Curling Up

Charlie's been in my lap for almost an hour. He deserves every moment of it. Now his head is propped in the crook of my right arm, and he is dozing and purring. Ahh...Who needs a massage?

Is it my imagination, or does he like my lap better when I'm wearing a skirt? It seems that when I'm wearing pants, he'll climb on me, wriggle about for a few minutes, then leave. But he curls up and dozes off, as he has tonight, when I'm wearing a skirt. I don't mind it, really, especially now that I'm wearing a denim skirt. But it's another story when I'm in a dressy black wool skirt.

Sometimes, like tonight, he's resting and relaxing me. But at other times, he seems to be holding on: It's as if he doesn't want me to leave him. Perhaps he wants me to keep him warm, literally and in the way Miguel de Unamuno meant. He probably knows that he is doing the same for me.

Sometimes I'll mention that I have two cats and someone will reflexively grimace and growl, "Ewww...I hate cats." It reminds me of the times I've mentioned that I have lived and traveled in France and someone said, "They hate Americans, right?" or "I don't like the French; they're such snobs."

The thing about cats--including Charlie and Max, who are two of the sweetest and most loving--is that they don't walk up to you, wagging their tails, the way dogs do. First of all, cats have to get to know you more than dogs do. That's just how they are. And, if they like--or, more important, trust--you, they will move closer and closer to you, and express their affection in very tactile ways: by rubbing themselves on your side, arms and legs, and, if they get to know you better, by rubbing their noses on your hands and other parts of your body, and--if you're lucky--on your nose. Cats are both slower and more subtle about getting to know you and expressing their affection than dogs are. But I think they're every bit as affectionate.

Even when your place is warm, it's still nice to have a cozy kitty on a winter day. I had long wanted a feline, but I finally got my first opportunity to adopt one right around the time I was sober for ninety days. Before that, I spent many a winter weekend day like today feeling as cold and exposed throughout my being as if I had gone out naked into the frigid wind.

I recall, in particular, Saturdays like this one during the last year that I lived in New Jersey. It was during the time after my grandmother and Uncle Sonny had died--he, suddenly and she, inevitably. And my friend Cori had committed suicide. I don't think I ever felt so alone. On top of everything, I was living just a few blocks from the Rutgers campus, the place where I was the most unhappy I ever was.

Sometimes, on such days, I'd go for a ride, as long as it wasn't raining or snowing. But at other times I'd stay inside. Yes, I was lonely, but I was just self-aware enough to know that I was too angry to be a friend to anybody--at least, I was then. Having a cat, or some pet, probably would have been good for me. But I don't think I would have been much good to any animal, and I doublt that any would have trusted me the way Charlie and Max seem to.

And now I'm starting to doze off...contentedly. That was something I didn't do in those days.

Hearing About What I Never Had

I'd never talked about her before. I hadn't even thought about her--until I talked to you last week.

Keith owns a shop that sells and repairs vacuum cleaners and sewing machines. Last week, I bought a filter for my vacuum cleaner from him. I've been doing that every few months for the past few years. Today I went because my vacuum cleaner sounds like a jetliner without its muffler. (Do jetliners have mufflers?) Keith probably has lots of customers like me, as his father did before him.

His father was taller and had broader shoulders--or maybe he just seemed to. He was friendly and polite in an almost paterfamilial sort of way. Keith, while shorter, has his father's good looks, which are an odd combination of ruggedness and innocence--rather like Charles Lindbergh. But he is friendly more in the way of a peer. Perhaps I perceive him that way because he's around my age.

Plus, somehow I cannot imagine his father talking about a girl he hadn't seen since he was a teenager. On the other hand, Keith described her at length, and emphasized that although he was in love with her, "it wasn't a sexual relationship."

I actually didn't mind that he spent more than an hour talking about her with me, for I was not in a hurry. I'm sure he didn't mind either: Business was slow and, I guess, talking to me made the time until closing pass more quickly.

Still, I wonder why he talked to me--someone whom he barely knows--about his first love. He hadn't talked about her to anyone else before me, he said, and he was acknowledging, also for the first time, that he misses her.

I can understand missing someone you once loved. But I couldn't quite relate to the schoolboy romance aspect of the story. I had crushes on a few kids, but I never even spoke of them to either of the friends I had when I was in high school. Had I the words for what I actually felt, that would have been terrifying: In talking about what I felt, I would have been revealing more about myself than I would have wanted anyone to know.

So I don't have a teenage love to talk about in my middle age. Somehow that has never bothered me: As it is, I sometimes feel that I remember too many things about which I can do nothing now. Plus, once I graduated high school (and, for that matter, college and graduate school), I really didn't want to have any connection with it. That is not to say that I wanted to move on; rather, I simply wanted to get away from the people who knew me before they could get to know me intimately (and not only in a sexual way) and to escape from whatever portraits they'd framed of me.

As a high-school senior, I helped to plan my class's prom but didn't attend it. I didn't have much more of a social life in college; in fact, in spite (or maybe because) of the thousands of peers who lived, studied and worked with me, I never felt so isolated in my life. As you can imagine, much of that had to do with my difficulty in coming to terms with who I am.

As for the loves I've had...Sometimes I miss the good times Tammy and I had in the first couple of years of our relationship. But I don't have any wish to be with her again: I know that we could not replicate those times, much less to create what might have become from them. And I certainly have no wish to be the person I was in those days, save perhaps for my physical conditioning.

The others--the males as well as the females--I don't miss at all. In that sense, it's odd that Keith would make me the first person in about 35 years to hear about his first love. Or is it?

More Tax News

Quelle coincidence! Last week, I metioned Rhiannon O'Donnahbain's fight to claim her SRS and related expenses as IRS deductions. Back in 2007, after losing her case, she filed an appeal. Finally, the other day, a US Tax Court ruled in her favor, saying, in essence that Gender Identity Disorder is actually a debilitating disease and the surgery and other transition-related treatments are necessary to cope with it.

