A Face of More Change?

I've got to get someone to photograph me. Perhaps that sounds vain, but I'm thinking that it might be important.

What got me to thinking that way? Well, when I was walking to my aprtment, I bumped into Sara and Dee. I hadn't seen Sara since some time around the holidays, and it'd been even longer since I'd seen Dee. I think of Sara as a kind of Mrs. Dalloway figure, and Dee as her lover. However, theirs isn't the sort of relationship that lovers or even partners have. As far as I can tell, they're just two people who love and need each other, for better and worse.

Anyway, they both remarked that my face has changed over the last few months. They're not the first people who've told me that. Jay also said it a couple of weeks ago; so did Beth, a prof in my department. As far as I know, Jay and Beth don't know each other, and neither of them knows Sara or Dee. But their comments echoed each others': They all said my face has "softened" and "looks more feminine." I hope they're right. Something seems to have changed, and I hope they all perceived it accurately.

If they're right, I can't help but to wonder whether it has anything to do with the surgery. Of course, Marci didn't operate on my face, but if nothing else, her work has helped me to feel more confident in who I am. Perhaps that's what's showing in my face.

I have another, slightly more scientific explanaton. My change may also have to do with the fact that I no longer have my testicular glands. So, my body has not been producing testosterone and I have not had to take Spironolactone to counter it. I can't help but to think that the fact that there isn't any testosterone to counter or suppress has to be changing something in my body. And, of course, the Premarin I've been taking since I started my transition is probably having more effect on me than it did when I had to neutralize my testosterone.

I'm neither a doctor nor a scientist, so take that explanation for what it's worth. I just hope my friends' and colleagues' observations are accurate.

Number 500

So...It looks like this is my 500th post on this blog. It's just a number, I know. But I didn't envision writing so many posts. Actually, I had no idea of how many I would write. After a while, I found myself writing in this blog more or less every day...or unconsciously, then consciously, trying to. Now I feel as if I've missed something when a day goes by without my writing in this blog--unless, of course, there are extenuating circumstances and what follows them!

I also didn't know I would keep up this blog for as long as I have. I had planned on recounting the year leading up to my surgery; I wasn't thinking about what would follow. But, once I had my surgery, I couldn't imagine not continuing this blog, at least for the foreseeable future, however long that is.

You might say this has become my ritual or addiction. It's certainly better than others I've had.

Has keeping this blog changed me? I'm not so sure that much can change me, at least a whole lot, at this rather late date in my life. Perhaps I have changed incrementally in some way that one changes when one records one's experiences. Writing (or painting or otherwise making something of) them does change a person in small, or subtle, ways because, if nothing else, one has at least some sort of power, or at least control, over the experience. Plus, the record of the experience can't, and shouldn't, match a memory of it.

And what did I do today? I made crepes, ate them, went for a short bike ride, read and came home. On my way back from the ride, I took a slight detour (one block) to stop in a bodega in which I hadn't stopped in months--since some time before my surgery. I used to stop there sometimes when I was riding to or from work. It's cramped, and almost completely devoid of charm. There are two reasons to stop there: To pick up a pack of gum, candy or popcorn, and to visit a resident who's even friendlier--at least to me--than the proprietor.

That resident's name is Kiki. I'm not sure of how it's spelled; that's how the proprietors pronounce her name. She's very pretty--and could be Charlie's sister. Yes, she's gray and white, just like he is. And she's shy, at least according to the prorprietor, but very friendly toward me.

Don't believe that cats don't have memory: She recognized me immediately. And every time I was about to leave, she brushed against my ankles. I could almost hear her wondering, "Where have you been?" and insisting that I promise to come back.

Also don't believe that cats don't have any intelligence: They know a friend when they see one! Just ask Charlie and Max.

All I need is a few more days of weather like we had today: It was still chilly, but not as cold as it's been. And there was scarcely a cloud in the sky. As far as I'm concerned, it's about as good as a biking day as one can have at this time of year. And I felt good: a little tired afterward, but fine. I see how out of shape I am, but I know I can improve my conditioning with some regular riding.

After all, I want to be able to do at least another 500 posts--and have some material for them.

Stranger In A Pizzeria

Millie came over to my place today. She clipped Charlie's and Max's nails as I held each of them. I made good on my promise to feed them salmon tonight (Yes, I cooked it.) if they were compliant kitties.

And what did I eat? Pizza! Of course, I didn't plan that. I'd gone out for a walk and was about a mile and a half from home when I simply couldn't wait. I was going to stop in a bistro-cafe where the owner and baristas know me and don't demand that I buy anything when I use their bathroom. Even so, I usually end up having an espresso or cappucino (Those are the only kinds of coffee I drink these days.) and maybe one of their little desserts. Alas, they were closed. So I went into one of those pizzeria/gyro shops that abound in this part of Queens. By that time, I had to go so badly that I simply pointed to a pie and nodded in response to hearing "Slice?" from behind the counter.

