Lost With Memory

Today I did about two hours of bike riding. I made a couple of stops along the way, including one at a park in Red Hook, Brooklyn. En route, I rode for a bit down Fourth Avenue. Let's just say it ain't le Boulevard des Champs-Elysees. But now it runs the risk of going from merely drab or ugly to truly grotesque. The Atlantic Terminal Mall, where Fourth Avenue dead-ends on Flatbush Avenue, looks like something from the deck of a baroquely cheesy (Or is it cheesily baroque?) cruise ship with an almost-apocalyptic post-industrial background. In that background, some developer wants to build some humongous sports arena where the Nets will play. Just what New York needs: another terrible NBA team!


A few blocks further down Fourth, at the corner of Carroll, a multi-story condo building has been erected since the last time I was in that area, which was probably a year ago. It was just as gaudily sterile as the Atlantic Center Mall.

From there, I zigged and zagged along streets where my mother and uncles played as children, and where an aunt and uncle lived for many years. It was only a few blocks from where Tammy and I lived together and and even less than that from the place where I lived by myself before I met Tammy.


After buying a bag of white cheddar popcorn in a deli, I rode toward the Red Hook waterfront. It's a strange combination of maritime bucolic and early-industrial grittiness. There's an upscale food market just a couple of blocks from splintered tenements abandoned from the deaths of dock workers who once loaded and unloaded the ships that came and went to and from New York Harbor. There is an IKEA store only a few hundred feet from a lot that, not long ago, was full of rotting couches and chairs.


From that IKEA, from the upscale foodstore, from the abandoned cement plant, from the warehouses that have been turned into artists' studios, one has the best views of Miss Liberty to be found anywhere. In fact, about ten or twelve years ago, realtors tried to make the area--much of which was abandoned--more appealing by calling it "Liberty Heights." Of course, they didn't fool any born or bred Brooklynites.


Anyway, on my way home, I stayed within a block or two of the water. Near the old Brooklyn Navy Yard, I saw a man who was probably my age, or close to it, fixing a flat on the bike of a younger gay (or possibly genderqueer) woman. They looked like they were having trouble, so I stopped to see whether they needed hlep.


It seemed that the man had the situation in hand, but the three of us got to talking. The young woman was very nice. The man was rather charming and reminded me of someone, though I wasn't quite sure of whom. Finally, he mentioned his name. His last name is, from what I have seen, uncommon. In fact, I have known only one other person who had it. So, I asked whether he had a sister whose first name was X.

Turns out, he did. That name is one most people wouldn't associate with their last name, or a person of their ethnic background. And I described his sister a bit, at least as I remember her. He was flabbergasted and wondered how I could have known her.

Turns out...Well, I didn't tell him the real way I got to know her. And let's just say that now I'm very different from the man she knew, albeit breifly, back in the day.

He said that she's married: No surprise there. She was possibly the most beautiful woman I ever dated, or with whom I had an affair or relationship. (Can anyone define the differences between them?) She was born in India to a black Jamaican mother and a father whose parents hailed from India, so she had that wonderful skin tone that was somewhere between copper and mahogany. She also had a long, lean body with gentle curves, an almost perfectly aquiline nose and lips that were plush but not plump. The only parts of her body that weren't exquisitely beautiful were her eyes: They had a nice almond shape but, in spite of their deep brown hue, felt lifeless.

Still, I tried to keep the relationship going even after I knew full well that we had nothing in common.

I don't know what, if anything, she recalls of me. It may be just as well if she doesn't remember me.

By the way: When he asked how I knew her, I said she was a student of mine. She was in fact a student at the time I dated her; she just wasn't my student or even in a college in which I was teaching. And she was about my age--mid '30's--at the time.

As we parted, he said, "Small world!"

Training For What's Next, Whatever It Is

More training today. For our "homework" last night, we were given a series of questions people might ask out of a variety of motives. When someone asks a question meant to "bait" the recipient, I have the urge to say something sarcastic. Of course I'll need to suppress that if I'm ever in a position of representing an organization, or even transgendered people.

