Recovering From An Earlier Season

Heavy rain continued to fall this morning, but it had tapered off to a drizzle by the middle of the afternoon. I went out for a walk; I actually rather enjoy the drizzle, even on a rather chilly day.

A few people strolled with their dogs. All of the canines seemed to know me, even though I couldn't recall seeing any of them before and I haven't had a dog in a long time. Do they know that I have two cats? Sometimes I think I should have been a veterinarian.

Anyway...Another season will soon have passed. In three weeks, it will be Easter. Mom and Dad plan to come up this way that weekend. As we grow older, they talk a lot about what could have been or, at least, what they wish the past had been like. I suppose just about everybody does that. And I suppose that the things they missed, or the things they would do if they could go back in time, aren't so different from what many other people would have wanted. He says he would have liked closer relationships with his family and wishes that he had more of a life outside of work. So many other men of his generation--who similarly devoted themselves, whether out of necessity or choice, to their jobs and careers-- say such things. She says that she would have married and had kids later than she did, after getting more education than she has. Other women--who, like her, followed the unwritten timetables women of their generation followed-- have told me similar things.

For me, thinking about what might have been becomes very complicated. On one hand, there are some aspects of my earlier life that were very good. For one, I had--and, thankfully, have--a great mother. A social worker with whom I talked as I was about to start my transition said that I was one of the few women, trans or otherwise, she met who didn't have "mother issues." And, I had the opportunity to travel and do some other interesting things. However, there is that one huge "what if"--about my identity, of course: What if I had been raised as a girl named Justine, or with any other girl's name? What if I could have experienced my birthdays, the holidays and the seasons as the person I actually am?

Even though the past few months have included a bit more drama than I'd anticipated, I still feel that in some way it's been a kind of hibernation. I don't mean that in a negative way: These past few months have been a time to recuperate. In the summer--or the part of it that remained after my surgery--and for the early part of the fall, I was recovering physicall. During that time, I also experienced another kind of recovery, which has continued: from my previous life, or more precisely, its effects.

Probably the worst thing about my previous life, and the thing that has made much of my recovery necessary, is a particular psychic scar that is just starting to fade. All of my life, I somehow felt "less than." Other people could find happiness and fulfillment in marriage and families; I could not. They could feel comfort in their own bodies and secure in their persons; I could not. They could love and be loved, by others and themselves; those things, it seemed, were not permitted to me. And, perhaps worst of all, they could be unselfconscious in ways that I could never be: They did not have to censor themselves in expressing their desires and dreams.

Now I realize why the college feels so oppressive to me: There are a lot of people there who don't--and possibly don't want to--realize that I am not "throwing my sexuality in anyone's face." For that matter, I'm not throwing anything in anyone's face. Other people can keep photos of their spouses and talk about their kids, and no one thinks it's "obnoxious." Or they can announce that their getting married or that a kid's on the way and no one expresses discomfort.

But when you're trans--or gay, for that matter--people ask, and then they're upset with you for answering--or not answering--them. Or else someone in a position of authority tells you "It's not an issue as long as you don't make it so," then treats you in exactly the kinds of ways that can lead you only to the conclusion that your "issue" really is the issue.

What they don't realize is how much privilege they have because their gender expression and sexual inclinations are so assumed to be the normal ones that they're almost never noticed, let alone mentioned. Shortly into my transition, I realized that privilege is something that you don't realize you have until you lose it.

Maybe that's why lately I've felt frustrated and drained when I'm at the college and not in the classroom: It's a reminder of the inferiority complex that I had internalized so thoroughly, from which I am only beginning to recover.

Another Tempest (a Nor'easter, actually)

What a wild season this is! Here in New York, we have had hurricane-force winds and, according to the most recent measurement in Central Park, four inches of rain so far today. And it's supposed to rain, though not quite as much, tomorrow.

Canal Street in Manhattan just may live up to its name. If it does, will free gondola service be provided? The street used to be the unofficial boundary between Chinatown and Little Italy. But, as there aren't many Italians left (and Chinese people have taken their place) in the latter neighborhood, I don't know who'll sing "O Sole Mio" or whatever the Venetian gondoliers sing.

