoner Without A Name, Cell Without A Number and followed it with Bruce Weigl's Anna Grasa.

But the way I started my presentation really got people's attention. I introduced myself and said, "I find this topic, home, very poignant right now. After all, I came home for the very first time this year."

Some of my fellow faculty members knew what I was talking about. So did many of the students who were there, as well as some guests they and faculty members brought in. And, I'm guessing that the college president and provost, and the dean of arts and sciences--all of whom were in the audience--knew, too. I haven't mentioned my surgery to any of them, but I'm sure they've heard about it.

Afterward, a number of my colleagues--including Janet, a new prof with whom I hadn't previously had the chance to speak--as well as students I'd never before met and the partner of one of the profs--came up to me and offered hugs, congratulations and advice.

The selection I read from Timerman can be found here.

My poem is here.

And here is Weigl's poem:

Anna Grasa

I came home from Vietnam.

My father had a sign

made at the foundry:

WELCOME HOME BRUCE

in orange glow paint.

I had to squint,

WELCOME HOME BRUCE.

Out of the car I moved

up on the sign

dreaming myself full,

the sign that cut the sky,

my eyes burned,

but behind the terrible thing

I saw my grandmother

beautiful Anna Grasa.

I couldn't tell her.

I clapped to myself,

clapped to the sound of her dress.

I could have put it on,

she held me so close.

Both of us could be inside.

One thing Timerman and Weigl understand is that sometimes home takes some getting used to, especially if you're there for the first time, or are returning after a long absence. I'm learning about that, too: I just came home four months ago.

An Execution of the Eve of Veterans' Day

In a very, very dark sense, it's fitting that John Allen Muhammad was executed on the eve of Veteran's Day. I unequivocally oppose the death penalty--yes, even for someone like Muhammad--and war, for any reason. For one thing, I figure that if a man who won a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star in World War II (but who wrote, ahem, Thank God for the Atom Bomb) could tell me, "There is simply no way to justify one human being to kill another," what argument is there for any war or the death penalty? For another, I have come to understand that the only people who benefit from either one are the men (and, yes, almost all of them are men) who are the powers behind the social, economic and political systems in which both are conducted. There is never any justice for the loved ones of the victims of either monstrosity; there is no such thing as "closure" after such a loss. And revenge is not justice.

Also: No one has ever corrected or prevented a crime by committing the same sort of crime. The "war to end all wars" indeed! Finally, I simply cannot stomach the idea of a state, no matter how benevolent, having the power of life and death over any human being. Now, I know someone is going to say, "Well, would you rather that John Allen Muhammad have the power of life and death over someone else?" Of course I wouldn't. But he didn't have such power once he was captured.

As for war: What in the world are American troops doing in Afghanistan? What were they doing in Iraq--under Bush I or Bush II? And what, pray tell, were we doing in the Balkans region under the Clinton regime? How can anyone who has any respect at all for life put another person in a country where he's hated just because he's there by people who did nothing to harm him or the country he hails from?

Even if you accept the premise that American invlovement in, say, World War II was justified, how can you have so little respect for what your sons, fathers or neighbors accomplished and sacrificed in such a war that you would so cavalierly put them in some place where they face danger for no useful purpose?

I am thinking again about the story "Gunnar Berg" posted on his blog. How many people would refuse to fight, or set their "enemies" free if they could see the common humanity they share: That the desires and dreams of their enemies aren't so different from their own, and that perhaps their adversaries' children are, in some ways, like their own. Then perhaps they would understand the truism that war is between brothers. And that is the reason why nobody wins, ever.

Plus, in killing someone, you place him and whatever he represents above all else. Muhammad, as a result of his execution, will have had more attention paid to him than any of his victims ever had. And in a war, so much effort and materiel go into tracking down and killing "ememies" that those enemies take precedence over everything else--whether it's the economy, education or one's own loved ones

From Wholeness to "Juvie"

Very few things in my life have felt better than getting on my bikes this weekend. I was talking with Charlie, the owner of Bicycle Habitat, about that. He said, "Well, it's the first time you've gotten on a bike as a whole person. Of course it's going to feel better."

Today I went to pick up the bike that's going to become my next commuter/errand bike: a Raleigh Sports ladies' three-speed. It's one of those classic English three-speeds, with fenders and a chainguard. I had them give it a once-over, as it's been a while since I've worked on a three-speed hub. Besides, would the great tranny goddesses if I got my hands dirty doing something like that? I guess they'd've understood: My nails are a mess anyway. Now, if I'd just had a nice French manicure or one of those nail-paintings and ruined it while working on machinery, well, that just wouldn't do, would it?