As an example, one of the questions went like this: A friend of mine says she's bisexual. But I think she's in denial; she's really gay. What should I do? The first response that came to my mind was, Really? She's bi? That means she'd like me now, and she would've liked me then. Sounds OK to me.


And, of course, when someone brings religion--especially if the questioner quotes, out of context, some Bible verse-- I want to say something like, You really think that a book you're reading in English but was written before the English language existed came directly from God? Or, So you really want to run your life by a bunch of warmed-over Late Bronze Age myths?


Here's my favorite question: Why did you cut off your dick? No man would ever do that. Aside from the fact that the operation doesn't involve "cutting off your dick," I always want to point out another, more obvious fact, which I would express thusly: You get it! Of course no man would ever cut off his dick!


Anyone who's known me for a long time (You know who you are!) know that I can be sarcastic to the point of meanness. I almost never use that "weapon" these days; in fact, I find that the more hostile and ignorant someone is, the less I want to bring out the verbal knives. In fact, the only person on whom I've used them lately is someone who actually does know better but uses what he know--especially the good things--against me.


Anyway, I was actually enjoying the training, even though today was a bright, sunny Saturday and a bit warmer than the weather has been. There was a group of people from SAGE Milwaukee which, I learned, is the second-oldest SAGE affiliate. I never, ever would have associated that city with anything gay, lesbian or transgendered. Then again, I've never been there. Nor have I been to Chicago, which also has a SAGE affiliate that was well-represented. Also represented were the Long Island, Hudson Valley and Rocky Mountain affiliates.


I enjoyed being around the people for much the same reasons I enjoy being around older people: They've had all sorts of life experiences, so the possibilities for relating are seemingly endless. Also, as a transgender woman, I am interested in hearing about how they lived as gays, lesbians, bisexuals or transgenders, or what other iteration of gender and sexuality they might embody. There was a woman who "came out" after she had grandchildren; others lived with the unwritten and unspoken "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" policies of their workplaces and other communities. A few were fortunate enough to be open about themselves and not suffer consequences. However, as you might expect, there are people who lost jobs, families and much more. An example is a trans man who was harrassed out of his job as a nurse when he transitioned.


Oh, did I mention that I have a crush on him? You'd never know that he was born with XX chromosomes: He is trim and ruggedly handsome in the way of someone who works outdoors--and an absolute sweetheart. Alas, he's married and has kids. All right, I'll be magmaminous and feel good that a woman has a good man and a kid has a good Dad.


I also had a bit of a crush on the trainer, a handsome woman who, as it turns out, lives somewhere between where I live and where I work. At the end of the training, she walked up to me, embraced and exclaimed, "I'm in love with you!"



There were a couple of other people with whom I could imagine spending another weekend, or more. And they weren't all senior citizens: The trans man and the woman I just mentioned don't look like they're past 40. Also present were two straight women who considered themselves "allies." Having parents who've been supportive as well as family members and former friends who've distanced or cut themselves off from me, I understand how important people like those two women are.


Now I have a few business cards and a few more e-mail addresses I didn't have on Thursday, along with invitations. One of those cards came from a cute and very nice gay man who's a retired educator. He took me out to Seven, a dark wood-paneled restaurant with big chandeliers that seemed to diffuse the light that came from them. I very much enjoyed the artichoke and almond soup, roast chicken with potatoes and asparagus we ate--each of us finished a full serving of each--and the creme brulee and mango panecotta we shared.


Even if he hadn't taken me out to dinner, I would've wanted to see him again. You see, he appeals to my ego: He spent half the night, it seemed, telling me how pretty and nice he thinks I am, and the "good energy" he feels coming from me.


Oh, and there's even more intrigue. ;-) The trainer and the director of SAGE have asked me whether I want to go to an advocacy weekend, which will include workshops "having a presence," in Washington, DC next weekend. I agreed to it, even though I have mixed feelings about it for political reasons. I want to help older trans people, and trans people and older people generally. But I'm not a fan of government programs generally or Washington, DC--as a city or what it represents. And I have no idea of what I might do there, save possibly for meeting interesting and possibly unsavory people--and learning something, although I'm not sure of exactly what. Then again, part of me says that's exactly the reason to go. So, that's my plan.

