A Generation of Elders Who Are Novitiates

Writing about the Lost Generation of Transgenders, as I did yesterday and in a few earlier posts, got me to thinking about my own situation.  Although I have had my surgery and I rarely have to talk about having lived as a man (although sometimes I still do so by choice), I consider myself to be part of that generation.  That's because I missed living decades of my life as a woman; others never had the chance--or had only a very brief time--to live their lives whole.  Some, of course, never transitioned; others lived in a ghetto (which was mental and spiritual as well as physical) of substance abuse, violence and AIDS that cut their lives short.  

On the other hand, my history has left me in a position in which very few people find themselves:  As a transsexual person, I am still fairly new or, at least, young. After all, I began my transition a decade ago, began to live as Justine a year after that and had my surgery three and a half years ago.  Chronologically, my current life is only as long as that of a child who has yet to reach puberty.  But I am also an elder, if you will.  Many people my age have grandchildren; a few even have great children.  And many of us reach the apogee of our careers or other trajectories in our lives.  If nothing else, we come to an understanding of ourselves and others and some--like me--start to feel we don't have the time, energy or patience for cant, hypocrisy and evasion.

So, even though my time of living as a woman is relatively brief, I am indeed one.  I am a woman who happens to be a good bit older than all of those young people who are transitioning  and even some of the later-in-life transitioners.  What that means is that when I'm talking to a younger trans person, an older one who's doing what I did a couple of years ago, or someone who isn't trans but wants to learn more, I am--for lack of a better way of describing this--teaching what I learned only recently.  That includes a sense of what we've come from and where we've been.  Many transgender and transsexual people who could have taught those things died along the way or ended up too broken to teach themselves, let alone others.  

So the burdens--and joys--of passing on what this community has learned, collectively as well as from and among individuals--fall to those of us who are surviving members of the Lost Generation of Transgenders.

Health Care Professionals And Lost Generation Of Transgenders

In several posts on this blog, I have mentioned some of the difficulties transgender people have in getting appropriate medical and psychiatric care.  One of the main reasons is, of course, the high percentage of trans people who are poor, uninsured and even homeless.

As bad as the situation is now, it was much worse during my youth.  The poverty and homelessness, and the lack of insurance, probably were even bigger problems for trans people thirty or twenty years ago than they are now.  However, there was yet another factor that made it difficult, or even impossible, to get the necessary therapies and treatments, and helped to create a lost generation of transgender people. 

That factor is a trait of a particular group of people--the ones who were, in essence, "gatekeepers."  I'm talking about medical as well as psychiatric professionals.  They, like nearly everyone else, were inculcated with their culture's notions of gender and sexual norms.  That is to say, nearly all of them believed in the "male-female" gender binary and the normalcy of being a heterosexual.

What that meant, of course, is that nearly all such professionals were deeply homophobic to one degree or another, whether consciously or not.   (I will admit that I shared much of that homophobia.)  So, for example, a female-to-male transgender who wanted hormones and surgery could not give even any indication of sexual attraction to women.  She also had to exhibit what were considered "feminine" traits and desires.  Worst of all, she had to commit herself to living a life of denying her past.  In other words, she had to re-invent her life as that of a woman growing up to become a girl, in the name of "passing."

Victoria Brownworth has written, "Passing never works; the lie distances you from those who aren't a party to it.  Society may reward the lie, may even demand it, but the passing person is punished for passing--either by being caught in the lie or believing it.  Every closet is a prison, whether it is a construct of sex or class. Passing kills; it annihilates who we are and keeps us from who we could be."

About the only beneficiaries of this emphasis on "passing"--which is to say, living in an enforced closet--were the Four Horsemen of our community:  AIDS, drugs, suicide and violence.  They all reached staggering proportions during the 1980's.  Although good, let alone exact, statistics on trans people from that period are nearly impossible to find, I would guess that an even larger percentage of trans people died from those causes than are claimed by them now.  In a literal sense, they are the reasons why we have a lost generation of transgender people.  But even the survivors of that generation--who include me--had to endure decades of depression, isolation and, in many cases, substance abuse, as a result of not seeking the care we needed until much later in our lives.  That left us as isolated from each other as all of those transssexuals who "passed", or tried to, were from each other.  The result was that, really, we didn't have a community for at least a decade, and could therefore not offer each other the advice, mentorship and other help we so desperately needed.