I first learned of this decision from the blogs of A.E. Brain and Diana. (You can read the decision on this PDF file.) Soon afterward, I called the IRS to find out whether I could file the same deduction on my tax returns. The rep with whom I spoke admitted that she didn't know about the decision until I called; that's probably true for any number of other tax professionals. However, she promised to talk to one of their specialists in medical deductions and her supervisor to find out not only whether I can take the deduction this year, but also what documentation I will need to do so.

One commentator said that the ruling will not only put trans people on a more equal footing with everyone else; it could pave the way for having the surgery and related treatments covered under medical insurance. That may well be, and I hope it comes true for the trans people following me. To my knowledge, the only insurance that covers most or all of the cost are the policies given to employees of San Francisco city and county, and the state of Minnesota.

Speaking of money: I am so happy that Ms. O'Donnahbain fought and got her settlement. However, I wonder how much time and money she invested in lawyers: After all, the latest verdict has come almost a decade after she had her surgery.

Well, I guess it was a good thing I didn't start to do my taxes last weekend. And it's kind of ironic to hope that the IRS contacts me soon. But, stranger things happen all the time.

What I've Become, What I'm Becoming

It seemed that today everyone was having a crisis of one kind or another. Someone's dog died; someone found out her husband has been cheating on her; another's car broke down. And students got disenrolled from courses and were begging me to sign them into classes that are already bursting at the seams. Luckily, my department chair offered to be the "heavy" so that I wouldn't have to tell the students "no;" luckily for her, the college said I couldn't sign students into two of my courses because the rooms in which they're being held are small, and if even another student is added, fire code regulations would be violated. Not to mention the things a student (or his or her family) can do if something happens to the student and they find a good lawyer.

This was supposed to be my "easy" day this week. Do you wonder why I'm tired and cranky?

At least I had one really good conversation with Tess, an adjunct faculty member who's also teaching at another college, working on a PhD, taking care of her aging father and dealing with an ex-spouse. I guess my life isn't so hard after all.

Anyway, she and I have been having more and longer conversations lately. Well, as happens in conversations, "way leads to way" and she asked me one of the more poignant questions anyone has asked me lately. "Are you trying to 'fit in'?" she wondered. "Or do you want to live in a trans subculture and be an activist? Or something else?"

After thinking about it, I said, "All of the above." I wasn't trying to be ironic (As my Inner Valley Girl says, "I'm sooo over that!") or even coy. On one hand, everything I've done for the past few years, including the surgery, has been directed at my goal of living as the woman that I am. On the other, I've become the woman I am through some means that are very different from what those who have XX chromosomes must do in order to become women. I cannot live in my past, but I cannot deny it, either.

Plus, having focused so much on myself makes me want to help others, especially those who are following a road like mine. At the same time, although I have always been female in my heart, mind and spirit, the woman I am now is still fledgling, and will probably be so for some time.

I described some of this for Tess, and added: "Well, you know, I have been accepted by other women--and, for that matter, by men, too--mainly to the degree that I fit into their expectations of a woman who's more or less my age. And I feel that my presentation is, for better or worse, a pretty accurate representation of who I am."

"Well, you did get a chili pepper on Rate My Professors and were called 'the best-dressed professor at this college.'"

"I enjoy getting dressed. And I knew early on that it would help me to 'pass," and, later, to be accepted."

"Well, that's generally true. You dress for the position you want."

"True. And I don't want to live in a gender subculture. But I also want to have the choice to become who I need to become. And I'm still learning what that is."

"That's what life is."

My conundrum is this: Because I'm a transgender woman, I have to learn about and redefine, not only myself, but what's around me. Sometimes I even have to create the terms by which I define myself because even the terms of other women won't always do the job. And, as near as I can tell, other women must do the same thing.

Also, while other transgender women have shown me that it's possible, if difficult, to do what I've been doing, I can't always use them as models. Christine Jorgensen tried to fit into society's expectations of a woman in the 1950's, going so far as to study nursing because it was one of the few professions available to women at that time. She looked like a movie star of her time and married a handsome man--just as women were expected to do in those days. That meant, of course, that she had to be a heterosexual woman, as that was understood at the time.

Following her, Jan Morris and Renee Richards were able to continue in their careers after their transitions and surgeries. They had a few more liberties than women of Jorgensen's generation had, but they still saw--as society saw--their "success" as women in terms of how they were able to blend seamlessly into the female race, and into society generally. Of course, Richards' fame (or infamy, depending on how you look at it) prevented her from doing that, at least to some degree. Jan Morris was never quite as famous, so while people who heard of her knew that she was a transsexual (That was the term used in those days.), she wasn't seen in terms of her past to the degree that Richards and Jorgensen were.

I don't have the looks that Jorgensen or even Morris had, so in that sense, I wouldn't be seen as "successful" in my transition as they were in theirs. But I have more options and terms for defining my womanhood than they had. The question Tess asked reflects a way of seeing my gender identity that is changing and even passing: I think that within my lifetime, it won't have to be a choice between being a "woman" and being a kind of genderqueer. I'm still learning what I will become; perhaps it will help someone else learn about his or her path. Within my lifetime, perhaps, someone will be making choices and defining him or her self in ways I can't even imagine, and someone will ask that person about something that has yet to be named. Perhaps I will have had something to do with that, if only in the smallest and most peripheral way.

Foreshadowings

So Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow today. That supposedly means six more weeks of winter. That's about how much winter we have left, at least officially, anyway. So how did Phil get the gig he has?

On the other hand, Staten Island Chuck didn't see his shadow. According to legend, that means we'll have an early spring.

