Portrait Of The Feline As A Real Man

Here's a picture of a Real Man:

He's not afraid to go into a lady's boudoir.  You know how some guys get that look on their faces that says, "Oh, shit, I'm in the wrong neighborhood!" when they're in a girl's girliest spot?  Or when they're around a bunch of women listening to Laura Nyro or Nina Simone?




Well, Max has no fear.  Just to show you what I mean, he's going to take a leap.  No, not the leap.  Just a leap.

Sigh.  I miss Charlie.  That's why I'm so glad Max is here.

To The Santorums

Last week, Annette Gross's "Open Letter to Karen Santorum" appeared on The Bilerico Project.


I've provided a link to it because I hope that you'll show it to someone who thinks that LGBT people get "special treatment."  

I also hope that you'll show it to those people who say that we wouldn't have any problems if we kept quiet or stayed in the closet.


What Gross's letter points out so brilliantly is that we are targets of discrimination, not because of a "lifestyle choice," but because we are targeted for who and what we are.  That is something most straight cissexual people never face.  When was the last time you heard of a straight person being assaulted, much less killed, for being--or simply being perceived as--straight?


And when do straight married people have to defend their right to have the relationships they enjoy, and the privilege society affords them for doing so?


To the Santorums, and everyone else who feels bullied by gays and lesbians and transgender people, I say: Get over it.  Toughen up.  Grow thicker skin.  Grow up.    Hey, people told us those same things, and look how fierce and intimidating we've become!  

And remember:  If the queers are bullying you now, go and get an education and turn the tables.  Tomorrow can be a better day for you.

South Carolina Yesterday; Ecuador Tomorrow?

Media pundits have parsed Newt Gingrich's primary victory in South Carolina last night in a number of ways.  Some think it's an indication that the battle for the Republican nomination will be very close; after all, there has been one other primary and one caucus, each of which produced a different winner.  Others say South Carolina is a bellwether:  Every candidate who's won its primary since 1980 has gone on to win the nomination.  Then there are those pundits who think South Carolina is too different from other states that have had, and will have, primaries, to serve as a harbinger of what's to come.


But nearly all of the commentators seem to agree that Evangelical Christians played a large part in Gingrich's victory.  While a larger percentage of the population identifies itself as Evangelical in South Carolina than in any other state, it's hard to deny the influence they will have in upcoming primaries, and the general election.


That can have dire consequences for LGBT people.  Sure, Michele Bachmann may be out of the race, but her husband's "therapeutic" practice--which, among other things, purports to "cure" homosexuality--is still thriving.  He was her main campaign adviser; now that she's out of the race, I wouldn't be surprised if he were giving support to Gingrich or Rick Santorum, who has also denounced homosexuality in religious terms.


Some of my friends and colleagues--who work some of the "bluest" occupations  in one of the "bluest" states-- don't understand just how many people in other places hold similar beliefs and were sorry to see Bachmann leave the race but are willing to vote for people like Gingrich and Santorum.  Of course, I don't think they can elect a President all by themselves.  But they are vocal about what they believe, and they vote.


So what would happen if this country were run by people who operate or support "ex-gay" clinics or camps?  Well, this might seem extreme to some of you, but we could end up like Ecuador, where hundreds of such clinics exist. According to the testimony of people who've experienced them, the physical and psychological torture of women is endemic to those places.  According to Karen Barba, the Director of Fundation Causana, those who operating the centers are "not only getting away with obscene human rights abuses, they are profiting off them."


So those clinics come from an unholy alliance of bigotry married to greed, which is then covered with a veneer of religiosity.  Hmm...that sounds familiar.  I think we've seen it at work in this country's election cycle, and there's more to come.

Sterilization In Sweden

One day, one decade, one century, you're ahead of the curve.  Then the curve catches up with you.  If you're not careful, it becomes a tidal wave.

I know; I mixed metaphors a bit.  But you get the idea.  

When I was young, Sweden was seen as a progressive country in, among other areas, human rights, particularly for LGBT people.  It was one of those countries (along with Denmark) to which men went for their "sex change" operations.  (At that time, one rarely--if ever heard of FTMs.)  And Sweden was one of the first countries to include language in its laws specifically to protect gay men and lesbians.

Fast-forward to today, when the country's law regarding gender-reassignment surgery are being assailed as "barbaric" by human rights activists.

The law, enacted in 1972, says that any Swedish resident who wants to undergo gender reassignment surgery must be over 18 and unmarried--and be sterilized before the surgery.  

I used to think that no one under the age of 25 or so should undergo the surgery until I met the teenager who underwent the same surgery, on the same day, as I did.  Some might say she is unusual, but from what she and her mother told me, it was clear from an early age that she simply could not grow up to be a man.  

