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Today was one of those drop-dead gorgeous days when I wanted to be on my bike. Tomorrow I go to the gynecologist again. Please, Dr. Ronica, say yes. Tell me it's OK to get back on the bike.
And what was I doing today? Giving an exam, grading more papers...You get the idea. Just like yesterday, except that today had sunshine and warm weather that I couldn't enjoy.
Yesterday it was chilly and rainy until the evening. Then, a warm breeze swept through the darkened sky and seemed to break up the clouds. I purposely got off the subway a stop earlier than I usually do just so I could walk a bit more.
Tonight I was talking to another prof who's been teaching about as long as I've been. We concurred that this indeed has been a stressful semester. "Usually, I feel burnt out during the last week or two of the semester. But this time, I felt that way about five weeks before it ended." The difference between me and him, I said, is that I think I started to feel spent, used up or whatever you want to call it even earlier than that. I realize now that we came to drag ourselves through significant parts of this semester for essentially the same reasons: our workload and class sizes increased, we're getting older and the atmosphere in the college and department is not a happy one. And I think that the negative energy in there wore on me even more than it did before mainly because I noticed it more. Actually, I didn't notice it so much as I felt as if I no longer had a filter against it, as I seem not to have some of the other filters I used to have. Whether that's a consequence of my operation or anything related to it, I don't know.
"Another day in the salt mines." That is what one prof says every time we are about to begin a workday. He said that today, too, even though most of us didn't have classes. We have been meeting with students, a few of whom begged us to accept assignments that were due weeks or even months ago. In between, we're reading and grading said assignments and doing various end-of-semester paperwork.
I feel fat, ugly and tired. Well, how does that saying go? "Misery loves company." Others here at the college would probably say the feel one, all or some combination of those things.
At this point of every semester, I think of what it must have been like to be in one of Hitler's bunkers. We're in a very institutional setting in a post-industrial landscape. That's a fancy way of saying the college is in a blue-collar neighborhood without the jobs. This part of Queens has the highest foreclosure rate in the city, and, according to one report, the greatest concentration of foreclosures outside of Florida, Arizona or Las Vegas. Maybe it's not quite as grim as, say, Elkhart, Indiana, or what the media would have us believe about it. I've never been there, so I wouldn't know for sure how it really is.
When I was checking my e-mail (Students have been sending me assignments that way.), I saw a link for a listing of faculty openings at a place called Georgia Highlands College. It's in a town called Rome and has satellites in other nearby towns. Now, I know about as much about that area as I do about Indiana. I couldn't tell you where in Georgia Rome is. I've been in the state of Georgia only once since I was about six months old. Dad was stationed in Albany, in the southwestern part of the state, with the Air Force, and as a consequence, I was born there. Halfway through my first year of life, or thereabouts, they returned to Brooklyn. And, of course, I went with them.
So, let's see: If we'd remained there, and I had been born with two X chromosomes, I could be a Southern Belle. How would my life have been different? Somehow I get the feeling I would've been very, very bored. Then again, I might've been one of those Southern country girls. If I became an educator of any sort, I probably would've been an elementary school teacher. And, if I wrote, would I have been like Eudora Welty? Carson McCullers? Or, perhaps, I'd've had a bunch of kids, and the males would've played football.
I wonder what it would be like to move to Georgia. No one who doesn't work for the Office of Vital Records would know that I'd been born there unless I mentioned it. So I'd be "going stealth" in more ways than one!
If I could get to do some more cycling, and writing, it just might be worthwhile. A Southern Belle Biker Chick? Hmm....
It's the time in the semester when students who haven't done their work all semester try to do it all. And, most of the time, what they submit is predictably bad. Thankfully, only a few students have tried that this semester. However, I'm not looking forward to having to deal with them when they learn of their grades.
After work, I went to my appointment with Dr. Noah Klein, my opthamologist. I've been going to him for six years: When we were reviewing some of my records, he mentioned it. The funny thing is that he actually seems younger to me now. He doesn't look any different from the way he looked back then, and his demeanor hasn't changed. And I don't mean that he's less mature or more boyish. I guess he seems younger simply because he seems not to have aged and time has passed. And, I'm told, I've changed. I remain skeptical about that. Then again, I'm skeptical about lots of things people take for granted. If I were a scientist, I'd probably be skeptical about the law of gravity until I tested it for myself.
