A Bridge And A Gate At The End Of The Day

After yesterday's rain and driving wind, the cold, crisp, clear air felt good. Late this afternoon, I walked to Astoria Park, where the sunset and twilight feel as if they're made of stone, steel and the reflections in the wakes of boats plying the deceptively calm East River. That passage, between Queens, Randall's Island and Manhattan, is called Hell Gate. A number of ships ran aground there; a few actually broke up and sank.

A long, arched railroad bridge spans the river from Manhattan, through Roosevelt Island and onto the Queens side. Amtrak trains rumble over it; with its steel girders and stone embankments at each end, it's not hard to picture the steam engines that used to harrumph across it, then screech around the bend a bit beyond the park and whine as they faded into the distance. Somehow the modern Amtrak trains seem even more archaic and anachronistic than those steam engines would; they somehow accentuate the passage of time and another day passed.

As I started to walk home from there, I called my parents. They had to cancel the trip up this way they'd planned for Thanksgiving week; now they've cancelled the trip they'd planned for Christmas, which they were going to spend with my brother and his family. Neither of them, especially my mother, has been feeling well. What used to take days to heal now takes weeks or even months. On top of those ailments are new ones that come, at least in part, from aging.

Tonight, for the first time (that I can recall, anyway), I thought of my parents as old. Even when I was a kid, I didn't think of them that way. That may have to do with my being the eldest child and the fact that my parents were young (though not particularly so by the standards of their generation) when I was born. So, while neither of my parents ever tried to walk, talk or do anything else the way any of my peers or I did them, I never felt the sort of generational gap between me and them that a lot of other kids felt between them and their parents. That's not to say we didn't have (or still don't have!) disagreements. But I never felt that either of them--especially my mother--was living in a world entirely different from my own.

One irony is that now I feel this distance in age--and, more important, in what we can expect from the rest of our lives--as we have, in many ways, grown closer. Another irony is that I am in what's normally called middle age, which is the stage of life my parents were living in my early adulthood. Now that I am living what I saw them live, I understand what they're thinking and saying more than I previously could. I might even say that I empathise with them in ways I couldn't when I was younger. And now they understand me better.

I offered to go and spend Christmas with them, as I did last year. Mom reminded me that I might not find a ticket, and that if I found one, it would be extremely expensive. Besides, she said, she would rather rest. I can't say I blame her.

I just hope I get to see her and Dad soon. It's not that I have anything urgent to talk about with them. Besides, after what I've been through and what I've done, what can be so urgent--besides spending time with them? Even if they were to live another thirty years, that would matter more than anything else that I can think of.

Hallucinatory Fatigue

Now I'm at the point of unpacking things just to unpack them, and moving my bed and dresser just so I can use them. Things look fairly hideous now, but at least I can actually see some of the floor.

It was just as well that I did the work I did: The temperature fell with the rain throughout the day. Now, the temperature is right around the freezing point; the possibility of snow described by the weather forecasters just may come true.

When you're really tired, almost anything can seem like an hallucination. And almost anything looks like one when viewed through the Dali-esque mirrors formed by raindrops. Can you imagine what the moon would look like in such a setting?

The bruise that spread like a slow-motion oil slick across my left side, all the way to my navel, is fading now. However, I still have what looks like a Continental Shelf where it looked like I was pregnant with a hammerhead shark. I never had the world's most appealing body, even when I was in the best physical condition of my life, and I don't want to look like I'm in the advanced stages of cirrhosis of the liver. Wouldn't that be ironic? One of my old neighbors was a few years older than I am and had been getting drunk almost every day since she was an adolescent. She wasn't just thin; she could have hidden behind a matchstick. All right, I wouldn't want to be her. Still, why do I have to look like the long-term alcoholic?

Maybe I should become Russian. People, of all ages, genders and orientations, tell me that I have beautiful eyes. Those Russian writers could spend page after page talking about a woman's eyes. That's what they did on the good day. On a bad day, they can spend hundreds of pages sulking.

All right. I know I shouldn't lump writers, or any people, of any country or culture together. But tell me: Have you ever read a Russian novel that wasn't written by Bulgakov (sp?) that you would actually give to someone who is clinically depressed?