So, which one do you believe? How much difference is there betwween Phil and Chuck? Well, maybe Chuck wears a couple more gold chains and a bunch of other gold jewelery. How else could he fit in on Staten Island?

In addition to being Groundhog Day, it's the birthday of one of my brothers and two of my exes. In fact, I started dating Vira just a few months after I split with Eva.

There is one other "anniversary" on this date to me. Eight years ago on this date, Tammy and I got into a fight over my "cross-dressing" and the fact that I was working with an organization that sometimes demonstrated in Albany and Washington. She thought it would hurt her chances for promotions, and possibly even cost her job.

One day six months earlier, I gave her the hug that was the single most desperate action I ever took. I wasn't so much embracing her or anybody or anything else as I was holding on to a life that was beginning to slip away from me, and would soon fall.

If only Phil or Chuck had seen their shadows then.

Oh well. If I'm talking about rodents that can't get their stories straight, it's really time for me to go to bed.

The Only Other Yarmulke In The Room

Two things about meetings: They always seem longer than they actually are, and the most verbose and monotonous people will do most of the talking. Is that some hitherto obscure corollary to Murphy's Law? If I am the first to report it, will it be called Justine's Corollary?

The meeting followed a day on which I met two of my classes--both of them Intro to Literature--for the first time. In the first one, two young Orthodox Jewish men sat next to each other at the front of the room, all the way to my left. I could see that one of them is rather self-conscious and shy: Perhaps having to wear a yarmulke and dress, well, like an Orthodox boy in a world that could be hostile made him so.

Anyway, as I was calling the names on the roster, I came to "Menashe." The shy young man's friend responded. A few names later, I saw "Lior" and looked at the shy young man. Process of elimination: His was the second Jewish name on the list, and he and Menashe were the only two Orthodox Jews in the class. At that moment, I felt a little embarrassed--both for me and him. I realized, too late, that I probably made him feel a bit more self-conscious, at least for a moment, than he already felt.

After the class, I saw them in the hallway. Menashe asked me about the assignment for the next class (on Wednesday) and we got to talking about other things. Finally, Lior mentioned that when I called his name, I just automatically turned to him.

"I'm sorry about that."

"That's all right. What made you do it?"

"Well, after I called Menashe, you were the only other Jew in the class. And when I came to your name, I recognized it as a Jewish name, so I figured it was yours. I'm sorry if I embarrassed you."

"No, you didn't." He was being unnecessarily deferential. "I mean, you did what you thought was best."

"And I goofed." Then, tongue in cheek, I added, "We as professors are supposed to know everything. But sometimes we do stupid things."

"No, it was no problem..."

Then he told me he was impressed that I knew about the names Menashe and Lior. I mentioned that I have never been very far from Jewish people and, in fact, taught in a yeshiva. They were both impressed, something I wasn't expecting. "All I ever do is the best I know how to do."

"Yes, I can tell," Menashe said.

This exchange made me think of the times people have gotten my pronouns wrong. All you can do is to realize that most of the time, such mistakes are exactly that. On the other hand, I've had a couple of people call me "he," "him" or by my old name out of anger or malice. I've learned to be patient with the former. As for the latter, there really isn't much I can do, except perhaps to distance myself from that person.

But today, I got something right for what may have been a bad reason: the yarmulke fit the name, or something like that. Sometimes I think that there's even more to be learned from that than there is from simply getting something wrong or right.

Trannies, Trains and Creativity

Today my long-lost cousin called. Well, actually, he's newly-found, as I am to him. You see, near the end of August, he and I met for the first time since I was about ten years old and he was in his 20's. So you might say that each of us changed a bit. That tends to happen to people when you don't see them for 40 years.

Ironically, through all those years, he'd been living just a few neighborhoods away from where I live now. In fact, I pass his house, more or less, on my way to work.

Anyway, he made an interesting proposition: In late March and early April, he's driving to Nevada. Like me, he won't be working during that week, which is Spring Recess for the school system and the college. So, he thought, I might be interested. And he'd like the company.

So far I've enjoyed his company. And, after all, he's a relative. Also, I've never crossed the continent on the ground. I sometimes think I'd like to pedal coast-to-coast, but I never had any fantasies of driving across the country. Then again, I might enjoy the ride with him.

He's going to Nevada, so it won't quite be a coast-to-coast trip. His mission: To retrieve a set of electric trains that he had as a boy. It's currently with another cousin who lives out there. They found out that to properly pack and insure the trains and related accessories for shipping, it would cost several hundred dollars. So, my cousin reasons, it makes sense to go out there and fetch them. Plus, he doesn't have to worry about whether my other cousin will pack them properly or what will happen to them in transit. They probably would be worth something to a collector, but the sentimental value is equally important.

Well, I said, I'm happy he asked. But Marilynne and her daughter have talked about coming up this way during that time. And, if they didn't, I was thinking of going to see my parents. But if it doesn't look like either of those things will happen, I'll go.

I don't recall the train set he's talking about, but if I saw it, I might. It seems that when I was growing up, everyone--or at least my relatives--had electric trains snaking around Christmas presents and dioramas of Currier and Ives-like Christmas Village scenes. Young boys always seemed to be fascinated with the trains: putting them together, assembling the track and all of the stuff that went with them, and of running the trains. I was, too. There was even a time I wanted to be a train engineer. But I think it had as much to do with those cool caps the engineers always wore, and the places those trains went, in the movies or on TV as it had to do with actually piloting a train--which was appealing in and of itself. I used to love riding trains with my grandfather, and he was always happy to take me for a trip on one.