Back to Dr. Klein: I've always liked him. I am probably the first (and, for all I know, I'm still the only) transgender patient he has ever had. I remember my first visit with him, when he asked whether I was taking any medications. First I mentioned Premarin. He knew about that, probably because many of his female patients are in or past menopause. He probably assumed that I was, too. But then I mentioned that, at the time, I was taking Spironolactone. I no longer take it, as it's an anti-androgen and my body no longer has the capacity for producing male hormones. They probably didn't mention it when he was in ophthalmology school, so I had to explain what it is and why I was taking it. He treated it as simply another relevant piece of information: Neither the Premarin nor the Spironolactone was likely to have any effect on anything for which he might examine or treat me, but it was important for him to know nonetheless.
From that moment on, I knew I could at least trust him professionally. At that time, it was especially important to me, as I had been living as Justine for less than a year and he was really the first medical-service provider I went to who wasn't part Callen-Lorde. From then on, I have never been anything but a female patient of a certain age. And, back in November, when I saw him for the first time since my surgery, I mentioned that I'd had it simply because it's part of my medical history. He congratulated me but, as with the other things I've disclosed about myself, he treated it as simply another fact about a patient.
I never expected him to be as warm and embracing of who I am as, say, Dr. Jennifer or Marci Bowers have been. He has a Magden David and a bas-relief of the Magillah on his door, and every Friday his office closes an hour before sundown. But, he always has been very respectful: That, I've found, is how Orthodox Jews are toward educators of just about any sort. What that means is, among other things, that he's not condescending, even when I ask questions that are sub-elementary. And, if he's reserved, it's in the way of a shy kid who's grown up rather than someone who's standoffish.
It's easy to imagine one of my students growing up to be like him. That student is in the first class I taught today--and this semester. He and an Orthodox friend sit together. The friend is talkative and rather outgoing; the student in question is shy and rather awkward socially. But he, like his friend, is very smart and is genuinely interested in learning.
Even if he doesn't become an ophthalmologist, or any other kind of doctor, he can look forward to seeing them twice a year, as I do now. I told him that when I mentioned that I was leaving work to go to my appointments. Unlike most young people (including me at his age), he actually seems to understand that. What's more, he doesn't seem to mind.
Another gorgeous spring day when I couldn't ride and all I could do was read a bunch of papers. So what's a girl to do?
Well, between papers, I did some saddle shopping. It's scary to have to start over again, trying a whole bunch of different saddles. Well, I hope I don't have to do that. I'm looking at the ones with the cutouts: what are sometimes called the "donut" saddles. They're what Dr. Ronica recommends. I want something that fits, but I don't want hideous graphics, either. That was one nice thing about the Brooks saddles: They always looked good.
It seemed like everyone in New York was riding bikes today. Everyone except me, that is.
I took some time off (for good behavior?) to run an errand. I sold two of my Brooks saddles on eBay and I promised the guys who bought them that I'd ship them tomorrow. This semester, I've had some time late Monday afternoons when there weren't department or college meetings. But then I remembered that tomorrow I have an appointment with the ophthalmologist after work. So, I decided to go to the main post office in Manhattan to mail those saddles.
That post office is the only one I know of that's open on Sundays. Besides, it's a beautiful building, and it's right across Eighth Avenue from Penn Station and Madison Square Garden. All you have to do is walk in any direction from it to find something to amuse, annoy, shock, entertain or endanger you.
So I strolled down Eighth Avenue toward, then past, the Fashion Institute of Technology. I taught there one semester--a geological age ago, it seems. While there, I dated another part-time faculty member who was divorced and about a decade older than me. Back in those days, I was the "before" photo: a triangular torso and a shock of a beard along my jawline and chin. I really fit in!
Anyway, one day, she and I went to an exhibit that was held at FIT. I forget what, exactly, the theme was, but I recall seeing dresses from 200 years ago or thereabouts in France and England. I pointed to one. "That one's beautiful," I exclaimed. Catching myself, I intoned, "I'd be interested to know how they made it."
"No," Lea said. "You want to wear it."
That was the only time that my gender identity ever figured, in any way, into any of our conversations. But, it seemed that it was rearing its head any time I entered or left the campus. You see, it's near the end of Chelsea. Because I was in such good shape in those days, I had at least one man approach me for sex any time I walked that stretch of Eighth Avenue.
And, when I first started to venture out "as" Justine, some guy would hit on me. Some of those men took me for a drag queen, if not a very glamorous one. (Wearing lots of glitter never appealed to me.) I don't think they were the sorts of guys who liked transsexual women: It's been my experience that such men usually aren't gay. The guys who were hitting on me in those days thought I was one of them. I might've spent the night with one or two of them, but in those days I wouldn't simply because I didn't want to see myself as anything but a heterosexual male--albeit one who knew that A-line didn't refer to a segment of the New York City transit system.