This isn't to say that I don't like War and Peace, Notes from The Underground, The Brothers Karmazov or The Cherry Orchard. I know, the last one is a play. But it's great for many of the same reasons as the other works I've mentioned.

By the way: Lots of people think Nabokov is a Russian writer. Yes, he was born there, but I disagree. On the other hand, I think Moby Dick and L'etranger are really Russian novels (at least in spirit), even though they were written by Melville and Camus, respectively.

Now I think of how every generation has its "World's Shortest Books" jokes. One was "How to Survive a Nuclear War." How about this for the World's Shortest Doctoral Dissertation: "Wit and Humor in 19th-Century Russian Novels."

I'll pass on that one. But if anyone out there wants to take it on, be my guest. I can just imagine some literary scholar or critic writing such a book as a kind of esoteric joke.

For that matter: What do you think of "The Esoteric Joke" as a name for a band?

See, I told you I'm tired!

Resting After The Last Seven Years, And For The Next Seven

Today was a slow day for me. I slept late and got not much done besides my laundry. The state of my unpacking is exactly where it was at the beginning of this week. I know that, realistically, I won't have this apartment in anything like a "finished" state until New Year's Day or thereabouts. I will probably do a lot of work during the week between Christmas and New Year's Day, as I will not be on my job.

In the meantime, I've ordered a bike rack that, I think, will better fit this space than what I had been using in my previous apartment. It's not smaller, but it will hang the bikes by their rear wheels, which I actually prefer to mounting them horizontally on the wall. The latter way can make for a nice "bicycle art" display, but I find it more difficult to get the bikes on and off. Also, the bike is less stable that way than it is when it's hung vertically. Finally, my new rack includes shelves on which I can leave my helmets, gloves and other accessories and items I use when I ride.

My two Mercians will hang on that rack. The Raleigh three-speed, which is locked to a post outside, will probably stand in the hallway between my kitchen and bedroom, as it weighs about twice as much as either of my Mercians.

Maybe it's just as well that I probably won't have that rack for another two weeks or so. I'm doing what I can to shape this place up, but as Gunnar Berg reminded me, I've just had my surgery and, as someone (Yogi Berra?) once said, I'm not as young as I used to be. Maybe I needed this day to recoup, to recharge--and to take things in.

Although my physical appearance (at least what 99.999 percent of all people see) is the same as it was before my surgery, people have told me that I look "different"--for the better. Yesterday I talked with a prof from another department with whom I've been friendly but have hardly seen at all this semester. "You're more beautiful than ever!," she exclaimed.

More beautiful than ever! As if I ever were beautiful! All right, I'll take it. And I'll let you in on a little secret I've stumbled over: The only thing better than a man who can make a woman blush is another woman who can make her blush!

Would she or anyone else say the same thing if he or she were to see me now--in my sweats, with my hair a mess, as I slouch in front of my computer? Charlie is curled up next to me and Max has just crawled into my lap. They're both purring loudly. If I'm a mess, at least I'm as happy as they are.

Seven years ago, neither of them was with me. I'd had another cat named Charlie who, like my eponymous feline companion of today, is gray and white, and a pretty calico named Candice. Sometimes I miss them: After all, each of them was in my life for longer than any except for a couple of friends I've had, and the only people who were in my life for longer than those friends were or are related to me. And I've never had any material object, lived in any place, or stayed in any job or school for as long as I had either Candice or my first cat named Charlie.

Why am I thinking about them, or the past, now? Well, I spent seven years on Ninth Street: four and a half in the house from which I just moved, and two and a half in an apartment in a building on a corner of that block. Although seven years is like the blink of an eye in the scheme of the universe, in my life, those seven years were almost a geologic age: one during which the ground shifted, settled into something resembling its current form, and shifted in more subtle, subterranean ways.