That slice could have filled me even if I hadn't eaten all day. There was so much cheese on that slice, which also had diced chicken and tomatoes, that I could picture a herd of cows striking in protest. And the crust was thick enough to use for insulation. It tasted all right, but it's not quite my style of pizza.

As the counterman was warming my slice, I went into the bathroom. I thought I'd locked the door, but a rather squat woman, perhaps a few years younger than I am, opened it as I was finishing up. She apologized loudly; I nodded toward her and walked to the counter, all the while talking on my cell phone. I paid for the slice and sat down to eat it when she tried to start a conversation with me.

I guessed that she is a regular patron of the place, as was a friend of hers who came in shortly afterward. Her friend and one of the cooks were at the table opposite mine, and egged her on simply by looking at her and looking at me.

Now, I know I was pretty disheveled: I threw on a ratty pair of sweatpants, a sweatshirt and a sweater this morning, did nothing to my hair and wore no make-up save for lipstick. I wasn't a sight for sore eyes, to say the least, and--as Millie noticed--my nails were even more chipped than mishandled ceramic plates.

The woman in the pizzeria became more insistent on talking to me, seemingly oblivious to the fact that I had my slice in one hand and cell in the other. The way her friend and the cook were staring at her, and me, she couldn't do anything else. I found myself thinking about two kids getting into a fight on a playground. If the other kids surround them, they have no choice but to fight.

I've been in stranger situations, but not lately. I'm still wondering what it was about.

A Meeting Yesterday, A Committee From Long Ago

By the end of the day yesterday, I could just barely keep my eyes open, even when I was standing up. After my classes, I had a meeting with my department's curriculum committee. It's the first committee meeting I've attended since June: Last semester, I had a class during the same hours that the committee met.

However, I didn't feel as if I were "catching up." I'd been following the proceedings and staying in touch with the other committee members. But that wasn't the only reason why I had a sense of deja vu at the meeting.

During the past few months, I'd all but forgotten what deja vu is. I was experiencing a lot new things, some of which had to do with my surgery and transition. What seems ironic now is that even after a few weeks, having to dilate three times and take hot baths twice a day didn't seem repetitive or routine. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that I had to take care of my body in a way I never did before; in fact, consciously taking care of my body, period, was a new experience for me.

Even talking to my mother and having Millie stop by at my place every day remained fresh experiences for me. I had begun talking daily to my mother around Memorial Day. I continued through my stay in Trinidad and my first three months home. And, once I got home, Millie started coming by every day.

I hadn't had daily conversations with my mother, or any member of my family, at least since I was in high school. And I can't remember the last time (before last summer) that I saw a friend every day.

But going to the meeting yesterday was simply repetitive. It seemed that the same things were being argued about, in the same way, by the same people that argued them all those months ago. Actually, I realize today that it didn't just seem that way; it actually was that way: not much has changed since the last meeting I attended. Yet that meeting, like so much else, seems like it happened a lifetime ago.

And they're still arguing. Even though I participated in those arguments, and wrote two course descriptions, I felt as if I had never been part of that committee, that it did what it was going to do anyway, with or without me.

What's even odder was that I felt neither sad nor joyous over what I had done, or that I was meeting with that committee again. The work I did simply felt like some part of my distant past, and the meeting felt like just another repetition of another point in time, and that time was yet another repetition of yet another point in time. That is what people commonly call "the present," which often has nothing at all to do with the moment. The past few years have been, for me, as much about learning--if not alway successfully-- to live in, but not for, the moment.

I will be at the next meeting; I don't think I'm being cynical when I say I don't expect much, if anything, to change. It's all for the same moment, one that seems like a very, very long time ago.

Bitch or Babe: Am I That Name?

As I was leaving the college today, I exchanged a bit of banter with the prof whose office is across the hall from mine. I've mentioned her before on this blog: She's the one who didn't like me, or so I told myself.

She'd been reading a bunch of her students' papers. Her face was in one of them. "Tough semester already?," I half-joked.

She stirred. "Oh, no. Just the usual things."

"I see."

"Well, some of my students were a bit crazy."

"There are always days like that."

She nodded. "One student in particular is a real handful. But I made my point with him."

"What happened?," I wondered. I'm always curious as to how other profs and teachers handle difficult situations and students.

"Well, he called me 'babe.'"

"I can see how that could be a problem."

"Yes, I let him know that doesn't go. He apologized and he understands why he shouldn't."