In other words, even those of us who wouldn't begin our transitions for another two or three decades had to live with the same lie as those who told doctors, psychiatrists, endocrinologists and surgeons what they wanted to hear.  They, of course, told those lies because the health professionals themselves believed, if not the lies themselves, then in the homophobia that made them necessary.  Those of us who survived are still dealing with the aftermath, and will probably do so for the rest of our lives.

It Took 30 Years, But They Found A Way To Fire Him

In the winter class I'm teaching, the students are about to read Franz Kafka's The Metamorphosis.

It seems like an amazing coincidence, if not a synchronicity, given something that's just happened in a school directly between the one in which I work and my apartment.

St. Francis Prep in Fresh Meadows, Queens has--justifiably or not--an excellent academic reputation.  However, according to a few acquaintances of mine who happen to be alumni, it's as big and impersonal as any city public high school, and people of different races and cultures coexist but don't really interact with, let alone accept, each other.

So far, it doesn't sound too atypical for a high school in that part of Queens.  However, the fact that it is run by Franciscan brothers means that some people will most likely never be allowed as students, let alone teachers, there.

It doesn't matter that someone has taught there for more than three decades. If that teacher changes him or her self in form, his or her excellence as a teacher will not be enough to keep him or her on the school's faculty list.

That is what Mark Krowlikowski has discovered.  In his 32 years of teaching at St. Francis Prep, he has received numerous accolades for his work, which has included leading students in a musical performance for Pope Benedict XVI.  But, last year, the parents of a ninth-grader complained about him.

Specifically, they took issue with his appearance.  He was always neat and well-groomed and routinely wore suits and neckties to work.  However, he started to wear earrings and nails manicured in a feminine style, according to court documents.  

He was summoned to the office of the principal, Brother Leonard Conway who called the transgender identity Krowlikowski revealed to him "worse than gay."  During their meeting, Conway told Krowlikowski he could no longer appear at public events if he came dressed as a woman.

The school's lawyer claims that Krowlikowski was fired for "appropriate non-discriminatory reasons".  Interesting that it took the school 30 years to find such reasons.

Who Belongs To The "Club"?

Over the years, there have been many definitions of "transgender" and "transsexual", apart from the ones in the textbooks.

According to at least one trans person I know, you become a transsexual when you "go under the knife."  She was talking about SRS/GRS--which, until recently, served as most people's line of demarcation between transsexuals and everyone else. 

A friend of mine is scheduled to undergo that procedure next year.  Yesterday, she sent me a text message announcing that she was in a hotel room, recuperating from facial surgery.

I congratulated and welcomed her.

We Won't Come For What They've Built In The Beaver State

Once again, I've Kelli Busey to thank for the latest news about what's available to trans people.

She reports that in order to comply with the state's non-discrimination laws, health-care insurers cannot have riders that categorically exclude all transgender patients.  Also, the state's mandate for coverage of mental health services must also apply to transgender patients.  Furthermore, the designation of a policyholder as male or female can no longer have any bearing on the types of treatments that are covered.  So, for example, a female-to-male who is documented as male cannot be denied coverage for ovarian cancer screening.

So far, it all sounds really good, right?  Then this part will sound, at first, even better:  Insurers cannot deny coverage of treatments for transgender patients if those same treatments are covered for cisgender patients.  Therefore, if an insurer pays for a cis woman's breast reduction to lessen her back pain, it also must pay for the same treatment if it's undergone by a female-to-male transgender.  

Think about that for a moment.  It sounds good until you realize that sex reassignment procedures procedures are not done on cisgender people.  To my knowledge, no cis man has ever asked to have his genitals cut open and reconstructed as a vagina, and no cis woman has ever demanded to have an artificial penis constructed (to the extent it can be done) in place of her vagina.  Also, I don't know of any insurer that pays for cis women's breast augmentations; under the new regulations, they wouldn't be required to do so for male-to-female transsexuals.

But all of this leads to an even slipperier slope:  Insurers could still change their policies as to what they will and won't cover for cis people.  So, an insurance company might decide that it will no longer cover breast or penile implants for anyone, cis or trans.  

Somehow I don't expect to see trans people hitching their wagons to mules for cross-country treks to the Beaver State--not yet, anyway.  

What The Repeal Of DADT Won't Change

When "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" was repealed, I pointed out--on this blog and to people I know--that it wasn't an unmitigated victory for LGBT who are in, or want to join, the military.

