Etiquette: Will I Ever Get It Right?

Even though I lived as a woman for more than five years before I had my surgery, sometimes I don't think I'll ever understand etiquette--as it applies to either or both sexes.


I still reflexively hold doors and give up my seat when I see a woman who's pregnant, seems older or is simply burdened in some way that I'm not.   And, to me, it makes all the more sense to give my seat to an elderly or pregnant woman on a day as hot as today was.


Granted, the air conditioning was working perfectly on the train I rode to work--though, I must say, it somehow made me even more conscious of just how hot it was today.  And somehow it made me feel even more compelled to give up my seat to a pregnant woman who was standing a few feet away from me.


When I got up and gestured for her to sit, she looked baffled.  Now, I never have been and never will be pregnant, but I would imagine that at a very late stage of the pregnancy--which is where, chronologically, that woman seemed to be--I would probably want any available seat.


Now, I know that, at least in this culture, women aren't expected to offer their seats or hold doors open for other women.  But, I guess that because I was inculcated so deeply and at such an early age with  the expectation that I would offer what seem, to me, to be normal courtesies, I revert to such behavior.  Plus, it just seems like common sense that I could help, in whatever small way, someone who is having  a slightly tougher time than I'm having. 


But if you wanted to see real bewilderment, that came later, on my way to class:  After entering a stairway, I held the door to it open for a young man who'd been walking a few yards behind me from the time we got off the train.  I just don't think it's cool to drop a door in someone's face.  But, I think that young man wasn't accustomed to having a door held open for him by anyone, much less some middle-aged woman!

Birthdays

The other day I mailed a birthday card to Marilynne's daughter.  She and I underwent our surgeries on the same day last year.  

If that day is our birthday, then I'm only about five hours older than she is.  Hmm...That sounds like the makings of some sort of science fiction story.   If any of you want to take the idea and run with it, be my guest:  I seriously doubt that I'll ever write science fiction.  I just don't think it's in me.


Anyway, in one sense, we were both born that day. If that's the case, how long was our gestation period?  Was it the time we had been living as female?  Our entire lives?


But today is what most people--as well as the laws of just about every jurisdiction in this world--would define as my birthday.  It is the date on which I came, a whole bunch of years ago, from my mother's body into this world.  I probably will always celebrate this date as my birthday, partly out of habit and, well, because it's the biggest national holiday of the country in which I was born and have spent most of my life.  It's a bit like being born on Bastille Day in France or Christmas in any country that celebrates it.  


The only times I wasn't in this country on the Fourth,  I was in France.  Three times I was in Paris; the other time I was in a town called Auch in the southwest.  Unless you've been there or know something about French history, you've probably never heard of it.  I ended up there on my birthday ten years ago in the middle of a bicycle tour I took through the Pyrenees.   It's a lovely place, and if you should go there, you should certainly go to la Cathedrale Sainte-Marie.  It may very well have the best acoustics of any place of worship in the world.  It certainly has one of the best organs and choirs.    The singers were rehearsing that day.  I got into a conversation with a sweet-faced alto-soprano who was about twenty years older than I was.   Even before she talked, I could sense her enthusiasm and passion for that cathedral and for her music.  


When she asked where I came from, I said, "Les Etats-Unis."


"Eh...Votre jour d'independence."


"Oui.  Et mon anniversaire."


Her already bright eyes perked up.  "Voulez-vous une chanson speciale?"  With a smile, I nodded, and she and the choir gave a little impromptu concert for an audience of an American cycling solo in France on his birthday and his country's day of independence.


Whatever my birthday is, I believe I have an interesting heritage.  And I feel honored to share at least something with Marilynne's daughter.

Upcoming Anniversaries

One year ago today, I was making my final preparations to go to Trinidad.  I would leave the following day, which was Independence Day--and my birthday.


As I recall, I was making trips to the drugstore and supermarket so I would have at least some of what I needed when I got home.  I didn't expect to be in any physical condition to shop or do other errands; even if I were, I thought, I might not be in the mood.


It's funny how last-minute logistical preparations take on such importance when you're about to embark on a life-changing journey.  If I recall correctly, the narrator of Sophie's Choice--a movie I hated, by the way, in spite of Meryl Streep's presence and the fact that it was based on a very good book--was getting ready to go off and fight in World War II.  He enlisted in the Navy, but he was underweight.  So, he said, he spent the days before he had to return to the recruitment station engaged in eating bananas and masturbating.