Anyway...I wish I could've ridden during the day today: The weather was even better than it was yesterday. At least I got to ride home from the shop, which is a distance of about seven miles.

And that ride came at the end of a strange day. Or maybe it wasn't so strange, given who I am. And its strangeness comes not from any paranormal activity or anything related to it. And nothing unusual happened in my classes. It was just the feeling that was odd, almost disconcerting. It was so, in part, because of my own doing.

I talked to two faculty members today. They've always been friendly toward me, and they were today. But I could see that they were being friendlier toward me than I was toward them. I wasn't upset at them: In fact, I hadn't seen one in a while, as he was at a conference. I felt a little guilty about not being more talkative with them, and I wonder if they're reading anything into it.

It had to do with the defenses I've built up since the goings-on of last week. I really didn't want to talk to any of my colleagues, even the ones who've been supportive. You might say I've gotten a little bit paranoid: After one person--Deena, the secretary--whom I thought was an ally treated me as she did and a purported feminist--Laura, the coordinator--accused me of something I didn't do, I'm starting to feel as if I can't trust anybody who works there. And, because the department chair seems all too willing to accept, at face value, what people like them say about me, I feel as if I don't have any support. That makes me question the value of the service (on committees and such) I've performed for the department and college.

Those very same defenses came down, or at least softened a bit, in my classes. The students seemed even more receptive to me and perceptive about what they've been reading than they usually are. We were doing fairly mundane material, but the classes were a joy to do.

Equally joyful was bumping into three students I hadn't seen since last semester. They seem to be doing well; of course, they all asked how "it" went. Not that they couldn't ask about my operation; it's almost as if "it" is a kind of shorthand in the way that "the big event" is for some other goings-on in other people's lives.

One in particular was happy to see me, as I was to see her. She's very overweight and has a harelip. One day last year (her freshman year), she told me she felt I was the only one of her professors who didn't look at her as a fat girl with a harelip. Why should I?, I wondered. She's a rather smart young woman who works hard and isn't afraid to try something new: What else should I, as her professor, have seen? Besides, I thought she was very nice. That she seems not to have trouble making friends, and even getting dates, with her fellow students is evidence of that.

So here's what's strange: When I'm around my students, I feel like I'm around grown-up people, or at least people who are in the process of becoming that way. Sure, some of them do things we would think are silly or irresponsible, but they also seem to learn when I or someone else points out the error of their ways and offers advice, if they ask for it. I also know that a few of them may have had non-existent "crises" or other "situations" that they used as reasons for missing a class or an assignment. Still, I trust them, not because I'm lenient or don't care, but because I know that the only way to help someone, especially a young person, to become trustworthy is to trust him or her. If that person knows her or she did something dishonest, I would hope that he or she would learn and do something better from the chance I give. On the other hand, if you treat people as if they're going to do wrong even if they haven't, they'll do something subversive simply because they don't trust you.

In contrast, when I'm anywhere on the campus but in my classrooms, or around many of the faculty members and administrators, I feel as if I'm in some place that's a cross between a junior-high school and a juvenile detention center. The same sorts of games that go on in those places are standard operating procedure at the college, or so it seems. There's the same sort of petty cliquishness, and the same sort of intolerance of people who are, or seem to be, different from themselves.

It's telling that every handicapped or LGBT student I've taught, advised or counseled at the college has transferred or dropped out of it. It's equally telling that Latino and Asian students don't stay, and the Latino staff members feel something one longtime administrative aide expressed to me: "more like a stranger here than I did on the day I started." That day was 24 years ago.

Furthermore, there is not a single "out" member of the faculty. Three profs told me, privately, that they are gay or lesbian and made me promise I wouldn't reveal their identities. Two of them got tenure before most of their students were born; the other, I suspect, fears not getting re-appointed. I think now of the time I went to Kingsborough Community College and New York University and saw lots of faculty members' office doors adorned with "Safe Space" signs. Students know that they can talk to those profs about their sexual or gender identity and not be judged, much less "outed." On the other hand, students know only by word of mouth that they can talk to me. And they probably don't even know about those other profs I just mentioned.

I'm starting to feel I am, on a smaller scale, like Dr. Stanley Biber (who trained Marci Bowers) when he started performing sex reassignment surgery in the days when it was still called "the sex-change operation." He had to "fly under the radar," for the nuns that ran Mount San Rafael Hospital would not have approved. And, in those pre-Internet days, people found out about him through a kind of "underground" network that consisted mainly of other transgender people.