For one thing,  I expressed concerns that DADT's repeal could actually make LGBT people in the military more vulnerable to sexual, and other kinds of, harassment than they were when DADT was the official policy.  Under DADT, some gay servicemembers were "flying under the radar," so to speak, and other servicemembers could only make assumptions about the sexual orientation (or, in some cases, gender identity) of other servicemembers.  No one wants to go through the embarrassment and humiliation, not to mention the legal problems, that could stem from assuming that someone was gay and harassing him or her.  With DADT gone, gay servicemembers can be more easily identified--and harassed or worse.

Also, the repeal of DADT did not clear the way for transgender people to serve in the Armed Forces.   One who identifies as such cannot join; anyone who comes to identify as such, and begins a gender transition, after enlisting is not allowed to remain in uniform.

There is still another problem that the repeal of DADT didn't, and couldn't, address:  The culture of the armed forces is not, and probably never will be, tolerant, much less accepting, of people who are not identifiably heterosexual and cisgender.  The very sorts of traits and values valued and promoted by and in the military are not exactly hospitable to diversity in gender expression and sexuality.  Plus, the emphasis on creating "traditional" families (ironic, when you consider that military families have some of the highest rates of divorce) will probably ensure that the military brass won't be welcoming toward LGBT people.  That Pentagon computers block any website they deem to be LGBT-friendly, while allowing unfettered access to such as Glenn Beck, Ann Coulter and Rush Limbaugh, ought to tell you something about the military commanders' real attitudes toward LGBTs.

Plus, I'm not optimistic about the outlook for LGBT people in the military now that almost everyone expects Senator Chuck Hagel to be nominated as Secretary of Defense. While he says he is "committed to LGBT military families", his track record suggests otherwise.  In 1998, he opposed then-President Bill Clinton's nomination of James Hormel as Ambassador to Luxembourg on the grounds that Hormel was "aggressively gay"--which, according to Hagel, would prove an impediment to doing the job.  He finally apologized for his slur two weeks ago.  But he still hasn't apologized for derogatory comments he made about Congressional Representative Barney Frank.  

I'm waiting to see just how "committed" Sen. Hagel will be to LGBT military families.  

Palais d'Hiver

This photo from Let's Go Ride A Bike made me think of something I wrote some years ago:

                              Palais d'Hiver

                                 Wind:
                               dry whispers 
                                in a house 
                                 where I 
                                no longer 
                                  live.  

The City Of Ladies

Here is another excerpt from the work of fiction I've been writing. In this piece, a trans woman who's about to have surgery has to return to her old neighborhood, which she hasn't seen in many years, for a funeral.  Remember that this is a work of fiction, so I don't want you to try to infer too much from it.

(If you want to read some other excerpts, check out What We Become, Fatigue, At The Beginning and The End  and Stories of Men and Women.)

****************************************************************

I'm sure that if I stay on this block after her funeral, after her burial, and someone were to realize who I am, someone'll blame me for mother's death.  People'll say that my absence, through all these years, put too much strain on her heart, her spirit.  (The one is a physical organ, so their accusations would make no sense.  As for the other:  What is it, anyway?)  I'd be accused of selfishness.  I suppose that, in a way, that would be right, if not fair.

I haven't been here for a long time because I've been worried about my own safety, and how mother'd react to me.  Even though she could sense that I'd changed--sometimes she said as much when we talked over the phone--I'd had no idea of how she'd react to my hair, the nails, the new clothes, the changing shape of my body.  And, even though sh'd told me, "Everybody's gone" time and time again, I still wondered whether I'd get off this block alive if I came back.  Until recently, I wasn't entirely confident about my transformation.  When you're not among the community of which you've become a part, whether by birth or choice, whatever image you try to project has to be created and transmitted even more seamlessly than when you're among your own.  When you're not in one of those neighborhoods where people in transition congregate, or are at least accepted or tolerated, it's all the more important to pass--in other words, to be unnoticed.  So, I wondered how I'd navigate the wake, the funeral, the burial. 

I must say that until today, it had been a while since anyone had given me a second glance or stared.  Now only the operation to give me the genitals I should've always had separates me from the next stage of my life, whatever that may hold. Older men--and sometimes younger ones--hold doors open for me and let me pass in front of them.  But once they let you through "their" space, they insist on standing or walking closer to me than they did before I started my transition.  So you've no choice but to walk into them, or to walk away from them.  Either way, you run that they will accuse you of "sending mixed signals" or of inciting their aggression.

