No Time To Criticise, Not Having the Luxury of Gloom

When I was a kid, if someone had asked me to define the word "gloom," I might have said that it was a cold rain on the day after Christmas. That's exactly how today has been; in fact, it seems to have been this way since some time after I got home last night.

I'm not feeling gloomy, though. I realize I haven't much reason to be gloomy, really. In particular, two recent experiences are helping to keep my outlook on life from being defined by the gray rain and chill that have held this day in their grip.

Those two experiences are, ironically enough, two that seem unrelated: my surgery and the time I spent in the soup kitchen. In the latter experience, every single person I met was facing something more difficult than I'm facing at this moment. As for the former: Well, after getting what you've always needed in order to feel complete, how can you walk through life under a dark cloud?

That's not to say, of course, that you never become sad, frustrated, lonely or angry. They become simply individual tones on a scale, or hues in a spectrum, of emotions. (Perhaps you can come up with better metaphors. But you get the idea, I'm sure.) As best as I can tell, no emotion, positive or negative, is meant to be experienced continuously. That's old news, but it doesn't hurt to remind myself of it.

Anyway...I can think of all sorts of reasons why I don't experience, sans interruption, the discontent that seemed like an inevitable condition of being who I am, if not simply being, during my youth.

One reason might simply be that, as I've aged, I've gained some perspective. That's to be expected, I suppose. But I think that an even more important reason is that I simply don't have the time to wallow in despair, or even boredom. When you think about it, boredom is almost a luxury. And, as a corollary to that, that kind of blue feeling that seemed almost fashionable to me when I was young is now an indulgence, as alcohol and other drugs are.

Someone, I forget who, once told me to be so busy improving myself, or just learning something useful, that I don't have time to criticise other people. That's just starting to make sense to me now. So many negative emotions I've had began with my resentment or jealousy of someone else. Those, of course, are the reasons why we spend time criticising people we can't change. Why does so-and-so get away with being an asshole? Why did she get the guy--or why did he get the girl? (I've asked both questions!) When we start thinking about those kinds of questions, we become paranoid, which is nothing more than the feeling of powerlessness turning into a martyrdom complex. How did she, of all people, get that promotion? She must have slept with the boss. I would never do such a thing. I guess I'm too good to make it in this world.

That gloom in which I used to wallow is, then, a pure, unadulterated form of narcissism. Criticising other people made me better than them, in my mind. It made me so good--again, im my own mind-- that I was doomed. And you know what rhymes with "doom."

Now that I am learning how to live without the convenience I once had, I am finding that the luxuries that came with it weren't always so wonderful. One such luxury is having nothing better to do than to criticise someone else and, from there, to spiral into all-encompassing anger and despair. Some anger may be necessary to reclaim one's self. But the trick, at least for me, has been to keep it from becoming the quicksand of self-pity. How many more years do I get to learn that?

Christmas And A Hanai Family

It's hard to believe that Christmas Day is almost over. I slept late: As rewarding and enlightening as working in the soup kitchen was, it left me tired. I didn't do any heavy lifting, but I did have to bend and otherwise move around a bit. I guess it's going to be a while before I have all, or anywhere near, my former strength.

Plus, I could feel the tiredness and downtrodden-ness of the people there. I was describing it to my mother, when I remarked, "I can only imagine how they deal with it every day. I'd probably be crying all the time."

"That's what they probably do," my mother said. "Or they just get used to it."

I'm not so sure I'd want to simply "get used to it." Yes, there is suffering in this world: In fact, Buddhists and others say that life is suffering. I guess getting used to the fact that there is suffering, and that you and other people will suffer, is one thing. But to "get used to" suffering, or witnessing the suffering of others is something else. And I certainly want to get used to despair. Nor would I want anyone else to do that.

Still, I plan to volunteer again at that soup kitchen. It's not that I feel any duty or obligation to do so. And I know better than to use charitable acts as atonement for past misdeeds. Something like that works only when there is perfect reciporicity: in other words, when one good balances out one evil. Life is much more complicated than that.

To revert to a cliche, I simply feel good about the work I did yesterday. I don't mean that in a self-congratulatory way. Rather, I feel good in the way one feels after doing something very basic and necessary for someone else and knowing that the person valued it. Plus, it is emotionally satisfying for me to feed someone, and to share a meal with that person. (And I did those things for more than one person!) Maybe it has something to do with my Italian heritage: In that culture, you simply can't separate eating and relationships. My mother and grandmother always offered something to eat for anyone who came to their homes. And, after I moved out, it seemed that the first thing my mother wanted to do when I came to her house was to feed me.

Millie's like that, too. That's why it has always felt so natural for me to spend holidays with her and her family, or simply to go to her house. Now I am in tears: I have experienced their generosity and love, again. I hope that that woman I talked with yesterday, and all the other people I saw at the soup kitchen, will have something like that. What's sad is that some of them have never had it, while others lost it, by whatever means.

If there's something in this world to which everyone has a right, that just may be it. Privilege is getting it both from your biological family (or, at least, one or some members of it) and from your hanai family. (Thanks to Keori of Pam's House Blend for allowing me to learn of that Hawaiian tradition.)