"Good. He probably didn't realize that there was anything wrong." That's what I said after I caught myself. I almost told her that I could see why he called her "babe."

"Still, that's not a cool thing to do."

"I agree. But a lot of guys don't realize that they're belittling us when they say that. A lot of the older Italian men call everyone 'babe.' I grew up around guys like that."

"That doesn't make it right."

"I know. But at least it's an opportunity for us to talk to them, to educate them."

She let out a weary sigh. Then, I realized why she didn't see the situation as I did: She's been hearing that all of her life. And there probably have been people who didn't take her seriously because, well, she looks like someone men (and a few women) would call "babe." Hey, back in the day, I probably would've called her that, too.

And I was thinking: I wouldn't mind someone calling me 'babe.' Well, I've had a few men call me that, and I don't foresee getting tired of it any time soon. But I haven't lived that prof's life, or the life of any other non-trans woman I know.

I did say something to the effect that we have been shaped by different experiences, even if we now have at least two things in common--being a prof and being a woman. Still, I couldn't help but to think about how each of us experiences both of those things differently.

"I still think it's wrong for a student to call me 'babe.' In fact, I don't care much for anyone calling me that."

"I can understand why. And, I promise, I won't call you that."

She chuckled. "Want to hear something even funnier?," I asked.

She nodded lightly. "Well, I must be one of the few people in this world who was happy to be called a 'bitch.'" She laughed harder. "It was about a year into my transition," I recalled. "I accidentally pushed a guy on the stairs to a subway station. He turned groaned and said, 'Watch where the f--- you're going, you white bitch!' And, to myself I said, 'Yes! Yes! Yes!'"

"That's so funny."

Humor--and patience: They're what have helped me to deal with people calling me 'bitch' or 'babe." I'm sure she's heard the latter more than I have; I hope she doesn't hear the former too often. Then again, I'm sure she has her own ways of dealing with them.

Which will I be tomorrow? Or is my experience a prelude or prologue for yet another name?

I Love Figure Skating And I'm Not Sorry

OK, so I've broken my vow not to watch TV. But it's not TV that I'm watching: It's the Olympics.

Specifically, I'm following the skaters. Last night, the pairs competed; tonight it's individual male skaters.

Now I have to admit to being disgustingly politically correct: I feel the urge to apologize for the fact that I'm watching the skaters. Why is that? Well, I can almost hear the voice of some gender studies graduate student reminding me that skating competitions reinforce gender roles. In one of the pairs, the girl looked young enough to be the guy's daughter, or at least his niece. And, of course, one of the ways in which figure skating resembles so much ballet is that the man picks up the woman, twirls her around and lowers her onto the ice in exactly the right position so that she can do a twirl or spin of her own.

My inner '70's feminist recoils or screams, depending on her mood, in horror at the spectacle. Yet I'm loving every second of that spectacle. Does that make me some kind of horrible reactionary? Have I become a Bourgeois Bitch?

Well, truth be told, I was always something of a BB. I mean, I like comfort and pretty things, and I seek refinement and relate to the world through my emotions.

OK, so I've established my credentials for the first "B." So what gives me the right to call myself the "b" that rhymes with "witch?" Well, other people have called me that, but I've long since learned that what other people say about you doesn't make you what you are.

Rather, I now realize that I am a "bee-yatch" because, it seems to me, that the unspoken, unwritten definition of one is a woman who does what she needs and wants to do, and doesn't apologize for it.

And I don't apologize for the fact that I'm enjoying the couples who skate their way into traditional gender roles and male figure skaters who are, well, male figure skaters. And, yes, the female figure skaters, too.

But I'm not really watching TV. Really!

I Was An Ex-Gay (Well, Almost...)

Is it me, or has the media been paying a lot of attention to so-called "ex-gays" lately?

Now, I've known of them, and the ministries that purport to make them so, for more than thirty years, since I was an undergraduate at Rutgers. In fact, you might say that I was trying to be one of them: I knew that I wasn't a straight guy so, by default, I must have been gay or bisexual. Or so I reasoned, with my admittedly-limited skills in that endeavor.

At that point, the only thing I knew about transsexual people is that they were named Christine Jorgensen and Renee Richards and I was not like them, so I could not be one of them. I had to be a man, I thought, because I had the body of one and did not see it in the same way as I imagined they saw theirs. I hated mine; I despised even more the thought of having to share it, as a male, with someone in order to love or be loved.

The thought of living as a gay man appalled me --some might say because of my residual homophobia and the fact that, with a couple of exceptions, I despised men. But the thought of changing genders seemed unfathomable or, at least, terrifying. So, the only way I could envision, at that time in my life and for many years afterward, having a union with either a man or woman was doing so as a man--which disgusted me even more than the prospect of the sexual relationship itself.

