Off The Bike, Again!

Yesterday marked ten months since my surgery.  Before I know it, I (as I am now) will be a year old.


I just hope I can take a really nice ride that day.  Yesterday I found out I'm going to be off my bike again for another week or two. Just when the weather was getting good!


Over the last few days, I thought I might be developing an infection.  There was some yellowish discharge and I felt twinges, but not a burning sensation.  (The latter would have been an almost sure sign.)  So I went to see Dr. Jennifer.


She found a small tear inside and said that I should stay off my bike at least until my next visit, which will be next Friday.  Oh, dear.  I don't think of myself as superstitious (I have slept in cemeteries twice and walk, even at night,  by the one that abuts the campus where I teach.) but now I think that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn't have said anything about starting a bike blog!  


I will visit Dr. Jennifer again the week after next as well.  I just hope I heal before then.  Oh, please, great goddess of the transwoman cyclists, let me heal so I can get on my bike again.  Yes, even though my motives are selfish:  I want to ride and I've gotten fat.  


Now, without sounding too much like Joseph Campbell or anyone like that, I guess it's really true that one creates one's own mythology.  It doesn't even have to involve deities or powers:  Any belief by which someone chooses to live is a myth.  That, of course, doesn't necessarily mean that said belief isn't true.  At least, that's what I tell myself when I think that I'm going to win Lotto and that Elvis is coming back. ;-)


Oh well. I'm going to be very busy during the next couple of weeks.  So, maybe I wouldn't have been able to do much riding.  At least it's good to think that way.  But some is better than none.  And riding to work again has definitely made my workdays go by more quickly.  


Whatever I tell myself, I want to ride.  

My Next Blog.

Coming soon:  New blog.


Yes, I've decided that I am going to start another blog.  It will be related to bicycling.  I'm just thinking about whether I want it to be free-form or to have a focused theme.  I'm leaning toward the latter, as there are a number of cycling blogs on the web already.  I just happen to subscribe to a few of them, in addition to Gunnar's blog, in which he often mentions bicycles and cycling.


That doesn't mean I'm going to discontinue Transwoman Times, at least not yet.  I'm not quite ready to let go of it, even though I'm starting to sense there isn't as much for me to say here as I had, say, a few months or a year ago.  


I'm guessing that my new blog will start some time around Memorial Day.  By that time, the current semester will have finished.  Plus, ironically enough, the holiday seems appropriate for starting a new venture. No, I won't drape my new blog with banners and flags and such.  However, if my new blog has begun by that time, I will at least make mention of the tributes made to those who serve.  Now, what they serve is definitely debatable.


Now I'm thinking about that because I just may have talked a student out of joining the Armed Forces.  Like many others who've joined, he sees it as a way of guaranteeing that he has a job for at least a year or two, and of paying for college.  I pointed out that there are other ways of getting the same things, and though he may have to spend more time, effort or money in the beginning, those outlays will be worthwhile.  No matter what else he does, he will have more freedom than he would have in the military.  "Once you sign up, they own you; you're their property," I pointed out to him.  "And they can do whatever they want to you.  In fact, when your tour of duty is finished they can keep you."


He thanked me for telling him those things.  I think that deep down, he knew he didn't really want to join, but he has all sorts of pressures and is therefore anxious about the future. Those anxieties are still better than the alternatives.


Anyway, I'm feeling very sleepy, so it's good night and fair adieu and all that.'

You Know It's Late In The Semester When...

So...Today was one of those utterly gorgeous spring days that had just a hint of summer in its warmth and sunshine.  I rode to and from work; as I was leaving, one of my students cheered me on from the window of her boyfriend's car.  Now, if she thinks that's going to get her an A... ;-)


In one of my classes, it seemed that about half of the students hadn't even begun to read A Doll's House, which I assigned last week.  I asked them why they hadn't read; they said things like, "I started to read it, but I just couldn't get into it."  All right, I can understand that, I said.  But where did you start to have trouble?, I asked.


Some of them couldn't answer.  One student yelled, "We should read the play out loud in class."  I knew what they were trying to do:  spare themselves the trouble of reading it.  But I humored them and asked for volunteers to read aloud.  Turns out, a number of students didn't even bring in their books.


I know, it's late in the semester, the weather is gorgeous and people's hormones are pumping and clothes are shedding. Under such circumstances, I can understand why some students would rather be almost anywhere but a classroom and doing almost anything else besides discussing a play.  Still, I couldn't believe how much passive-aggressive behavior I was seeing in one room.  


At least the class I taught after that one was better:  They actually read the play and were actively participating in the discussion.  

After that first class, I found myself thinking about Thomas Wolfe's description of teaching in a diploma mill.  It was in You Can't Go Home Again, a book whose high point was its title.  All right, I remember that there was a none-too-favorable description of the job or the college.  