Obliging Myself

Today I did a training with an organization commonly called SAGE. When it was founded, the acronym stood for Services and Advocacy for Gay Elders. But now "Lesbian, Bisexual and Transgeder" has been added to "Gay." But most people who know about the organization still call it SAGE.

It's headed by Tom Weber, whom I met on a retreat hosted by an organization connected to the LGBT Community Center of New York. That retreat took place a few months after I'd begun therapy and counseling, a couple of months after Tammy and I split up and, as I recall, less than a month after I underwent the first of a series medical tests that preceded my taking hormones and living full-time as a woman. It was one of the oddest times of my life: I was going to work and socializing, to the extent that I did, with family and friends as Nick but living another life as Justine. Even though I knew that I would soon start living full-time as Justine, and would come out to family and friends, I living in fear of, and doing everything I could to prevent, having my "secret" discovered by those same friends, family members and colleagues.

The retreat on which I met Tom marked the first time in which I "came out" to a group of strangers who weren't in a support group or some other similar setting. The facilitator of the retreat broke the larger group down into smaller groups of six for discussion and various role-playing exercises. Each group had to choose a leader; before I could say otherwise, the members of my group--Tom was among them--picked me for the job.

Through that weekend, Tom and I talked quite a bit. He had just lost his father; for reasons that I could not understand at the time, he looked to me for support. I gave him the best I could; he would insist later that it was "very, very important and helpful" to him.

It was scary, yet exhilarating, to have Tom and a bunch of other people I didn't know looking to me for strength I didn't know I had.

He was the only person I knew when I walked into today's training, which will continue into tomorrow. Yet the people there looked to, and rallied around, me in much the same way as Tom and those other people I met at the retreat did so long ago. (It was seven years ago but somehow seems longer.)

What's interesting to me now is that in being the kind of ally, colleague and friend they want for the brief time we're spending together, I don't feel as if I'm obliging them. Rather, I feel as if I'm obliging myself.

That, I realize now, is what I have been doing for the past seven years. And today it led me to that training, and soon I hope it will lead to a project Tom and I discussed a while back. Perhps it will also lead to my making a new friend or two (or more!) this weekend.

Pouting, Scowling and Glowering, Then and Now

On Mondays and Wednesdays, I'm teaching two sections of the intro to literature in the class that every student in the college is required to take. I enjoy teaching that course because most of the students are majoring in something other than English. For me, that's stimulating because their perspectives are often much more interesting to hear than those of literary scholars. Then, of course, there are those students who sit and pout because they're forced to take the class. I have one such student in my first class. I can almost hear her thinking, "When will I ever need any of this stuff?"

Today she asked that question, more or less. I was explaining what made Shakespeare's "Let not to the marriage of true minds" a sonnet. Another student asked, "Does it have something to do with iambic pentameter?"

"What's iambic pentameter?," yet another student wondered.

I started to explain it, and I tried to relate the concept to beats in music or the ways we stress and accent our everyday speech. The pouting, glowering student raised her hand.

"I don't get it."

"All right. I'll try it again." And I did. And she still didn't understand, she said. So I tried explaining it another way--I can't remember what I said--when I noticed something odd: She seemed, under her scowl, somehow hurt and confused. Again, I asked whether my explanation made sense.

"Why did I get a C on my paper?," she wondered. Her rather belligerent tone turned into one of bewilderment. I promised to discuss it with her after class. When I did, I realized that she was panicking: She had never received such a low grade on an assignment. Later, I talked with a prof she had last semester, who confirmed that she was an "A" student.

I guess the reason why I'm thinking about her is, to use one of the most hackneyed cliches of all, I saw myself in her. I remember the frowns and scowls I used to wear because I was scared--though, I'm sure, about very different things from what my student was experiencing. But I remember how people used to try to get me to smile, and Elizabeth used to call me The Scowling Man, as if it were the name of a species or a work of Leonardo da Vinci's had he been reincarnated as Edvard Munch.