So why did I align myself, however tenuously, with gay men during that time? Well, in my very primitive understanding of sexuality and gender (The only times I'd even heard the latter term were during grammar lessons.), I came to the conclusion that I could come closest to living like a woman by being a gay man. The only gay men I knew (or knew that I knew) at that time were the "flaming queens": You couldn't not know about them. I couldn't particularly identify with them--one of whom was Robert, my first roommate in college--but at least they seemed to be living something that might be more or less plausible and doable, if not easy, for me.

So....Almost as soon as I "came out," I was looking for a way to be protected from what I thought I was going into. (I had "come out" to my mother during that time. I wonder whether she recalled it many years later, when I would reveal to her the life I'd just begun to lead as Justine and all of the feelings and some of the episodes that led up to it.) Perhaps if I believed in the redemptive powers of the Holy Spirit, I thought, I could be "freed" from my "sinful" desires.

That led me to join a fellowship of born-again Christians on campus. In some ways, I wished to be like them: They all seemed content, or at least free of the existential guilt and shame that I felt. And they all seemed so certain of their futures: God would reveal His plan for them, which would invariably consist of stable careers, if not a ministries, of some sort, and heterosexual partners who would gladly sire or bear their children, all according to the Lord's plan. That, by the way, is something I understand about all sorts of young religious zealots, from the Orthodox Jewish kids I once taught to today's suicide bombers: They are all completely certain, in ways that most mainstream religious or secular people aren't, about their futures in ways they could not be if they did not have their fanatical belief in God or Allah or whichever deity.

Even more than their certainty about their futures, in this life and after it, I wanted two other things that their faith and fellowship seemed to offer: the hope of redemption, and safety. I really wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, I could be "delivered" from the certain death that would follow a life lived by my "sinful" nature. I knew that life as a gay man or woman, let alone a transsexual, could be a lonely one subject to sudden death at any given moment at the hands of someone who hated me simply for being. (Of course I would know about that danger: I once committed a gay-bashing myself.) Even though I was thinking about suicide all the time, I didn't want to a horribly violent death at someone else's hand, much less to find that whatever comes after this life is even worse.

Going to a baptismal service at a Pentecostal church with members of that fellowship, and "accepting Jesus Christ as my Lord and Saviour" (Yes, I actually told them I did!), offered me the chance to "redeem" myself--which, truth be told, meant, at least to me--a kind of escape from my dilemma. The minister who "baptised" me very firmly stated, "There's no such thing as a born-again homosexual;" therefore, in order to give the Lord the chance to "wash away" my sins, I had to renounce myself. In a way, I was only too eager to do that: It would preclude my "solving" my gender-identity dilemma by living as a gay man.

Being known as an ex-gay (or, more accurately, a never-was gay) had an effect I hadn't anticipated in that fellowship: I gained immediate respect, and was even seen as a sort of "guiding light" by many in that fellowship--including its leader, who became almost paternalistically protective of me. Almost immediately, I was asked to lead prayer meetings and healing circles, and was taken up on my offer to start a newsletter.

And, if I recall correctly, I actually wrote an article about "hating the sin but loving the sinner." That, of course, is exactly how many evangelical Christians claim to feel about homosexuality and those who are inclined toward it. I even adopted that as a credo for myself, as it allowed me, however unconsciously, to hate myself and gay people even more than I already did. Today, I cannot see how it's possible to claim to "hate the sin but love the sinner" without seeing the sinner as someone less than one's self, or whatever one perceives one's self to be.

Now, I know of people who don't approve of what I've done, and many others who hope their kids don't "turn out" gay or trans, but who relate to me as the human being I am. I have learned not to hope that everyone will approve of what I've done because that requires that they understand why (and I'm not just talking about knowing that "you have to do what you need to do") I or anyone else would undergo the treatments, surgery or other aspects of changing from a life lived by expectations to one lived by our need to love, and be loved by, ourselves and others. I can't expect anyone else to understand that; if anyone does, or even begins to, I consider that a victory and a gift. So, for that matter, is finding someone who accepts you for what you are.

Anyway...I know I can't offer any explanations as to why someone would go through "de-programming" or any other aspect of a "ministry" that's intended to "cure" someone of homosexuality or identifying one's gender in a way that was not proscribed at one's birth or approved of by the culture in which he or she lives. And I don't claim to know whether those who claim to be "ex-gays" really were gay, or even bisexual, in the first place, much less whether they were "cured." All I know is that the notion that we can become "ex-gays" (or former trans people), if believed by those with enough hate or simply a lust for power, can be dangerous and even deadly because it is not based on any sort of understanding of what we actually experience. That, of course, is something for which a zealot of any sort has absolutely no use.