In one sense, I'm lucky:  At the end of the day--which, sometimes, is really the end of the morning--I don't have to navigate them.  When I go home--or, more precisely, when I get to wherever I'm going to lay my head for the next few hours--I am alone; I don't have to navigate their hostility.

Most women aren't so fortunate.  Just last week, the woman who's shaped my hair as I've grown it slid the hem of her skirt up her thigh, revealing a scar and two bruises the father of her three-year-old daughter left.  She knew what I was about to tell her.  "As long as I don't set him off, he'll get better,"  she sighed.  

After I was gone a while from this block, mother'd begun to tell me about the brutality of the men there. Although I was well aware of it, I listened as if she were giving me the latest news.  She never mentioned names, but I knew that one of them had to be my father.  All the more reason to find him, to find out about him.  He left her bitter and angry: spent, even though she had to--or, at least, felt that she had to--continue living and working for my sake.  A man hit her, pushed her head against a wall.  And she never could recall what she did next, but the next thing she remembered was seeing him, doubled over with his hands gripping his crotch.  She doesn't know how she could have kicked or punched him after he knocked the wind, and very nearly the light, out of her.  At that moment, she was thinking of me, she said:  She wasn't going to let him to do me what he did to a baby girl--hers?--who supposedly was a "crib death", whatever that is.

I remembered those conversations, and our days in the kitchen with other women, no men anywhere in sight.  And the things mother used to say as if she were instructing me rather than answering a question or making a point.  Mother never wore--in fact, as far as I know, never even owned--any polo or T-shirts, sneakers or any other shoes or articles of clothing she was brought up to believe were men's.  Pants were the exception:  She almost always wore them, long, and only with completely enclosed shoes.  No sleeveless tops, always a jacket, even on warm days.  Only her house slippers had open toes and backs, and sometimes she'd wear something that looked like a cross between a housedress and a smock if she didn't have somewhere to go.  

But one day she put on a black silk dress that skimmed her breasts and curves down to her knees.  I didn't know she owned it, or the black pumps on she slid into.  Though the dress and shoes were out of style--actually, nobody on the block is ever in style; some of the women are simply en vogue--she seemed elegant, even pretty, if a bit severe.  I didn't have to ask.  "A lady wears a dress to a funeral," she intoned.

That was all I needed to know for today.  The fact that I don't have a dark men's suit or even a sportcoat is beside the point.  For that matter, I no longer own any ties, or anything that resembles men's dress shoes.

A lady:  the only kind of person who could attend her funeral.  Mrs. Marland, the woman who seemed not to talk to anybody besides my mother, and the woman whose name I never knew--when my mother talked about them, the were "ladies".  So were other females of a certain age.  As in, "the lady up the street" or "the lady with the black dog".  They were the only ones she talked to, who talked to each other, about each other.  The ladies:  The Crossing Guard Lady, The Redheaded Lady .  "Go to the lady at the newsstand and get  change for this $5 bill."  All my life, as a kid, I was always directed from one lady to another by my mother or some other lady.

So who else could come to see her at the end of her life but other ladies?

The Price Of Giving Up His Seed In The Sunflower State

I can just see it now:  Millions of straight men petition their legislators to legalize same-sex marriage.

What will bring about such a change?, you ask.

Well, something that happened in Kansas just might do the trick.

You see,  in the Sunflower State, a lesbian couple wanted to have a child.  So they advertised on Craigslist for a sperm donor.  One stepped up.  They offered him money, which he refused.  He also signed away any parental rights.  

Now, I'm not a lawyer, and I know absolutely nothing about Kansas law (except for one thing, which I'll mention later).  Still, I would have guessed that he would not have any financial responsibility for the child he sired.  

As it turns out, though, there were two plot complications, if you will, to this story. One is that same-sex marriages are not performed or recognized in Kansas.  The other is that the insemination was done by someone who wasn't licensed to do the procedure.

Now, you might say that the man and the couple should have checked the credentials of the person who did the procedure.  I wouldn't disagree, although I can understand why they--especially he--didn't.  It probably never occurred to any of them that the state would declare their agreement invalid because of the practitioner's lack of credentials.  I myself doubt that I would have thought a state would do such a thing.  

But the real reason why, according to some critics, the state is going after William Marotta, the sperm donor, is to strike a blow against gay marriage, which almost no one expects Kansas to legalize any time soon.  You see, as a result of the legal situation in that State, Jennifer Schreiner is the only child's only parent.  As a result, her now-ex-partner, Angela Bauer, has no financial responsibility for that child.  In any event, she's unable to provide it because an illness has stopped her from working.