Of course, there was a practical reason for eating the bananas.  So it would make sense to recall that.  But why did he recall masturbating?  In the face of a war one is going to fight, that would seem to be one of the most banal detail of all.


Now I remember that the surgery was four days away, and I was making my final preparations to go to it.  And now I am preparing for two birthdays, if you will:  my natal one, and the anniversary of my surgery.  I wonder if I will dread or look forward to subsequent anniversaries of my surgery as I and other people do to our birthdays.  

Cameos

In the past two days, I've experienced two very interesting "cameos," if you will, with two very different people.  Although they have practically nothing in common, the time I spent with was satisfying for much the same reasons.


The other day, I sold a rug I've had rolled up and propped in the corner of my foyer.  I sold it for the same reason I sold another rug I had:  I've kept them stored away because my allergist recommended that I not have any carpets or drapes, as I am allergic to dust mites.  


Well, I tell myself, at least I'm not allergic to my cats or chocolate!


The young woman who bought the rug has been living in Flushing for a few months.  She's from the Mississippi Gulf Coast, but she has lived in Istanbul, California and a couple of other places.   At age seventeen, she left home and now she's twenty-five.  Now she speaks five languages and has done every kind of work from landscaping to tutoring.  And she spent time with Americorps, which is like a domestic version of the Peace Corps.


I tried, for a moment, to imagine her in college--not just the one in which I teach, or any in which I've taught, but any college at all.  I couldn't.  Well, maybe I could have imagined her in college during the late '60's or early '70's, but not just any college.  Even so, the thought of her on a campus taxed my imagination.


Maybe she'll go one day.  If she does, I'm sure she'll know why and what she's doing there.  I never brought up the idea:  It just didn't enter into the conversation, except for once--when she brought it up.  However, a part of me hopes that she doesn't go.


These days, when I talk to almost anyone I encounter from the academic world, I find myself disappointed, if not frustrated or sad.   Maybe I'm getting old and cranky and less tolerant of claptrap.  I'm realizing, I think, how few truly educated people I met among those who have been anointed by some institution or another, or by their peers or themselves, as intellectuals and authorities on something or another.  


You will never see so many insecure and pretentious people as you will among university faculty, or those students who aspire to be one of them.  English departments are the worst of all; next might be sociology or education departments.  In those departments, you find exactly the sorts of people who've spent their entire lives in school so they wouldn't have to actually learn anything--not about the world, or other people--or, most of all, about themselves.


The young woman--Larissa--said, "I simply couldn't imagine going to college at that age.  It never made any sense to me:  A kid who's  been in school all his life is told, 'OK, pick what you want to do for the rest of your life and study it.' What eighteen-year-old knows enough to make that choice?  And who wants his parents or anyone else to decide for him?"


Thank you, Larissa.  I want to say something like that to the parents (or whoever's in charge of) at least half of the freshmen I've ever taught, and a good number of upperclassmen.  I'm against the draft and the military, but sometimes I think they might actually do some new high school graduates more good than going to school, at least for the time being.  Or they might be better off by simply to going and working somewhere, whether in a store or as an apprentice to a carpenter or beautician or whatever.   Maybe the young person will find him or herself in the work.  Then again, he or she might become bored or frustrated. But I think that young person will learn lessons about work and him or her self.  College would then become a much more relevant and interesting experience for those who choose it.


And, really, that's the only way I can see escaping from the worst thing schooling does to young people:  It keeps them in a state of suspended adolescence in which they learn little more than how to obtain more schooling.  If that isn't the antithesis of learning from experience and learning how to think, I don't know what is.  That is because to remain in school, at any level, you have to do what you're told when you're told in the way you're told.  And you get approval--which, as often as not, translates into higher grades--by showing some kind of enthusiasm as you choke off your thought centers.


On the other hand, I don't think there is any way to learn anything save through experience.  You learn by doing; there is no other way.  Larissa has done quite a bit, which is why she understands so much--and, most of all, has confidence in herself.  That's the first thing some teachers and professors would try to destroy.  Have you ever noticed that so many educators talk so condescendingly, not only to their students, but to almost anyone who isn't an educator of some sort.  Education administrators are the worst offenders.  If you're a parent and tried to explain to an assistant principal that you simply can't take time off from work to meet with him or her, you know what I mean.