As for marital status:  Many people--like Joyce, my roommate at San Rafael Hospital in Trinidad--are married when they have the surgery.  Some manage to remain so.  If a marriage stays together through and after the transition and surgery, it's hard to beat for support!

But sterilization is what really has human rights activists upset.  At the time the law was enacted, that stipulation may have made sense, given what the medical establishment knew--and much of the public believed--about transgender people.  

Most of the Swedish Parliament, and public, wants to change the law.  However, there is a conservative party (sound familiar?)  that's blocking the change.  That party is said to be small; I hope its influence will be even smaller in proportion to its size.  And I hope Sweden returns to its longtime role as the small country with a big role in the state of human rights.

Why I Won't Marry A Gay Person

Someone--I forget who--said, "If you're against gay marriage, don't marry a gay person."


I couldn't have said it any better.  If you don't marry a gay person, exactly what effect does gay marriage have on you? 


Still, some people insist that "the institution of marriage"--which is a recent innovation in human history--will be "threatened" or "destroyed" as same-sex couples flock to chapels to be united in matrimony.  


So, let's see...Gay marriage accounts for the fact that Larry King has been divorced 8 times. Or Tiger Woods and Jesse James cheating on their now-ex-wives?  Or that Kim Kardashian's marriage lasted only 72 days?  


And I'll bet that Elton saying "I do" to David, or Ellen saying the same thing to Portia, is what caused Newt Gingrich to have affairs while his first and second wives were deathly ill.  


I'm so glad that somebody set me straight about the hazards of gay marriage. I'll be sure not to marry a gay person, ever.

What To Do After Charlie?

Max, the orange cat you see in the sidebar photo, doesn't seem to be pining for Charlie so much as he's becoming even more of a glutton for affection than he had been.  I don't mind; still, I wish Charlie were here.

On one hand, I could very easily adopt another cat on impulse--another one of Millie's rescues, or one I encounter on one of my bike rides.  On another, I want to have Max as my "only child," at least for now.

I wonder...How would Max react if I were to adopt another cat?  Would he and the new kittie become pals.  Or would Max try to run him/her out of the house?  Sometimes he was aggressive with Charlie.  Other times, he and Charlie curled around each other in a corner of my living room or on the sofa.  I'm not so sure Max was trying to push Charlie away as much as he wanted me to himself.  Yet he seemed to know that he and Charlie were "in this thing together," as we used to say in my old neighborhood.

While it's tempting to take home the next thing I hear mewling, I realize Max is about the same age as Charlie.  That means he might live one or ten more years, or something in between.  He might or might not take well to a new roommate.  Then again, he might get lonely, or simply tired of me.  Or his energy might start winding down and he won't be so playful.  Will he have a relatively quick decline, as Charlie did, or a slow and agonizing demise?  

Tomorrow or ten years from now?  Alone with me or with another kitty?  Whatever his remaining lifespan, I want to enjoy it--and I want him to enjoy it even more.  

If he spends his remaining time alone with me, I could adopt a pair of kittens and they could grow old together, like the two cats who preceded Charlie and Max in my life.  And--depending on when I adopted those kittens, I'd be old with them.  Real old.  

Oh well.  I'm going to be home in a while.  Max will charge the door when he hears me coming, and he'll curl around my ankles as I try to walk through the doorway.  I'll feed him, and maybe eat something myself.  And I'll probably cry for Charlie again.  Max  knows.

The Same Struggle

Toward the end of his life, Martin Luther King Jr. realized that even though laws against discrimination had been passed and that some people who weren't victimized by inequality had at least begun to realize that it exists, the struggle for human rights was nowhere near being won.  He said, in essence, that winning the right to sit at the same lunch counters as everyone else doesn't matter if you can't afford a hamburger and a cup of coffee once you're there.


That, in essence, remains the problem.  Even though I am lower middle-class by American standards (Perhaps I'd be simply middle-class in another part of the country.), I am still doing better than many other transgender (whether pre- or post-op) people.  And, for all of the wealth in the gay community portrayed in the media, they actually suffer with the same levels of povertyas the population in general.  


Actually, the worst thing for trans people is that so many of us can't get jobs, period, and that we--particularly the young among us--suffer from disproportionate levels of homelessness.


We still have to fight the same fight MLK was fighting more than four decades ago.  The difference is, the economy is much worse now than it was then.

Leaving MLK Spinning

Today is Martin Luther King day.  Someone commented that his life and work weren't only about racial equality; rather, he stood for human right and justice.