Somewhere along the way, I lost my desire--however naive--to become a train engineer and my fascination with electric trains. In fact, I sold the set of Lionels I had as a kid to help pay for my first year at Rutgers. Kids who keep their fascination with model railroads and grow into men who keep up their boyhood train fantasies almost always become interested in the mechanical and engineering aspects of trains and railroading. I never did. In fact, I wasn't terribly technically oriented: I can fix bicycles but I never could handle anything much more complex. And, these days, with my limited time, I'd rather pay someone to do a major repair. I also don't tinker with my bikes the way I once did: When I have time, I'd rather ride, write, read or meet a friend.

A lack of interest and aptitude for mechanical and technical things is supposed to be a female trait. So is a lack of interest in, or even a fear of, math and science. I'll admit that somewhere in the morass of trigonometry and calculus, I was left in the digital dust. I find science interesting to the extent that I understand it, which was less and less every year that I was in school.

So, if those are such stereotypically female traits. why are so many male-to-female transsexuals --at least, so many of the ones I hear about--in scientific and technical fields? I've learned of transgendered rocket scientists (see Amanda Simpson and "A.E.Brain"), computer scientists and engineers. Rhiannon O' Donnahbain, whom I mentioned yesterday, is an engineer. So is Nancy Jean Burkholder, who was barred from attending the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival in 1990. Another transgendered engineer is Sabrina Marcus Taraboletti, who started "Morning Glow" (the predecessor of The Morning After House in Trinidad, CO). Sabrina, for whom the room in which I stayed at the Morning After House is named, describes herself as a "gear head."

I don't know why so many male-to-female (MTF) transgenders are in scientific and technical fields. Some might say they were "overcompensating" or trying to show that they were "really men" until they accepted themselves. The same explanation is given for MTFs who were cops, fighter pilots and in any number of stereotypically masculine fields before transitioning. I even have explained my participation in sports in the same way. However, I think that even though it may be true for some MTFs, it's not the whole story.

I suspect that another reason why MTFs like the ones I've mentioned become rocket scientists and engineers and such is that such fields are, in their own ways, creative. In other words, they require the ability to solve problems by "thinking outside the box." That, I believe, is something women have to do more often than men realize and that we, as transgender women, have to do in order to become ourselves.

Also, because those fields are creative in the way I just mentioned, they encompass both "left brain" and "right brain" skills. If one continually has to bridge those parts of the brain, it's not a stretch, really, to transverse the gap between genders. In other words, if someone is female but has to live as male, it's not such a leap--for someone with mathematical and scientific aptitude--to be a rational, scientific person who operates, in effect, as an artist. Or vice-versa.

That makes me think of something Marci says: that she sees herself as an artist first. That, she believes, is what enables her to perform genital reassignment and reconstruction surgeries that result in such realistic-looking (and -functioning) genitalia.

Now, I'm not a scientist. So make what you will of the things I've just said. It's the best explanation I can offer for now. Meanwhile, I'm going to think about taking that trip with my cousin so that he can retrieve his electric trains.

No Deduction, Just My Life

"Can you deduct that?"

If you live in the USA and you've been reading this blog, you know what that question refers to. "That" is the cost of my surgery and the question refers to my tax return.

Someone asked me that question and that led me to do some research. I suspected the answer was "no," but I figured it would be worth checking out.

Alas, my suspicions have been confirmed. Even though someone challenged the IRS on this question a couple of years ago, their rule--or, more precisely, the way they interpret and implement their rule--hasn't changed.

Actually, one transgender woman argued that the cost of her treatments was deductible under the IRS guidelines. Rhiannon O'Donnahbain, from what I understand, is still appealing the verdict that said she couldn't. The IRS claims that sex reassignment surgery (SRS) is a cosmetic procedure, and that such procedures are deductible only if it is necessary "to improve a disfigurement related to a congenital abnormality, disfiguring disease or accidental injury." (I found this in J.K. Lasser's Your Income Tax, 2009-2010. Who knew that transitioning would lead me to reading stuff like that late at night, when I should be getting my beauty sleep!)

Anyway...Considering what a small percentage of the population we are, those of us diagnosed with Gender Identity Disorder have a "congenital abnormality," in the strictest sense of the word. That our bodies don't reflect our gender identities sounds something like a disfigurement, if you ask me. If you are among the great majority of people who never has to think about whether you are an "F" or an "M," and simply cannot imagine being anything but whichever one you were identified by, try to think of what it would be like if your genitals--indeed, your body--did not match your identity. I'm not talking about wanting to be better-looking or stronger or whatever; I am talking about what, for most people, is the most basic component of their identities--which, of course, is exactly the reason why most of you, and most of them, never have to think about it.

To put SRS, and the prerequisite treatments, in the same category as liposuction, Botox treatments or breast implants (which, by the way, the IRS allowed an exotic dancer to deduct) is ludicrous. But that is what the court's decision in Ms. O'Donnabhain's case does. She says that the treatments and surgery saved her life; I would say the same for my own treatments, surgery and life. Just about any other trans person would say the same thing. In fact, of the trans people who don't transiton, nearly one in three commit suicide. That statistic includes two friends of mine. It might've included me, too. As it happened, I abused alcohol and other substances in my youth and went through a series of relationships that didn't work because, in essence, I was trying to relate as someone I wasn't. Plenty of other trans people have similar stories. If the treatments and surgery put an end to those problems, how could they not fit into the IRS, or any other, guidelines?

Today I am still astounded at how decades of depression and self-loathing ended literally overnight when I started my transition and how my mental health has improved from there as a result of my surgery. Of course, that's way better and more important than any deduction the IRS will or won't allow: as far as I know, such a deduction, while good to have and a signal of fair and equal treatment under the law, is not itself a reason or purpose for living.

So, for now, I can only say something like c'est la vie to not having a deduction. I don't have the time or resources to challenge that; I hope that someone else will and that future trans people will have that deduction and other things that would make us equal, under the law, to everyone else. For now, I am happy to have had the operation, and will try start the support group for transgenders 45 or older that I have discussed with Tom at SAGE, and to help Dwayne with the shelter he wants to open for homeless lesbians and trans women. Those are the sorts of things you do when you're a "lover, not a fighter," but have been forced to be an advocate and activist.