Larissa has escaped everything I've described.   My cousin has escaped from other things, I think.  He apologizes to me for his "lack" of "education" even though I insist that he has no reason to defer to me.  

We went out to dinner last night.   Back in August, I saw him for the first time since I was ten years old.  He'd heard about my transition and surgery, and the people who weren't talking to me because of them, and offered to be a friend.  He hasn't tried to "study" me or, thankfully, tried to fit me into some gender-studies category.   


I am happy that we've reunited after the decades we've been apart.  And he's been very kind to me.  But last night, I started to believe that he wanted my friendship as much as he wanted to give me his.  I don't mind that at all.  As we talked, he described some rejections he has experienced from people who were related, or simply close, to him.  While he lost those relationships for entirely different reasons than I've lost mine, I do understand, at least somewhat, how he feels about them.  So, while he may not need me (which is also fine), I realized that, perhaps, he felt that I have something to offer him besides our familial (if peripherally so) relationship.


And, as with Larissa, it's nice to have a conversation with him because I can sense real efforts at, rather than mere gestures of, thought and feeling.  It's really nice not to listen to received opinions conveyed through rehearsed lines--or simply to feel smugness practically  oozing out of someone who's never met the kinds of people he or she is talking about.  


Oh well.  Two nice encounters in two days.  I am fortunate indeed.

Hair and Tatoos

Today I rode the LeTour to work for the first time.   I was running a bit late--or, at least, I left my place a bit later than I'd planned--and forgot to bring my camera with me.  So I have no photos of myself or the bike or the commute.  But I'll tell you a bit about it.

First, fashion:  I feel as if I cheated a bit here.  I didn't ride in a skirt and heels.  Rather, I wore a sundress and my Keen sandals.  In a tote bag I stashed in my rear basket, I carried a short cardigan from a dusty blue twinset.   When I got to work, I slipped it over my dress, which was black with a hibiscus flower print in varying shades of blue.  One of those shades matched the sweater from the twinset, more or less.  And I also brought a pair of somewhat dressy black wedge sandals.  

I was glad to be wearing the sundress, as it was hot (though not as humid as yesterday).  And, of course, the Keen sandals were very comfortable.  

I didn't have any wardrobe malfunctions.  But the bike had a bit of a mishap.  Actually, it wasn't the bike itself; it was the rear rack.  The bolts that fasten the body of the rack to the arms that connect it to the seat stays fell out.  That caused my rack to flip backward and land on my fender.

Fortunately for me, I had just passed a hardware store, where I bought a package of screws and nuts, some lock washers and blue Loctite.  I've stopped there a few times before, as it's along one of my routes to and from work and other places.  Sometimes the guy behind the counter is an oldish Russian Jew who looks the way Alexander Solzhenitsyn (sp?) might have had he shaved.  But today I got this guy who is covered with tatoos and whose yellowing white hair  is longer than mine and beard is longer than mine ever was.  It's really odd to find him in that shop because it's at the corner of Metropolitan and 71st Avenues in Forest Hills, which is possibly the most resolutely bourgeois part of the city.  But he knows his stuff and is very helpful, which is one reason why his shop stays in business.

At one time in my youth, my hair was almost as long as that of the man in the hardware store.  And my beard, while not as long as his, was thick around my jaws and chin.   With all of the anger I felt in those days, I didn't need tatoos (which I've never gotten and probably never will get) or studded jacket to help me project an aura that said, "Stay the ---- away from me!"  I was like a cross between Charles Bronson and a hippie without the charm of either.

One hot day, I was riding my bike to my parents' house.  At the time, I was living in the town where I attended college (New Brunswick, NJ) and my parents were living on the Jersey Shore.  It was a thirty to thirty-five mile ride, depending on which route  I took.

Well, on that day, I peeled off my bike jersey before  I passed through Milltown, after which one of the early sedative drugs was named.  At that time, it was noted in the area for cops that were rumored to have been recruited in Alabama or from the KKK.  

One of those redneck officers actually pulled me over when I was riding along one of the streets.  In those days I didn't carry ID with me; most people didn't. 

"What are you doin' here?"

It took everything I had not to answer him sarcastically. But, fortunately for me, I managed to check that impulse.  

"What are you doin' here?"

"Riding my bicycle, sir."

"To where?"

"My mother's."