So...I can get on my bike as a whole person now. But I can't be that way at the college--not even among colleagues who've known me since I started there, years before my operation. Or maybe now they resent me for being whole instead of just a label that they saw in one of their textbooks.

Riding With "The Girls"

The temperature rose to nearly 70 F today. And it was one of those days that ended with the autumn sun burnishing the horizon with an orange glow like a hearth smoldering over the bay.

So I'll give you three guesses as to what I did.

I did a slightly longer ride, this time on Arielle, my geared Mercian road bike. Now she has bragging rights: Tosca, my fixed-gear Mercian, got my first ride yesterday, but Arielle got the longer ride.

Plus, Arielle got to spend the ride with Barbara and Sue, who've been my sometime riding companions for the past few years. Arielle likes it when people admire her. I don't fault her for that: After all, it's a trait she inherited from her mistress.

Today's ride negotiated the curves of Vernon Boulevard toward the RFK (nee Triboro) Bridge and along the Greek restaurants, food stores and bakeries of Ditmars Boulevard to the road that leads to the bridge to Riker's Island. No, we didn't go there! (You can only cross that bridge on a bus or if you have a permit for your car.) Then, we made a couple of sharp turns and soon found ourselves next to LaGuardia Airport. From there, there's a nice promenade that rims the shoreline of Flushing Bay. Moored boats bobbed listlessly in the wakes of the few other boats that sluiced solar reflections flickering in the ripples in the waters beyond the marina.

At the end of the promenade, on the other side of the Grand Central Parkway from Citi Field, we stopped. A young couple was getting into a boat that didn't look like much more than a jet-ski with a bubble-top. A jet took off from La Guardia and seemed headed straight for us, for a moment anyway. And a black and white cat I've seen before slinked around the tires of our bikes. The cat's been there for at least ten years: I've ridden that promenade for about a dozen or so years, and can remember the cat from about that far back. He's surprisingly friendly--with me, anyway--and has a smoother, shinier coat than one would expect from a cat who seems to have spent his whole life outdoors.

After a few minutes, as the sun began to set, we started back to my place. By the time we parted ways, we'd ridden about a dozen miles. And I was feeling really good, save for a bit of soreness in my lower vaginal area. I tipped my seat ever-so-slightly downward just after I left my place. I guess I'll have to fiddle with the seat some more, at least for a while. But at least I felt energetic and the ride went almost effortlessly. Thank you, Barbara, Sue --and Arielle!

My First Bike Ride

Today I took my first bike ride.

My first bike ride since my surgery, that is. Four months to the day after my surgery, to be precise.

Because I woke up late and had a few errands to run--and made a trip to the farmer's market--I didn't get on my Mercian fixed-gear bike until it had already gotten dark.

Now, some of you may be questioning my sanity: A fixed-gear for my first post-op ride? My other Mercian, a geared road bike, couldn't have been too happy about that. Arielle--that's her name--sometimes thinks she's prettier than Tosca, my fixie, whom she accuses of "flaunting her sexuality." Which goes to show you that quarrels happen between those who have the most in common.

So I got on Tosca and reassured Arielle that her day was coming soon. Even though I had no particular route in mind, I figured--correctly--that I would take a flat ride. And I didn't expect to ride for more than half an hour.

So choosing to ride Tosca was probably no less insane than going out as a Saturday night began. But that, in turn, was no less insane than any number of other things I've done. Hey, what's a little traffic and some revelers after you've been through what I've been through?

I opened the gate in front of my place and slung my right leg over the top tube. You never forget how to ride a bike, of course, but after you've been off it for a while, you don't quite know what to expect--especially if you've been off because your body, not to mention your life, has undergone a dramatic change.

Anyway, I'd rolled only a couple of doors down the block when Millie called me from her door. A couple of weeks ago, she told me that even if the doctor gave me the OK to ride, I should stay off my bike until next spring. "More time to heal," she said. "Besides, why would you want to get back on your bike when it's cold?" I could read those same questions on her face even before she yelled, "Goin' for a ride?"

I nodded. She grimaced. "Don't worry. I won't stay out long."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

I turned right on to 34th Avenue, then, a block later, made another right to Vernon Boulevard, which follows the river. A couple of blocks after that, I made yet another right turn on to Broadway, in front of Socrates Sculpture Block. A couple of blocks later, I made my first left, to 12th Street, where a bunch of Serbian men were leaving a mosque. On the next block, I made a right turn to 30th Avenue, which one can follow about five miles to Astoria Boulevard, near LaGuardia Airport.