What is it about seven years? In so many cultures and traditions, lives are lived and events happen in cycles of seven years. As an example, in Genesis, Joseph prophesies that lean years will follow the seven prosperous years that were about to come to an end in Egypt. (An economist once admitted that economic forecasting hasn't gotten any better than that.) I hope that the past seven years weren't the "feast," at least for me: I'd hate to think a "famine" is about to follow (although that may well be the case for the economy). If anything, if I had to characterize the past seven years, I'd say they were intense. Perhaps they were the most intense period of my life. But that is definitely not to say they were the worst, or best--or the most difficult, although I would say that 2002, when those seven years began, was one of the most difficult years, if not the most difficult year, of my life so far. It's not the sort of time I can say I mastered or in which I achieved a victory: Somehow, I survived it. Actually, that's pretty much all I can say for my life up to that point.

But the rest I've gotten today isn't, I hope, merely a respite from what I've experienced. Rather, I would like to think that it's helping me to store up what I'll need for the coming days. Even if those days will bring joy and prosperity, I will need to be ready for them.

Mike Penner and Christine Daniels

Last night, I checked out Eva-Genevieve's blog and was shocked to find her post that linked an article about Mike Penner's apparent suicide.

You may recall that about two and a half years ago, Penner, a well-respected sportswriter for the L.A. Times, "came out" as a trans woman. She took a leave of absence and, after returning, wrote a number of columns as Christine Daniels. But then, last October, he quietly returned to living as Mike Penner.

I know that some people will take Penner as proof that trans people are indeed neurotic, if not perverted. Others will see it as proof that all trans people will suffer "transition remorse," if you will.

In the rest of this post, I will refer to Mike Penner by his given name and the gender assigned to him at birth only because he was publicly identifying himself by them at the end of his life. However, I hope that you will not read it as my own judgment about his identity. Not having known him, I cannot say whether Mike was indeed transgendered, much less whether the transition was the "right" or "best" idea for him.

However, I more or less agree with Eva-Genevieve when she says that his death is a cautionary tale about one peril of transition: taking it too lightly. It's not something one can "try on for size." At least, most people in most situations can't do, or at least would have a very difficult time of doing, that.

The transition itself is jarring enough for the one making it and his or her family, friends and colleagues. It almost invariably has some unanticipated cost or another, no matter how well one prepares for it. The one in transition might not lose his or her job outright, but colleagues who were previously thought to be allies may undermine his or her work and reputation. Family members and friends whose love and companionship seemed unconditional may decide to end their relationships with the person in transition. And, of course, there are the financial costs.

I am not complaining about any of those things. Yes, I had a few surprises--but some were pleasant. And what I've lost seems in retrospect to be,if not inevitable, at least not so surprising. Most important of all, I now have the strength to continue after those losses.

On the other hand, one might say that I had less at stake than Mike Penner did when I started my transition seven years ago. The number of people who knew me was much smaller than his circle of acquaintances, and although I have been a journalist, the combined readership of every publication for which I've written is probably much smaller than the LA Times. Plus, I had practically no cyber "footprint" as a male. Also, at the time I started, I had been away from academia for a few years, so I was out of contact with my former students and colleagues.

Furthermore, Tammy and I had just split up and I'd moved. Penner, in contrast, was married and had children.

So Mike Penner, at the time he became Christine Daniels, was entangled in a wider and tighter web than any I had ever spun. That meant not only was his transition more complicated than mine, "going back" was even more treacherous than it would have been for someone like me.

I think now that "undoing" his transition must have been, in some ways, even more difficult than the transition itself. He had known almost nothing but success in his life; to return to living as a male was surely seen by some--and possibly himself--as a failure. I would suspect that he might have gotten even more opprobrium than he did when he was making the transition from Mike to Christine.

What's even worse is that he could not have returned to the life he had before his transition. By the time he returned, he was divorced. Most likely, he had lost other relationships that helped to sustain him during his pre-transition days. I do not know whether or not he developed new friendships and other relationships during his time as Christine, but I would guess that if he had, at least one of them wanted to be friends with Christine, not with Mike. And, perhaps worst of all, he was probably seen as something less than a man (any woman--cis, trans, manque or otherwise--is seen that way, at least by some men) in the overwhelmingly male profession he practiced. And, finally, not only are most of his sportswriting colleagues male; so are most of the subjects of his and their work.