"All right.  Have a good day."

I haven't thought about that encounter in more than twenty years.  Now I wonder:  What would it have been like if I were covered with tatoos.

When You Can't March, You Can Still Follow In Their Footsteps

I'd wanted to go to the Pride March today.  But I got sick:  Something I ate last night didn't agree with me, or with something else I ate.  My condition would have been utterly incompatible with marching.


I feel a little sad about that, mainly because I got a bit of a rush from marching in last year's procession.  Then again, that was a special march, for the LGBT community as well as me personally.  Last year, we marched on the fortieth anniversary of the Stonewall Rebellion.  And I was "counting down":  Only nine days stood between me and my surgery.


Maybe it was a good thing, in a way, that I couldn't go this year.  Would  following, or trying to follow,  the footprints of a memory have been a good idea?  Perhaps that works collectively, but for me personally, it usually doesn't work very well.  


Here's a definition of frustration:  I am a person who holds on to, and treasures, memories.  But doing something "for old time's sake" usually has disastrous consequences for me.  Or, at least, it has unintended consequences.


This year is the 40th anniversary of the first march.  I guess that's significant, but it doesn't have quite the same resonance as the anniversary of the rebellion.  Maybe it's because last year's march passed in front of the Stonewall.  Of course, nearly all of us stopped, or at least slowed down, there.  Many marchers, of course, had firsthand memories of the event.  All I had was what I've read about it, and my imagination.  All I could think about was the story, perhaps apocryphal, of Sylvia Rivera tossing out her red patent stiletto-heeled shoe at the cops as they were about to storm the tavern.


With that toss, or whatever else she did that night, she helped to launch the gay rights movement as we know it.  And she became one of its first victims.  Perhaps, in a way, that's not surprising, as rebellions and revolutions have a way of cannibalizing themselves.  


Even though she and other transgendered people played important roles in the Rebellion and the early days of the LGBT rights movements, they were left behind or tossed under the bus, depending on who's narrating the history.  It didn't take long for LGBT organizations--indeed, the entire community--to be dominated by white professional gay men.  Marginalized as they were, they still had much more wealth and influence than lesbians, let alone transgendered people.  


I met Sylvia Rivera once, briefly, not long before her death.  Plenty of people were put off by her, and I could see why.  For one thing, she was very loud and often combative, if not belligerent.  Plus, she lived a hard life and didn't age well:  No one was going to do a fashion shoot with her.


But there was something else, which I have not been able to articulate until now:  She not only used the seductive rhetoric which succesful movements generate in their early days (Think of "Power to the People!"); she helped to make the rhetoric--and, in turn, was shaped by it.  Even after the battles are won or lost, or at least changed, it's hard to give up those slogans and chants of one's youth, even if they are no longer the lingua franca of the people for and by whom revolutions are fought.  


There's a prof in my department who, in that sense, reminds me of her.  He still refers to female students and colleagues as "sistas" and their male counterparts as "brothas."  When he introduced me, at a poetry reading, as "Sista Justine," I was, in a way, flattered.  But at the same time I felt sorry for him (even if he has tenure!).  The battle has not been won; rather, it has moved on and re-formed.  Yet he still talks about people--and movements--as if Huey Newton and Stokey Carmichael were running the show.


Likewise, in some way, Sylvia never moved on from those heady early days.  In one sense, I can understand why:  It could be argued, and I would agree, that the direction the movement took benefited a relatively small part of the community.  Sylvia was not one of those who benefited, just as I would not have been.  


I can't help but to wonder what her role--and, more important, what kind of person she would be now.  Although she was born only seven years earlier than I was, there is more than a generation's remove between us.  When she was igniting the Rebellion, I was unaware of it:  I would not learn of it until many years later.  She was fighting battles that I and others are just beginning to learn how to fight, much less win.  


And, I sometimes feel that she's shadowing me, or that I'm following her shadow:  I met her at the end of her life, and attended her funeral just as I was starting toward the life I lead now.  And, she died at the same age at which I had my surgery.


While I wish I could have marched today, I am still following in her footsteps, and those of other Stonewall veterans.  That, I suppose, is the best homage I can pay to them.

"You Ride Like A Girl!"

"You throw like a girl!"

Hearing that'll ruin any boy's day.  I heard it again, today, except that it wasn't directed at me.  Then again, I wasn't throwing anything.