Today I walked down that way for no particular reason except that it's pleasant on a day like today. (Then again, what isn't?) I practically brushed elbows with dozens of gay men who were coming as I was going, or vice versa, depending on your point of view.
Not one of them paid me any mind--at least not that I noticed. What's really ironic, though, is that it didn't upset me. At other times, I fret when I think I'm not being noticed, at least a little. Lots of us go through that when we know we're aging and we don't look the way we once did. Then again, I don't have a memory of myself as young and pretty. I wasn't really good-looking as a man; whatever attractiveness I had came from my physical conditioning.
So...I walked down eight city blocks and not one man paid attention to me. Funny, how that, in other circumstances, could be a source of sadness for me or other women. Or it could cause us to feel relieved, especially if the streets were in a rougher neighborhood or the guys were drunk. But today I experienced what may be the ultimate irony: I walked by hundreds of men, and they walked by me without giving me a second glance, or even noticing me in the first place---and I took it as an affirmation of my womanhood. Who'd've guessed that I could go to Chelsea to be sexually anonymous?!
I really must have been paying for some past misdeed or another. It's been an utterly gorgeous spring day and I can't ride my bike. Worse yet, I've had to spend most of this day reading papers, and tomorrow it looks like I will do the same.
Eventually, I won't have to grade any more papers. Eventually, I'll get back on my bike--or so I hope. Dr. Jennifer is on a leave of absence, so I saw another gynecologist, Dr. Ronica. She says to stay off the bike for now, but won't tell me when I can get back on. Hopefully, I'll do that when my infection heals and, hopefully, it will heal soon.
She is something of a cyclist herself: She told me she has two bikes and rides every chance she gets. So, I take her seriously when she says she has seen other cyclists who developed a tear and an infection, as I have. And I'm listening to another of her recommendations, even though it goes against one of my cardinal beliefs (at least, as pertains to cycling): that I get one of those saddles that has a hole in the middle--and a softer nose than the ones I've been riding. So, it looks like that means bye-bye Brooks and hello...Specialized? Terry?
Oh well. I used to think that real men rode unpadded leather saddles. Now I don't have to worry about being a real man--especially now that I know that nothing in this world takes more balls than being a woman. And that's one of the reasons why I wouldn't trade it for anything--not even to ride a leather saddle with copper rivets again!
Then again, if I never much cared for leather with studs on it, why should I be so focused on a saddle with rivets?
Once those papers are all done, the students have their grades and I'm back on my bike, I can think about other things. Well, I'm thinking about other things, anyway. That's pretty much what I've tried to do for the past few months. Actually, I haven't tried; it's what I have done. I never knew that would be a consequence of my surgery, or my transition.
Given what a workload I've had this semester, I think my students have done pretty well. Some would say it's because I've done pretty well. Maybe that's true, at least to some extent. I guess I can say I've been a pretty good instructor, at least given the circumstances under which I've worked. It'll seem better once I start cycling to work again, I'm sure. I just hope that day comes soon, and that I don't have to miss riding on another day like today.
There's no furlough...at least for now. A judge issued a restraining order against it, and there will be a hearing on the 26th.
So it was business as usual at the college. Some classes met for the last time yesterday; others will meet for the last time on Monday or Tuesday. Then the final exams begin. This is the time of year when students you haven't seen in weeks come out of the woodwork and the stories grow longer by the second. Maybe it seems that way because I got so little sleep last night.
Yesterday there was a brunch for the English majors and minors who are graduating. In a way, it was bittersweet: I'm happy for them because they're graduating, but I'm also a bit sad the see them go. One young woman, who was presenting the research she did as her honors project, was a student of mine during her--and my--first semester at the college. Another student, in talking about the work she did, said that all she would miss about the college are the department and her professors.
Then there was Joan, a Haitian woman who did some fine research on the poetry of Leopold Senghor. She took the hip-hop course I taught last year. Last semester, I saw her in the hallway one afternoon, looking exasperated. "You look upset," I said.
"That man is driving me crazy!"
"Typical guy. What's his problem?"
"I can't figure him out."
"Well, you know, guys are simple." (Who would know better, right?)
"Not him"
"Oh, dear."
"So tell me about him."
The man to whom she was referring was William Butler Yeats. At the end of our conversation, she exclaimed, "I've got to have a talk with that man."
She's been accepted into a master's-Ph.D. program. I have mixed feelings about that. She may well have a successful career as an academic. She has the commitment to scholarship and the intelligence she'll need. I just hope the experience doesn't destroy her love of literature, as it does to so many other graduate students. That's one of the things that made the course I took last year such a dreadful experience: None of those students seemed to have any love of literature. Most of the young professors I've seen don't have it, either. In fact, I daresay that some of them, and my fellow students in that class, hate it.