It's been a long time since I read the book and, frankly, I've never had any desire to read it again, not even to look for the passage I've mentioned.  As I recall, that novel and the others Wolfe wrote were longer than War and Peace or Les Miserables and said about a tenth as much.  Some prof of mine assigned them--in what course, I forget.  Maybe I should find copies of those books and, the next time a student complains about how much work they're getting, I could show them a copy of one of Wolfe's books.  "I could've assigned this!," I could tell them.  What good that would do, I don't know.


Oh well.

The Person Wearing The Clothes Goes To The Old Bike Shop

Today, I was talking to one of the true masochists of this world:  Roper, who is taking two classes with me.  He is also one of my favorite students because, in spite of all of the time he's spent in school, he can actually think.  And he articulates his thoughts in a direct, concisely elegant way.  


We bumped into each other in the hallway during "club hours."  Roper is one of the last people in this world I would ever expect to join a club of any sort.  That, frankly, is another reason why I like him.


Anyway, he had a question about a paper he has to submit for one of the classes I teach.  As our conversation wound down, a young woman made eye contact with me and smiled.  I don't know her name, but I've seen her before and she's waved, smiled and even said, "Good morning, professor" to me.  Today she wished me a good afternoon.


"How are you?" she asked.


"Fine, thank you.  By the way, I love your skirt."


"Thanks.  I got it at a flea market."


I have respect for anyone who finds something interesting, unique or beautiful at a flea market.  Anyway, I said, half-jokingly, "We should go shopping some time."
"Sure.  I'd like to find out where you get some of your things.  I love the way you dress."


"Thanks."
"I'm on my way to class now," she said.  "We should talk."


"Definitely. Have a great day."


As she hurried off, Roper could not take his eyes off her.  "You like her skirt.  I like her."


"She does have a nice body."  


"Her skirt is nice.  But I never could say that to her."


Funny, how just a few years ago, I couldn't have complimented her, or any other woman's, attire.  What's even funnier is that I was actually more likely to notice someone's clothes than to look at her body.  Tammy noticed as much.  Once, when we were out with one of her female friends and her boyfriend, I excused myself to go to the bathroom.  Later, Tammy would tell me that while I was "taking care of business," her friend wondered, "Doesn't it bother you when he looks at other women?"


"He's not looking at them. He's looking at what they're wearing."


"What for?," her friend hissed.


"He probably wants to wear it himself."  Yes, for me in those days, that was my " love that dare not speak its name!"


As I recall, her friend did not approve.  Later, Tammy would decide that she didn't approve of my becoming the person wearing the clothes.


As for Roper...He told me one of his childhood friends also transitioned.  "He was my friend.  She's still my friend," he says.


Well, I guess I shouldn't be too surprised that he could stand to have two classes with me--back-to-back, no less.


Anyway...After my last class, I walked a few blocks to Bellitte Bicycles.  They claim to be the oldest continuously-operating bicycle shop in the United States.  That's not hard to believe, and it's the reason I took the walk over there.  I needed a part for my Raleigh three-speed that's over 40 years old, and I figured that if anybody had it locally, they would.


I'd called them just before I bumped into Roper in the hallway.  I told the woman who answered that I was looking for a part for an old three-speed.  She called one of the mechanics--Carl, who's probably about five or ten years older than I am and is friendly and matter-of -fact at the same time.  He knew exactly the part I needed:  the left axle nut for the Sturmey-Archer three-speed hub.  The one on my bike stripped.  


When I entered the shop, I was greeted by a young woman who, I guessed, was still in high school or not long past it.  I told her what I needed, and she yelled to Carl, "That woman you talked to is here."


"She needs the Sturmey-Archer axle nut.  Here it is."  I asked for a second one, just for good measure.  


I haven't dealt much with bike shops other than the ones I had already been dealing with at the time I started my transition.  I always wondered whether I would experience the belittling treatment to which some women I know have been subjected by bike mechanics and the wannabe racers who work in some shops--not to mention auto repair shops.   But, I must say, I didn't experience anything like that at Belitte today.  Maybe Carl just had respect for someone who knew what she needed.  If that's the case, I'm happy.


And, yes, he did sell me the right part.  I installed it a little while ago and tucked the spare into my parts box.  


Maybe I am lucky after all:  Now I can do things I couldn't do as a male, and there are things I can do because I was a male.  

Mournings and Beginnings

"Velouria" has an interesting idea:  I could start a cycling blog.  That intrigues me.  No, better yet:  It seems completely logical, perhaps even inevitable.  


I wonder whether I'll continue this blog after starting that one.  I'm not saying I must make an "either-or" choice.  I'm just starting to realize that, well, this blog has become a sort of friend to me.  And, if you read what I wrote yesterday, or some earlier posts, you know what I've been learning about friendships:  Most cannot last forever, and holding on to one that's outlived its life span--or trying to revive one when whatever made it possible is gone-- can turn what could have been a sweet memory into a sour or bitter lament.