If I were to throw anything, would I throw like a girl?

I just got another catalogue from Terry Bicycles.  Some of their products are printed or emblazoned with the logo "Ride Like A Girl!"

That got me to wondering whether one rider in the Tour de France peloton ever told another, "Vous pedale comme une fille!"  What, exactly, would "pedalling like a girl"  look like?

I remember the time a couple of years ago when I passed a couple of guys on Greenpoint Avenue, just after crossing the bridge from Long Island City.  They caught up to me when I stopped for the light at the intersection with Manhattan Avenue.  One of them yelled, "You ride real good for a lady!"

Then, there was the time--not too long ago--when I was riding down Van Sinderen Avenue in East New York.  A bunch of young guys and a couple of slightly-older men looked like they were having a campfire, sans the campfire, on their bikes.  A couple of the younger guys yelled, "Hey, babe."  Another added, "Wanna ride with us?"  As I passed, I heard one guy say, "That's no chick.  She rides too fast!"

So...Fast women aren't supposed to ride bikes?  Hmm...Well, I'm not a fast woman.  First of all, I just ate.  And I am--and always have been-- monogamous, if serially.  

Now let me get this right:  I might ride like a girl because I ride real good for a lady, but I'm too fast of a woman to ride like a chick.  Now, if I can formulate a relevant syllogism from all that, I might get tenure someplace--unless, of course, some student actually understands anything I said.

Besides...How can you be offended to hear "You play like a girl" after you've seen Mia Hamm?  And why would "You ride like a girl" stick in your craw if you've seen Rebecca Twigg or Paola Pezzo on their mounts?

The irony is that all of the time I spent riding with guys so I could ride like them, only better, actually helped me to my current path.  So where will riding like a woman take me?

Soccer In The Nail Salon

The other day, I was having my nails done at Hannah and Her Sisters, where I usually go.

One of the manicurists, Annie, looks younger than her daughter, who just graduated from a university in Korea. It seems that when I've seen her lately, she hugs me any chance she gets.  I don't mind:  She really seems to be a nice person.  And, I notice, she likes holding on to my hand for as long as she can.  It has me curious.

What was almost as intriguing, though, was her passion for soccer.   Whenever I'm there, the TV is on--usually to NY 1 News or one of the cooking shows that's on the cable channels.  But the other day, they were showing the World Cup soccer match between South Korea--the home country of Hannah, Annie and all of the other manicurists--and Nigeria.

At first, I thought they were tuned into the game merely as a matter of national pride.  There are plenty of people, especially here in the United Staes, who don't pay attention to the sport unless their country's team is playing in the World Cup.

But the women in the shop actually seemed to understand--and care about--soccer itself.  Angela (the women all go by Western names) was criticising one of the Korean players for holding onto the ball too long before shooting--or for not taking shots when they had good opportunities to score.  

I remarked that the Koreans had been playing well-organized, disciplined soccer until that day's match, and that Korea would have been well ahead of  the Nigerians if they continued to play that way.  But, they were playing a surprisingly undisciplined game and not shooting well.  "They have the chances, " I said. "They're just taking too long.

I was getting my pedicure; a woman in the chair next to mine asked whether I'd ever played.  I allowed that I had.  "It shows.  You know more about this than most other women," she remarked.

Down the street, there's a bar that's shown every one of the matches so far.  I couldn't help but to wonder what it would be like if I had the sort of conversation I was having, not in the nail salon, but in that--or any other--sprorts bar.  Of course, I wouldn't go there for a variety of reasons, but mainly for the same reason I generally don't go into bars:  I don't drink alcohol.  Plus, I've discovered that alcohol and testosterone are a very toxic combination.

And to think...I never would have known that Hannah and her sisters were such fans!

Anniversaries to Come

On my way to class, I bumped into Anne, whom I hadn't seen in months.

She's a geneticist and biology professor who came to the college two years ago.   At an orientation the September before last, she greeted me and recalled something I hadn't:  A couple of months earlier, she was on campus for the first time and was trying to find an office.  I walked with her to that office--human resources, if I recall correctly--and gave her a sort of mini-tour.  


And, not long after that orientation, I saw her again and she mentioned that she'd found this blog.  She really liked it, she said, and admired my courage in my transition and in discussing it publicly.  It's still odd, to me anyway, when people say I have courage for doing what I've done.  I did only what I needed to do.