Privilege In A Soup Kitchen

Most of the day was briskly cold, as the past couple of days have been. However, toward sunset, the air started to feel damp in spite of the clear sky. It probably had to do with the melting snow. Interestingly, the snow seems to be melting even more quickly now: I think it's warmer at I write this, late at night, than it was earlier in the evening.

Now, if I believed more in things like synchronicity and that everything that happens in our daily lives is somehow symbolic, I would say that today was a counterpoint to last Christmas Eve. I spent the main part of that day in Newark Airport, waiting to get on the flight I'd booked to Florida. That meant that my parents spent a large part of their day waiting for me at Jacksonville Airport. We all thought it was such a good idea for me to take a direct flight to Jacksonville, which is about an hour and a half drive from my parents' house, rather than taking a flight to Atlanta and another to Daytona Beach, which is less than half an hour from their place.

Anyway...last Christmas Eve seems further in the past, somehow, than even some of the Christmas Eves of my childhood.

One thing that made today different from Christmas Eves past--apart from having experienced the changes I've undergone in the past few months and few years--is how I spent part of this day. This afternoon, Jade, a friend I met at the LGBT Community Center, and I volunteered at a soup kitchen/food pantry on the Lower East Side.

Normally, lunch is served every weekday from 11 to 1 pm, and the pantry distributes bags of food twice a week. People are allowed one bag of food (which contains enough to stock a small pantry) a month; they simply have to present some form of ID. No such requirement exists for having lunch.

Today, however, the mealtime was extended, as were the hours for distributing bags of groceries. As you might imagine, there were a lot of people there.

After most of the patrons/clients/recipients (I heard all three terms used) were served, Jade and I were offered the same late lunch/early dinner, which was like a Thanksgiving dinner: turkey, stuffing, cranberry sauce and the other foods that go along with it. At first I was going to decline: Somehow I didn't feel right about eating something that could've gone to someone who needed it more than I did. I voiced that concern to Jade and to the woman in charge of the kitchen. Both insisted that would not be the case; besides, some of the people would like to see us eating with them.

It made perfect sense, yet hearing it still surprised me somehow.

Anyway...The food was very good. And a black woman who was probably about ten years older than I am was good company. She told me a bit about how her life spiralled downward through an abusive marrage and drug addictions--hers and his. One might argue that she made bad choices; I would argue that her choices were more limited than mine have been and that she, for a variety of reasons, didn't know about other choices she could have made--such as getting help.

One thing I've learned is that people don't do things we would never do (or that we believe we would never do) because they're stupid or incompetent. More often, their circumstances present them a different (and, most likely, more limited) set of options than what we've had.

I say that as someone who, if I do say so myself, has grown keenly aware of privilege. I've told people that one thing I've learned in this transition (and, in fact, one of the few things I've learned that has any real value at all) is that privilege is something you don't know you have until you lose it. I was able to get some of the education and other experiences I have in part because I lived more or less within what was expected of a white male--and one who seemed straight to most people most of the time. What if I had "come out" when I was a teenager? Would I have stopped attending high school after getting beat up for the umpteenth time? (That is the story of a number of LGBT people I've met.) Or, what if my family had kicked me out. (That's another story I've heard too many times.) What would have I become, or what would have become of me?

The sober fact is that much of what I've been able to do--including, to some degree, my transition itself--is a residue of the privilege I once had. And even the residue of it is still more than many other people--including most of the people I saw today--have ever had. The fact that I was volunteering-- that I was, by choice, sharing my meal with someone who had noplace else to go--was itself a reflection of privilege that I still have, to some degree.

As near as I can tell, it doesn't help to feel guilty about it, or even angry over the injustice one finds in the world. I'm just trying to use what I've been given in ways that are meaningful and helpful to others as well as emotionally satisfying to me. And let me tell you, being able to live as you've always wanted to live is a pretty damned good resource to have!

I Am A Patron Saint In Greenpoint

Today I had one of my blonde moments. Or was it an absent-minded professor moment? Or should I blame it on my age? After all, I'm in, or near, Alzheimer's territory.

Whatever the reason, my mental lapse caused me to miss an appointment with Anna, my hairdresser. I was supposed to see her at 2:30 this afternoon, but for some reason I thought it was 3:30. When I arrived, she was cutting someone else's hair and was booked for the rest of this day--and week. So I've scheduled an appointment for the day of New Year's Eve. At least I'll start 2010 with nice hair!

Anna works for Zoe's Beauty in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. I always enjoy going to the salon-- and to the neighborhood, which is the main Polish enclave in New York. How long it will remain so is a good question: When you walk Manhattan Avenue, which is the main commercial strip, you see actual or wannabe hipsters perusing the windows full of Polish foods, videos and books. A few stores have signs in Polish, but not in English.

I went into one of them to buy some chocolates. Yes, the Polish make some good dark chocolates. As I don't drink vodka or beer (or anything else with alcohol), those chocolates have become my Polish drug of choice. The E. Wedel and Wawel brands seem to have a particularly nice taste and texture. It's a good thing the packages are illustrated: Sometimes they're printed only in Polish!

Anyway, when I went to pay for the chocolates, the young female cashier talked to me in Polish. I smiled in a somewhat embarrassed way. She knew right then and there I wasn't from her country. "Sorry! I thought you were..."