So...no deduction. At least I have what I can't deduct, and the life it is giving me.

Ramble On Waking Up Late

It's amazing how quickly the day goes by when you wake up late. I'm not so surprised about waking up late: Yesterday, the first day of the semester, was a Thursday, which will be my longest day of the week this semester, as it is in most semesters. It started with an 8 am class, and my last class didn't end until almost 6 pm. And, in between, it seemed that everyone was having a crisis. That's about normal for the first day of a semester at any college I've seen. Maybe things are different in the military colleges like West Point or in Swiss colleges. Then again, I never wanted to go to either one. Well, a Swiss school, maybe. And my father wanted me to go to one of the Armed Forces academies.

And how much sleep did I get the other night? About 2 1/2 hours. I probably shouldn't have bothered. I was preparing my syllabi and doing some other things to prepare, which took me a bit longer than I expected. Turning on Obama's speech didn't help. Even if he weren't the President, I probably wouldn't have slept through his speech, or any other he's given. Yes, he is probably the best speaker of any major public figure we've had since Martin Luther King, Jr. or Malcolm X. But Obama certainly doesn't have the vision--or, I think, the pure- and- simple grasp of reality--that either MLK or Malcolm had.

Even though I voted for Obama, he's really starting to seem scary to me. I can almost agree with those people who say that, at times, he seems like Hitler. It's in his body language: ramrod-still, except for his arm when he's jabbing his finger toward his audience.

The thing that really worries me about him, though, is this: No matter what issue is at hand, it's always about him. People like that aren't just frightening; they're dangerous. In fact, that trait alone makes him, given the current climate, far more dangerous than George W ever was. Bush the Younger was easily the worst President of my lifetime (Then again, Carter had only one term.), but I don't think he was the megalomaniac that Barry can be. Rather, I suspect that, if anything, he was a sort of King Lear figure who was led around by The Dark Side (personified by Dick Cheyney, who did the bidding of the military-industrial-financial plutocrats who really run things) and those who were simply mendacious or murderous. If anything, George II might have actually done better if he had been a bit more egotistical. Maybe those two could effect some sort of exchange.

All right...I shouldn't criticise Obama for everything being about him. After all, I've been writing in this blog, right. But then again, I never claimed that this blog is about anything but me. It's called "Transwoman Times," but I don't claim that the expereinces I describe and anything else on this blog are "typical" of transwomen, whatever that means.

I know, I'm rambling. I haven't had to be very focused today. I did a few errands. In the process, I probably frightened off a few kids and pets. Maybe a few adults, too. Actually, I probably appalled the adults, if they noticed me. I brushed my hair and put on some lipstick before I went out. When I got a glimpse of myself in the Starbuck's restroom, I saw the face of a middle-aged woman who'd just rolled out of bed, brushed her hair and put on lipstick. And I hope the transgender goddesses don't condemn me for the way I was dressed, much less for the weight I've gained. O great tranny goddess, you know that life doesn't always happen at our convenience. I had my surgery; for a few weeks after that, I had almost no appetite. But my appetite came back before I could ride my bike or engage in any other physical activity--and just in time for the holidays.

Where Does It Begin Or End?

Today was the first day of the Spring semester. Funny that they should call it that: It snowed this morning and there's talk of more on the way, followed by plummeting temperatures. And when this semester ends, just before Labor Day, it won't quite be the end of spring.

The boundaries we draw are so arbitrary sometimes. Spring "officially" begins some time around the 21st of March: almost two months from now. And that "official" beginning has little to do with weather, though it usually is a bit warmer by then than it is around this time of the year. Rather, it has to do with the position of the earth to the sun and the resulting equinox. But there have been years when it was colder at that moment than it was on Christmas or New Year's Day.

Plus, when the season "officially" begins, the ground and the water will be even colder than they are now. It will take a few weeks for them to warm up, and a few weeks more than that for the ocean to become swimmable for most people.

So what is it that seperates one season from another? One country or continent from another? I have pondered that whenever I've crossed a national border and when I took the ferry from the European to the Asian side of Istanbul. Why is one side of a narrow strait considered to be part of one continent, while the other side is part of another?

You probably know where this discussion is going. In fact, you probably knew before I did. It's led me to a question that I can ask only now: What is the line between one gender and the other? Of course I have no doubt that I am female; others have shared my certainty througout my transition, and even before it. However, in the eyes of many people--and the laws of most places--I have been female for little more than six months. You might say that, on some level, I see gender identity in the same way. After all, I feel so much more confident and have less need to explain or defend myself in daily situations. And I have noticed that I am seen and treated more as if I'm the woman that I am than I was even a few months ago.

Did my "spring" begin on the 7th of July? Or did I cross some line before or after that? I have had a State ID that identifies me as female since 2003, the year I began living full-time as a woman. Some people identified me as such well before that, even when I was lifting weights and riding 50 miles a day.

Perhaps it's a cliche to say that a boundary is a state of mind, or has to do with one. I felt that I was essentially female even in my macho he-man days. On the other hand, there's almost nothing about today that puts me in a "spring" state of mind, whatever that is.

Oh well. Spring semester it is. They seem to go by even more quickly than the fall semesters. Soon enough, a year will have passed since my operation. A year--now there's another boundary. It's a good one, but like all boundaries, it's a little strange nonetheless.

Well, at least I'm on this side of that boundary. And things are going well, so far. They can call this side or that side, or the boundary itself--or, for that matter, me--whatever they want. At least I know where I stand. I'd better: I'm wearing thin high heels today!

If you drew some kind of line at that last joke, I don't blame you!