We met several times during the subsequent year, my last before the surgery.  Ironically, she gave birth around the same time I had my surgery.  She was on leave in the fall and was in only part-time--mainly for her research--in the spring. That's why I haven't seen her.


Now her baby is about to turn one year old at just about the same time as I am.  I would like to mark the occasion with her; we talked about having lunch one day.  


She has said that I was also giving birth--to myself.  I agree with that, but I think the purposes and outcomes of those births are different.  The surgery is already starting to seem less like a point of demarcation than it had  been, or than I thought it would be.  I've had the surgery; I'm continuing and changing my life, and while the surgery has been important, it is really, at least in some way, nothing more than a means to an end.  Some would argue that seeing the surgery in that way, and that it's "fading into the background," as someone else remarked, is a sign that it and my transition were successful.  I would agree with them.


On the other hand,  Anne's child will always be a reminder of her having given birth.  Or so I would expect.  As an event, I'm not sure that it would "fade into the background" because I do not know what purpose, if any, having a child fills--especially for the mother who already has a child.  


I know that many women--including a few I know--had children because they wanted to be mothers.  While I can understand, at least to some degree, wanting that, it seems to me that having a child and becoming a mother are not things most women do in order to fulfill some other purpose.  Instead, giving birth and becoming mothers are things  that women seem to do for their own reasons, possibly to fulfill some inner purpose.  Somehow I don't think they do those things with the expectation that they will think less about them over time.


Anyway:  Anne, if your reading this:  J'en souhaite une bonne anniversaire pour l'enfan--et pour toi.
r

Talking To My Father

Today I made it a point of calling my father when my mother was out.   Even though my relationship with my father has improved greatly, I still talk much more, much longer and in more intimate detail with my mother than I do with my father.  Most likely, it will always be that way.  But, because today is Father's Day, I wanted to get into a conversation with my father that wasn't just an afterthought of calling my mother.


He was apologetic about the fact that my mother wasn't there.  Of course, it made no sense:  After all, he didn't tell her to go shopping.  But, given our history, I can understand why he'd still think I was calling to talk to my mother and that I was talking to him only because he happened to answer the phone.




Sometimes I wish I could've had a different relationship from the one I had with him when I was growing up.  Then again, I could say that about nearly all of the relationships I had.  In fact, I could say that I wish many other things had been different.  But, of course, that would have meant my being--or, at least, living as--a different person from the one I had been.  I think he understands that now.  I know my mother does.  Sometimes she berates herself for not knowing--about me, about her own life and life generally--what she knows now.  And he has wished that he could have been a different sort of father from the one he had been to me and my brothers.


Still, even though I  would have liked for him to understand me better than he did--and that I could have spared myself and others, especially my mother, all sorts of pain--I don't regret any of it.  Perhaps that seems contradictory. But I know that had I not lived the life I lived until my transition, I couldn't have understood, much less helped him or her or anyone else to understand, why I need to live the life I'm living now--which, of course, is to say, to understand that I am the person I am.  


That may have been more difficult for my father to learn because, first of all, we didn't have the kind of relationship that my mother and I have shared.  But, equally important, I, and then he, had to learn that I simply could not be the sort of man he might have hoped I would become because, well, I simply couldn't have become any sort of man at all.  And I think he now understands that I really tried--and, it seems, he respects that, and the fact that I've been doing what I need to do in order to be successful in any sense of the word.


The man has tried.  That's really all I can ask of anybody.  And, I'd say, he's learned and showed me a facet of himself I didn't think he had--or, perhaps, that I couldn't allow myself to see:  that he is a man who's capable of compassion, if not empathy.  Right now, that seems to be working pretty well. 


Perhaps I'll never be able to say, as Cordelia says to Lear, "My love's richer than my tongue."  But if we have more respect and understanding for each other than we did before, then I think he's definitely achieved something.

A Plea From A Friend of Amanda Gonzalez-Andujar

Under other circumstances, I would be happy that someone left a comment to my post nearly three months after I posted it.  But the comment in question relates to what is probably the saddest and possibly the most terrible thing I've written about on this blog:  the murder of Amanda Gonzalez-Andujar.