Ironically, she was actually more pleasant toward me when she realized I'm not Polish. And she was more polite with me than she seemed to be with the Polish customers. That, of course, is the opposite of what one normally expects in encountering people who speak a language different from one's own. What I find even stranger is that it's not the first time I've had such an experience in Greenpoint.

After buying the chocolates, I went to a little Polish restaurant called The Happy End. I highly recommend their white borscht and pierogies, and that's what I had there. As I was spooning up the soup, a man about ten years younger than I am sat beside me and started chatting me up in his language. I gave him my sad little "Sorry, I don't speak your language" smile--which seemed to make him even more intent on talking to me. He switched to English, which he actually spoke very well. "What are you doing for the holidays?"

"I'm going to see family," I lied. I've used that line to abort a couple of attempted pick-ups in my time.

"Oh. That's good. What about after the holiday?"

"Well, I'm going to work. "

"What's your name?"

This time, I told him the truth. That really got his attention. Apparently, Justine (which is spelled Justyna in Polish) is a sort of patron saint, or something like that, to the Polish. At least, one of my Polish students told me that. She said that Justyna led Polish forces in an ultimately unsuccessful insurrection against their Russian and German occupiers. I remarked that it sounds a lot like the story of Jeanne d'Arc. My student agreed, but added that in a way, Justyna is even more important to Poland than Jeanne is to France. "At least France still existed when Jeanne fought," she said. "When Justyna came along, the Polish people didn't have their own country."

If I recall correctly, some time near the end of the 18th Century, Russia and Prussia conquered and divided Poland, which would not become an independent country again until some time after World War I.

Anyway...I told that man in the restaurant that I am in the neighborhood often, and perhaps we would bump into each other again. "I hope so, Justyna." He enunciated my name, making sure that I heard it as a Polish name.

A couple of weeks ago, I mused on whether I should be Russian because their writers spend so much time describing women's eyes and I've been told that mine are beautiful. Now I'm starting to think that maybe I should be Polish. After all, I seem to look more or less the part. And Polish men seem not to mind big-boned, strong-willed women. Most important, perhaps, is that I seem to have the right name. Who'd have guessed that in changing my gender--and my name--I'd become a sort of honorary Pole?

Then again, would I have to change my last name to Valinottiniski? I don't think I'd like that. I'll stick to being an interloper in Greenpoint.

Learning About The Cold

After this weekend's snow, the air has been filled with the kind of cold that seems to cut right through the skin and go straight to the bone. It is a windborne cold that feels as stark as the sky during the day and the twilight at the end of this, the second-shortest day of the year.

Ever since I started taking hormones, I feel the cold more than I used to. Not only do I sense it more; it seems to have a sharper edge to it.

The cold today is different from the cold one experiences, say, in Paris. There, it's the moisture rather than the wind that bears the cold. So, instead of piercing or slicing its way into the skin, the European cold seeps through every pore and orifice and seems to deposit itself, as if in layers, in the body.

Since I started my transition, I've been to Europe once--in the summertime. So I don't yet know whether, and how, the cold weather over there would feel differently from how it felt to me when I was full of testosterone (and, in my youth, beer or wine--or sometimes even stronger stuff!).

One thing I know is that over there, they don't see a whole lot of sunshine during the winter. The sort of day we had today--what someone, I forget whom, used to call C-cubed (clear, cold and crisp)--is unusual there. The gray layers of clouds mirror the cumulus stratified chill that builds in one's bones through those winter days in northern Europe. And, if you're not accustomed to it, you feel as if the cold will never leave. Those who are accustomed to experiencing it know that one day it will leave--with the season, or with one's own life.

Thinking about the cold, and the different kinds of cold, has brought back a memory of Cori. Until now, I hadn't thought about her today. It wasn't as though I was trying to forget her: After all, if you try to forget something, it's too late.

Anyway...This is the anniversary of her suicide. If the person that I am now could go back in time for her, I'd do everything I can to get her to see what I know now: That her depression, as bad as it was, and as all-permeating as it seemed to be, would be gone one day. And she wouldn't have had to die in order for that to happen.

Of course, that was something I didn't know at the time--and, truth be told, I don't think I could have understood even if the most empathetic soul showed me what I've just described. I felt the same way she did about her depression: It had permeated every atom of her being and seemed as if it would stay forever.

We had the same sort of conflict over our gender identities. We thought we could resolve it by doing all the things guys did, by wearing the "right" clothes and so forth. But the coldness and grayness just seeped deeper into our beings and pushed out any sunshine and warmth.

That was why she called me on the last night of her life, and why I went over to her place. I knew just how she felt even though I was years--decades--away from describing it to any other human being. I tried to keep it at bay, confined to some part of me I hoped I would never need to access. But of course, over the years, the cold and grayness just drew tighter around my being. I did not believe that there was an end to that seemingly-eternal winter of grayness and cold.

Now, of course, I have seen an end, and have seen how the cycle can begin all over again. Cori is long gone, so all I can do is learn from my experience and help others.

The cold and the grayness end, at least for a season. So does the wind.

That Prof Didn't Have To Stand an Egg On End This Semester

Today is officially the first day of winter. The solstice came at 12:47 pm, our time. I didn't try to stand an egg on its end, so I don't know whether you really can do that on the day of a solstice? Or is that on the day of an equinox? And if I got an egg to stand on its end, how would that affect my life? Or would it?