If and when I end this blog, it will be a sad day.  And I might mourn it.  But the reason you mourn something is because it's not coming back--or, at least, it seems not to be coming back.  I must say, in some way I'm mourning my days as a "trans" person.  Why?  In a lot of ways, it was a very exciting time in my life.  During the year before I started to live full-time as Justine, I spent a lot of time in therapy and support groups, started taking hormones and met lots of people who were very different from anyone I'd ever known, and came to love people I never knew I'd love.  The last time I learned as much in a year as I did during that year was probably some year early in my childhood.


Plus, that year, and the ones that followed, were the first time in my life I didn't feel like a victim.  Perhaps that seems paradoxical, as I undertook the journey I've made because, really, I am what I am --at least in one way--through no choice of mine, and I decided to embrace it because I couldn't run from it anymore.  


Mourning something is not the same as missing it.  Whatever you miss is not dead or finished:  You still have access to her, him or it in some way.  That's how I feel, oddly enough, about my surgery and the days immediately afterward.  I was describing this to a woman I know.  She, who has grown children, said, "Well, you were giving birth to yourself.  Why wouldn't you miss that?"  She explained that she still sometimes misses giving birth to her children; she would do it again because "nothing else has given me so much joy."  This woman has many other personal as well as professional accomplishments. But none, she said, gave her quite the same sense of fulfillment and joy as giving birth to, or raising, her kids.


I'm not saying that this is true for all women.  Indeed, I've talked with other women who say that their decision not to have children is the best they ever made.  And there are still other women--and men--who simply should not have children, for any number of reasons.  For that matter, it's probably a good thing I didn't have children.  That was a conscious choice:  Twice I've been with women who wanted children and were perfectly capable of having them.  My wish not to have children is one of the reasons I didn't stay with either of those women.  


If we follow the "birth" analogy, at what stage of "motherhood" am I now?  Friday will mark ten months since my surgery.  What do mothers do for their ten-month-old children?


One thing this "mother" (or "daughter," depending on how you think of it) did late today was to go for a bike ride.  My little trip took me down to the Red Hook piers.  I called my mother from there.  Not having been anywhere near that waterfront in at least thirty years, she wondered what I was doing there.  "Even when I was a kid, people thought it was a rough area," she explained.  I described how it's slowly being turned into Soho-by-the-bay:  Abandoned factories and warehouses have been turned into artist's lofts and studios as well as office spaces for small not-for-profit organizations.  


"Things change," my mother declared. "Time moves on."

After Being a Transwoman

I was still fairly woozy for a good part of the day today.  I could stand up and walk, and by early afternoon, I was able to ride my bike to the farmer's market on Roosevelt Island.  It's not much of a ride, but at least I got some much-needed fruits and vegetables.  I'm still amazed at how plentiful and good the strawberries have been so early in the season.  My mother said that, according to the folks at her local farmer's market, the weather caused the crop in Florida to come in later and coincide with the California harvest, which usually comes a bit later.


Still, I can't wait for the local strawberries, cherries, blueberries and pears.  Local, here in New York City, usually means southern New Jersey, central Pennsylvania and upstate New York.


The other things I love at the Roosevelt Island farmer's market are the mushrooms and, in the summer, the corn.  The mushrooms--which include huge white ones as well as nice, meaty Portabellos--are, by far, the best available around here.  I think they come from Pennsylvania.


Whenever I buy mushrooms, I think of something Tammy and I visited in the Loire Valley:  Le musee du Champignon. I never would have believed such a place existed until I saw it, and I cannot imagine it anyplace in the world besides France--specifically, the part of France in which it's located.  So...If I were to die tomorrow, I'd die as a woman who visited the world's only mushroom museum.  Yes, my life would be complete!


I suppose that my transition and surgery have made my life complete, or as whole as they can be.  After all, I feel complete, or at least whole.


Maybe that's the reason why I'm writing less and less about my own transition, surgery or other things related to my gender identity, expression and formulation, if you will.  Maybe there is not as much to say about those things as there was a few months ago, not to mention a year or two ago.  I started this blog to "count down" the last year before my sugery; after the procedure I decided to continue it in order to document the beginning of my life as an "official" woman.  Now I'm experiencing fewer earth-shattering, life-changing events and fully experiencing (and writing about) utterly banal (Notice the last four letters of that word!) events like colonoscopies.


And now here I am, months and years and streets and countries removed from...what?...whatever came before this journey I've undertaken.  There are some people to whom, and places to which, I couldn't return even if I'd wanted to.   I think now of the time I visited Elizabeth while she was teaching in a Turkish university.  Riding down the Aegean coast near Priene, I realized there was nothing to do at that moment but to ride down that coast, past the ruins of ancient cities that were once as important in their era as Florence and Venice were during the Renaissance, Paris through la belle epoque, London in the Victorian era and New York since World War II.  Priene, after Ephesus, on the way to Miletus:  there was only that march; so much else was behind them, behind us and before me.   I recall having a vague feeling that Elizabeth was already part of my past--that, actually, she had been for a long time, though I didn't want to admit that to myself.  She had been my best friend once; she was my best friend for a long time, and I went to see her because I wanted that person I'd met so many years before at Rutgers.  What's ironic is that she was the same person, really,and that ultimately would be the reason why she and I could not remain friends.