Funny I should mention that. In my later class, I was talking, in the context of one of our discussions about one of the poems, about an experience of mine. Out of the blue, Maria, who transferred into that class from another, asked, "Do you have any photos of yourself from that time?"

"Well, if I showed them to you, you'd want extra credit." The rest of the class laughed. But, for whatever reasons, that young woman really wants to see old photos of me.

I've neither looked at nor shown those photos in quite a while. I haven't had the urge to show them to anyone: I'm over shocking people and, frankly, myself. And now when I think of myself when I was living as Nick, I feel an odd combination of sympathy and distance. It seems that it's precisely the vividness of my memories of some of my past experiences that makes them as distant from me as the moon.

Plus, I don't want to look at my former glowering visage. I don't have that smoldering scowl or sexy pout that some models have. What I had then was a look of raw, deforming rage. When I showed those photos to people, their descriptions all included the word "anger" at least twice. So did that pouting, glowering student's former professor--and the office manager of my department, who encountered her just before I left for the day.

That office manager has also seen the photos.

For The One Born In Georgia

I can't believe more than a month of the semester has already passed. In three weeks, the Spring will "officially" begin; at the end of the week, the week-long "Spring Break" from college will start. I feel as if the students and other faculty members are already looking toward it. I know it's early this year: It's scheduled around Easter, and every three years or so, the holiday comes at the end of March or the beginning of April.

Today two of my colleagues said they felt like they working in a bunker. I did not prompt or otherwise lead them into saying that; they just did. And, I don't think they've been reading this blog.

I think that because we've had so much precipitation and so little sunshine, this winter has seemed endless.

Yesterday I called the Department of Vital Records to inquire about getting a new birth certificate. I got a runaround; I'm not sure it was because people didn't know what they were doing, didn't care or because I said that I wanted to the box next to "F" marked. The people I talked to were as polite as could be: After all, they were Southerners. Ok, now you now one of my dim, dark secrets: I was born in Georgia. However, I was there only for the first few months of my life: My father was stationed there with the military and, after he completed his tour of duty, he, Mom and I moved to Brooklyn, where they had lived before my father enlisted.

Since then, I've passed through Georgia en route to or from Florida. Sometimes I think more people pass through than stay there, especially in the part of the state where I was born. We stopped in Albany, the seat of Dougherty County, when I was in high school and we and my brothers were coming home from our first trip to Florida. Almost everything Dad photographed during his time there was gone: the base on which he was stationed, our house and most of the others. It looked like one of those towns young people got out of the first chance they got.

Anyway...I'm wondering now whether I'm the first trannie they've ever dealt with. If I am, it wouldn't surprise me; maybe it'll make me the talk of the town, at least for fifteen minutes. Not that I necessarily want that or, more precisely, care whether it happens: After all, I may never go back there. I've never had any particular desire to go there again; I was born there only because my parents happened to be there.

I'm just hoping that someone doesn't "make a mistake." More important, I hope Georgia isn't one of the states that doesn't change the gender on birth certificates. Even though it may not matter to anyone but me, I want to make that change because whatever data were entered on it were gathered from looking at and measuring my body. Whatever its shape and apparatus, I was just as much a female then as I ever have been. My mind and spirit could as well have been two X chrososomes; they've always been that way. And I have always been the person carrying them; the girl who's become a woman.

So...After I get my Georgia birth certificate with the box next to "F" marked, will I qualify as a Southern Belle? Well, maybe not the Belle part. Then again, is that what I really want? I mean, I've met some southerners whom I've just loved to pieces--Marilynne and her family come to mind--but somehow I don't see myself as one. I guess I never had a Scarlett O'Hara fantasy. Did I miss out on anything?

I just want to get a birth certificiate that records the one who actually came into this world, even if it doesn't matter to anyone else. The last person I talked to--a very sweet-voiced woman who, somehow, I pictured as a Black church lady--very patiently explained what I needed to do, although, as it turned out, her office was about to close for the day. I have to write a letter and send my old BC, copies of "official" ID, the court order for my name change and, of course, the letter from Marci that says I had the surgery. Those things, and a money order for $25 will get me a new birth certificate, she said.