Why would I try such a thing, anyway?

OK, so that was a bit of a digression. But can you start with a digression?

Anyway...I've been finishing up the semester. I don't know how I'll see this semester if I think about it in the future. In one sense, I can't imagine how I won't think about it: After all, it is my first in my new life. On the other hand, not much particularly noteworthy (for me, anyway) has happened. I worked; I did the best I could by my students and colleagues. A few students loved me; a few hated me; lots more saw me, if they thought about me, as just another prof--or as that prof.

What does it mean to be that prof? For one thing, lots of students stop me in the hallway to ask what I'm teaching next semester. Now that my courses for next semester have filled up, some students are asking how they can get into my classes. I guess there are more masochists in this world--or at least in the college in which I teach--than I ever imagined! ;-)

To be fair, I can understand why someone would think of me as that prof. For better or worse, I am one-of -a- kind in a number of different ways. For one, I'm tall and blonde (well, sort of) in a college in which 80 percent of the students are black, 10 percent are Asian and most of the rest are Latino/as. Plus, I'm bigger-boned than the average female of any race. And I'm the only faculty member named Justine. (If they're not calling me that prof, they're calling me Professor Justine--which I like.) And, of course, most of the school knows my story by now--or one part of it, anyway.

Hey, I'm even more of a minority than people who can make eggs stand on end! Or, for that matter, people who can touch the tips of their noses with their tongues (something I can do, by the way).

But I was that prof even before this semester. So, in that sense, this semester wasn't remarkable.

Maybe we can drag Marlo Thomas out of retirement to play me in a new series--That Prof. She's a few years older than I am, but that's all right. Plus, the fact that she's not much of an actress doesn't particularly trouble me. I mean, after all, outside of the college in which I teach, my circle of friends and my family, how many people have any idea of what I'm like? So they won't know whether or not she's portraying me accurately.

I think now of what one of the Medicis--Lorenzo, I think--said when people told him that a portrait (painted, if I recall correctly, by Botticelli) didn't resemble him. In essence, he said that 100 years after he died, nobody would remember what he looked like. But they would still have his portrait which, he correctly predicted, would be seen as a great work of art.

Now, of course, that's not to compare Marlo Thomas with Botticelli or any Medici--or any of them with me, for that matter. But imagine what someone could do with an idea like That Prof. If Meryl Streep had a lobotomy, she'd still be a better actress than Marlo Thomas. So, for that matter, would Helen Mirren or Simone Signoret. But, really, would you want to see any of them playing a middle-aged transsexual professor? Especially if said middle-aged transsexual prof is me? Streep, Mirren and Signoret can all play weighty roles. But none of them can do comedy. Well, I've never seen Mirren or Signoret do comedy, and the one time I saw Meryl Streep doing it--in She Devil--she didn't look right. Then again, opposite her, Roseanne Barr was playing a "serious" role. Whose idea was that?

And, let's face it, whether or not it was her intention, Marlo Thomas was funny. Maybe I'm the only one who thinks that way. Or maybe my view is skewed because That Girl ran about the time I was entering puberty. Her voice changed pitches more often during one segment of that show than mine did during my entire puberty. And she seemed to have as little control over it as I did over my voice changes.

I don't think anyone's going to make a series like that. So for now, if you want to see that prof, you have to come to the college in which I teach. And you'll find out that I'm just like all the others. Really.

OK, so believing that is a bit of a stretch. But save for the fact that I returned from surgery, and didn't have the physical stamina I normally have, this has been a fairly unremarkable semester. That's probably a good thing.

Where Are The Men?

We ended up with about a foot of snow. Out in the far reaches of Long Island, they had two, or even two and a half feet. Up and down the East Coast, from Virginia to Canada, people are digging out from this storm.

I am not a meteorologist, and I have practically no education of any sort in any area of science. But this storm seemed to be like a hurricane, except that the wind drove snow instead of rain--and, of course, that it was much colder than a hurricane.

The view from my bedroom window was that of a town molded in alabaster. It's lovely, and will remain so until the snow turns to slush the color of ashes.

More people were out and about yesterday were on the streets last night. What's interesting is that a seemingly large percentage of those people were in couples--heterosexual ones, mainly. That's what one normally expects to see on Saturday night, as there are clubs and bars along the commercial strip near me.

It seemed that the people who weren't in heterosexual pairings were instead mothers and daughters together. The daughters were teenagers or young adults; the mothers were around my age. That in itself is not so unusual: On the weekend before Christmas, mothers and daughters often go shopping together.

But what I found truly striking is the absence of middle-aged and elderly people, and men over 35 or so. There are a fair number of elderly people in this neighborhood, as there are in many parts of Queens. It seems that one can see just about all of them on a Sunday, as they're going to or coming from church, and possibly having lunch (They aren't the sort who "do brunch.") or dinner with friends or family members. As for the men: There seem to be fewer and fewer of them the longer I live here. If there are indeed fewer men in the prime of their lives than there were when I first moved into this area, I don't know why.