After Bauer could no longer provide support, Schreiner applied for public assistance for her child. The state made that aid contingent on support from Marotta and forced Schreiner to identify him as the sperm donor.  Naturally, Marotta and his lawyer are arguing that, whether or not the contract is valid, he is nothing more than a sperm donor and therefore has no legal obligation to support the child.

The scenario I presented in the first sentence of this post probably won't come to pass, even though increasing numbers of straight men (and women) support gay marriage, even in states like Kansas.  On the other hand, if the state of Kansas were to make Marotta pay, I could envision many men deciding they don't want to be sperm donors after all.  I could hardly blame them.   At one time in my life, I thought about becoming a sperm donor, purely for financial reasons.  I decided against it, in part,  because I really did not want to help bring more children into this world.  I also realized that my sperm probably wasn't terribly valuable:  If a man's sperm could fetch a large sum of money, he probably doesn't need it! 

And now I think of what it might have been like to be paid a pittance for my seed and later to be forced to pay child support.  I really hope Marotta wins his fight.

Lessons After Three And A Half Years

I've heard many other people say that they're not sorry to see 2012 go.  On the whole, I agree with them.  I've discussed some of the difficulties (which may well be minor in the Grand Scheme of Things) I've encountered, mostly in my personal life, as well as some health issues.  My doctor says that the latter are simply part of aging and, to some degree, the stresses related to some of the issues I've faced.  Others have said that the initial euphoria I felt in the wake of finally having my surgery is finally wearing off.  That, I suppose, was inevitable, and if it just started to wear off this year, it had a pretty good run.

Whatever the case, the question for me this New Year's Eve is "What's Next?"  Perhaps that's always the question.  However, it seems particularly pertinent now.  My old therapist and my gynecologist say that I have come to a point--three and a half years after surgery--when post-op transsexuals start to realize what kind of man or woman they are becoming, and how it is like, or different from, what they envisioned when they began their transitions.

I know that I weigh more than I expected to, and I am not (and may never again be) as athletic as I was when I was younger and full of testosterone.  I never expected to be beautiful--at least in the ways that, say, Angelina Jolie, Hallie Berry and even Laura Linney are--but I actually like what I see in my face and eyes, even if I've aged a bit more than I thought I would. But most important of all, I realize now that being a woman is, for me, different than it ever could be for the ones I've mentioned, or for my mother or any other woman who's been part of my life.  

What I have in common with them is that we all have become women.  The difference is that they were born female and I wasn't.  Thus, there is no way I could become a woman who in any way resembles them.  But, ironically, it's also the reason why I can learn so much from them--especially from my mother and my friend Mildred.  Among the lessons I've absorbed from them (mainly through their presence) is that everything I thought about femininity--especially those things I tried to emulate--have little, if anything, to do with being a woman.  That is not to say, of course, that the women in my life, or the ones who are cultural icons, are  not feminine in their own ways.  Rather, they have become women, embodying femaleness, in ways they had to learn mostly on their own.  And that is what, I believe, I am beginning to learn.

Popular culture can only teach a girl or young woman some men's idea of femaleness, which is really almost a parody of femininity.  And the education system only teaches the roles women have played and the places they have occupied.  (That, by the way, is why even very intelligent women of my mother's generation didn't realize they were capable of getting more education than they did and pursuing all sorts of careers and other options than the ones they followed, or fell into.)  If children born as females (or assigned that gender at birth) couldn't learn how to be women from their environments, how in the world could a female born in a male body learn what living beyond the boundaries of her flesh could, and would,  mean?

So it's no wonder that trans people like me find ourselves becoming different kinds of women from what we envisioned when we started our transitions.  The real lesson I've been learning, though, is that my conception of myself of a woman is changing because nobody and nothing could have taught me what it means to be a woman, never mind the kind of woman that I am.

Past, Passing Or Passage?

I don't know what, if anything, this has to do with gender identity, sexuality, or anything else.  But it's taking up a few of my brain cells, so I thought I'd mention it here.

I'm going to show you two photos.  Does either or neither, or do both, express anything that 2012 has meant to you--or that you anticipate for 2013?

Girls Just Wanna Have...