Meetings

Today I guess I had a taste of the "real world": I spent most of it in meetings. If I told my students, or any other young person, that if they enter a profession, they will spend much of their time in meetings and will spend much of the rest of their time doing paperwork, I wonder how many of them would decide to be bus drivers or haircutters instead of teachers or accountants.

All right, I've got my whining out of the way. Classes start on Thursday. So I get a "day off" tomorrow, which I'll spend preparing syllabi and other materials for it. Maybe I'll sneak a bike ride in there somewhere.

At least the food at lunchtime was really good. Among the foods were a couscous, pasta and potato salads and sandwiches made of grilled vegetables on whole-grain rolls. And to chase all that tasty, healthy food were some desserts that looked healthier than they actually are: dark chocolate-covered whole-grain pretzels, a raspberry coffee cake and a few other "healthy" snacks. Finally, there were regular and diet versions of Coke and Sprite to wash it all down.

The meal reminded me of a soda float someone used to make with diet Coke and one of the really rich brands (e.g., Ben and Jerry's or Haagen-Dazs) ice cream. This person--a college classmate--reasoned that the diet soda made up for the high fat and caloric content of the ice cream. I must admit, I've employed worse logic in my time.

The lunch came courtesy of one of the publishers of one of the required textbooks. When I wasn't in meetings, I was in a "workshop"--which everyone in the department had to attend--conducted by reps from that company who were introducing a new edition of that book. Those reps are really good at what they do: They smiled and said encouraging things even as I and a couple of other faculty members said, in essence, that the book is not terribly useful for the course in which it's used (Freshman composition) and the level of skills the students bring to it.

It's not a bad book, really. In fact, it's very good for what it is. It's just not a book that the freshmen (most of them, anyway) have the skills to use effectively. Maybe, after they take the course, it will be helpful to them. But in the composition class, there are so many other things we have to teach them in order to prepare them for the rest of their college classes and to make up for all of the things high schools (at least the ones here in New York) seem not to teach anymore.

A few of the faculty members--young ones, mostly--would not voice such concerns. But a few of us older and more cynical, I mean wiser, instructors voiced some of our criticisms. When the reps acted like good reps--which is to say, they acknowledged us without hearing us--we turned to each other and rolled our eyes up.

Sometimes I'd like to bring some of my younger students to a gathering like that to show them what they have to look forward to in the "real" world.

All right, I'll stop being cynical. In spite of everything, I felt really good today. No, I take back "in spite of." I can see a difference in the way some colleagues are reacting--or should I say responding--to me, compared to the beginning of last semester or last year. Someone told me that they can see the confidence I have in, and the peace I feel with, myself. Those reps will probably never see me again; they will take their act to another campus. On the other hand, I feel more like--a peer, for lack of a better word--to Jonathan and Helen and other colleagues in the department. I may not have some of their accomplishments, but I have others. But most important of all, I am feeling more confident about myself. And, as Joanne, a tutor in the Writing Center, said people are responding to that.

Is Prometheus What Pandora Would Have Been Had She Been A Man?

Last night the drizzle turned into rain. It became a torrent that raged, with the stiff winds, against my windows. At least I didn't have to go anywhere today. Even so, I did my laundry when the rain let up a while: the laundromat is only half a block from my apartment. The only other person there was the owner, who was fixing something and chatting me up. He is kinda cute.

Anyway...I'm thinking now about a comment "Jeanne Genet" (I love the tag!) made on my posting about my new vagina. She said I overestimate "how comfortable women who were born with the stuff feel about it." Fair enough: There's still so much I am learning, must learn and will probably never learn about being a woman, or at least being a woman as most women experience it. One of the things I just learned, courtesy of "Jeanne," that "women in general are more detached from their 'stuff' than men are, less aware of how it feels to/in them." I may not know much, but I know enough to agree with her when she says she finds that situation "bizarre."

That, by the way, is one of the points Eve Ensler was making with The Vagina Monologues. I guess that's one of the reasons why the play was meaningful to me even before I started my transition, much less my surgery. Even then, I could see that so much was at stake with a woman's knowledge, or lack thereof, about her body. One reason, of course, is that most women are capable of bearing children and the majority will do so. That means that a woman's health affects not only her life, but the life of someone she hasn't seen face-to-face but knows intimately even before he or she arrives in this world.

But even for those women who have no capacity or desire to reproduce, the stakes in knowing or not knowing about their bodies are, in some ways, even greater than they are for men's familiarity or ignorance of their bodies. Perhaps I am saying that now because I have had to pay attention to not only what I have, but what has been created and what has been developing. For one thing, there is the possibility of infections and other issues that women experience but men don't.

Even more important, though, is the way an external factor such as the cleanliness of my bathtub or towels can turn into an internal matter in ways that never could have happened when I had male genitalia. I'm talking, of course, about infections and such that can develop down there. They can retard or even stop the further development of my new organs. That is not merely a cosmetic issue; it can also affect my health in other ways.

I'm guessing that other women experience parallel, if not similar, problems. But knowing one's body is not just a matter of preventative medicine, as important as that is. Rather, I think it is also a way of learning about one's self. I mean, really, how can you not be interested in learning about yourself? Perhaps my perspective is colored by the fact that I have a vagina, and to a great degree, the body I now have, by choice. But I feel that knowing what one's body can do, and respecting its limitations, is a very important way to learn about one's capabilities, or simply to feel more confident and happy. That's really the reason why a lot of people take martial arts classes: Yes, they want to defend themselves. But they also feel so much more confident when they truly understand their bodies' capabilities.

It's funny that when I was in as good condition as some professional athletes--and in better shape than about 95 percent of men my age--I didn't know very much about my body at all. I just pushed it as hard as I could and gave it the nourishment it needed. Tammy once remarked that for someone who was in as good physical condition as I was, I had surprisingly little self-confidence and even less self-esteem.