To honor her memory, and to help a friend of hers, I am going to post that friend's comment here:

Hello
I am a old friend of Amanda's family.I am writing this because it has come to my attention that the district attorney Richard Brown, after stating to the press in April that he was going to charge Rahseen Everett with second degree murder(which carries a sentence of 25 years to life) and tapering with evidence, has changed his mind and is talking about giving him a plea deal for a lesser charge of manslaughter(which means he will be out in less then 8 years).They have all the evidence they need to convict him.There isn't need for a plea. I cant help put wonder:   if it was a woman, a mother, and wife, would the district attorney  be going for 1st degree murder, which carries the death penalty and no less than life in prison.


This isn't justice.When the press was watching Richard Brown to see how he'll deal with the case, he said he will charge him with 2nd degree murder.But now that Amanda is not in the news no more, he no longer cares about getting justice for Amanda and her family.


If you would like to help get justice for Amanda, please email me at delights1@msn.com and put (I want justice for Amanda) as the subtitle. Or email Richard Brown at www.queensda.org and let Richard Brown no that this is unbelievably wrong.That Rasheen Everett should be held to the fullest extent of the law.


There is power in number . And one person can make a difference.Amanda made a difference in my life, the life of her friend, and especially in the life of her family. She was accepted and adored by her friends, her community,and especially her family .She was just as beautiful and amazing, as others have said, but even more so. Please demand justice for Amanda.Her life meant SO SO SO MUCH MORE then 8 years.  Nothing will ever fill the empty place in our heart now that Amanda's gone.But you can help us give her family a peace of mind that justice is being served and the person that took Amanda's life will , be paying for his crime appropriately. If you want to help, email me at delights1@msn.com.

Asserting Her Womanhood

Last night one of my students told me her husband left her after she'd spent two years in college.  Then a bunch of issues came up and she had to leave school.  Now she's back, and the ex-husband offered to pay for her schooling.  She refused; members of her family are pressuring her to take him up on his offer.  Others want her to quit school and reunite with him.  


I simply cannot imagine her doing such a thing.


I told her that, and she said she'd rather die than not finish school--or  get back with her ex.  She understands that for her, going forward means leaving him behind.  It has also meant leaving, or being left by, friends and members of her family.


She does not regret any of it, she said.  But then, she wondered, "Why do people do things like that?"  


There was a long pause.  She seemed to be waiting for an answer to a question that she had been waiting for the right person to ask.   At that moment, I realized that I didn't want to--actually, couldn't--talk to her as her professor.  She really wanted an answer to that question.


"Some people are threatened by people who know who they are and what they need and want."  Her eyes widened.  "Especially if those people are women."


"Yes!  That's so true!  Why is that?"


"Well, girls are trained to be people-pleasers.  That's what's expected of them, not only by the males in their lives, but by the women, too."


"Wow!  You're right.  That's especially true in my culture."


She is Guyanese, of Indian-Muslim descent.  I have known a few Indian-Guyanese women and have, for some reason, gotten along very well with them.  They were all very strong and independent-minded women.  Now, I wonder:  Are women, especially in those cultures, taught to be subservient because their female elders and the men know they're independent?  Or do they become that way because people try to beat them down?


That student and I talked a bit more, and something made sense:  From the first night of class, she almost seemed to be awestruck by, and studying, me at the same time.  Until we talked, I didn't understand why.  Did she see me as some sort of role model?  Or was she looking at me and wishing I could have remained a man?  I have met a few women like that.  But then I realized that she didn't want a man, or a woman.  She wanted someone who understood.


Now, I'm not sure that I understand what she thinks I understand.  But she definitely trusted what I was saying to her--and, even more important, that I was listening to her.  So, she was less surprised than I was at what I said next:  "They want us to be strong, but then they beat us down for it."


"You've experienced that?"


I explained that I came to understand what I've told her because of my transition.  "You see, I wasn't raised with that same expectation that I would be a people-pleaser.  Obedient, yes, at least when I was young.  But people wanted me to be more of a 'take charge' person than I was."


"You're very fortunate."


"When I was a man, yes, that served me well.  But now it gets me in trouble sometimes--especially on the job.  They really don't like women who speak up or take it upon themselves to do what needs doing."


I really wasn't expecting what she said next:  "But that's exactly the reason why you had to become a woman."


"You're right.  I had to take a stand on my own life, on who I am.   I simply couldn't have continued to live any other way."


"So you're in the same dilemma as us.  That's why you're one of us.  That's what I like about you."