I guess that means we'll have to take the Queen Elizabeth II--or Le Bateau Ivre. Whichever one comes, I hope it's not bearing the Right Duke of Milan and his daughter.

And we're supposed to get more of the same tomorrow, except that the wind won't blow and the rain won't fall as hard as it did today.

Two weeks ago, we had one of the most intense blizzards in the history of this area. I was going home the night it started. There seemed to be no defense against it: The wind blew umbrellas apart and dense snowflakes into people's faces. Today's storm has been like that one with warmer (though not warm!) weather: If anything, the wind is even more intense now, so there is no escape from the rain.

Oh well...Time to move the clocks ahead, let Charlie and Max cuddle me and fall asleep. Actually, I'm falling asleep already. So, before I type something I regret, I'll let the rain and my cats work their magic on me and lead me into dreamsville.

Clarity After The Tempest

Last night, after work, I went to the Brooklyn Academy of Music to see a production of The Tempest by Shakespeare. It turned out to be exactly what I wanted, and needed.

From the first time I read the play--more years ago than I'll admit!--I used to identify with Caliban more than any other character I have encountered in literature. Sometimes I still do. After all, he is reviled simply for being: he is the deformed child of Sycorax, a witch long dead by the time Prospero arrives in exile. He is also the only non-spiritual native of the island.

Ron Cephas Jones, the actor who portrayed Caliban, was amazing: He conveyed so much of his character's anger, subversiveness--and humanity--through his eyes alone. With his performance, even someone who's never before read or seen the play could be convinced that "You have taught me language/And the profit on't is, I can curse" can come out of the same mouth as the one who, not much more than an hour later (The action in the play takes place in real time, in contrast to most of Shakespeare's other plays, in which the action can take place in several locations and time frames.) would give us the speech that begins with "Be not afeard. The isle is full of noises, Sounds and sweet airs that give delight and hurt not." To me, that speech is the single most beautiful piece of writing in the English language.

I used to identify with Caliban because I long felt like the "ugly duckling" of my family, school, and of just about any group, institution or situation of which I was a part. I was always under suspicion and therefore expected anyone who had any sort of authority, or simply any kind of approval that I didn't have, to abuse it--against me. Sometimes I still do.

Perhaps some of you will think that I am painting myself as a victim when I say that to get through any given day from the time I was about five until I was forty-five, I had to lie, connive or in some other way be untruthful to myself or deceitful to others. Some people would say that I'm living a lie now: They have said, and continue to say, things like "Just accept that you're a man and deal with it!" Well, that's exactly what I told myself for all of those years--that I am a man and would have to deal with it. Turned out that the first part of that statement wasn't true and that "dealing with" what is true involved doing things that have cost me relationships, not to mention material wealth.

Now, I am not going to get into some discourse in post-colonialism, mainly because I think a lot of the so-called postcolonialists , or people who fancy themselves as such, say some completely absurd and sometimes offensive things, which is a consequence of generating and disseminating arguments that have little, if anything, to do with the issues some postcolonialists suppose themselves and their arguments to be about. (Then again, one can say that for just about any other school of literary criticism or any other "ism.") However, while I am not entirely convinced that Shakespeare was writing a critique of colonialism, slavery or the oppression of women (Miranda, Prospero's daughter, is the only female character seen for any significant amount of time throughout the play.), I think that no one better understood human dynamics, particularly in relation to power and the way it is used and abused. Plus, I can't see how Shakespeare--who, though brilliant, was still a product of his place and time--could not be concerned with issues of revenge, forgiveness and redemption. They are the underlying powers of The Tempest, as they are of so many of his other plays. In fact, it now occurs to me that in that sense, Les Miserables--which, I believe, is still the best novel ever written--is a sort of great-great-great-niece or -nephew of The Tempest.

Anyway...A great thing about the production I saw was that it gave a clear sense that Prospero's relationship with Ariel was, in some ways, as exploitative as his relationship with Caliban. Of course, that was not something I could see when I was addled by the anger I used to feel so strongly that for a long time I could not understand the real source of my anger. Prospero released the "airy spirit" from a tree and keeps him in his debt with a promise to release him from it one day.