What Would (Fill-in-the-blank) Do?

Yesterday I talked to someone with whom I hadn't spoken since I started living full-time as Justine. It was about what I expected: He kept an emotional distance--at least as much as he could--but not necessarily reserve. We didn't get into an argument, mainly because I didn't give him anything he could argue with me. And he said he would not mind maintaining a relationship based on phone calls and e-mails, though he has no wish to see me.

I didn't try to get him to understand how I feel or why I made the changes I've made. Actually, I think he knows more than he'd like to--and not only because I "came out" to him. He even said,"You did what you needed to do." But, he said, he cannot and does not want to see me as anyone other than the guy named Nick he knew for a long time.

I told him I could understand his feelings, at least a little, and that is the reason why I am not, and have not been, angry with him. And, I told him, I understand and respect his wish not to see me. I promised not to ask him to change his mind--or to ask him any other favor of any sort.

As you may have guessed by now, he is related to me. Why else would I have even bothered to call him in the first place? Two people who once called themselves friends have decided that they no longer wanted my friendship--in fact, one even denies that we ever had a friendship. I am not sure that I would be interested in resuming a relationship if either were to call. But for someone related to me, that is a different (and more complicated) matter.

So why did I call, you ask? Well, I really was wondering how he was doing. But, more important, I felt somehow that I needed to do it for myself. Have you ever forgiven, or otherwise reached out to, someone who utterly despises you (This is not to say that the person I've mentioned despises me.) or who has simply hurt you in some way, even though you know that your effort will make absolutely no difference to that person or the situation? If you have, you know that you're doing it for your own spiritual survival or, if you're lucky, growth.

That's not to say that your act necessarily makes you a better person or improves the situation in which you find yourself with that other person. It may not even be a learning experience--or, to use that odious phrase that was so en vogue a few years ago, a "teachable moment." (How can a moment be taught anything?) Rather, it's something that's simply necessary: In what sense, I couldn't tell you. It just is.

Of course, I didn't tell him that and he will know only if he reads this. The only other thing I could say is that I did it because yesterday was the first time I felt emotionally ready to do so. I really feel that I have become, oddly enough, stronger as I've become more vulnerable. Really, I've had to. I knew I could be hurt--in a non-physical way, of course--by my conversation with him. But I also knew I needed to take that chance in order to "move on," as they say.

Plus, there's nothing like hashing out the decision to transition and have surgery, much less actually doing those things, to show you what else you need--and want--in life and to make you feel less guilty or apologetic about going for them. I knew that there would be people who didn't approve of what I've done, and I anticipated that some would want nothing to do with me ever again. But I could not let them deny me my chance at living my own life and being my own person--and, to paraphrase Goethe, dying my own death.

The one I called yesterday referred to me by my former name and male pronouns. He seemed to make a point of doing so. On the other hand, when he said he couldn't take seeing me "act feminine"and I said it wasn't an act, he said, "Yes, I know."

Some might say that I should have asserted myself more. Perhaps. But getting into a battle over names and pronouns would have accomplished nothing--or, at least, would not have changed his mind. So, I thought, all I could really do was to call him and actually be myself, whether or not he wants to acknowledge it.

It's the best I knew how to do. But I'm still second-guessing myself.

Seasonal Blues

I just wish the winter would end, already. Normally, I don't mind a few weeks of cold weather and some snow. But this winter has been colder and grayer than the past few. It's not my mood or imagination: Other people and scientific data support what I'm saying.

So why am I whining about this winter? Well, I want to start riding my bike more regularly. But I also am hoping to meet some of my neighbors. I now realize that one of the reasons why I was able to make friends fairly readily on my old block was that I moved there in August, when people were out and about. I met Millie as I was moving in; I would meet Toni not long after that and Tami a bit later on. On the other hand, I moved into the place where I'm living now on the day after Thanksgiving--just as winter was beginning, really. It seemed to have rained for about two weeks nonstop after my move; then it got cold and gray. And snow followed. People tend not to be outdoors much at times like that; hence, it's harder to meet people.

Plus, even though I know I should move on and that I will always have her as a friend, it's hard to imagine meeting anyone who'll be the kind of friend she's been to me. Then again, I'm a different person from the one who met her.

Even though I had to move from my old place under unhappy circumstances, I have very good and intense memories of the place, and that block. So many important and happy things in my life happened while I was living there.

Then again, I've been here for a little more than two months. I spent more than four years in the old place, and seven on that block. Maybe I just need more time here.