I really wouldn't want to see Joan lose her passion for poetry and other kinds of expressive language. I also wouldn't want her to become the petty, vindictive kind of person too many academicians are. You could see some of those kinds of people on display at the brunch. Predictably, they are parts of cliques, and will remain in them as long as those little, watered-down fraternities and sororities suit their purposes.
And, I am reluctant to encourage any student, no matter how intelligent or talented, to pursue graduate studies in literature because the job market is so dismal. Even during the so-called "good times," there have been hundreds or even thousands of applicants for every new position in any English or literature department. I said as much to Jonathan, who's a bit socially awkward but who is, at least, achieving what he is on his intelligence and talent rather than on subterfuge. He is quickly becoming one of the exceptions.
Another example of the petty politics that runs the department and college was evident at the beginning of the brunch. At the department meeting the other day, a new chair was voted in. She defeated the incumbent chair, who was supposed to host the brunch. She had a "commitment" develop at the last minute, so the deputy chair stepped in.
It was a good time and place to be a student. I hung out with them after the presentations and speeches. They, and the food--fried chicken and corn on the cob, along with some sides that I skipped--were the best reasons to be at that brunch.
Last night, I fell asleep sitting up. When I woke up, I decided to go to bed, even though I still had work to do. I also decided not to set my alarm clock: I was going to let my body get whatever sleep it needed, everything else be damned.
I still made it to work on time. And my work doesn't seem to have been any the worse for it. Anything I've done today is more useful and interesting than the meetings I had to endure yesterday and today.
Probably the most useful thing I've learned in the past two days is that my pay is about to decrease by one-fifth. I am one of the people who's being held hostage because the State didn't pass its budget. So I won't be paid for one day every week until the budget is passed.
Thousands of other people are in the same boat as I am. None of us is the captain; in fact, none of us has access to the navigation system. But we're being penalized for the course the boat is taking.
In the meantime, the Governor has increased the salaries of his staff. And I wonder whether he or any of the State legislators is being furloughed, as we are.
And, of course, we at the college are being furloughed just as we--at least some of us--are working even more hours than most corporate executives. Many people see only the number of hours we spend in the classroom. But for every hour each of us spends in the classroom, we spend a lot more on preparation, reading and grading papers and other work related to our teaching. That's not to mention the amount of time we have to give in service to our departments and the college. And, oh, did I mention that we're expected to do writing and research?
Now all of my family and friends know why they have such difficulty contacting me sometimes. When I'm done with all of that other stuff, then I cavort with my secret lovers. ;-)
Well, I guess I'm really a woman now. After all, we make 79 cents to every dollar a man makes. So, I guess I should give up another 1 percent of my pay. To whom or what is another story. Then again, even if I did that, I'm not going to convince anyone who isn't already convinced that I'm a woman. There are a few--including a onetime friend and the prof who made false accusations against me--who will never be convinced until I menstruate and have at least one baby or abortion. The funny thing is that there are other women in my life who are convinced that the fact I haven't had those experiences actually makes me as much of a woman as they are. Of course, I know there are plenty of women who have never had or aborted babies. And, most women my age have stopped menstruating. Does that make them less womanly?
I must say, though, David Patterson has truly accomplished something. I mean, how often do liberal Democratic African-American public officials get transgendered college English faculty members pissed off at them? Granted, my politics are not always what some people would expect from someone like me. (As if they've ever known anyone else like me!) But, still....
Anyway, I'm going to end this. I have another gyno appointment and work to do after that. Oh, yeah, and I have to render services unto those secret lovers!
Yesterday and today felt more autumnal than spring-like. This is amazing, when you consider that we had summery weather only a week ago. It's supposed to be chilly--at least for this time of year--for the rest of the week.
I'm tired, again. After my classes, I had two long meetings and then students wanted help with one thing and another. And I would have spent even longer than I did at work--As it was, I was there for nearly another five hours after my obligations for the day ended!--had I not simply decided that I needed to leave. For that, it looks like I'm going to be subjected to a furlough. So I'm supposed to take a unilateral 20 percent pay cut for doing the same work. And my bills won't decrease by 20 percent.
On top of that, I found out why I haven't heard from Janine and Marie-Jeanne for a long time. They are two friends of mine in Paris. When they came to New York in the summer of 2003, they, our friend Diana and I took a lunch and shopping trip to Brighton Beach. It was my first "girls' day out" and, as Diana said tonight, none of them knew what to expect: I had "come out" to them over the phone and by e-mail, but they had only seen me as Nick, not as Justine. Diana, recalling that day, said, "I said to myself, 'I hope she's pretty.' Then, when I heard you were having your surgery, I said, 'I hope she doesn't become prettier than me."