I am not being sarcastic at all when I say that Flagler Beach, Florida has its charms.  The beach is great, and the dunes to the north and south of it are beautiful. However, I probably would never have gone there if my parents didn't live in neighboring Palm Coast.

That said, if I were to go to Flagler and my parents (or, for that matter, anyone else I know) didn't live nearby, I'd want to stay at the Si Como No Inn.  For one thing, I prefer family- or locally-owned hostelries to chains.  For another, Si Como No embodies what's cool and friendly about the hippie/beach bum lifestyle and mentality.

I also can't help but to love a place that has signs like this above the entrances to its rooms:

"Girls Just Wanna Have Sun".  I'm sure Cyndi Lauper would approve.  

If you want your wisdom from a source that predates the '80's, check this out:

Whether or not you fish (I don't), and whether you're a man or a woman, I hope that you're having fun and that the coming year is bountiful for you!

Fenway Health Series

Fenway Health has put together an excellent series of videos and graphics about the disparities in health care that affect us in the transgender community.

Here is one of the videos from that series:

Stealth Or Denial?

Every time I come here--a part of  Florida between St. Augustine and Daytona Beach-- to visit my parents, I think for a moment or two about moving down here.  I won't do it for a variety of reasons, the most important being that my parents know that I would move here to be near them and they don't want that.  They value their independence; plus, as they remind me, there are very few jobs that pay a living wage and even fewer social opportunities and cultural amenities in this part of the so-called Sunshine State.

But today I finally understood why thoughts of moving here flash through my mind, however briefly.  One reason is the beautiful dunes and ocean beaches:  Whenever I ride down Route A1A, I imagine how wonderful it would be to open my front door and see, across the road, wind skipping through wildflowers on dunes that reflect the sun before the great Atlantic expanse.  Of course, there are other places that offer similar vistas, as well as the other thing that tempts me to live here.

Apart from my parents and a few of my mother's friends, nobody knows me here.  The owner of one store remembered me from a previous visit and greeted me warmly, but he really doesn't know anything about me aside from the fact that I've been in his store.  I imagine that everyone else here knows even less than he knows about me.

To anyone who comes into contact with me, I am a middle-aged woman.  It is in fact what I am.  What that means is that, among other things, I am treated with the kinds of courtesy or chauvinism (depending on your point of view) men accord women in this part of the world.  A few have chatted me up; one even wanted to see me again.  

I experience the same kinds of treatment in New York, where I live.  However, as polite and helpful as many people are, at least a few know about my past. I am sure that even more have heard rumors or other kinds of stories about the life I led before they knew me--and about the life I live now. 

On the other hand, I am without a history--at least any that anybody knows--when I leave my parents' house.  I do not say that as a complaint:  Although I keep this blog and have discussed my history with a few people, most of the  time I prefer not to talk about who I was or, more precisely, wasn't.  That is an option I would have here, at least for some time. I have to wonder, though, how long "some time" would be.  It might be years, or even decades.  But, if I were to get involved romantically or sexually with somebody, I would have to divulge at least some of my history.  Or, perhaps, it might become known--or, worse, rumored--by other means.

In brief, what I realized today is that if I were to live in this place, I could have something like the sort of life that was considered "ideal"--or, at least, the goal--of someone who "changed" his or her gender. Transsexuals of the 1980's and earlier were counseled to completely erase their pasts and even to invent new ones.  As an example, a male-to-female might say that she was a Girl Scout rather than a Boy Scout.  I don't know whether I'd have to go so far if I were living here, but I also don't know just how much (if any) of my past I'd want to deny or annihilate.  Such would be the price of living in a place like this.

Merry Christmas From Candy

Merry Christmas!

"You Must Be Nick"

Last night I came to Florida, to spend the holiday with Mom and Dad.  This evening we went to dinner at the Tuscan Grille in Flagler Beach.  I recommend it if you're in that part of the world:  I very much enjoyed my pasta e faggioli and Tuscan Artichoke Medley, which included artichoke hearts, sundried tomatoes mushrooms and fusilli bucati.  The bread was hot and crusty, and the olive oil they provided for dipping had just the right combination of spiciness and earthiness.  Plus, the service is very friendly.

Now, I didn't intend for this post to be a restaurant review.  I'm mentioning the fact that we dined out because of something that happened when we arrived.

My father made a reservation in his name.  That is to say, his first name:  Nick.  When we arrived, we were greated by a warm, effusive man whom I believe is the owner.  Anyway, he looked at my father and declared, "You must be Nick.  And you're here with two lovely ladies."