What his story exposes is how rigidly gender roles are defined and how little room there is for one to find out who and what one actually is, much less live by it. Most people never have gender identity conflicts; few understand what it's like to have one. And what even fewer people understand is that the only way to learn how to live with it--whether that means some form of sublimation, going for the surgery or something in between--is to live "as" one sees one's self, whatever that may be.

As it happens, in some ways I do fit into most people's notions about a woman of my age, more or less--and, almost as important, a straight woman of that age. That is one of the reasons why I haven't lived in what I call the "gender underground": I can interact with cis people as if I were more or less one of them. I am also very fortunate in that, even with the difficulties I've encountered, every step I've taken on the road from my previous life and in my current one has felt right. Plus, most important of all, even though I have lost relationships and other aspects of my previous life, I have gained new ones, some of which are better than any I could have imagined in my previous life. Not to mention that I also now have access to emotional and spiritual resources I never knew existed, much less that were within me.

Now, I don't know whether Mike Penner would have had such experiences had he continued to live as Christine Daniels. But I suspect that he never had the opportunity to learn what it really would have meant to be Christine Daniels--or Mike Penner. If that is the case, that may be--at least for him--the worst thing about his life and death.

What Do They Know?

Now it's coming on the end of the semester. The stress is building, as it normally does at this time of year.

I'm still unpacking and figuring out ways to arrange and store things. I won't quite feel settled in until I hang my pictures and the Turkish rug that used to adorn the wall in the bedroom of my old place. It's too beautiful to lay on a floor! Ironically enough, that's the reason I nearly sold it: The man who almost bought it from me has a collection of near- and far- Eastern objects that would complement it much better than anything I have. Even though I'm not a collector and I'm not knowledgeable about Oriental carpets (or objets d'art), I think I'd regret selling it.

Even though I'm not quite settled in, something feels safe and comfortable about this place. Maybe it's because this night is raw and rainy, and I feel ensconced here.

Most of the day was drizzly, as was the early evening. The street lights flickered their reflections in the glaze of rainwater that rippled with the grooves and cracks in the sidewalk as I disembarked the bus and walked down the street where I live. The brick rowhouses--I live in one of them--seem elegant, at least in a petit-bourgeois sort of way, in the soft rain that would sizzle if it were warmer.

My great-aunt's and uncle's house--very much like the ones on this street--simmered in a similar sort of light and drizzle in Jackson Heights so many years ago. Perhaps that is the reason why I have always associated blocks and houses like these with older people. Perhaps the fact that I am living here means that I am now an older person, too.

Then again, when I leave here to go to work, I see lots of young people, many of them Asian. Some are wearing suits; others are in dress-casual garb; still others are in the sort of fashionable outfits only the young can wear. Those trendy-looking people probably work in the media or fashion, or some industry related to them.

No one on this block, save for my landlady, knows me yet. Ironically, just around the corner are people who've known me since the day I moved onto the block from which I just moved. They are store owners, bakers, pizza makers and nail technicians, as well as people who frequent their businesses. Those people may have some memory of me as Nick, but they all relate to me as Justine. Millie and John knew me only briefly as Nick; now they tell me that they don't see me as anyone but a woman named Justine. And, I would think, if I were to get to know people on this block, or the ones around it, that is how they will know me, too.

Today I was one of the ones who wore a suit to work. Although I'm told that I dress well, I don't normally wear suits, particularly a black one. Whenever I wear it, people tell me I look good: I guess the cut is right. The jacket doesn't make me look even broader and bulkier than I am, and the skirt falls right about to my knee. And I wore a button-down off-white blouse with black stripes underneath the jacket, black stockings and a pair of slingbacks woven from strands of black, white and silver leather.

So what was the occasion? That's what a couple of people asked me. Actually, it was something that turned out to be, thankfully, a non-occasion. I had to go to the administrative offices because the legal affairs officer wanted to discuss something with me. She mentioned it about two weeks ago, but she didn't seem in a great rush to see me. I guess I should have taken that as a sign.