Normal Childhoods

Today I stopped in Keith's shop again. I really do need to get a new vacuum cleaner soon. I could probably borrow one for one or two cleanings, but after that, I'll need to have my own. I was almost ready to buy one that was more expensive than what I had originally planned to get: It seemed better-made and has features that would make it usable even if I were to live in a place with a floor made of exotic hardwoods--or shag carpets. And it seems like it would be very good at picking up pet hairs.

But then I saw another model I hadn't noticed last week. It doesn't have some of the features of the other model I'm considering. But it's German-made, with a Siemens motor.

I was about to buy that one, but Keith suggested that I think about it for another day. Well...it means that I'll go to his store again and we'll have another conversation. Hmm...is that what he wants? I'm sure that, like any other businessman, he wants to make money. But he really seems to enjoy the social aspects of having a store, too.

And that's been half the fun of going to his shop. But today I did something I promised myself I wouldn't do: I talked about my recent changes. It came about rather accidentally, when we were talking about the music we grew up with. (He's maybe a couple of years older than I am.) That, of course, got us to talking about crazy things we did when we were young. I mentioned something--it's a long story, so I won't get into it here--I did with an old girlfriend.

There was a long pause. His face didn't change expression, but I could see that he was a bit surprised. "Yes, I was living as a guy in those days," I explained.

Then he became more curious about my early life. Of course, I only told him a little bit, but he seemed rather astonished at how "normal" it was. Yes, I played sports, drank and got high with the guys and did all sorts of "macho" things. But, I explained, that was all part of a facade I was keeping up. Jokingly, I said, "But they should have known something was up when they gave me a box of Crayolas and the first color I picked was magenta."

Yes, I liked "girly" things, even if I kept my wishes to myself. I wanted to play with dolls and to wear purple or pink or red. Although I tried to project as masculine an image as I could, some people, like my mother, knew that I wasn't that way, deep down.

So I was normal on the outside...and inside I was a train wreck waiting to happen. What's even more shocking to me now than what a seemingly-normal childhood I had was the fact that I survived the conflict between it and what was going on within me.

Yes, it is a wonder that I survived it. Other people I knew didn't. I don't know what it says about me: Some people say I'm courageous. Others, like Keith, say I'm strong. Whatever it says, I know I did the best I could.

The Day After (The Snowstorm)

Today the college felt like a ghost town, at least in comparison to how it normally feels. About half of my students didn't come to my morning classes. However, I had nearly a full house for my final class, late in the afternoon. Still, the halls seemed emptier. And I know a number of professors didn't come in: I saw the signs announcing the cancellation of their classes.

And I did something that piqued the curiosity of a few of my co-workers: I wore my red pumps. No, I didn't wear them outdoors: The soles are too slippery for that, and I don't want to ruin the shoes (and possibly my feet!) by stepping into a slush puddle. I changed into them when I got to my office. It just happens that they complement what I was wearing today: a jewel-necked knitted top with black, bronze, white, gray and red stipes; a black cardigan (actually, half of a twinset) over it, a tan corduroy skirt and brown tights.

Some people think you're supposed to wear drab colors on drab days. That seems counterintuitive, or at least counter to my intuition.

I wouldn't mind the cold and the snow at all if the aftermath of them wasn't slush. Actually, the scene was quite lovely yesterday: Somehow, snow swirling over brick houses makes the glow of those sunset-orange bricks seem even warmer. And I just happen to live in one of those houses. Small things make me happy.

I wish we'd had today, rather than yesterday, off. Getting around in the aftermath of a snowstorm is actually more treacherous, at least sometimes, than getting around in the storm itself. When the snow is falling or being driven by the wind, it's still that: snow. But now some of what's on the ground has turned to ice and slush.

And it really feels cold. I know I've been out--for hours, on my bike--on days much colder than today was. But I really felt it today. Perhaps it has to do with my relative lack of physical activity. Or it could just be that I'm getting older. Still, I wonder if the operation has heightened the sensitivity to cold I seemed to have developed while taking hormones. I can remember going outside in shorts on days colder than today. There was no way I would've done that today, even if I didn't have to make myself halfway presentable so I could go to work.

At least I know one thing: Charlie and Max are happy to see me. The feeling is mutual; and they feel especially cozy and comfortable when they curl up with me on nights like this!

Under The Snow

Well, we did get a snowstorm. It wasn't quite as bad as predicted. At least, there doesn't seem to be as much snow as we were told to expect. But it has been very windy, so that puffy snowflakes feel like needles against your face.

The college and other schools will be open tomorrow. I expected that; I didn't think the mayor or the administration of the college wanted the schools to be closed again: Tomorrow is Thursday, and I don't think they want to open only for Friday when they'll be closed again on Monday for Presidents' Day.