I didn't have an immediate reaction:  I haven't responded to that name in a long time.  That's ironic when you consider that I kept "Nicholas", my former first name,  in my current name.  Actually, I always intended it to be part of a hyphenated name:  Justine Nicholas-Valinotti.  But, it seems, everyone forgets the hyphen so it becomes a sort of middle name.  In a way, I don't mind:  In some cultures, some women's middle names are those of male saints, relatives or other figures. And, in many Catholic countries, especially those in which Spanish or French is spoken, some men have their language's version of "Mary" as a middle name:  think of Eugenio Maria de Hostos and, ahem, Jean-Marie Le Pen.

Anyway, I kept "Nicholas" partly out of respect for my parents and because, I realized, attempting to deny or whitewash my past would be futile, and probably unhealthy.  On the other hand, my old nicknames (If that isn't a pun, it should be!) of "Nick" and "Nicky" have all but disappeared from my normal consciousness.  I have long since stopped turning my head when someone mentions or calls out either of those names--although, I must admit, I probably paid more notice than I otherwise might have to a student I had last year whose name was Nick Valenti.

I'll admit that, in recalling that encounter in the restaurant, I was very happy that when my mother, father and I entered that restaurant, there was only one Nick, and he wasn't me.  I wonder, though, whether it was bittersweet, or possibly even a little sad, for my father. 

Annie Londonderry: Pedaling And Peddling Like A Man

As a teenager, I looked forward to Bicycling! magazine every month.  Aside from learning about bikes and equipment I wouldn't encounter and couldn't afford, I learned that people did all sorts of things on, and with, their bicycles that I never imagined.  In fact, I think the people who did those things didn't imagine them, either, until they undertook them.

One such person was John Rakowski, who rode his bicycle around the world and wrote a series of articles (journal entries, really) for the magazine. As much as I admired him, I would soon learn that he wasn't the first to accomplish ht e feat:  Thomas Stevens did it eight decades earlier.  Seven years after he completed his journey, Annie Kopchovsky would make a similar voyage.

Well, sort of.  I'll get to that soon.  Ms. Kopchovsky was born in Latvia, but her family emigrated to Boston when she was a child.  At 18, she married Max Kopchovsky, a peddler.    Within four years they had three children.

Much of what comes after that is a matter of debate.  Kopchovsky said that her ride was the result of a bet two wealthy Bostonian men made:  One asserted that women could do whatever men could, and his friend took the bait.  They agreed on a wager that a woman could ride around the world in 15 months(!) and earn $5000 along the way.  Nobody is sure why she felt compelled to take up the challenge as she, up to that point, had never been on a bicycle. However, she, like many other young women of her time, were inspired by Susan B. Anthony's assertion that the bicycle had done more to emancipate women than anything else.

So, on 27 June 1894, she hopped her 42-pound Columbia women's bike (Well, it was lighter than my Schwinn Collegiate, I think!) dressed in the long skirt, corset and high collar of that time and waved goodbye to her husband and children as she set off down Beacon Street.  From there, she rode to New York.  Before she took off, the Londonderry Lithia Spring Water Company (rolls right off the tongue, doesn't it?)  offered her $100.  In return, she would display their placard on her bike and adopt the nom de velo Anne Londonderry.

From New York, she pedaled west, arriving in Chicago in just under three months after she left Boston.   Along the way, she lost 20 pounds.  In the Windy City, she realized that she would need to make some changes.  First of all, she realizing her bike was too heavy, she switched to a Sterling men's model with one gear and no brakes.  It weighed tipped the scales at half of the Columbia's weight.  Second, she realized she would never be able to ride that bike in her attire.  So, at first, she wore bloomers, and eventually changed to a men's riding suit.

She'd planned to ride west, but the impending winter made her change direction.  She rode back to New York and set sail for Le Havre, France, where she arrived in early December.  Her bike was impounded, her money was stolen and the French press declared her too muscular to be a woman, assigning her to the category of "neutered beings."  Somehow she turned things around and, in spite of bad weather, made it from Paris to Marseilles in two weeks via bike and train.  

In Marseilles, she boarded the steamship "Sydney" ,  Her itinerary included all sorts of exotic ports of call.  To prove she'd been to those places, she got the signature of the United States Consul in each location.  