It turns out that someone made an anonymous complaint about me. The legal compliance officer said that because of the regulations, she had to discuss it with me. However, she didn't believe what was said in the complaint. I assured her that nothing in it was true. I figured that it might've come from someone who was unhappy with his or her grade, or who had some other grudge against me. She, on the other hand, thought it came from what she called a "culturephobe": that is to say, someone who comes from a cultural or religious tradition that "doesn't approve" of my "lifestyle." She may be right about that. One thing on which we both agreed was that, given the sort of complaint made, and the language in it, the complainer was probably a young (or youngish) male.

Of course, the fact that the complaint was anonymous means that it could have come from just about anywhere--perhaps even from someone who's not connected in any way with the college.

Even though I haven't done anything unprofessional, and haven't knowingly transgressed anyone's values, I still was worried when I went to meet her. I guess if you were ever sent to the principal's office--especially if said principal was a Carmelite nun--you still get the heebie-jeebies when you're called to the office of some authority figure. So, I was very surprised at how she actually tried to get me to lighten up. She "knew" I wouldn't have done the things that complainer accused me of doing, and, since it was isolated, it wasn't "indicative" of me. "After all," she said, "There are a lot of people here who respect you as an educator--and a person."

So you can just imagine how deeply I exhaled this afternoon. But now I'm also thinking about what it would be like to go to a new workplace where nobody knows me. When I came to the college where I work now, there were people who knew me before I went there. A couple were colleagues at LaGuardia Community College; a bunch were students there who, after completing their associate's degrees, transferred to my current college. Word got around, and I did nothing to deny or downplay my past.

There are some who feel--positively and negatively-- as they do about me precisely because of my past--or what they've heard about it, anyway.

The people on this block have heard nothing, except for tonight's wind and rain.

Between Seasons: Middle Age

Back to campus today, after the move. Now I'm feeling really tired. It's not just from the move, though.

Today was one of those gray, rainy days on which the fallen brown leaves seem even more sere than they did on the windy days that preceded it. And the now-earthbound foliage lacks the color it had in the days when it was about to fall from the now-bare branches. At the same time, the sky doesn't have the stark clarity of the clear winter sky after snow has fallen.

Someone once told me that what I've just described is a very good metaphor for middle age. Some would say I am of that age, but I don't feel I'm much like the scene I've just described. Still, it feeds, feeds off of, and feeds again any fatigue one may be feeling.

Today I talked with one colleague who can't wait for the semester to be over. I'm sure she's not the only one who feels that way now. At least by the end of the semester, there will be an interlude of cheer from the lights and colors, induced though they may be, of the holiday season.

Just Around the Corner

I am so exhausted. So what am I doing, writing on this blog?, you ask. Well, I'd rather whine to whoever may be reading this than to myself. Call it whatever you will.

I've spent all day unpacking and I still have so much left to do. Why is it that I never recall just how much work it is to move? One would expect that I'd be ready after all the moves I've done. I have an excuse this time: the short notice.

Now I'm thinking of something John, Millie's husband, said as we were returning the van. "If I could sell my house for about a million and a half, I'd just leave everything behind and start over." I can say that if I were made such an offer, I'd probably be tempted, too.

The bruise on my left side has grown. I guess that's to be expected, given all the bending and lifting I've had to do. Dang, it's ugly!

Millie called tonight, as she did last night. She reminded me that since she still has visitation rights to Max and Charlie, she'll be over this way sooner or later. And I'll be at her place again, probably for Christmas.

It's been weird, spending three days with no background music. I still haven't unpacked the speakers. They're in one of the hardest-to-reach boxes. I'll get to them sooner or later.

Now I'm living right around the corner from many of the stores in which I shop and restaurants and cafes in which I eat. I can't help but to think of my first visits to those places, some seven years ago. That's when I first moved onto the block from which I just moved. I'd just met Millie; I hadn't met any of her family members. I didn't know anyone else in the neighborhood. In some way, I felt even more like a stranger among strangers than I did when I first went to Europe.