Now that everything is covered with snow, the neighborhood looks like a kind of urban-industrial wedding cake. Everything is in white layers, and the cars and buildings look, in some weird way, like the tiers on the base. But I find it rather more charming than a wedding cake or almost anything that goes along with it.


Yesterday, when I saw Lara in the ladies' room of the West Wing, I also saw Rashnie for the first time since at least June. She works in the Provost's office and made me promise her that I'd take her shopping. She always wants to know where I got my shoes, brooch or something else that I'm wearing. Yesterday, she asked when I'm getting married.


"When I can do it right."


She liked that. And Lara asked whether I'm dating a man. I told her I'm not, but I'm not in a hurry: After all, I'm starting a whole new life, really.


What I didn't tell her that I can just as easily get involved with a woman as with a man. After all, I've had attractions to both, if to some unusual examples of each. Unusual in what way?, you ask. Well....


This isn't to say that I'm renouncing men. Far from it. One thing I've learned is that a satisfying sexual life with someone follows from a connection on a spiritual and intellectual level, or at least an emotional one. I'm not talking about one or two nights of wild sex: All you need for that is someone who's crazier than you are. (Believe it or not, I actually can find such people! ;-)) I'm not boasting when I say I've had enough of that to last a couple of lifetimes, at least. I'm past wanting sex for its own sake, much less as a form of conquest, and I've never had sex for reproductive purposes. So how could sex be anything but icing on the cake of some sort of connection--for me, at this point in my life, anyway?


I found that I really thought less--a lot less--about sex after I was on hormones for a few months. I didn't lose my drive; it just didn't preoccupy me as it once did. (At least, now I feel that I was preoccupied with it, at least when I compare how I was to how I am now.) I used to tell other women I know that I couldn't believe how horny men are, and I wondered aloud whether I was like them. Now I have no less desire than I did back in the day, but I now realize that what I really want are the things that go along with sex, at least the kind of sex I'd want to have. I'm not talking about toys or devices, although some of those things can be fun; rather, I'm talking about the feelings and the kind of time I'd want to spend with a lover.


Hey, I ain't one of those kids with a roll of quarters in his pants--and it ain't in his pocket!


Speaking of someone with whom I wouldn't want to have sex, I bumped into him today. I'm not talking about the one who called me at work last night; I mean someone who was a neighbor in the place I moved from. I hadn't seen him since last spring: I'd heard that his two roommates went back to India.


Anyway, the guy I saw today used to hit on me when he was drunk, which was often. Today he was sober and friendly toward me; he was eager to talk about the past few months. Turns out, he's about four blocks from where we used to live. It sounds like the place in which he's living is better; at least, the neighborhood's a bit more convenient. And he's living by himself. Maybe getting away from those other guys is doing him good.


At least he wasn't hitting on me. Or, if he was, I wasn't noticing it. We shook hands and I wished him well in whatever he does. I mean, really, what else could I do?

Later, it occured to me that the last time I saw him was a couple of months before my surgery. It made me wonder what he did, didn't, does and doesn't know about me. Even though I have no desire to date, much less have sex, with him, I wonder: Was he hitting on a "real" or transgender woman? I would guess the former, simply because other women in the neighborhood--most of whom look better than I do--said he hit on them, too. And my old landlady said he did the same to her sister.


At least all of that's over and done with--buried, like so much else under today's snow.

Storm Coming

It looks like we're going to get the storm that just missed us on Friday night and Saturday morning--and dumped anywhere from six inches to a foot of snow just a few miles away, in Staten Island--not to mention two feet in Washington, DC. The college will be closed tomorrow. I learned of this early in the evening, when I went to the ladies' room in the college's administrative area (sometimes called "The West Wing"). There I met Lara, whom I hadn't seen in a while and who gave me the news. Turns out that Mayor Bloomberg ordered all of the city's schools and a number of other public institutions closed.

I've heard a few different forecasts: for two feet of snow; for a mixture of snow, slush and torrents of ice; and for a deluge that will make the city's streets run with Diet Pepsi. Do I sound like the stereotypical New York Cynic now? Obama talked about "snow-maggedeon" in the capital; some local forecasters say the end is nigh for us.

Well, the aftermath of a blizzard is what some imagine the world will be after the post-apocalyptic mess is cleaned up: a windswept alabaster landscape.

Oddly enough, thinking about the storm we're supposed to get is making me sleepy. Maybe it's my blankets calling out to me. Or, perhaps, Max and Charlie are sending me subliminal messages to lie down because they want to curl up by me.

It seems like I'm spending longer and longer hours at the college. For one thing, each of my classes is 25 percent bigger than the ones I had last semester. So, there's more of everything to do. Plus, there are profs and administrators who are chasing tenure, grants and "bigger and better things."