If that's the case--which I don't doubt--I have little doubt that he would be appalled at the field of candidates for the Republican Presidential nomination.


Mind you, I'm no fan of Obama:  I think he's thrown transgender people under the bus.  However, even Ron Paul--the only one of the Republicans for whom I would even consider voting--makes Obama seem like, well, MLK by comparison.


At least Ron Paul voted against the Marriage Protection Act which, had it been amended to the Constitution, would have banned gay marriage.  Of course, his motives for his vote had nothing to do with any interest in LGBT rights.  Rather, he didn't want to vote for another law that would have allowed the Federal Government to, in his view, usurp authority that belongs to individual states.   Absent such a law, we have a few states that allow gay marriage, even if there is no Federal guarantee that same-sex couples will have the same rights as heterosexual ones. 


That vote alone makes Ron Paul seem like Sojourner Truth next to Rick Santorum, Newt Gingrich or even Mitt Romney.  I can just see MLK spinning in his grave.

Aftermath

It's really true:  the guys are too hot and the girls are too cold.  And you can blame it on the hormones.


My friend Lakythia and I had planned to go cycling today.  However, the temperature didn't reach the legal drinking age and the wind speed exceeded my age.  So, instead, we opted for a dim sum brunch in Chinatown.  


Those of you who take estrogen have probably notice that you're more sensitive to the cold than you were before, and those of you who take testosterone feel the heat.  Well, I've noticed that since my surgery, I am even more sensitive to cold than I was when I was taking estrogen and anti-androgens. Of course, the level of estrogen in my body is now higher than it was before the surgery, and most of the testosterone I once had is gone.  


But at least I enjoyed the dim sum brunch and Lakythia's company.   I just wish she could have met Charlie:  They would have appreciated each other's sensitivity, I think.  


And, after talking to Millie and Mom, I know that in the near future--say, a couple or a few months--I want to adopt another cat.  Another rescued cat, to be more specific. They both know that, and Millie will probably find my next feline companion, and Max's next roommate, if you will.

Charlie R.I.P.

I really wish I didn't have to say this:  Charlie died last night.


No, I wasn't there when it happened.  However, I feel pretty certain that he died some time around 8 p.m.  


I was pedaling home from work when, all of a sudden, I burst into tears.  I was crying so deeply that I could barely see in front of me, much less control my front wheel. 


I spotted an ATM I sometimes use, opened the door and wheeled my bike in.  I sat in a corner of the vestibule, my tears rolling from my cheeks, down my neck and onto the collar of my jacket.  I don't know how long I was there and I don't think anyone came in to use the machines, in spite of its location in the middle of a commercial strip that remains busy well into the night.


When I thought I had my crying under control (a completely unrealistic assumption after my operation and years of taking hormones!), I wheeled out of the vestibule and stepped over the bike's top tube.  I rode about two blocks before I saw a tortoiseshell calico in a store window.  Even though she looked nothing like Charlie, the faucet was turned on once again.  And my legs developed the firmness of tapioca pudding.


Fortunately, there was a subway station only another block away.  When a middle-aged woman starts crying on New York City transport, some  passengers will look away or pretend not to notice (or, perhaps, will actually not notice), others will give you the widest berth they can, and one or two will give her looks of sympathy.  Now, if you're a middle-aged woman with a bike and a helmet dangling from the handlebar, some will react as if a giraffe got on the train, or like Agent Scully from the X-Files.  


One Latina woman who looked about ten years older than me offered me tissues, which I took.


By the time I got home, Charlie was lying on his side, with his rear legs crossed as if he'd taken a tumble.  He may very well have done just that:  he was lying on a blanket and sheet I used to leave for him on my sofa, and they--and he--were on the floor.  I'm guessing that he might have tried to climb on the couch, and when he clawed the sheet or blanket, they slipped off the cushions.  I don't know whether that is what killed him, because he didn't look as if he had wounds caused by such a fall.  However, as weak as he was, he may have simply not gotten back up.


Anyway...What's the point of playing detective now?  He's gone, and I can't stop crying.  He's been in my life for six years.  Even though I had two other cats, whom I loved dearly, for much longer, I think I developed a bond with him that I have not developed with any other animal.  Part of it has to do with the time of my life in which he accompanied me:  He came into my home about two years after I started living as Justine, and was with me through all manner of change in my life.  And, he curled up by my side, in my lap, or even on my belly when I was lying down, during those days when I was recovering from my surgery.


That he never showed me anything but affection is all the more remarkable when I consider how he came into my life.  My friend Millie rescued him from the street.  How such a loving--and handsome--cat ended up on the street is one of those mysteries I'd rather not ponder:  If someone abandoned him, I don't want to think about the sort of person who would do such a thing.