When I first went to Europe, I'd just graduated college. But I toured on my bike, so I felt I was, in some way, a peer of many of the people I would meet, however briefly. Plus, I felt no special attachment to the college from which I graduated--or, really, to almost anyone. About the only people with whom I made any real effort to stay in contact were my mother, my maternal grandmother and Elizabeth. If I hadn't had them in my life back then, I probably would have stayed away even longer than I did.

When I first moved to the block I just left, Tammy and I had just broken up. We'd been living together for four years, and during the last year, I became a recluse. I was even distant from Tammy, even though we were sharing the same bed. When I moved out, there was really no reason for me to see her again, much less to return to the neighborhood in which we lived.

Now I am on another block where I know no one. But just around the corner, there's so much that's familiar to me.

Do You Want Your Life To Be The Way It Is In Your Blog?

If only life could be like it is in our blogs!

Is that this generation's version of "I wish life could be the way it is in the movies!"?

The other day, someone whose blog I follow told me that lately her "off-blog" life has been chaotic and terrible. She confines her blog to a particular topic that doesn't lend itself to revelations about her personal life as much as this one seems to demand that I reveal about my own life. Still, I understood what she was talking about.

No matter how much I reveal on this blog, I still have a life apart from it. It's not that I'm willfully withholding terrible secrets from my readers; it's just that there's only so much one can talk about in the amount of time and space one has. And, I find that I tend to start with one subject or another and write whatever seems to present itself in the context of my paying attention to that subject.

No matter how much, or in what way, we express ourselves, such is bound to be the case. So--I'm not trying to elicit pity here--there are still things you don't know about, for example, my move. You may not want to know those things, anyway. But that's not the reason I haven't written about them. I simply wasn't thinking about them at the time I sat down to write. And, of course, my time is limited.

But I assure you: My life at the moment is about as chaotic as I've presented it here in this blog. After all, what else would you expect from someone who had to move less than five months after her surgery, the day after being whacked by a car door. Said move was done without her longest-standing male friend (who helped her with her previous move) who is suffering from pneumonia. Another one of the people who helped her that day seems to have disappeared from the face of the earth and she's broken off with another one of her ex-helpers.

Actually, now that I think of it, maybe my life is actually more chaotic and stressful, at least right now, than it is in this blog. At least, at this moment it is.

Moving Day

Well, I've got about a dozen and a half boxes--about half of them books, or things related to books--piled around my living room. I'm going to sleep here tonight, in a canyon between some of those boxes and the wall behind the sofa on which I'm sitting. It's not a bad sofa, if a bit worn: The landlady insisted on leaving it here with me. "It's very comfortable," she pointed out.

That means my futon is in my bedroom. It's a convertible, but I might just use it as my bed. Then I could fold it back up, if I wanted to, and use the space in my bedroom for--well, whatever. And it's a bigger bedroom than the one I left.

Plus, John--Millie's husband--pointed out, "If it works for you, why buy another bed?"

They helped me with my move. Now tell me they aren't friends: It's the day after Thanksgiving and they could be doing all sorts of other things. But they helped me. And it left me in tears for a time.

Now they're not living next door or across the street from me. We're only about half a mile, if that, apart. Still, I miss having them as neighbors: They're the best I've ever had.

And, I miss the place I left. Maybe it's not the place itself, which wasn't bad, but the things I associated with it. For one thing, it was the first place into which I moved as Justine. My life as I know it now developed there. Finally, I had my operation while living there.

I must also say that my landlady there treated me well most of the time. But in the four and a half years I lived there, I often wondered whether I'd have to move on short notice. And that's precisely what I've done now.

About a year into living there, her father's health took a dramatic turn for the worse. One day, someone from a social service agency informed me that I would have to move because he needed to live in my apartment, which was at the street level. He was in a wheelchair and couldn't climb stairs.

I was literally hours away from moving--I'd paid a security deposit at a new place and was in the middle of packing--when she said that her father wasn't moving in after all. Turns out that he needed care that neither she nor her mother could provide. So, she offered to give me the month free if I'd stayed.