But for a moment, when I stopped at one particular spot--where a mountain seemed to drop directly into a cove--I felt, at once, that there was only a journey ahead of me precisely because so much was already behind me:  so much that simply could never again be as it had been.  That particular spot remains one of the most beautiful places I've ever seen, and I said to the driver, only half-jokingly, that any man who wants to marry me has to propose to me there.


Yet, oddly enough, I felt a bit like Jean Valjean in Montreuil-sur-mer:  I had come to the edge of the sea, with nowhere else to run but, at least for the time being, no reason to run even if some part of my past--specifically, someone or something that could expose me--were within sight but out of sight, which was exactly the reason why that person or thing could be so dangerous.


They are all gone now, as is almost anything else that could have undermined my transition.  Gone, too, are the fear and anxiety I had about not "making it" or "reaching the other side."  Of course, I now worry some about what comes next, but I also know that so much is past.


In some odd way, one thing that is past, or is passing, is my life as a trans-whatever:  transgender, transwoman, transsexual.   A couple of days ago, a former student of mine, whom I hadn't seen since I had my surgery, asked me how I felt.  I told her I felt great, which is true.  Still, it seemed odd:  I had to think about what it was that I was supposed to feel good, bad or otherwise about.  Indeed, I had an operation.  I've recovered physically and I have female sexual organs that function in every way but two:  menstruation and reproduction.  Now, it seems, I am not someone who's had the operation or even who was once a man, or lived more or less as one:  I am a woman, albeit one who's had some experiences that differ from ones other women have had, and who might be a bit taller, bigger and uglier than most.


Whatever I am, I'm not quite the prof that student had last year. In other words, I'm not the tranny prof anymore:  I'm just another boring female faculty member. That student, when I saw her again, seemed to like me for the same reasons she did last year.  However, there are a few profs--including one whom I've mentioned before--who, ironically, have become more distant from me now that I have more in common with them than I had before.


It could be that they simply didn't want to accept me as a woman.  When they knew me as the tranny prof, they had an easy label for me.  Now, not so much.


Speaking of labels:  I expect this blog to contunue, at least for the time being, even though I no longer refer to myself as a transwoman.  Some who have known me as one will always see me as one and, among other LGBT people, I will probably have that identity as a T--unless, of course, they start to see me as an L or a B.  (Some people have called me another kind of "B" that rhymes with "witch.")  But I am still developing, and will probably continue to develop, in ways that have been shaped by my experiences as a transgender.  Plus, one might say that I am a transwoman because I have become a woman by means different from those of most women.  So, in that sense, I can still write about the times of a transwoman, even if those times are passing.

Waking Up Again

I'm amazed at something I experienced today, even though I've experienced it before:  One minute the anesthesiologist was doing his work; the next minute the doctor and nurse told me everything went just fine.


Today, I didn't spend as much time "under" as I did when I was having my sex reassignment surgery.  I expected that, as a colonoscopy isn't nearly  as complex procedure.  Still, I know that I was in an induced unconsciousness for about half an hour.   It still seemed as if I woke up only a moment after I was put to sleep.  


Maybe it's a good thing I had the colonoscopy today rather than last year:  After SRS, there aren't very many medical procedures I fear.  That may also have to do with Dr. Blechman, who did my preliminary examination three weeks ago as well as today's procedure.  I guess I'm still something of a teacher after all:  One of the first things I noticed about him is that he knows his stuff very well and does a great job of explaining it, without condescension.  He also seems to have had other transgender patients before:  He asked about my procedure, how long I lived as Justine before it and other pertinent questions.  Yet, even as he asked those questions, I never had the sense that he was looking at me as "the tranny patient"


The nurse with whom I spoke yesterday assisted him.  She did some of the pre-procedure screening over the phone: She asked about my allergies, previous illnesses and procedures and whether I was taking any medications.  I mentioned that I was taking Premarin; she asked whether it had to do with pregnancy.  I chuckled and politely explained that I cannot become pregnant.  I think she sensed what I told her next:  I'm transgendered and, in answer to her question about prior surgeries, I mentioned my GRS/SRS.  She asked me to explain it, which I did as best I could.  When I saw her today, she thanked me.  


Hmm...Maybe that's what I'll do in my next life or career:  Explain the surgery to doctors who have not performed it or worked with any patient who's had it.  Imagine that:  I could teach doctors.  Wouldn't that be something?


Anyaway;  I'm starting to get sleepy.  Maybe I still have some of that anaesthesia in me.  So:  Will I sleep for only a minute?  Or will it only feel that way?                                 