Now that I think of it, I realize that lack of self-esteem may well be, if not the reason, then at least an important reason, why I didn't accomplish more than I did, given my status at the time as a white male.

But I've digressed a bit. Why is it that women are "more detached from their stuff"? Something tells me that it isn't a lack of desire to know more; I know enough to know it isn't that women are less intelligent (!) than men.

The short answer is, of course, is that most anatomical and medical knowledge comes from a male point of view; even the ways of learning about them are male-centered. The male-centeredness of medical education has been alluded to for decades; it seems that although things are changing, male is still seen as the "default" gender in medicine and that women's medical issues still receive much less attention than those of men. Also, Freudian psychology is notorious for thinking of women as unfinished men, which means, by extension, that a clitoris is an undeveloped penis. (Aside: I'm a living argument against his notion of "penis envy!") It seems to me that the resulting lack of information about women as women can only exacerbate whatever other inducements not to learn, or disincentives to learn, women seem to absorb from their schools, families and cultures.

I grew up with none of that discouragement to learn about my body, much less the prohibitions some religions place on women gaining knowledge about themselves in any way. In other words, I did not grow up with, or carry into my adult life, the idea that I am auxiliary, or an accessory to, some man. That, ironically enough, gave me the means and permission to learn about my body, but it also gave me the luxury of not having to know too much about it. After all, whatever I didn't know, some man--whether or not he was a medical professional--would know.

Plus, I didn't want to know too much about my body because, well, it never felt like my body. Or, at least, it wasn't the body I felt I was supposed to have, much less wanted.

Now I have, at least after some fashion, the kind of body I wanted, and was meant, to have. That, of course, makes me more interested in it. But I also feel, in some way, more protective of her--I'm talking about Ms. V, of course!--than I might otherwise feel because I had to wait until I entered middle age to find her. And now I am experiencing, in some way, another kind of puberty as my vagina and clitoris develop, and the tissues and hair develop around her.

Now I understand, a little bit, why people like Eve Ensler believe that knowledge of their bodies is a political issue. In Western democracies (actual or so-called), women still have less access to knowledge of their bodies than men have about theirs. And we also have less status, overall, than men have. In some countries, such as conservative theocracies (I'm not talking about Muslim ones, now.), women have even less access to such knowledge and to the care we need. Some countries, such as Afghanistan under the Taliban and Saudi Arabia (which exists courtesy of the American taxpayer), take things even further by mandating that women be completely enshrouded and by keeping them out of public life. When you can see the world only through a grille around your eyes, nobody can see--or hear--you. To my admittedly Western and bourgeois eyes, that's a form of living interment. It's no wonder that when such repressive laws were enacted, the state of women's health, not to mention their education and overall well-being, plummeted.

In the so-called advanced countries, most women don't have dominion over much besides their bodies. And even that ownership is tenuous because most of what little information women have about their bodies is from a male point of view. So I can only imagine what life has been like for Afghani or Saudi women, or even women in countries like Ireland until fairly recently.

Anyway...I didn't mean for this to be a treatise or a call to arms. But "Jeanne Genet" made me aware of at least one way in which my experience as a woman is, and most likely always will be, different from that of other women.

Sunday Mist And Drizzle

When does a mist become a drizzle? When you go outside.

At least, that's how it seemed today. No mist is finer than the one you see through your window; the moment it touches your skin, it is no longer drifting. Then it has fallen; it has become a drizzle.

On Sundays, most people will experience it through their windows: as a mist. If it continues, it turns to rain on Monday.

All right: Now I've given you a local weather report and forecast. You came to this blog to read that, right?

Anyway...This is the first Sunday mist and drizzle I'm experiencing in this new apartment. (In a couple of days, I'll have lived here for two months. I guess it's still a new place for me.) It's funny that a couple of days ago I thought that I'd never see the kind of light I used to see around the old place on misty Sundays. It is, in some ways, even more stark than what one sees on the clearest and coldest day of every winter. That is because the light that has become of the mist from the river, which was only a block away from my old apartment, seemed to focus the hard if not sharp edges of the warehouses and shops, empty on Sunday, and the rows of sometimes-shabby but sturdy houses where many sleep and others retreat.

Here, the rows of brick houses and buildings seem to take depth from, yet add texture to, the misty air. It's like a kind of Pointillist painting, except that the grains that make up the image are even finer, and that image is on an even greater scale. I will risk triteness in saying that it is perhaps more romantic--in a very bourgeois (which I don't mean derogatorily) way. On the other hand, the light and mist around my old place, in its definition by sharper lines through a more encompassing kind of veil that drapes itself over the buildings and anything else that happens to be outside, seems somehow more apropos of an industrial, blue-collar neighborhood. There, it is definitely a drizzle and, as often as not, turns to rain.

It seems that mist and drizzle filled every Sunday of the first fall and spring I spent at the old place. They were also the last fall and spring I spent before I began to live full-time as Justine. Now, seven years later, I've had my surgery and it seems that I'm still early in the first chapter of my new life. That means, of course, the mist cannot remain a mist for long: It will become a drizzle--that is to say, change. Naturally, I do not, and probably cannot, know what kind of change I'll experience, save for what has already been planned. All I know is that there will be some rain and some sun, and whatever's in between.

A Familiar Shore In A New Life

Probably no cinematic scene is more emblazoned in my consciousness than the one that ends Le Quatre Cents Coups, a.k.a. The 400 Blows. Antoine Doinel, a boy of about twelve years old, lives in a dysfunctional home (to put it mildly!) and spirals downward from schoolboy mischief to petty crime in the neighborhood near Le Moulin Rouge. At various points in the film, he says he wants to see the ocean. After he is arrested, his mother asks whether he could be sent to a seaside reform school. Of course, the truant officer is none too willing to oblige; he says something to the effect that he wasn't running a resort.