It wasn't the only reason I stayed. I simply didn't want to move, as I had grown comfortable in that place and neighborhood. Plus, I was rather liking the arrangement of living on the first floor of a private house with the landlady upstairs. If nothing else, it meant that the house would be well-maintained. And it was, until recently.

A few months ago, I noticed cracks in the plaster on the ceiling. Then parts of it started falling down. I asked her to fix it. To do that, I had to remove the bed from my bedroom. I'd wanted to replace the mattress anyway, as I'd had it for a long time. So I tossed the bed, figuring that I'd get another.

A family friend who is the superintendent of a building in another part of Queens did the job. He convinced my landlady that the room--in fact, the whole apartment should be repainted. That was in early October.

Well, one thing and another came up, and he didn't do the job. And, in the meantime, a city inspector came to the house. It turns out that the apartment from which I just moved is illegal. The landlady claims the apartment, which was created by constructing a barrier, was there when her family moved the house.

She asked me to leave the apartment "for a couple of weeks" so that she could board up the bathroom, remove or cover the stove, sink and refrigerator and have a new inspection. Then, she said, she'd like for me to come back.

I asked her what I could do with Charlie and Max in the meantime. Or with my personal belongings: If I left them there, wouldn't an inspector know that someone was living there? And, I wondered where I was supposed to go. I mean, I have friends with whom I could probably stay. But, to me, the only reason to live out of a suitcase is if you're traveling.

So here I am in my new place. At least, this time I knew about the city Department of Buildings website, where I was able to check the status of this house. I just hope this all works out for me.

Another Happy Thanksgiving

I'm writing, in part, to wish those of you who are reading this (and those who aren't!) a Happy Thanksgiving.

If you've been reading my blog, you know that I have many reasons to be thankful. The biggest one, is of course, that I've made it. I survived molestation, battering, decades of depression and self-loathing and all of the self destructive things I did--and I'm here now. I've managed to live long enough to live as a woman--and, of course, to have the surgery.

And now I've just shared a Thanksgiving dinner with Millie, John, their daughters Stephanie and Lisa, their son-in-law Tony, grandkids Melanie and Stephen and Millie's friend Catherine. Today's dinner marked the fifth Thanksgiving I've shared with them.

Now I have to go and continue packing for tomorrow's move. Hopefully, that will be a reason to give thanks, too.

Pregnant With A Hammerhead Shark On One Side

Have you ever seen those ads that promise to tell you your "true age?" Well, I think I don't need one of those ads: My body is telling me, loudly and unambiguously.

Today I've been packing for my move, which is the day after tomorrow. Actually, I have until the first, but Friday was the only day for which I could rent a van. And, the month begins on Tuesday.

I'd forgotten how much work it is to pack for a move! Another problem is finding anyone to help me on such short notice, especially during this holiday week. Plus, Bruce has pneumonia.

When you've been as inactive as I've been for the past few months, you feel it after you've lifted things or bent a few times. And the injury I incurred today isn't helping anything, except my memory of why I don't normally use bike lanes.

I was on the nice old Raliegh three-speed I bought a couple of weeks ago. I was riding it about three blocks from my place when I experienced one of the worst nightmares of most urban cyclists. Yes, I got clocked by a car door and went down hard.

The thing about most falls is that you don't really see what injuries you have from them until later. It's as if you're in too much shock to notice. The scrapes on my arm weren't as bad as they felt when I first got up. But where I didn't feel any pain on my first--on my left side--there's a huge, particularly ugly bruise about half the size of my hand. And, the swelling is noticeable under a form- or close-fitting top. Someone who doesn't know me might think my liver is swollen from booze, even though I haven't drunk alcohol in more than twenty years.

Speaking of which: Having been around a lot of active and recovering addicts, I've seen people with what I've just described. Someone in that condition looks like he or she is pregnant with a hammerhead shark on one side of his or her body. I can recall one particularly extreme case: A woman I knew named Jackie, who worked with me at MacMillan Publishing at around the time I was getting sober. About the same age then as I am now, she was vivacious and very knowledgeable about so many things. I saw a photo of her when she was young: I would not mind looking the way she looked then! Well, except for one thing: Her eyes seemed incongruously dull, save for a twinge of sadness.