Of course, some people would argue that I contributed to that trend! ;-)

In a weird way, this reminds me of Park Slope the first year (1992) that I was living there. It seemed that there weren't any men of a certain age; there were only the very young or senior males. Occasionally I would see a thirtyish man with a woman, and possibly a child in a stroller. Those men often looked confused or resigned, as if they didn't know what they were supposed to be doing.

It may well be that they didn't know. At that time, a lot of professionals in the Wall Street-related industries had lost, or were losing, their jobs. Quite a few of them were living in "the Slope" at the time: In fact, they had much to do with turning the Slope into one of the city's more fashionable neighborhoods.

I recall stopping to use a Citibank (I called it "Shittybank.") ATM on Seventh Avenue. A fairly young woman stood at a table, exhorting people to sign her petition. I forget exactly what the petition was for; nonetheless, I'm pretty sure I signed it. Anyway, at the same time I was at her table, a man who was working in some skilled trade--I think he was an electrician--came up to the table. Then another man followed. We chatted: It turned out that both men and the woman at the table were unemployed. The second man was a Wall Street professional; the woman at the table was, it I recall correctly, an architect.

At the time, I was working on my MFA in poetry. I mentioned that to them; the woman found it really ironic that of four strangers who happened to just meet, the only one who was employed was a poet. I tried writing a poem about that, but, as you can imagine, such ironies don't work when you try to make them work.

Anyway...Something about what I saw today reminded me of those days in the 'Slope. I'm not a sociologist, so I couldn't tell you what may be causing it or what it may mean. For some time, I've heard and read that men are becoming superfluous, or at least nothing more than sperm donors. If that's true, then my transition was an even better idea than I thought it was!

Seriously...I feel that I've been seeing fewer and fewer men in these environs. As much as some of them exasperate me, I don't want to see them become superfluous or obsolete. That wouldn't be good for them--or the rest of us.

You Were Dreaming Of A White Christmas?

The higher the snowdrifts pile, the harder the wind drives the snow. At least, that's how it looks from my bedroom window.

A while ago, I was outside when the snow was beginning to fall. As I remained outside, the wind started to gust and the eddying flakes turned into cold, wet needles against any skin or other surface that wasn't covered.

Some of the stores closed early: something most people wouldn't expect on the last Saturday before Christmas. On the other hand, most people weren't outside unless they had to be, or unless they had gone out earlier in the day and had been out all day.

I stepped into a gift shop that I hadn't been into in a while. The Korean lady who owns it always says, "No see you for long time" when I step in. The truth is, you don't have to go into a place like that very often: In fact, you need to go in only when you want to buy something because she always has more or less the same stuff there: scarves, brooches, designer knock-off purses and tote bags, and other sorts of accessories. I mean, she gets new colors, patterns and designs, but the basic idea of what's in the store doesn't change much.

So why do I--or other people--go into such places to browse? I guess that in a store like that, even if you know what's there, the combination of colors and textures makes for an interesting, and even stimulating, sensory experience. That, as near as I can tell, is the essence of retailing. Then again, if I knew what "the essence of retailing" is, I'd be rich, wouldn't I?

The funny thing about "gift shops" is that people who go into them are more likely to buy things for themselves than for someone else. In my case, I'd say there's something like a 50-50 split: I'm as likely to buy for myself as for someone else. Or, as I did today, I'll buy something--in this case, a pashmina scarf with a particularly attractive pattern and combination of colors--and decide later whether I want to give or keep it. Someone once told me that's a sign of a good gift.

Honestly, I was in that store to get out of the weather that was turning more frightful by the moment as much as I was there for sensorial stimulation or to do any actual shopping. And, because the owner knows me, or at least has seen me before and knows that I won't steal her wares or burn the store down, she lets me hang out there for as long as I like and doesn't pressure me to buy anything. That, of course, is exactly the reason why I buy something whenever I stop in, as I did this evening.

Then, it was back into the snowstorm that was on the verge of becoming a full-blown blizzard, if it hadn't already come to that point. Even the guys from The King of Falafel and Shawarma were calling it a day--but, at least, not before I could get my chicken and rice platter! From there, it's a very short walk, even in tonight's weather, to my place.

People take shelter in stores, or inside or under anything that will stand between them and the weather, in the hope--in contradiction to the evidence before their own eyes and ears--that the weather will improve, however slightly: that the rain or snow won't fall as hard or the wind will let up just long enough for them to go wherever they're going next. Except, of course, that the weather doesn't usually work that way.

Sometimes you have to go back out into the cold, into the night, even if no one else is there. At various times, I've delayed doing that, which meant, naturally, that when I finally did venture out, it seemed even more desolate than I thought it would be.

Some people argue that we always travel alone. In a sense, they're right, because whatever journey we take cannot be undertaken by someone else. Paradoxically, taking our own journey, and experiencing, at times, no one but ourselves, is exactly what we need in order to find the ones we need and want.

What I've learned is that it may be our fate to go into the cold and darkness, and the storms. But it is our job to get through it. That means, of course, that the storm is not permanent. The darkness and the cold needn't be, either.

Now, as to how I went from buying a scarf to a bunch of ruminations that may or may not have worth or meaning...you've got me!

When You Don't Have To Apologize For Yourself

So today I turned in my grades and went to the holiday reception for faculty and staff members. That I actually wanted to go to such a thing is, for me, a change. And once I got there I realized why I was looking forward to it.