I hope it's not any more complicated than that.

If And When Heroes Meet

I'm not the only one who thinks this semester and winter have been long. "We're only four weeks into the semester, but it feels like ages," another prof told me.

At least the sun shone today. Still, profs and students alike looked tired. I don't think I'm projecting, as I felt pretty energetic. I can't believe that Spring Recess will start in about three and a half weeks. Mom and Dad are still talking about coming up this way from Florida, if Mom's foot heals sufficiently. And Marilynne and her daughter have also talked about coming to town. It makes me wonder what it would be like if they all met. What would the parents of transgender kids talk about? Or would they?

Marilynne and her husband have called their daughter and me "heroes" for...well, being who we are and going through our transitions. I'll admit to feeling flattered--at the same time I feel a little bit humbled. In some ways, the transition and surgery were the easy parts of my life. Yes, they took a lot of work and commitment, and I had to give up some things and people, including a relationship with someone with whom I anticipated spending the rest of my life, as well as relationships I once had with certain members of my family. Still, they weren't nearly as difficult, at least emotionally and spiritually, as what I lived through before I left those things and started to build my current life. Or, at least, I could find some reward for myself and not merely approval, or the appearance thereof, from other people.

As far as I am concerned, the "heroes" are my mother, Marilynne and any other parent who supports her or his kid in any way when the kid does what he or she needs to do. So are other family members and friends who stand with someone who's living the life he or she needs to live. So Millie and Bruce would be included in my pantheon.

I wonder what it would like for all of these heroes to meet. Somehow I suspect that I would be more in awe than any of them would be. One thing I've learned is that people look up to you when you don't know they're doing it. And sometimes they look to you for strength and other resources you didn't know you had.

February Made Us Shiver

It warmed up to about 45F (7C) today, so much of the snow melted. Still, there was a lot of slush in the streets and there still could be icy or slick spots, so I didn't go bike riding. It's not as if I'm training for the Tour de France. Still, I'm itching to get back on my bike. Those few little rides I've taken have whetted my appetite.

Plus, the Winter Olympics ended today. So now I just want winter to be done, over with, so I can get out and ride.

I'm thinking now of that line from American Pie: But February made me shiver/With every paper I'd deliver. In those lines, Don McLean captured the feeling of the month that's ending today: It's indisputably winter; Spring isn't around the corner and the holidays are long past.

Someone once asked what the song meant. His reply: "That I'd never have to work again"--or something to that effect. I don't recall that he recorded anything after the eponymous album. For that matter, I don't think he even performed again. Somehow I can imagine him moving into the woods of New Hampshire, as the recently-departed J.D. Salinger did. The difference is, McLean didn't become famous for not doing much of anything after his masterpiece, as Salinger did after Catcher In The Rye. For some reason, no one seems to have stalked McLean for interviews he wouldn't give, as so many journalists and fans did to Salinger.

Other than their reclusiveness, what other reason is there to mention Salinger and McLean in the same post? It occurs to me now that they are both essentially conservatives, at least if Pie and Catcher are indicators. In American Pie, McLean basically laments the sixties, the decade that had just passed before he wrote and recorded that song. Bad news on the doorstep; I couldn't take one more step. He felt that "the day the music died" was the day Buddy Holly perished in a plane crash; apres ca, la deluge. To me, American Pie is Stairway to Heaven without drugs or the sexual revolution. Some might say that it reflects an infantile desire to continue his adolescence; others have said the same about Catcher in the Rye and, for that matter, almost anything Mark Twain wrote before Letters From the Earth.

As for Catcher: Its protagonist, Holden Caulfield, has been called a rebellious teenager. How can anyone say that about a young man who says he wishes he could write a letter to Thomas Hardy to tell him how great a writer he is, and that he likes Evelyn Waugh, too, but not enough to write him a letter? I mean, I like Hardy, too: In fact, I think he's very underrated as a poet. But I wouldn't say that liking him is exactly an act of rebellion unless your elders were all fans of Ezra Pound and post-modern fiction.