I didn't tell her about the people I lost along the way:  I really didn't want her to pity me.  Besides, I think she understands that anyone who has decided to be his or her own person and has decided to live his or her own life has paid a price for it.  And, once you have paid that price, you have no choice but to move forward, in this moment.  


It seems that she couldn't do anything else now, even if she wanted to.  Nor can I.

Where Are The Women?

I don't know whether it's possible to be an urban cyclist without having or developing some sort of interest in architecture. One of the wonderful things about New York and some other cities is that you can find a gem where you weren't expecting it.

This beauty is right across the street from the new Yankee Stadium:

I hadn't been in that part of town in a long time, so I don't know whether or how recently the building was renovated.  I suspect that it was fixed up as the new stadium was built, but I also suspect that it hadn't deteriorated very much, as so much of the neighborhood around the old stadium (which was next to where the current stadium stands) had for so long.

If people couldn't tell that I hadn't spent much time in the neighborhood just by looking at me, they had to have known once I started taking photos.  Then again, maybe some architecture lovers have trekked up that way.

Wouldn't you love to live in a building with this over the entrance?:

Or this by your window?

                          

For a moment, I wondered whether someone might get upset with me for pointing my camera at his or her window. But building residents may be used to that sort of thing.

So, how did I end up there?  Well, I just hopped on Tosca (my Mercian fixie) and pedalled across the Queensboro (a.k.a. 59th Street) Bridge.  After descending the ramp on the Manhattan side, I found myself riding past Sloan Kettering, Rockefeller University and lots of dimpled blonde toddlers escorted by nannies or au pairs who were much darker than them.    As I rode further uptown, the kids got darker and didn't have au pairs or nannies.   None of it was new to me, but something would be after I passed the building in the photos.

In Manhattan, almost everything above Columbia University is commonly referred to as "Harlem," and in the Bronx, almost everything below Fordham Road is called the South Bronx.  As it happened, I pedalled through the places that are, technically, Harlem and the South Bronx.  But I also passed through a number of other neighborhoods that consist almost entirely of people of color, most of whom are poor and whose neighborhoods are lumped in with Harlem and the South Bronx.

I ride in those places because there are some interesting sights and good cycling.  But today I noticed something in those neighborhoods that, I now realize, makes them not only different neighborhoods, but different worlds, from Astoria, where I now live, and Park Slope, where I lived before moving here--not to mention neighborhoods like the Upper East Side and Yorkville, which I also rode through today.

In neighborhoods like Harlem and the ones I saw in the Bronx, one generally doesn't see as many adults, especially young ones, cycling.  And, as one might expect, the bikes one sees are likely to have been cobbled together.  I'm not talking about the kinds of bikes one can buy used from any number of bike shops or the ones available from Recycle-a-Cycle and other places like it. Rather, I'm talking about bikes that look like they were spliced together from bits and pieces that were tossed out or found lying abandoned somewhere or another.  

As often as not, the bikes and parts don't go together.  I'm not talking only about aesthetics:  Sometimes parts that aren't made to fit each other are jammed together and held together by little more than the rider's lack of knowledge about the issue. 

It was usually poor men of a certain age who were riding the kinds of bikes I've described.  Younger men might ride them, too, but they are more likely to be found on cheap mountain bikes, some of which came from department stores.  A few are the lower-end or, more rarely, mid-range models of brands that are sold in bicycle shops.  Those bikes were probably acquired in one degree or another of having been used; none of them looked as if they were purchased new.

But the most striking thing I noticed is this:  I did not see a single female of any age on a bike in those neighborhoods.  It make me think back to other times I've been in those parts of town and I realized --if my memory was serving me well--that I never saw a woman, or even a girl, on a bike.  

I started to have those realizations after I stopped at an intersection a few blocks north of the stadium.  A very thin black man was crossing the street.  He approached me and, in a tone of consternation, said, "You're riding a bike?"  For a split-second--until I realized why he was asking the question--I thought it was strange and ignored him.  But he persisted: "You ride a lot?"

I nodded.  

"Be safe.  I don't want a nice lady like you to get hurt."

"I will.  Thank you.  Have a nice day."

I realized that I may well have been the first woman he, or many other people in that neighborhood, had seen on a bike.     

How would his life be different if he saw more women on bikes? And, even more to the point, how might the lives of some of those women be different if they rode bikes?  And, finally, I wondered, how might those neighborhoods be different?