Around 8 o'clock, I was waiting for the director of the writing program to call me, as he said he would after setting up a webpage for one of my classes. So, when my desk phone--vintage circa 1988--rang, I picked it up. The phone has no caller ID, so, when I picked up the receiver, I greeted the caller as if he were the director. Instead, he was someone whom I've been avoiding.

"Great! I've got you on your work phone. It can't die, like your cell phone." Just what I wanted to hear--someone I didn't want to talk to, giving himself a carte blanche to my time. That, after advising students almost nonstop between my classes. I don't mind doing that--in fact, I like it. It's just that I did, in essence, 13 nonstop hours of teaching and advising. I've worked longer days doing other kinds of jobs, but when you're talking or listening to people, your attention can't waver. That gets to be tiring, if not in the same way as a more physical job.

So now I'm falling asleep. At least I don't have to set my alarm for tomorrow.

What Was Happening Then

Rode about 12 miles today: to Bicycle Habitat and back. Hal was doing a bit of work on my three-speed for which I don't have the tools . The trip there was also a good excuse to ride into SoHo. I still like the energy and some of the architecture, even if Broadway was long ago turned into a mall and there don't seem to be natives of the neighborhood anymore. There don't seem to be artists, either: Their time in SoHo passed about twenty years ago.

I once worked around the corner from Habitat, which is how I found about the shop. Hal was working there then; later, he would leave for a few years. Charlie, the owner, wasn't there today, but he always seems to be there. I guess that's normal when someone owns a store for more than 30 years.

Sheldon was also there. He was an old riding buddy, along with "Crazy Ray" and a couple of other co-conspirators. Back in the spring, I encountered him at the shop. He had just started working there; it was the first time I saw him in a decade or so. The interesting thing is that I find myself talking with him in ways I didn't back then. As you can imagine, he's learning things about me that he couldn't have suspected, much less known, back in the day. And I'm learning that there's more to him than I thought there was. There would have to be in order for him to remain married to Danielle!

Anyway, somehow we got to talking about travel and, specifically, France. He knew that I'd taken trips to France, but didn't know that I'd taken as many as I have, or lived there. And I didn't know that he spent time there when he was a young vagabond musician. He was playing the music of his native Trinidad, which made him and his band something of an attraction over there. He spoke fondly of his time there: He had, as I had, happy experiences with the country and the French people. And he has never spoken any French: He said he simply "met people." And I'm sure they were taken with his smile, which is friendly with a charming little touch of mischievousness.

And I talked about my bike trips. I took two of them, if I recall correctly, during the time we were riding and hanging out together. I don't know how much he knew about the last one: It was around the time we lost touch, I think.

That was the trip on which I was pedaling up the same Alpine climbs that the Tour de France cyclists, led by Lance, scaled. I prided myself on my climbing back then, and I was happy to see three stages of the Tour. However, I felt that I was spinning my wheels--OK, it sounds like a terrible pun, but it fits--during that trip.

The last major climb I made--on a bike laden with full panniers and handlebar bag--took me up le Col du Galibier. It is one of the most renowned climbs. Unlike l'Alpe d'Huez, one of the first climbs I made, the road didn't reach the top via a series of virages. Instead, the climb was almost straight--and steep. Plus, depending on where you're coming from, you have to climb either le Col du Lauteret or le Col du Telegraphe to get there. Neither one is terribly difficult--or, at least they weren't given my conditioning at the time and in comparison to other climbs I'd done. But either is enough to take something out of you before you start on the road up Galibier.

I told Sheldon a story I've related elsewhere (When you open the link, scroll ten paragraphs down.) about my ascent and descent of Galibier, and how it started me on my present journey. I mentioned the message I received and how it foreshadowed what I would experience at the end of that day, when I saw the woman who made me realize I simply had to begin my gender transition.

What Sheldon may realize is that I may have learned as much about him--and myself--in telling him the story as he learned about me. Not to aggrandize myself, but I feel that, these days, when I tell such stories about myself, I can gauge not only what a person is actually thinking (which may or not be what he or she is saying) but also something about how that person relates to his or her own experience. In Sheldon's case, I realized that he has had to be willing to learn things about himself that he could not have imagined--and learn them at a much earlier age than I did. Maybe moving to another country when you're twelve years old will do that to you. And I thought that moving to another state at age thirteen was an education--and letdown!

Anyway, it wasn't just happy or satisfying, it was invigorating, to have that conversation with Sheldon. But it was strange to talk about something that was happening at a time when we saw each other nearly every day and he didn't know about. Some language must have a word for such an experience.

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?