I'll bet February made Holden Caulfield shiver, too. Yet somehow it's hard to imagine what he would be after a "summer of love." I don't think he would be quite like McLean, or the narrator of McLean's song. Then again, it's hard to see McLean's narrator having much sympathy with Holden, or whatever he might have become.

What they have in common with each other, and the rest of us, is that for them, and us, tomorrow will be March. Will it usher in the spring, or will it be a continuation of winter by other means that will end only with summer--of love, or other things?

What Cats Know About Gender

Max is climbing all over me again. Earlier, Charlie was doing the same. They've always been very affectionate cats, but ever since I've returned from having my surgery, they can't seem to get enough of me. I thought they'd get used to having me again a few days or a couple of weeks after I came home. But they're just as greedy for me as they were the night I came back from Trinidad.

I'm thinking now about a few nights ago, when Sara and Dee stopped by my place. It was the first time Dee had been to my apartment, and almost as soon as she settled into my couch, Max climbed on her. He clung to her and purred loudly and deeply, as he does for me. Dee--who, as best as I can tell, is a woman only in the sense that she has XX chromosomes, and who has said that she'd make the transition to male if she were younger, had fewer health problems and better finances--worried that Max was attracted to her "as a woman."

I assured her that Max was simply an "aggressively friendly" cat and would climb on anyone who didn't resist him. Well, that statement was a bit of a stretch, as I've only had a few people to my place since I adopted Max. One, Millie, rescued him from the streets, so of course he loves her. And he tried to climb on Nina, but I had to pull him away because she's allergic. Ditto for my old landlady. He also climbed on Tami, who is most definitely female and has a few more cats than I have. Let's see...Who else did Max "conquer?" Well, he used to climb on Dominick whenever he came over. He's lived with cats--and dogs--all of his life and knows how to treat them.

Hey...Now it occurs to me that almost everyone I voluntarily spend time with is female. Anyway, Max tried to sit on all of them. Charlie, once he got to know them a bit, would curl up with them. But now I wonder: Do they really like women better than men? Or are they simply more used to women?

I've heard people say that cats like women because we're similar in sensibility to them. Someone else, I forget who, said that cats know we'll make a fuss over, and speak soothingly to, them. Either theory seems plausible enough. Still, I have to wonder whether cats actually know a human's gender--and if they do, whether it makes any difference to them.

Before I adopted Charlie, I had another cat with the same name and a very similar gray and white coat. He used to rub himself on my hand when I was holding the phone receiver--and talking to a woman. It didn't matter which woman; Charlie liked them all.

The day I met him, he was rolling and curling around the other kittens in his litter. They were born to a cat who lived with a friend of a friend; I had gone to her house with the intention of adopting one of those kittens. But, to my delight, Charlie adopted me: When he looked at me, he and I both knew that he was going home with me. Janette, who was the chaplain at Housing Works during the brief time I worked there, said that it was proof that I am indeed female, even though I was living otherwise. "He knew before you were ready to," she quipped.

What I find interesting is that Caterina and Candice, the two female cats I've lived with, were the same way with me and other women. So were both of Tammy's cats--a female and a male.

Hmm...Now I'm wondering whether cats are a gender unto themselves. One thing I know is that, on the whole, they--whether male or female--are drawn more to females than males of the human species. Does this mean that all cats are lesbians or straight males?

Whatever they are, they probably think we're silly. And that's exactly what they love and use in us. And many humans, like me, are only too happy to indulge them. Given my history with cats, how could I not?

Whatever their motivations, they know how to make us happy.

Another Storm

Yesterday morning, the wind drove the rain and whipped the snow around. That, of course, made the weather seem even colder than it actually was. The rain and snow melded into something wet, heavy and frozen that was neither rain or snow but turned, instead, into needles that pricked the cold, wet wind into the pores they opened.

Toward evening, those raindrops/snowflakes puffed into white, almost cloudlike clumps that were still too dense and wet to be called flakes. Surprisingly, students in the last class I taught actually paid attention to the lesson. Of course, once that class ended, most of them left campus as quickly as they could.