I did indeed spend some time with colleagues and other staff members I hadn't seen in a while. It still amazes me, even at this late date, that someone can work a hundred feet away from you and you and that person can go for months without seeing each other. Some of that has to do with the nature of our work and the variations in our schedules. But, for some faculty and staff members, I think it also has to do with working for so long in a culture in which people remain in their offices or cubicles. I think some of the newer faculty and staff--I include myself--and some of the administration are trying to change that. However, it took a long time for that culture, which I noticed almost from my first day at the college, to develop. So it will change slowly.

Then again, in the words of one prof who started at the college last year: "We all seem to be doing more this year!" She's right on many levels. I know that all of my class sizes increased by 25 percent this year. So did most other classes. So someone who teaches four sections has, in essence, five. That's no small consideration when you're teaching a writing or a lab course. In my case, I'm reading 25 percent more papers than I did last year.

Well, I guess that, if nothing else, we can say we're equal in that regard. Plus, some of last year's newbies have been "recruited" to various committes and such. I was doing those things already, so I didn't have to weather that shock.

But catching up on friends and other colleagues wasn't the only reason I was happy to go to the reception. All right, I'll level with you: The food was really good. There were Indonesian-style chicken satays and spicy sauce for dipping them. They were a nice complement to the vegetable somosas, the spicy fried shrimp and, of course, rice. And there was some sort of spicy sliced beef, which was also very tasty. As for dessert: I got so involved in conversation that I missed out on the cheesecake. But the berry pie was nice.

Now that I've made you hungry, I'll tell you the best thing, or at least the most interesting--at least for me--about being at the reception. I could see how some people had changed in just a few months. One of last year's newbies had a baby since the last time I saw her; another got married. Others got grants.

And they all said I seemed "different" this year--"in a good way." Yes, every one of them said that! A couple of them knew that I've had my operation; they asked how it went. For the others, I just smiled--not without a little bit of mystery!--and thanked them. Finally, a Biology prof said, "You look so much better. It's not just your physical attractiveness, though. You just seem so calm. You're not apologizing for yourself."

She's definitely right about the last part. Even before she said that, I was noticing that I wasn't seeing myself as the "other", or mentally putting an asterisk next to my name or the box marked "F." Or, for that matter, putting an asterisk next to my job title. I am teaching; I am writing: Therefore, I belonged in that reception--and belong in the college--as much as anybody did or does. And I had every right to talk to that Biology prof, to the Director of Academic Advisement, to my colleagues and office staff in the department in which I teach, to the Dean I saw yesterday--just as anyone else has that right, and the right to talk to any man, woman or child with whom they want to talk, and who's willing to talk with them.

I'm just learning how not to apologize for myself. People have long told me that I need to do that. Better late than never, right?

Now I'm recalling a remark someone made some time ago. This person--someone who once called himself my friend--and I had gone to a memorial service on the night of Transgender Remembrance Day last year. Before the service began, I circulated throughout the church's reception area and talked to a few people. During the service, I was one of the many people who walked up to the altar and read a memorial to someone who was murdered over her gender identity. And, after the service, we stayed for a buffet dinner.

On our way home, this person said, "You know, I've never seen you so relaxed. It's the first time I've seen you and you weren't defensive. You let your guard down, and it was nice."

Funny he should say that. Even when we were having good times together, I often felt as if I had been on trial simply for being who I am. I didn't realize that until I spent some time away from him. And, I'm sure, he didn't realize, and probably still doesn't realize, what he was doing.

I started to feel that, for whatever reasons, he--again, like many other people I've met--felt that that I owed him some sort of justification for what I felt and thought, but that he was under no such obligation to me or anyone else. Lots of people act that way without realizing what they're doing. I mean, if you're a straight white cis male, nobody ever asks you to rationalize your preference for women or, for that matter, Dockers or your favorite beer. Trust me, I know that from experience.

Fortunately for me, these days I don't spend much time around people who think they're entitled to an explanation and defense of every detail of my life. Some want to understand more than they do; I'm happy to help in whatever ways I can. Still others genuinely want to offer support; I am always happy for that.

As for the ones who expect a rationale and defense from you simply for being: They do it in the guise of trying to "understand" you. But what they really want is for you to help them reinforce the status quo that affords them some sort of privilege you don't have. In other words, it is, at best, a form of patronizing--or simply to make them feel less guilty about feeling superior to you.

At least today I didn't have to defend myself against anybody like that. That's why I didn't have to apologize for myself. For that reason alone, it was a really good day for me.

Getting Into "The Holiday Spirit"

Today it finally felt like Christmas is coming. I hadn't been "in the spirit," not because I'm unhappy; rather, I have just been too busy to notice that the holidays are imminent. When you move on the day after Thanksgiving and all of your time from then onward is taken up with unpacking, trips to the hardware store, grading students' papers and having conferences with those students, it's hard to notice a lot of other things.

There wasn't an "Aha!" moment or anything in particular that made it seem like the holiday season. I think it had to do with being home and working at my own pace. I went to bed in the wee hours of this morning and woke up late. Then, after reading papers from a few of my stragglers, I started to calculate grades and do some other paperwork.