"Don't worry. You're safe," I deadpanned.
"I'm not so sure about that."
"Well, I'll never be upset with you for being better-looking than I am. You're a wonderful person." I could almost see her blush over the phone.
That banter was just an interlude in a litany of bad news. Janine's has gotten much worse since the last time I talked to her or Diana. Janine had a tumor which grew malignant. Then she had a stroke back in the fall. She had to move from her apartment to a hospital to a nursing home. Of course, she's angry: She is one of the most independent and creative people I've ever known. Now she can't even go outside by herself and can't always remember people.
"It must be so hard on her," I said.
Diana agreed. "But," she added, " it's really hard on her sister and the people around her. It's hard to see her that way."
"It hurts just to think of her that way," I lamented. "Whenver I saw her, I felt as if I were in the presence of life itself."
"All we can do is hope. But things don't look good."
Still, we hope. Maybe, just maybe, we tell ourselves.
As a trans woman, I know all of the secrets of human life. Well, I'm supposed to. Or, at any rate, some people think I do and I don't do anything to disabuse them of that notion. That's why my female friends and students (and even some female strangers!) talk to me about their guy problems, and males in my life talk to me about their girl problems. Then again, if I really knew all the secrets, girls would talk to me about their girl problems and guys about their guy problems, right?
Well, whatever else may be true, I can say that I know a thing or to about how one gender can, should or does relate to the other. So, if any of you guys read this, I'm going to tell you the secret way to a woman's heart.
It isn't what you think it is. Sure, we love flowers and chocolates. And we like candlelit dinners and such. And we--most of us, anyway (I include myself.) like lingerie--but not when you guys give it to us. You see, when one of you guys gives one of us lingerie, it's no more a gift for any of us than a kitchen appliance is for your mother. Then again, if a guy gave me lingerie, it might not be a gift for me but, given my physical condition, but it wouldn't be completely for his own pleasure, either.
All right...So what's the secret way to a woman's heart? It's this: Say something nice to us. Say it without any strings attached. In other words, don't tell us how nice we look because you need a favor of whatever kind. And don't tell us that you love us when you're envisioning us in the missionary position.
Just say something nice to us, for its own sake. Better yet, say it to some woman who's a stranger you'll probably never see again. If she seems to be a bit older than you, wish her a Happy Mother's Day.
Two men who live in my neighborhood did that for me today. Not surprisingly, at least to me, they're both Latino. It seems that any time a man offers me his seat on the bus or subway, he's Latino. So was the first man to wish me a happy Mother's Day. That was five years ago: the second Mother's Day in my life as Justine. Then, it was exciting because it was (or seemed to be) an affirmation I so desperately wanted. Now, when a man makes such a wish for me, I appreciate, if nothing else, his good manners and imagine that, perhaps, he has (or had) a warm and respectful relationship with his own mother. At least, I would hope that, for anybody.
But I also feel like I've been given something I didn't earn. After all, barring some major advance in medical technology, I will never be a mother. People have told me I could adopt; a few have even suggested that I should because they think I could be a good mother. I like kids, but I think those people are giving me more credit than I deserve. Plus, if I were to adopt a very young child, I will be very old by the time that kid is ready to go to college or do whatever he or she wants to do after I raise him or her.
Then again, other people have told me--and I still believe, at least somewhat--that it's probably better that I've never had kids. I might not have been able to do some of the things I've done, including my transition and surgery, had I raised kids. That may well be true, but I've met other trans people--including Joy, who had her surgery just after I had mine--who had kids and said they're glad they did. From what she and her spouse say, the kids--who, if I remember correctly, are around 12 and 14--have taken well to her transition. And her spouse--Well, what can you say about spouse who, after her husband became her wife, gleefully intoned, "Well, I'm a card-carrying lesbian now!"
Now there's someone who deserves to have a Happy Mother's Day. So does Marilynne. And Millie. And, of course, my mom. And a rather frail but alert black woman whom I saw in the candystore/newsstand on the corner should have a wonderful holiday, too. She was with a girl who appeared to be about twelve or thirteen and her granddaughter. For no particular reason, I wished her a happy mother's day. That made her--and, interestingly, the girl--happy.
As I was leaving, a young white man walked into that store. He wished her a Happy Mother's Day. I can still see her smiling now.
Guys, take note. Girls, too.
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.
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.'
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.
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.
"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."
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.
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