I had expected to feel fat, awkward and clumsy after such a long layoff. However, I marvelled at how light the bike felt under me. It was like a better version of my own legs. And the wheels made it feel as if I were riding on proverbial rails, albeit much more comfortable rails. Plus, that fixed gear was easier to pedal than I would have expected.

A few blocks into 30th Avenue, I stopped to adjust my saddle. I have always liked my saddles level, or tilted ever-so-slightly tilted upward. But I was starting to feel some pressure in my newly-made lower organs. Moving the nose of the saddle slightly downward helped a bit. But I have a feeling I'm going to be fiddling with it--or, perhaps, getting a new saddle. I hope I don't need to.

After making that adjustment, I pedalled alongside cars driven by guys whose girlfriends were in the front passenger seats. I was expecting the worse but was pleasantly surprised at how courteous most of them were.

Before I knew it, I pedalled at least three miles between the traffic lane and cars parked by the curbs. Along the way, I passed small stores, some of which were closing, bars and dance clubs that were opening and rows of small houses where the cathode and neon shadows of TV shows and movies flashed in some of the windows. Young men in flashy jackets and young women in slinky dresses emerged from some of the houses; into others, couples with young children--some who looked like they'd just come from church--were entering.

Without thinking, I continued to pedal. My body felt surprisingly light, and every movement felt like a current of energy that powered my eyes and ears. Not only could I smell the burgers, pizza, gyros, curries and pollo asado cooking in the delis, coffee shops and restaurants; I could taste them. I was as alert as a cat to cars turning and people crossing streets, but it seemed that in spite of all of the Saturday night drivers and some people who were already intoxicated with one substance or another, I felt somehow that, with my senses that seemed to grow more acute by the moment, people were sensing me as much as I was sensing them. So, none of the possibly-inebriated drivers made turns they didn't signal or were careless in any other way, and I didn't have inattentive pedestrians charging mere steps in front of me in the middle of a block. It almost seemed that all those people knew that this middle-aged woman who's had an exasperating week was taking her first bike ride in four months.

After reaching the Grand Central Parkway entrance near Citi Field, I started back home. My feet made smooth, if slow, turns on my pedals. Along 34th Avenue, from about 110th to Junction Boulevard, I saw rows of churches and houses where some of the finest musician/composers to come from this country--Louis Armstrong among them--played and lived during the later years of their lives. That seemed to be a trajectory for jazz artists of that era: they started in Harlem, spent time in Europe and "retired" in the East Elmhurst neighborhood through which I was spinning in slow but steady time.

Then, after crossing Junction Boulevard, those old houses gave way to blocks full of garden apartments--the first of their kind in this country, and possibly the world--in the center of Jackson Heights. Those buildings--some very elegant, others showy in an Art Deco kind of way--cast the sort of light that glistens with silence even when there's no drizzle or light rain filling the air. In other words, no matter who lives in them-- in their history, those buildings have exuded the prosperity of business people, housed working-class immigrants and become dorms for young professionals and havens for single and coupled gay men-- the light that fills those streets in the evening is incorrigibly urban and bourgeois.

After a dozen or so blocks of those buildings and that light, the blocks alternate between the bright neon signs of stores and clubs and the oddly mute shadows of industrial buildings closed for the weekend. Then, after crossing under the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway overpass and Northern Boulevard, I was riding down Broadway, past very familiar stores, cafes and shops. I managed to stop at Parisi's, one of my favorite bakeries, before they closed, for a loaf of bread and a sfogliatelle--my favorite pastry. And I got the hearty and delicious "Freddy's Platter" from the King of Falafel down the block.

By the time I got home to eat my Freddy's Platter and chase it with the sfogliatelle, I'd done about ten miles. Not a big ride for me: I used to do more than that before breakfast. And I wasn't pedalling along scenic seashores or among majestic mountains or fall foliage in Vermont or the Vosges. And while my legs felt fine and I didn't feel winded, I could feel some of the pressure in one of those sensitive areas. (I'll definitely be fiddling with the saddle some more!) But no ride could have been more beautiful, at least to me. The way it felt was almost the exact opposite of the climb up le Col du Galibier, which I didn't think about even for a moment. When I finished that climb, which seems like more than a lifetime ago, something--it seemed to come from within and without me at the same time--said, "You'll never have to do this again." I pedalled up that mountain because I thought I needed to, because I thought I'd let down all those people--including Tammy--who seemed to expect such things from me and because I feared "losing face" with all of those guys with whom I rode and to whom I used to boast about exploits like that one. On the other hand, something in my mind seemed to say, "You can do this again--whenever you want to."

Of course, I don't expect every ride to be like the one I did tonight. But it was absolutely fine for this lady's first ride.