Then, early this evening, I went to Hanna and Her Sisters to get my nails done. The last time I did that was about a week or so before my move. So it's been close to a month. The old polish was gone, and my nails, which are naturally dry, were breaking off. I'm not finished with arranging things in this apartment,and I haven't hung any pictures. And, once the semester is over, I'm going to do some work on that old Raleigh three-speed I picked up. So why did I get my nails done tonight?

Well, tomorrow is the holiday reception at the college. This semester, I attended a couple of lectures and a couple of more readings. And I read three poems--including one of my own--at the Department's open house last month. But other than that, I've been fairly invisible to most of the college, save for my own students and some of my colleagues. That has mainly to do with my recovery: Even though the tissues are looking really good (Dr. Jennifer says I'm healing better than anyone else she's seen.), I still don't have nearly the physical energy or stamina I had before the surgery. It will be a while before I get that back. Certainly, I have more of them thatn I did at the beginning of the semester. But, it seems that every time my energy level increases a bit, something comes along--like this move--to take it up, and then some.

Although I'm not much of a political animal, I'm rather looking forward to the reception. It'll be, I hope, a chance to see a few people I haven't had much opportunity to see this semester. Plus, it'll be a celebration of sorts for me: the end of my first semester in my "new" life.

Lately I've noticed something strange: I don't have the need I once had to talk about my transition with people I see. And, I'm not that interested in talking about the operation: It's done, it went well, the experiences surrounding it were wonderful and now I'm here. There really isn't a whole lot more to say, if I'm going to say anything. Yet, as I don't have the need to talk about it, I feel emotions--and intensities thereof--that I've never before experienced. I really can't think of anything else to which I could attribute those feelings: Sometimes I'm positively giddy for no other apparent reason. As the semester has ended, instead of saying "I enjoyed your class," students are saying things like, "I felt such joy in your class," and "You really know how to talk to us!"

But, once again, I digress. The reception at the college is being held; it's the first holiday-specific event in which I'm participating. It was the reason I was getting my nails done, and looking forward to it made the holiday seem, for the first time, imminent. Plus, tonight was what I like to call "crystal cold." The air seemed to intensify, if not deepen, the hues of the sunset and to reflect, even more clearly than other kinds of air, the stars against the nighttime sky. The strings of lights wrapped around signposts and stretched across windows seemed brighter and more colorful, and the cold, crisp air also seemed to highlight people's faces: even the ones who were getting off the train after a day's work seemed more vivid, if not more florid, than at other times.

Finally, being in Hannah and Her Sister's nail salon, I remembered whence I've come. I've been going to that salon for a little more than two years, and now that I've had my operation and gone through other stages of my transition (I'd love to know how Hannah explained any of it to the nail finishers who don't speak, or speak very little, English!), being there, walking that stretch of Broadway, getting my supper, or just doing almost anything, seems normal even though (or because?) they're all part of this new chapter in my life.

Really, you can't get a better gift than that. And you can't give anything better than joy to another person. If that's not what "the holiday spirit" is about, I don't know what is.

On Gender and Etiquette

You'd think I'd have certain day-to-day situations figured out by now.

Today I was leaving the administrative wing (which we call "The West Wing") of the campus's main building and entering a hallway that leads to the classroom area. I had just opened the door when I saw the college President and the Dean of Arts and Sciences walking toward it.

I did something that I would have done even when I was at my surliest and most belligerent self, during my youth: I held the door open for her. Although a part of my mind said that I was doing it out of politeness and basic respect, if not obsequiousness, I also was looking at the President of the College as the President and, well, as a woman.

Now I'm wondering whether she sensed that. I held the door, but she waited for me to pass through--and the Dean waited because he was walking behind her. I continued to hold the door and she walked through as we exchanged greetings. The Dean followed her, but grabbed the door just as she was passing over the transom. And he waited for me to pass through.

Sometimes I don't think I'll ever be graceful in social situations. I know that a woman is not expected to hold a door open for another woman, but a man of the Dean's age and status--and from the culture in which he was born and raised--is not only expected to do so; he expects to hold the door.

Yet I reflexively hold doors open for people, regardless of gender, or at least try not to drop them in their faces. I was like that even when I was rebelling--or telling myself that I was rebelling--against what, I didn't know. And, yes, I extended such courtesies even when I was a nasty or depressed drunk. I guess it has to do something with upbringing: My mother always expected me and my brothers to behave well in public, and in the company of elders. The funny thing is that even when I was trying to get as far away from home--or at least being a kid--as I could, I was grateful for that, particularly when I was living in France. They, and Europeans generally, still value good manners and such.

But even if I have good manners, I have no social grace whatsoever. I know how to do what I've been trained from childhood to do, but I can't finesse a situation like the one I encountered today. Some people seem to handle situations like that one with elan and dignity that I've never seemed to have: Even if they do the "wrong" thing, it seems all right. But they usually end up doing the "right", or at least a graceful, thing.

The President was actually very gracious, as she has been to me in other encounters I've had with her. I could say the same for the Dean or that he was, at worst, punctilious. And, by the standards of this culture (and most others I'm familiar with), they have treated me like a lady. I've never discussed my history with either of them, but I'm sure they must know about it, even though they've never known me as anyone but Justine.