Anyway, he's sent to a kind of military school where, during a football game, he escapes and keeps on running until he reaches the sea. When his feet touch the water, he turns his head and his face fills with an expression that has probably been interpreted in more ways than any other facial expression save for the Mona Lisa's. It's a combination of relief, release, conquest and a sense of what Yeats meant by "a terrible beauty is born."

Now, I'm not sure that whatever expression I wore today on the Coney Island Pier is nearly as enigmatic or interesting as Antoine's. But I'm sure I must have shown some of the sense of release--I could feel it--and what I like to call a sense of Zen ecstasy. And, of course, I've been to the ocean many times before. But this is the first time I've ridden my bike there in more than six months.

It was cold, but not terribly so, and there was no wind or precipitation. And the almost pristinely clear sky was almost too bright for reflections: The sun and the clear sky actually seemed to light the water from within, so that the waves flickered like nearly translucent lapis lazuli flames. Even though the air was chilly and the water, I'm sure, was very cold, I felt those colors and the refulgence of the sun glowing within me.

A new life, or a new stage in one's life, is often referred to as a new (and distant) shore. I wonder whether anyone ever thinks about reaching a familiar shore in a new life. Actually, I think that's part of what Zen teaches.

I'm thinking now about a day very early in my life as Justine. I rode my bike to the Coney Island boardwalk, as I did today. And I had a flashback to myself on a beach one Sunday in October during my senior year of high school. It amazes me now that more kids don't run away from home or do even more reckless things at that time in their lives: The pressure of expectations is so great even for a kid who's not struggling with his or her gender identity or sexuality. That tug-of-war between what parents, teachers and other adults want a kid to do and what that kid might actually want to do exacerbates, and is exacerbated by, the tension between the sort of person the kid wants to be, or realizes he or she is, and what the parents and other adults hope for. In my case, it meant that I would apply to West Point and Annapolis because my father and some other adults in my life wanted me to become a military officer. I think women were admitted to those academies the year after I applied to them, and at that time, the number of female officers was probably smaller than the number of male women's studies professors. So, of course, being a military officer would mean living very much as a man.

Anyway, on that long-ago day, I could only see more of the same struggles. In other words, I was seeing what I now call the Eternal Present: Everything ahead of you is just another version of what's in front of you. So, while I could apply to colleges and make plans to prepare myself to become an officer or a doctor or whatever, I simply could not envision the person who would be whatever I was supposed to become at the end of that training. What others dreamt for me was invariably predicated on my becoming a man, or at least their idea of what a man is. And, of course, that is exactly what I couldn't be even if I'd wanted to.

So today's bike ride brought me back to a place where I'd struggled, and first began to reconcile with that battle. In other words, it brought me to a familiar shore in a new life. At least now I can hope the familiarity is a blessing, or at least an advantage. If nothing else, it made me happy, if tired.

Sleep And Body Heat

Last night I fell asleep while reading a student's paper. That should not be taken as an assessment of the student's work: I probably would have fallen asleep had Angelina and Brad walked into my apartment and done whatever it is Angelina and Brad do.

Anyway...When I woke up--nearly ten hours later--I was stretched out on the couch, with Charlie curled up by my feet and Max by my left side. I had been sitting up when I started to doze off; I cannot remember stretching out on the couch. And I didn't notice when Charlie and Max climbed onto the couch. Then again, it's not the first time I've awakened with them by or on me.

What's more, I didn't dilate before I went to sleep. So yesterday was the first day I didn't. I'm guessing that one day in six months won't ruin what's come to fit me so well. Also, I didn't take a warm bath, as I have been nearly every night. To fall into such a sleep without my bath, I must have been really tired.

At one time, I would have berated myself for being so tired and falling into such a deep sleep without having ridden my bike long or hard, or having exerted myself in any other way. Yesterday, I simply taught my class, read some papers, ran an errand, ate and read some more papers. My body had its own reasons for being so tired, I guess.

Yesterday was the last day of the class. I told my students that I'd be in my office this morning. Fortunately, as it turned out, only one student was looking for me, and she wasn't upset. We managed to find each other this afternoon, a little while after I arrived on campus.

It was a bit odd to have started the day and work after ten hours that were a blank. And I didn't have the excuse of anaesthesia or other forms of induced unconsciousness. Heck, I haven't had a drink in more than twenty years or smoked pot for even longer than that. No, my body shut down--shut me down--all on its own. Not that it's anything to celebrate. I just haven't fallen asleep so suddenly or deeply for no particular reason in I don't know how long.

At least I felt rested today. And Charlie and Max didn't seem to mind. Nor did I mind them sleeping on me. I have to wonder, though: Do they like me only for my body heat? Or do they really like me because, well, I'm their human.

What if some scientist were to find out that people hug each other only because we are drawn to each other's body heat--that is to say, only to keep warm. Or that our impulse to hug is rooted in an old survival mechanism. What did Miguel de Unamuno write? Nos morimos de frio y no de oscuridad: We do not die from the cold, not from darkness. Could Senor Unamuno have been a gato in his past life? Or, perhaps he was un gato que vive en un cuerpo de hombre. I used to tell my cats that's what I was; now I tell them I'm in un cuerpo de dama. And, of course, they always greet such comments with that look that says, "Whatever!" Cats perfected it long before humans came up with the word and sullen teenagers started sputtering it.

I'm sure that Mr. Onzain, my first Spanish teacher--who was the best-dressed and -groomed man I had ever seen up to that point in my life--would be speechless at my translation. Whether he'd be speechless over my proficiency or lack thereof in his native language, or simply my audacity in attempting the translation, is an open question. Then again, I wonder what he'd think of that Unamuno quote.

I must still be tired if I'm rambling the way I just did. Oh well. Maybe I'll have another long sleep tonight.