Waiting

A little bit later, I get to repeat the day before my surgery.  No, I'm not in Trinidad; I'm surrounded by all the charms that Jamaica, Queens has to offer.  What I get to relive is the joys of not eating after breakfast and of drinking that stuff that tastes like Elmer's glue sprinkled with salt.  You're supposed to drink four liters of the stuff at ten-minute intervals. On The Day Before, I didn't drink it all.  I don't know of anyone who has.


At least this time they gave me a packet of lemon flavoring to mix with the stuff.  So I guess I'll find out what Elmer's glue sprinkled with salt tastes like when you add lemon-flavored powder to it.  What is it about lemon-flavored stuff that's always sweet.  No lemon I've ever tasted was like that.


All right.  I'll stop whingeing.  Tomorrow, after I've reprised the least pleasant part of The Trinidad Experience,  I'll do something I was supposed to do last year but somehow managed to forget (though my doctor didn't):  a colonoscopy.  To all of you young people who are reading:  this is the sort of thing you have to look forward to when you get old(er).


Then, I'll probably be out of commission for a while.  Some time the day after tomorrow, I'll get on my bike and maybe I'll meet someone for tea.  The instruction sheet the doctor gave me lists a bunch of things you shouldn't do within twenty-four hours after the surgery.  Bike riding is one.  (At least I don't have to wait four months, as I did after the surgery!) Driving and operating heavy machinery are two others.  Also, it says not to make "important financial or other life-changing decisions during that time."  Hmm...Maybe I shouldn't mention that here.  After all, the wrong sorts of people might be reading this.  One of them might decide to have his way with me.


Imagine:  Some day, I could be walking down the aisle and wondering, "When did I say 'yes' to this?"  I wonder: How many other women have asked themselves the same question?  I did, but I wasn't a woman then, at least in the eyes of the state.


I have a class in a few minutes.  It's funny:  Students came to see me right before my office hour, when I was sitting through a presentation by a candidate for another job in the department.  It actually was a very interesting presentation; I just wish I weren't so tired or felt the tugging at my sleeve I always feel when I'm campus, even when no-one is within fifteen feet of me.  But during my office hour, I was reliving, not any of the experiences I've described so far, but Waiting for Godot.  I haven't thought about that play in a while.  Here's something I never thought about until now:  There are no female characters in that play.  I'm sure that some critic or someone else has cited that as proof of the play's homoeroticism. 


Maybe I should read it again.  Maybe I should read everything I've ever read again.  I know some things will seem very different to me from the way I saw them the first time I read them. 


Anyway...Time for class.  The next time I write in this blog, I might be a little woozy.   Will that make a difference? 

A Little Repression Is Good--For Whom?

It rained heavily when I left for work this morning.  That didn't delay me, but it seemed to be the reason some of my students were late for class.  However, I get the feeling it's not the only reason.  Some of them just want the semester to end; they seem to have wanted it since about the second or third day of the semester.  Others are fed up with one thing and another, inside and outside the college.   As for others, I'd bet there are plenty of stories to go around.

The first class I taught today was a course that everyone has to take in his or her junior or senior year.  It's devoted to research writing, and, frankly, I wonder how much good it actually does the students.  Certainly, most of the students need all of the help I or any other instructor can provide for their writing.  However, some students wait until their last semester to take it; others take it after taking all of the other required courses that demand significant amounts of writing.  

In a way, I can't really blame them.  After all, some of them get practically no guidance, either inside or outside the college.  Others have learned, by osmosis, to be utterly passive about their education.  They take classes because they're told they have to; they have no idea of how different bodies of knowledge are connected and why it's really a good idea to learn A before trying to understand B.    I can't really fault them for that:  All most of them have ever learned is to do what they're told, as they're told.  And that's exactly what, if anything, they learn at the college.  It's an utterly authoritarian atmosphere:  Some will mutter, to themselves or each other, about the way they're treated. But they have no idea of who to talk to or what to say about their problems. Paradoxically enough, that  is the reason why some of them react as they do when they think they've been graded unfairly:  They'll complain, but not challenge, me or other profs.


Anyway...I was talking with one student about her research paper.   In the course of our discussion, she told me that she works in a day care center and is a single mother, as her mother was.  Also like her mother, she doesn't know for certain who her father is, although, she says, she believes that he is the man who molested her when she was a child.  She says she didn't talk about it until just a year ago, about seven or eight years after it happened.  


My tears ducts filled like water balloons;  I could just barely keep from spilling them over.  I think she noticed.   I think she also noticed that she was probably even closer to tears than I was.  The reason why she was so close to tears is also the reason why she probably knew why I was so close to tears.  


Being in each others' presence may have done us some good; being in that room and that building probably didn't. I was, therefore, tempted to tell her to take her kid and get as far away from her neighborhood, and the college, as soon as she can.  Really, it's just an extension of what she's always known, from the style and layout of the buildings to the police-state atmosphere.   In other words, it's part of what caused her to withhold the story of her molestation:  the expectation of judgment rather than empathy.  Someone would've told her that it happened to her because she didn't do as she was told.