Still, even after a few years of living as a woman, I still haven't quite mastered female-to-female etiquette. (Then again, I haven't mastered etiquette, period.) I encounter situations like the one I had today with the President: I act out of what I see as basic courtesy and respect, but the woman to whom I extend it is not expecting it. Or, even stranger is when another woman treats me with something like male chivalry. I'm thinking now of times when women have given me their seats on buses and trains, or held doors open for me. Sometimes those women looked like they could've used the seat, or any kind of courtesy, even more than I could!

All I've been able to do in those situations is to smile and wish them a good day or good holiday. That seems to make people happy for the moment, even if I feel like I've stumbled.

Now I'm wondering if a stereotype might be true: that women are more socially graceful. That makes me wonder whether that grace is borne in the two X chromosomes, or whether cis women get it with their uteri when they're born.

All right...Now I'm getting myself into some real trouble, aren't I? All I can do, I guess, is to treat people as well as I know how to. Hopefully, those situations will work out until I figure out how to work them out.

The Telly's Got Reception. What Do I Do Now?

Now I've got a bit of a dilemma.

Six months ago, I stopped watching TV. On the day that all broadcasting switched from analog to digital, my TV set had no reception.

It wasn't that I was too stupid, lazy or broke to get a converter box. For one thing, I didn't like the idea of being forced into a new technology when my old one was working just fine. I'm not one of those people who wants to see every pore of whover's image is on the screen. Television has always been about artifice; in even the most "realistic" of shows, the actors wear makeup and perform in front of sets. Or, if they're on the street, that street very carefully chosen and blocked off.

Another reason why I didn't make the switch was that I though maybe it would be a good time to make a switch of my own: away from TV. Interestingly, the day of the Big Change (at least, in the world of telecommunications) came a little less than a month before my operation. So I knew that in the hospital, I would need to have other diversions. That wasn't a problem: I had a couple of books, a notebook, a laptop, my MP3 player--and, of course, my cell phone. Plus, between the time I was knocked out and the time I had to spend on treatments and such, I didn't have as much time for TV as I might've expected.

I also knew that the weeks I would spend at home after the surgery would be without the telly. Once I decided not to make the switch to digital TV, I actually looked forward to recovering without it.

Since then, I've turned on the set once: to watch a video tape. That's the only purpose my TV set serves now: as a screen for my VHS player, which I've watched once since the switch to digital. In fact, the only VHS tapes I now have are one of the Trinidad documentary and a few others from the community-access cable TV program I hosted for a few episodes. I've nevert looked at the latter tapes; somehow looking at them never seemed that important to me. In fact, I've been tempted to throw those tapes away.

And, today, I was even more tempted to get rid of my TV set. I slid it to pick it up and take it outside--the trash haulers are making their twice-weekly pickup tomorrow--when I saw a cable behind the cabinet. Just for the heck of it, I plugged that cable to my TV set and--voila--there was an image of a guy and a girl fighting.

I think it's a cable for some sort of outdoor antenna. After all, the only reception I got was for regular network programming on VHF network channels. It doesn't look like there's reception for cable TV.

Still, I now find myself wondering whether to keep that TV set. I suspect at some point in the future, I might want to watch another movie or something. And I guess that guests might appreciate it.

But getting rid of the set is now even more of a temptation than it was at the beginning of the day. So is keeping it. Why, I don't know: I can't think of anything I really want to watch.

What do I do?

Wrinkles and Folds

Today I noticed every line in my face, and every ounce of flab on my body. Maybe it's because I'm tired. Or maybe I am old and fat. It seemed that everyone--even the old profs at the department meeting--had smooth faces and lean bodies. What's happening to me?

Am I buying into society's expectations about women? If I'm wrinkly and flabby, I won't get a date, much less my book published, even if I have the mind of Virginia Woolf or Marie Curie, or the soul of Gloria Steinem or Dorothy Day. At least, that's how things seem.

Yes, every one of those lines around the corners of my lips looks like a crack in a weathered tenement building. And the swelling around my left side has subsided, but is still there--what, almost three weeks after my mishap. The doctor said that all I can give it is time, and that the baths I've been taking for other reasons are the best thing I can do for it.

But when a prof who's been at the college since the day it opened and another who's my mother's age and survived a stroke three years ago look younger than I do--or seem to--what does that say about me?

Someone once told someone--I forget who--that she "earned" every one of her wrinkles. Nice thought, but I wish I hadn't done so much to merit them. It's like when you go through a difficult experience--like, say, not knowing where your next meal is coming from-- and someone tells you it's building your character. Yeah, OK, I always want to tell such a person. But I'm not ready to have such depth yet. It would be nice to have what other people have, just for once.

Like being, if not young, at least youthful. Or looking it. I mean, some of my best friends are old (or at least older) women. But I don't want all of my friends to be just like me! Well, maybe that isn't so bad, now that I've accepted that I'm turning into my mother--or that I already am like her, and have been like her for as long as I can remember, at least in some ways. That's not such a bad thing, really, when I consider who my mother is!

Then again...part of my healing is developing wrinkes...at least in that part of my body. It's funny, isn't it, that part of being a healthy woman means having wrinkles--or folds, anyway--in that at least that part of your body? Now there's something no man will ever understand!