She returned to the US in San Francisco on 23 March 1895.  From there, she rode south to Los Angeles, then east through Arizona and New Mexico to El Paso. From there, she  turned north and rode to Denver, then Cheyenne, where she hopped on a train that took her to Nebraska.  She then hopped back on her bike to Chicago, arriving on 12 September.  Then she took the train back to Boston, arriving on 24 September, 15 months after she left.

As you might expect, some accused her of traveling more with her bike than on it.  Most people didn't seem to mind, though:  She was a tireless self-promoter who, while in France and Asia, told tales of being a medical student, the neice of a US Congressman, a lawyer, an inventor of a new method of stenography and an orphan.  Plus, she sold commemorative photographs, silk handkerchiefs, souvenir pins and autographs.  Upon returning to the US, she told tales of hunting with German royalty in India and nearly being killed by "Asiatics" who thought she was an evil spirit. She even insisted that she was involved in the Sino-Japanese War of 1895. On the front lines, she'd fallen through a frozen river and ended up in a Japanese prison with a bullet would in her shoulder.  Or so she said.

But, hey, if she biked even half as much as she told stories, she rode a lot.  And her pedaling brought her family more money, through sponsorships, her own entrepreneurship and articles she wrote, than her husband's peddling ever could have provided!

This Is Not A Dirty Joke

Seriously...A trans woman I know has just returned from a conference.

She was boarding her flight in Florida--in Tampa, I believe--when, after walking through the scanner, TSA agents pulled her aside.

Why?  She was wearing a wide flared skirt.  One of the agents said they had to check for "weapons."  

What kinds of weapons?, I wonder.

By the way, this woman is post-op, so I don't know what kind of "weapon" that agent had in mind.  

Really, I don't.  My friend doesn't know, either.

About The Massacre In Connecticut

Although it may not seem directly related to transgender issue, I want to make a comment about the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut.

I'm thinking about it (How could you not, with all of the coverage it's getting?) for a variety of reasons.  One of them is the ways in which such tragedies affect women and children disproportionately.

One of the most obvious reasons why these shootings are a "women's issue" is that the principal and school psychologist who were murdered, and the teacher who was shot to death while shielding children, were all women.  That's no surprise when you consider that the vast majority of elementary school teachers are female.  

It's also hard not to notice that most of the parents who came to the school in the aftermath of the shootings were the mothers.  Although men--at least in some communities--are taking on more roles in child-rearing, it's still a fact that kids spend more time with their mothers or female caretakers.  There's also an unwritten, unspoken expectation that the mother will take on the more emotionally difficult parts of raising children--including the role of "first responders" in crises in the children's and families' lives.

I hope that the mothers--and fathers--of the victims get all of the support they will need for a long time to come.  And I hope that whatever comes next for those who were killed does not include the violence--emotional and spiritual as well as physical--that punctuated the last moments of their lives.

Why They Call Him A Faggot

Let's see...One girlfriend is found dead under mysterious circumstances. The next one takes out an order of protection against him after she accuses him of choking her.  Then, after leaving the courthouse after a hearing, he and his current girlfriend--with whom he claims to have an "open relationship"-- get into a screaming match.

The guy sounds like a real charmer, doesn't he?  So I guess it's only right to feel some pity for him when he complains that someone scrawled "Faggot" across his locker. 

His real name is Taylor Murphy, and he's a New York City Firefighter.  He was once "Mr. March" on an unofficial NYFD calendar, but now it seems--and he fears--that he won't be a firefighter for much longer.

You see, most firefighters can't stand men who hit women (although they themselves may be abusers).  Actually, lots of tough guys--or men who see themselves as such--share that same hatred.  But I would suspect that this antipathy is even greater among "smoke eaters."

When I was growing up, males who hit females were called "faggots."  From there, things would get worse for the hitter, as they seem to be getting for Murphy. You see, there is another layer to this story:  The woman he is accused of beating is transgendered.  So is his current girlfriend.  So was the girlfriend who died under mysterious circumstances.

Of his dating preferences, Taylor says, "Once you do that, you're not part of the Fire Department."  He complains that if he is allowed to remain in it, he is likely to face harassment.   But he may not have to worry about that:  Although he was cleared of the choking charge, he has been found guilty of violating the order of protection.  That could result in prison time, which would almost certainly mean the loss of his job.

I guess it's a long way down from being Mr. March.  Still, I suppose I should feel some empathy for Mr. Murphy:  After all, I know how it feels to be called a "faggot."  The difference is that I didn't get that title for beating up my girlfriends, or any other females.