I stayed for a while after class ended. I had work to do, and I figured that the snow wasn't going to affect the subway, at least not too much. I normally don't mind being out in the snow, at least when it's fluffy. But last night's precipitation was merely slush in whiteface, so I wasn't especially eager to venture out into it, even though I wanted to leave the college and go home.

In a way, my desire to go home was ironic. This winter has seemed, if not brutal, at least endless, as it seems to have grabbed us on Thanksgiving weekend, when I moved into my current place. My friends are elsewhere. So, I feel, are the allies and friendly colleagues I have had at the college. The prof with whom I talked most often is out on maternity leave. Others seem less friendly. I thought that was merely my own perception, or misperception, but Anita, who used to work as an office manager in the writing program, also seems to think so. She brought it up during our conversation after we bumped into each other in a ladies' room. I hadn't seen her in at least a year, since she was transferred to another department in another part of the campus I have almost no reason to go to.

The prof whose office is across from mine has been rather friendly since we broke the ice early last semester. However, I hardly talk to some of the faculty members with whom I used to spend time. That's happening as I--and they--spend more time on campus, partly because our class sizes and the demands placed on us have increased, and partly because of the weather. Under those conditions, I feel sometimes as if we were in a modern-day iteration of Hitler's bunkers.

When people are hunkered down in the same place away from the same storm, that doesn't always produce camaraderie, much less empathy or friendship. But weathering the same storm might. At least, that seems to have happened on my way home last night, when I met a young trans woman in the ATM vestibule. She's new to town, and I told her where to go for counseling, medical care and other things.

She is in--or, at least, she is entering--storms like the one I've weathered. Perhaps we will meet again. Perhaps the storm will pass, or at least lessen, for her.

From Snow Blindness to a Warm Glow

Just got in out of the blizzard that's wrapped around this city like a scarf tossed by the wind. From the intersection at the end of my block to my apartment, I didn't see anything at all. I literally walked home with my eyes closed: It was the only way I could navigate the squalls of snow and ice. I abandoned an umbrella that a gust tore apart; I covered my face with my scarf but wished I had a pair of ski goggles. Then again, they would have only kept those needles of snow and ice from blowing into my eyes; I don't think they would have allowed me to see very much in front of me.

As I type this, I'm eating some tostones with Mexican white cheese melted over them. The tostones are like tortilla chips, only bigger, flatter (though not totally flat) and more intensely flavorful: I can really taste the nuttiness and graininess of the corn from which they're made, which is one reason why I love them. But, tonight I'm also eating them for the same reason I'd eat a grilled cheese sandwich, or anything else that's a vehicle for something hot and gooey and full of fat. I'm munching them between sips of the chicken broth I heated up.

As soon as I finish filling myself with hot viscosity, I'm going to dilate, take my mandatory (as if I'm protesting!) hot bath and go to bed. That's about the only sane place to be on a night like this!

Multiplication

I really think that paper multiplies. I don't think it reproduces itself through sex--at least, I've never seen that. That leads me to wonder whether it replicates itself by spreading spores onto desktops that grow into full-fledged folios. Or, perhaps, whether it divides like an amoeba and grows only to divide again.

It seems that no matter how many papers I read, there's another stack. Those papers are like the brooms in Fantasia. I guess that around Memorial Day, those papers will start behaving themselves, at least for a little while: until I teach again, whenever that is!

So, now I'm wondering what birth control for papers would be. And, would they be willing to practice such a thing?

Just when I'm feeling tired and cranky from looking at all of those papers, the very person who doesn't understand the phrase, "I can't talk to you right now!" calls. That person, who also doesn't listen to much of anything I say, calls my work phone, which doesn't have call ID. Or, that person will call my home phone from a restricted number. And I end up spending an hour on the phone with that person.

Am I describing a corollary or two to Murphy's Law?

All right...I'll stop whining. I guess I can't have wonderful epiphanies and reunions every day.