When I think about that, I think that in my next life, I'd like to have a farm with a bunch of animals, especially cats.  When animals attack each other--something Charlie never did, by the way--they are only doing what they are made or hard-wired (or whatever you want to call it) to do.  They are not capriciously cruel, they don't maim or kill for fun or profit, and they don't invade other countries whose citizens never harmed them.


After being, possibly, abandoned on the streets, Charlie was always sweet-natured and never wanted anything more than to be fed, stroked, spoken to gently and cuddled.  People sometimes come from far more fortunate circumstances and are pointlessly mean and avaricious.  Or they simply think only about their own happiness, others be damned.


As I sit and write this, I have my shoulder bag in my lap.  It just doesn't feel right.

I Don't Want To Lose Him Yet

I'm feeling a bit gloomy, to say the least.  The day started with rain and turned into one of those dreary winter afternoons smothered by cold gray clouds.  And Charlie's getting sicker and sicker.

Back in the Spring, he'd lost some weight.  I brought him to the vet, who said that his kidneys were slowing down.  She prescribed a medicine that seemed to restore his appetitite and energy. 

Now I've noticed that since Christmas, he lost even more weight than he did in the Spring.  And he seems to be losing his energy even more precipitiously.  The one good thing in this is that he always wants to be in my lap.  And, when he does, I don't care about what I'm wearing, even if its a black wool skirt like the one I wore yesterday.

He was rescued from the street.  I adopted him six years ago--a bit more than two years after I started my life as Justine.  So he has been with me through my physical and emotional changes, as people and things have come and gone.  He curled on, and cuddled, me every day of my recovery from my surgery.  And he has rubbed his nose on, and licked, my hands, toes and face more times than I can count. 

I'm going to stop now: I don't want to write his requiem just yet.

Boycotting Girl Scout Cookies--Or A Girl?

Today is the Girl Scouts' 100th anniversary. To mark the occasion, a 14-year-old girl in California is calling for a boycott of Girl Scout cookies. 

She is a former Girl Scout.  So why does she call for the boycott in a YouTube video?  A troop in Colorado admitted a seven-year-old transgender child.

In the video, the ex-Girl Scout, who is identified only as "Taylor," says, “Right now, Girl Scouts of the U.S.A. ... is not being honest with us girls, its troops, its leaders, its parents or the American public.”  According to "Taylor," who wears a Girl Scout sash during the video, “Girl Scouts describes itself as an all-girl experience. With that label, families trust that the girls will be in an environment that is not only nurturing and sensitive to girls' needs, but also safe for girls.”

An "all-girl expereince."  That sounds like a reason why the seven-year-old transgender would join.  "Families trust that the girls will be in an environment that is not only nurturing and sensitive to girls' needs, but also safe for girls."  Hmm...If I were a parent, I think those would be exactly the reasons why I'd support my child who wanted to join.  It would be safe, not only for the kid who's joining, but for the other girls in the troop.  After all, if the kid is a genetic boy with female characteristics and a high level of estrogen, that kid is neither a physical nor a sexual threat to other girls.  And, even if the kid were more characteristically male, it's highly unlikely that she'd be interested in doing anything that would menace the girls or their parents.

I can't be too angry with "Taylor," though.  After all, she's still a kid and what we're hearing from her are most likely notions she's received.  I knew less about gender variance (save for the suspicion that I was indeed variant) at her age than she does; most people in that place and time knew even less.  Perhaps she will learn things I didn't have the opportunity to learn.

Still, there's the question of what the future holds for those organizations with "Boy" or "Girl" in their names.  In recent years, the Boy Scouts have become notorious for homophobic practices and policies. So I guess I shouldn't be surprised that there are people who share "Taylor"'s sentiments.  However, as it becomes somewhat acceptable, in some milieux, to raise a child in ways that aren't in accordance with traditional notions about the gender on the child's birth certificate, the Scouts and other organizations will have to re-think their criteria for membership.  Of course, their thinking will be driven by practical considerations, like the threat of lawsuits.  But, if people become more willing to accept variance in gender and sexuality, some may not let their kids join, and some kids may decide they don't want to belong.  After all, they all need "safe" envirnoments that are "nurturing and sensitive."