As I recall, she died not long after I left MacMillan. I hadn't thought about her in ages. What's happening? A college friend I hadn't heard about in at least twenty-five years has gotten in touch with me. Now I'm thinking about Jackie. Will I be revisited by more of my past?

Right now, I wouldn't mind some of the physical stamina I had in my past. But I certainly wouldn't want to be in the mental state I was in back then.

And I hope I'm not pregnant with a hammerhead shark on one side of me for too much longer.

Next Installments

So today I paid my first month's rent on my new place. I still have mixed feelings about it. On one hand, it's a new beginning and is therefore exciting. On the other, I wonder whether this is a detour from the things I'd anticipated.

At least I feel like some part of my future is unfolding. Today I also met with Tom Weber, the head of SAGE (Services and Advocacy for GLBT Elders), Randi, a social worker with SAGE and someone whose name I'm not recalling at the moment.

We talked about starting a focus group with transgender people 45 years and older to find out what they might want in a group for trans people of that age. I came up with the idea when I was in Colorado and noticed that Joyce, Lindy and Danny, who were there for the surgery, were all around my age. It made me think about some of the issues we face, and how so much of what's available doesn't address them. Like so many other things in our culture, support groups and other LGBT services tend to be very youth-oriented. Not that I have anything against the young people: It's just that our concerns are different.

I am excited about the idea of moving ahead with such a project--and, if you know me by now, you wouldn't be surprised to know that I'm a bit nervous. I know that I'll be working with mental health care professionals, who will help with screening and other things in which I have no experience. Still, when I'm doing something to help someone, I want to know I'm doing the best that anyone can do for that person.

At least the ideas I expressed look like they may bear fruit. I guess that's an accomplishment, for now.

What Age Do You Want to Be?

This cold is slowing me down, the grayness and the shortness of the days are getting me down and it seems that just about everything else is spending me down.

And the next few days, save for Thanksgiving Day itself, will be non-stop work, as I am moving.

It's not the first time I've moved. In fact, I've probably moved more than anyone should. I recall the time Janine came to visit after one of my moves and remarked that I have had more addresses than anyone else she knows. It's an American thing, I guess.

You know what they say about being careful of what you wish for. Even though I like my current landlady and the place isn't bad, I felt that I might want to move as soon as I was well enough. I had been debating, to myself, a move to Colorado or Seattle or Europe. One problem is the same for all of those locales: finding work. And as much beauty as there is in Colorado, it's a bit far from an ocean for my tastes.

So now I'm moving to a place that's a few blocks from where I now live. The place is a good bit bigger, and the fixtures are in better condition. But now I'm feeling anxious about it. After all, the place in which I'm living now is the first to which I moved as Justine. And, of course, I've had my operation while living here.

At least, the apartment to which I'm moving is close enough so that I'll see Millie and Tami, the best friends I made on this block and the best friends I made in a very long time. And it's closer to transportation and shopping than the place where I'm living now.

Part of me tells me to look forward to the move. After all, the last two moves were good for me. I want to think this one will be, too. Other changes may result from it: good ones, I hope.

Then again, so much of what I've been experiencing during these past few months simply can't be compared to anything I experienced earlier. It's an odd feeling, in a way: Sometimes I wonder whether I'm losing my ability to miss my past.

Next semester, one prof is offering a Special Topics course he's called The Literature of Aging. He's made flyers and brochures that begin with this question: If you could be any age again, what would it be? 20? 30? 40? 50? 60? My answer would be "none of the above." Actually, I haven't been sixty, so I couldn't repeat that age yet. Fifty was just a year ago: It wasn't bad, considering that I was waiting for my surgery. But it's hard for me to imagine repeating any of those other ages. At forty, I was in the best physical shape of my life, but I was grasping at straws: I'd started to date Tammy in the hope that her love would make me into a man, or would at least make me want to be one. Thirty and twenty were both miserable times in my life; I would not want either.

Now, if I could have lived at any of those ages as a woman, I might feel differently about repeating them. But then, I wouldn't be repeating them, would I?

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.