How is anybody supposed to get an education under those conditions?

Fewer Degrees Than I Thought

How many degrees of separation are there?


And, how close can you come with an offhand comment?


Well, today I may have a better idea of what the answers to those questions may be.


Janet, an instructor in the department, and  I were just talking about one thing and another.  I mentioned that I'd gone to the vigil for Amanda Gonzalez-Andujar.  


"Where was it?"


"Ridgewood."


"Really?  Where?"


I mentioned the street where Amanda lived, and died.  Janet's eyes widened.  "How do you know the neighborhood so well?"


"I wrote for the Ridgewood Times,"  I said, "which, of course became the Times-Newsweekly.'


Her eyes widened.  "Then you knew Michael Rosario."  


I thought for a moment.  "Yes.  He was the circulation manager."

 "And soon he's going to be my ex-husband."


She then recited all of the names that would have been on the newspaper's masthead at the time my byline was appearing in it.  I recalled most of them.  "Practically all of them were at our wedding," she recalled.


"Wow."


"Now I understand something."


"What's that?"


"Well, when I found out your name, I thought it was familiar.  Now I know why:  I saw it on your articles."


"Yes, you would have."


"And now I know why i thought your name was Nicholas before you changed."


"That's because it was.  My byline usually read "Nick Valinotti."

 Now I have to wonder:  Of the people who know me now, how many knew me then?  I wonder now whether Janet knew Nick, even a little bit--and whether he or I knew her then.  

A Post-Mortem for Amanda--and Gwen and Yusuf

I'm still thinking about Amanda Gonzalez-Andujar, and the vigil I attended for her.


You might say I'm feeling a bit of survivor's guilt right now.  I never met her, but I couldn't help but to sense that she was actually as beautiful a person as her friends said she was.  I say that because, in spite of her violent death, everything about that vigil--from the way people spoke of her to the makeshift memorial by her apartment--radiated serenity that, because it was the reflection of a soul truly at rest, left us with more than grief.


Why was she killed so horribly, and at such a young age?   I guess I could answer that question as a Buddhist would and say that whatever she had to learn in this life, she learned, and it was time for her to pass on to another life.  But why was her exit such a house of horrors?  


Of course, it's terrible when anyone is murdered.  But it's been a long time since I've been so affected by the killing of someone I never met.  Probably the last time I felt as I do now was after I heard about the murder of Gwen Araujo.  And, before hers, there was the death of Yusuf Hawkins.


I actually met Yusuf's grandfather once, briefly.  There really wasn't anything I could say to him.   He probably heard "sorry" more times than anyone should.  And what good did it do him, his family--or Yusuf?  If I recall correctly, I offered to help him and his family in whatever way I could, even though I could not envision what that way might be, if there was one.


He died much younger than anyone should.  So did Gwen and Amanda.  Had they lived, Yusuf would be a man coming into the prime of his life, Gwen might be in the early stages of the career to which she aspired--that of a makeup artist.  And Amanda was probably just beginning to live the life she'd envisioned for herself; the beauty that all of those people saw in her probably had to do, in some way,  with her acceptance of them which, of course, was a result of her acceptance of herself.  Few people realize just how powerful that actually is; I would love to see what kind of a life she (or someone) could have had after developing a sense of his or her own self based on that willingness to be who one is.   I've come to it much later in life than she did; therefore, I will most likely never accomplish some of the things she might have been able to do had she lived.   The same could probably have been said for Gwen and for Yusuf.  Still, I can't help but to feel that I have at least one opportunity that they never had.   I have no idea as to why I was given this chance at the life I'd always dreamt about, but here I am.  

From Protest To Empathy: St. Vincent's Hospital and Amanda Gonzalez-Andujar

Today I participated in the rally for St.Vincent's Hospital and the vigil for Amanda Gonzalez-Andujar.  As I expected, they presented a study in contrasts, though to an even greater degree than I expected.


By the time I arrived at 25th Street and Ninth Avenue, the march to St.Vincent's was already underway. So I walked along windswept yet sun-drenched Chelsea and West Village Streets to the hospital, where about a hundred people gathered around a podium where various community activists and politicians spoke.  I could immediately feel the tense anger that grew more intense when Tom Duane, the chair of the New York State Senate Health Committee, took the microphone.


Duane, at times barely audible even though he used a microphone, said what others had already said:  that the people were angry and that the hospital's closure is an injustice that will lead to deaths and other tragedies and disasters.  Probably anyone chosen at random from the crowd could have said exactly the same things, verbatim.  Chants of "What are you going to do?" filled the air.  One mustachioed man very loudly reminded him that he's up for re-election in November.  That man, I'd guess, voted for him not only in the most recent State Senate election, but in earlier contests, including the one that made Duane one of the first two openly gay candidates (Antonio Pagan was the other.) to be elected to the New York City Council.   I would guess that a lot of other people in that crowd voted for Duane every time he ran for office.  Now they, like that man, were feeling some combination of disappointment and betrayal.