I feel a bit better physically than I did yesterday. But whatever I have is running its course: I still feel tired and, after that call, even crankier than I was.

Now I'm realizing that it's been almost three months since I've moved. Although the place in which I live is a bit nicer, and the neighborhood more convenient, I still don't quite feel like it's home yet. I don't know anyone I didn't know the day I moved there; on the day I moved onto the block from which I moved, I met people who would become friends. It was a hot, sunny August day, and my first days on that block came at the end of summer and the beginning of fall, when people spent time outdoors. On the other hand, I moved into my current place just as winter was beginning, or so it seemed. And this winter has been colder and wetter than the past few, so people--including me--haven't spent much time outdoors.

Fewer papers. More sunshine. An end to unwanted calls. More time on my bike. Less weight on my midsection. Am I asking for too much?

Oh well. At least I have the one thing I wanted most. Yes, I am grateful for that. But gratitude does not short-circuit new desires, or the acknowledgment of old ones.

And for as long as I've been teaching, I've wished that paper would behave itself! ;-)

Old, New and Current Beginnings

Today I didn't go to work. I had a really bad headache all day yesterday and my nose was more congested than the Long Island Expressway during rush hours. And when I blew my nose, what came out was only slightly less toxic than some Superfund sites.

So I went to my doctor, at Callen Lorde. Actually, I didn't go to Richie Tran, my regular doctor; I saw one Victor Inaka,of the other doctors in the practice. On my way into the building, I saw Dr. Jennifer, my gynecologist. She's exactly what you want any health care professional to be: She not only has good knowledge and skills, she makes you feel better just by being within sight and hearing distance.


With Jennifer was someone I hadn't seen in a long time. (I seem to have run into a lot of people like that lately!) Kate is one of the butchest (Is that a legitimate adjective?) women I've ever known. She once told me that she thought she was transgedered but decided to live through her "masculine side."


She facilitated the very first transgender support group in which I participated. I can't believe that it was eight years ago! I can recall some of my "classmates" in that group. One, who called herself "Jennifer,' was sixty-five years old. She had just recently begun to live full-time as a woman, having waited until her children were grown and until she retired from her job to "come out." As she expected, it ended her marriage, but she didn't seem too sorry about that.


I'm also recalling Laura, who was a freelance photographer, among other things. She was attending Sarah Lawrence College, which--not surprisingly--she found to be a "tolerant and supportive atmosphere." We went to the Guggenheim and a couple of galleries together, and spent some time with me as Tammy and I were splitting up. I enjoyed the time I spent with Laura because she and I saw our gender transitions--and life itself--as spiritual journeys. She once told me that her goal was to "become the Buddha."


Then there was Marianne, who had just recently "come out." She had just taken a leave from Columbia University, where she had completed two years' worth of courses. I won't make any judgment as to whether she--or anyone else--is transgendered, or any other label you can think of. But I remember feeling that she had a whole bunch of other issued that she needed to work out before embarking on a transition. I know, because I had some of those very issues.


I wonder where they are now. I'm especially curious to know how (or whether) Jennifer continued to live as Jennifer. Tom at SAGE and I are still talking about creating a group for older trans people, so hearing about Jennifer's experiences would be especially interesting to me. I'm also wondering whether Laura continued her transition or whether her journey led her to someone else. As for Marianne, I'd like to know that she's still intact.


There were others in that group, some of whom attended continuously and others who came and went. At least one or two may have decided they weren't transgendered after all, or simply decided they didn't want to make the transition. Sometimes I think the latter is Kate's story.


Speaking of whom...Seeing her again further changed my perception of time. She met me just as I was leaving my life with Tammy and now I am post-op. The one constant is that I have been a woman all along, which I think she understood.


Seeing her again--especially in the presence of Dr. Jennifer--made it difficult for me to believe that eight years have passed since I participated in that group Kate facilitated. Yet my days in that group seem like they happened aeons ago.


But Kate and Dr. Jennifer, like Marci, also represent beginnings in my life. By definition, beginnings define and demarcate the past. That is why the people who helped to make them happen are always present for you, even if you don't see them for years.

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?