It's odd that last week, I was taking the "E" train home from work and saw it as a modern-day slave ship. It runs underground for its entire length and is usually full, which made me think of slaves chained to each other in the lowest levels of the ship. And everyone on that train was going to or coming from a job that was serving someone who had power--sometimes of life and death--over them. And they continue to go to and from those jobs, and submit to the rules and sometimes caprices of their employers out of a fear that they and/or those they love will not survive if they don't submit. Finally, some of them have some vague belief that if they work long and hard enough, and continue to "keep the faith," they and their loved ones will one day be free from worry and want. Their employers--or, more precisely, the culture they represent, if unwittingly--promulgates those beliefs. Anyone who questions, much less challenges, them won't be long for his or her job, and possibly this world.

But this is not to paint such people--or Ariel--as naive simpletons. Rather, they instinctively understand that rebellion and subversion are, by definition, the loneliest of enterprises. Also, sometimes people don't have any choice but to avail themselves to some "rescue" or another, none of which ever comes without some price or another.

I don't know whether it was the production I saw that caused me to finally understand what I've just described about Ariel and his relationship to Prospero. But that relationship was clearly and fully realized in that production. That alone made it worth seeing.

And I now realize that, whatever scars and resentments we have had in common, I have finally become, at least in one way, fundamentally different from Caliban--or, for that matter, Ariel: Now that I have freed myself, at least in a spiritual and psychic sense, I want to do what I can to help others--or, more precisely, help them to develop their means--to break from whatever's enslaving them. I also hope that they'll understand that life is, among other things, an unending process of liberating one's self. Whether we are liberated through pardons, forgiveness, redemption or our own enterprise, there is always another box to emerge from. And for each one there is a different way out.

Now, if I could only do it all as perceptively, and in such beautiful and precise language as Shakespeare rendered it all!

Lesbians In My Future?

Today Doreen, an advocacy coordinator for SAGE, asked me whether I could spend a day or two in Washington, DC. I would be meeting with other people from SAGE, as well as lobbyists and possibly officials. The only problem is that most of the events in which I'd want to participate are on Monday. I really can't take the day off: I've already taken a sick day and the atmosphere at the college, and in my department, is becoming more and more like what I imagine the CIA to be. Everybody--at least the non-tenured people--are overworked and tense, and nobody seems to trust anybody. I find that I'm becoming more and more like them, at least when I'm not in a classroom or otherwise working with my students.

I realize now that's one of the reasons I enjoyed last weekend so much. The people were great; I would have enjoyed them under just about any circumstance. I felt like I was on a little vacation: There was nothing to do but learn and meet people. At one time, being an educator was like that, and for a time, that's how it was at the college in which I'm teaching now.


Maybe it will be like that again some day. I guess I should be thankful I have a job. I also guess that the powers-that-be realize that we all are thinking that way, and they're exploiting that, if in covert ways.


It seems that since the year began, I've spent every waking hour at the college. What do I have to show for it? What have I accomplished? I might get the opportunity to help more students, but what am I really doing for them if I never have enough time to focus on anything enough to do it well? I sometimes feel like I'm in a crowd and everybody's trying to talk to me at the same time. That means, of course, that I can't really hear anybody, and some of those whom I don't hear will grow angry and hostile. And the authorities will penalize me if any of those angry, hostile people act out of those emotions.


OK. You're going to tell me I'm paranoid. If that's so, I've absorbed what's around me. It may be the reason why I've gained weight and why my sinuses have been acting up.


Plus, I'm noticing that some female colleagues with whom I'd once been friendly--or at least who had been civil toward me--have become disdainful, and have even tinged their interactions with me--to the extent that we have any-- with an undertone of hostility. I'm not saying that all, or even most, most female faculty and staff members have been treating me that way. But a few have been acting like sorority girls faced with a particularly unattractive pledge. They are straight and consider themselves progressive and open-minded. And they all use the rhetoric and vocabulary of gender studies and related fields.