I recalled the time I met Duane in Albany.  That was about seven years ago, during the time I was going to my job as Nick but socializing--and working as an advocate and volunteer--as Justine. Only a few weeks before that, the Sexual Orientation Non-Discrimination Act (SONDA), which Duane sponsored, became law--about thirty years after it was first proposed.  Some of us were disappointed and even upset because there was no language to protect transgenders or others whose gender identity and expression do not fit into societal expectations.  We thought that perhaps SONDA would at least open the door a crack so that a more inclusive law could pass.  However, meeting him made me less hopeful that would happen.  Though I never met him before that day, I had the sense that the fight for SONDA took a lot out of him; today I had the sense that he still has not recovered from it.   And his sense of fatigue seemed to fuel the anger and hostility of the crowd.


On the other hand, if anyone at the vigil for Amanda Gonzalez-Andujar was there to express rage, I didn't notice.  It seemed that the atmosphere was the inverse of that of the St. Vincent's rally:  There was a profound sense of grief, even among those of us who had never met Amanda, that unexpectedly (at least to me) found expression as empathy.  Even if I weren't a trans woman, I would have been able, in some way, to identify with others who attended.  Many of them knew her and were lamenting the loss of a "dear friend" and "beautiful soul." Nearly all of us has lost someone dear to us; a few of those deaths were horrific, as Amanda's was.  


Now I am thinking of all of those times someone has endured a particularly violent, tragic, painful or simply protracted process of dying, and after that person died, someone said, "She's in a better place now."  I certainly hope that's true for Amanda.  Now I'm realizing why such a wish might seem banal to some people, and why some might deem me a simpleton or worse for echoing it:  That vigil, whatever anyone may want to say about it, was probably a better "place" than any she had experienced in this life.   


Perhaps her spirit was guiding us. The proceedings were free of rancor and hostility.  Those of us who had never met her could feel a connection to her, and even the cops who were there seemed, if not benevolent, at least less like the ones who aid and abet the harassment and violence that too many of us experience. In fact, someone even praised their work, even though the cops we saw weren't directly involved with the capture of the man who is charged with killing her.  Elizabeth Maria Rivera, who organized the vigil, said that she was orignally going to hold a protest on the steps of the local (104th) precinct house.  But, upon learning that the man charged with murdering Amanda had been captured and returned to New York, she changed plans.   She and I exchanged e-mail addresses and phone numbers; I did the same with a few other people there.  Perhaps I will meet her, and some of the others, again some day.

Another Fine Spring Day

Just did some cleaning up and I'm feeling sleepy again.  And Charlie and Max are curled up by my sides.


I pedalled the Raleigh three-speed into Union Square and Soho today.  In the former neighborhood is my gastrointestinologist's office; in the latter, Bruce works and he and I had lunch.  From the doctor, I had to pick up a copy of a prescription  and instructions I lost.   With Bruce, I found that the take-out places had even longer wait times than some exclusive restaurants, and that almost every outdoor space in which one could conceivably sit and eat was occupied.  So we went into a rather cozy and cute Japanese restaurant with food that is definitely mediocre.   At least he seems to have gotten over the bout of the flu he had last week.


It really was a bright spring day.  Lots of people were out, walking, shopping and such.  And, it seemed that everywhere I turned, someone was looking at me as I pedalled my bike.  Both men and women smiled approvingly and, somewhere in Midtown, construction workers' heads followed my movement down the streets.  A woman who was working in an office next to the internist's said that I looked "very stylish and chic," like a woman cycling the streets of Paris or Milan.  I was wearing a long navy cardigan over a periwinkle-lavender scoop-neck top, a silky scarf in a print of blues and purples that draped down from either side of my neck to just above my navel, where I tied the two ends together.  And I wore a navy skirt with a leaf collage print in various shades of blue, from almost green to almost purple, that fell to just above my ankles when I stood up. Actually, I was feeling rather stylish, even if I have a bunch of weight to lose.  At least I'm starting to feel better on the bike.


I'd thought about doing the Five Boro Bike Tour as a "celebration" or "coming out" ride:  It would be my first long group (with a very big group) ride since my surgery.  But I've pretty much decided against it:  That ride is only two weeks away and, while I could probably do it (as it's a slow-paced ride with a lot of stops), I'm not so sure I'm ready to ride in a crowd.  Also, I don't want  to take any chances with my newborn organs.  They're probably ready for such a ride, but I don't want to take any risk, however slight, of injuring or damaging them.


There are other rides to come, and I'll be ready for them.

Rally for St. Vincent's, Vigil for Amanda. Where Do You Stand?

Is this when I turn into an activist?


What's a girl to do?


On Saturday at 1: 00 pm, there will be a rally for St. Vincent's Hospial.    Then, at four, there will be a vigil for Amanda Gonzalez-Andujar, who was murdered in Ridgewood, Queens.