I guess I should have been paying more attention when Elizabeth decided to end her friendship with me: That experience parallells, in so many ways, what's happening now. The funny thing is that she admitted--without any input from me--that the problem is not one of my transition itself, but of her unwillingness to understand. (Ironically, one of my brothers said exactly the same thing when I talked to him for the first time since I "came out.") She expressed resentment that I was unfairly claiming my status as a woman even though I do not share some of the experiences, such as menstruation, that she and other women have in common. She even said that I was "changing gender" to achieve favored status under affirmative-action laws. That, she said, was completely unfair to women like her, who have chosen to pursue degrees in fields like Gender Studies but can't get jobs in them. As if I took a job away from her, or any of her classmates!


It may also be that until people like her and the colleagues I've mentioned met me, they had only read about transgenders in their gender studies books and talked about whatever they read in those books. That, of course, makes transgenders the objects of study. But when you know someone in person, she cannot be an object; she becomes a subject--like a strong, articulate black person, whom liberal academics also cannot stand unless they're dead and in history books.


Now, as I said, not all female academics are as I've described. And almost no woman I've met who isn't an academician is like that. However, I've had my worst individual experiences, so far, with straight women with PhDs in liberal arts subjects.


Maybe I'll be spending more time--or even working with--older lesbians in the not-too-distant future. Right now, that sounds really good.

Without Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Just another eleven hour day on four hours' sleep. Nothing new here.

All right, I'm being dramatic. But I feel that no matter what I do, no matter how well I manage my time, there isn't enough time to do everything that, it seems, I am expected to do. As soon as I empty a folder full of students' papers, it fills again. No matter how quickly I read, I can't bring those piles of papers down to size, much less "finish" them.

When you descend into a disturbed sleep, you have nightmares. When you go to sleep with things on your mind (or, if you're a Freudian, your subconscious), you have dreams. And, of course, when you're at peace--or simply have no inner life, as Donald Trump claims--you enjoy a dreamless sleep.

But lately at work, when I'm not in a classroom, I feel like I'm in a kind of fever-dream, or some kind of feverish nightmare. People are running around like chickens with their heads cut off and complain that so much of what they do is redundant or simply unnecessary. Perhaps they're right. I sometimes feel the work that finds its way to me is made unnecessarily complicated by various clashes of egos. A fellow committee member, who has much more experience in such things than I have in such things, said as much, without any prompting from me.

Maybe I'm not crazy after all. But I'm definitely sleep-deprived.

Still More To Come?

So...after a weekend in which current and former love figured, it was back to reality. And I'm not talking about the TV shows that, in spite of what they're called, are "reality" in the same way that Twinkies are food.

So, after that weekend, today shouldn't have come as a surprise: The classes were great and the department meeting was long and boring--though, to be fair, not as long or boring as the previous couple of meetings were.

I still can't believe how tired I felt last night. The ride I did yesterday, while nice, is the sort of ride I used to sneak in between commitments. Yesterday it was a fairly big deal. These days, just being on the bike is a big deal for me. At least I didn't feel sore in or around my new organs. However, the ride showed me that I do need to lose weight.

Speaking of bikes, I've ordered another. It will be made by Mercian, as two of my three bikes are. However, unlike my other Mercians, which are "diamond" frames (often referred to as "men's " bikes), this one will be a "step-through" or "ladies'' frame, in which the top bar is dropped rather than horizontal as it is on the "men's" bikes. This means, among other things, that it will be easier to ride in a skirt or a long coat or sweater. Plus, this new bike will be equipped with fenders, a chain guard and "porteur" style handlebars.

From what Hal at Bicycle Habitat (from whom I ordered the bike) says, I'll probably have the bike in late July. If it arrives then, it will make a nice, if somewhat late, birthday present to myself. Of course, I'll be celebrating two birthdays this year: the Fourth, which is my natal birthdate, and the Seventh, the date on which I had my operation.

Now I'm feeling tired again, mainly because I've had a long day. And I'll have another tomorrow. I won't complain, though: I have a feeling that there's even more--of what, I'm not quite sure--to come.

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.