If you're anywhere near either, I'm urging you to join in.  The rally will be held at 25th Street and 9th Avenue in Manhattan and everyone will proceed to the hospital.  The vigil will assemble in front of the apartment building where she lived, which is near the Fresh Pond Road station of the M line.


On 14 April, Rasheen Everett was arrested in Las Vegas and returned to New York, where he's been charged with killing her.  When the story of Amanda's murder first broke, a lot of people assumed that it was a date gone bad:  He thought he was meeting a "real" woman but found out she was a pre-op tranny.  The police say that it wasn't the case; it was, they believe, a dispute over money.  Perhaps that is the case:  After all, according to witnesses, he left her apartment seventeen hours after arriving and took two full bags (the contents of which included her cell phone) with him.  


However, I can't recall the last time a robbery-murder victim was strangled and then stabbed.  I also can't think of a case in which a thief who, after killing his victim, doused the body in bleach.  And when was the last time you heard of someone settling a financial score by destroying the debtor's Marilyn Monroe memorabilia?


Those rhetorical questions asked, I will say that if Rasheen Everett is indeed Amanda's killer, it will distinguish her case:  In 2005, when I was writing an article about the issue for Women's eNews about the mistreatment transgender women incur from police officers, I found out that, according to Interpol, 92 percent of all killings of transgender people are never solved.  Too many of those cases were simply not pursued with the same zeal investigators bring to their probes of other murders--or are simply not investigated at all.  Too many inside and outside the criminal justice and law enforcement professions believe, on some level, what I read in some of the comments I saw on online news  reports of Amanda's death:  She had it coming to her.  


Well, I just happen to believe that there is no way one human being can justify killing another.  (Paul Fussell, who taught a course I took when I was at Rutgers, voiced exactly that belief.  And he won a Purple Heart for wounds he suffered while fighting in France during World War II.)   But, if you must kill someone, I say do what you need to do to get the job done, and no more.  Why does someone have to strangle someone, then stab her?  Or--as in another case I've read about--beat the person to death, dismember her and leave the body parts in dumpsters? 


A killer does those things only when his or her motive is hate, pure and simple.     A thief who becomes a killer in the course of the crime simply kills; he or she doesn't resort to overkill.  Ditto for someone who murders from just about any other motive, let alone in the heat of the moment.  


I was reminded of just how great the potential is for any sort of hate-motivated violence when I read the comments some people left in response to news accounts of Amanda's murder.  (Thankfully, I didn't receive any such comments on this blog.)  The milder ones said she "had it coming to her."  Others contained the sort of jokes that adolescent boys in middle-aged men's bodies make.  And a few others said that, in essence, we deserve to be killed, or whatever other violence or cruelty we experience.


What's interesting--and even more chilling--is that none of the comments had any of the warped religiosity that ostensibly motivates so much anti-gay and -lesbian bigotry and violence.  None of them contained any "God Hates Fags"-type comments; they were all expressions of personal rage or echoes of someone else's hatred.  


One thing that has surprised me (and given me a sort of hope) is that none of the animus or pure and simple meanness to which I've been subjected has come from religious people.   In fact, I have been treated with respect, and even kindness, by people who have strong  religious beliefs.  Millie is active with her church; my mother attends Mass every Sunday and holiday and says she prays that I'll be safe and well.  My cousin says he doesn't "agree" with what I've done because of his religious beliefs, but he wants to be a friend to me--and, of course, I've taken him up on the offer.  And Bruce, who's been a friend for more than twenty-five years, is committed to his Zen practice.


I've also met other people who echo, in one way or another, what my cousin has said.  One woman who is about a decade or so older than I am (or so I would guess) and was a student at LaGuardia Community College when I taught there said, "My religion says that what you're doing is wrong.  But it also says God loves everyone.  And you're a really good person."  


I never thought I'd hear myself say, "Thank God for religion."  But I've found that at least some religious people are willing to entertain the possibility that I am not out to "convert" them, corrupt their children or destroy God's creation.  (Truth be told, doing those things is too much work!)  Or, they simply believe that if God made me as I am and put me on this Earth, He must have had a reason.


On the other hand, I've found that people who simply hate aren't reachable through human interaction or reason.   At least, I haven't found a way to change their minds.  Some of those people, like the ones who left the comments I saw, are "yahoos" or simply cases of arrested development.  But others--and these are the ones that disturb, scare and anger me most of all--are so-called educated people who profess to wanting a more egalitarian world as long as they don't have to deal with it personally.  Perhaps they see me as a threat, for whatever reasons, to whatever position they hold, or perceive themselves as holding, in the world in which live--or simply to whatever image they have of themselves.  In fact, one former longtime friend said, "I know the problem is with me.  But I just can't have you in my life."


In previous posts, I've said that sometimes I feel that other people have changed even more than I have, and that I see more change coming.  Somehow I expect that I'll see examples of one or both if I go to the rally and the vigil. But that, of course, is not the reason I would participate in either one.