Why "Work It" Doesn't Work

In "Think Progress," Alyssa Rosenberg wrote a very perceptive post about the new TV show Work It.  In her discussion of the negative reaction the program has receieved from transgenders, she includes this response from ABC entertainment president Paul Lee:

"Certainly in terms of the lesbian and gay community, we’re incredibly proud of the work ABC does, and that’s not just Modern Family, it’s Grey’s Anatomy, it’s Private Practice. In that case, I didn’t really get it," he said.    He contiI loved Tootsie, I think it’s a great thing, so in that particular case, I didn’t get it. But I think that’s me.” And he said that given the sophistication of the rest of the network’s fall lineup, “I thought there was room for a very, very, very, very silly show."

And that "very, very, very, very silly show" just happens to be about a couple of guys who dress like girls to get jobs.  Hmm...I guess the man doesn't understand the difference between a "very, very, very, very silly show" and something that uses a gender inversion, if you will, for the purposes of irony and satire. 

Some of you might remember the movie Tootsie, in which Dustin Hoffman plays a desperate out-of-work actor who presents himself as female in order to get work.  While I think it had its banalities, at least the situation wasn't played for "yuck"s.  Rather, it was an attempt, however crude, to show some of the sometimes-contradictory ideas people have about work and gender.  At least at that level, it was ironic and almost satirical.

A much better treatment of the same theme can be found, interestingly enough, in a short story written half a century before Tootsie was made:  Richard Wright's A Man Of All Work.  In fact, it's still one of my favorite short stories.  The male protagonist of the story, who is a husband and father during the Great Depression, decides to dress as a woman in order to get work as a domestic.  "Who ever looks at us folks anyhow?," he says to his horrified bedridden wife.

In the story--which is told entirely in dialogue--the man's portrayal of a woman is so convincing that he is sexually assaulted by a male employer.  As you can imagine, Wright brilliantly used the situation to expose some of the misconceptions and hypocrisies surrounding attitudes about race and gender.

Though that story is about eighty years old, it is light years ahead of Work It, not only in its incisiveness into questions about race, gender, sexuality and economics, but is also--if unintentionally--a much more sensitive treatment of gender-variant people. 

A Man Of All Work at least acknowledged--better yet, showed--some of the potential dangers faced by those who do not live in accordance with the gender to which they were assigned at birth.  Now, that protagonist's situation and mine are undoubtedly very different, but he did suffer from at least one of the dangers about which I've been warned ever since I started my gender transition:  We are more likely to be assaulted--whether sexually or not--or murdered than anyone else.  And, for those of us who "change" sexes--or even for crossdressers-- putting on the clothes of the "opposite" gender is not simply a game or fetish:  We do it so that our bodies, and our overall physical apperance, can be more congruent with the gender of our minds and spirits.

Living by the dictates of our mind and spirit:  I can't think of a more fundamental human right than that.  That's something Paul Lee and the writers and producers of Work It will never have to understand.  At least Ms. Rosenberg does.

That's How I Am Now

I was just like I am now.  The only difference is, I was a guy then.


Sometimes I think that's what I'll answer if anyone else asks what I was like when I was the "before" photo.  During the first couple of years of my new life, people would ask to see a photo of me from before my transition.  Sometimes I would show an old passport; according to one person, I looked like a terrorist in it.  Other times, I'd show my "Hemingway" photo, in which I sat in a writerly pose at my desk.  And then there was my "Amish" photo, in which I stood in front of a stone farmhouse.


No matter which photo I showed, people said I looked angry or simply unhappy.  That perception is accurate, mostly.   I didn't show the photos I mentioned to highlight that fact, or anything else: I just don't have a lot of photos of myself, particularly from the time before my transition.  I didn't destroy or discard any old ones:  I merely managed to keep myself from being photographed very often.  And I think I made one self-portrait, which I call my "Death Row" photo.


The thing is, I was just as much of a woman in that photo--in which I had close-cropped hair and a beard, and sat clutching the arms of a chair--as I have ever been.  Around that time, in fact, a woman with whom I'd been going to movies and restaurants said "no" when I expressed my wish to make our friendship into something else.  "You're too much like a woman," she said.  "You think the world is all about feelings and refinements.  That's what I like about hanging out with you.  But in that kind of relationship, I want a man."


Perhaps the particulars of what she said were not quite right. But she got the most important part right:  Emotionally and spiritually--as well as intellectually--I have always been female.  Even buying a pair of corduroy pants and flannel shirt--let alone a bike jersey-- became an emotional, esthetic experience for me:  I wanted colors and patterns or designs that not only looked good, but felt right to me.  I was the same way (and still am) with my bicycles, even when I was beating more "macho" guys in races.  It wasn't enough for something to fill a function or to look right:  They also had to feel right to me.


Now, in some ways--including some of the worst ones--I was both a stereotypical male and female.  I was able to navigate through strange cities in countries where I could barely, if at all, speak the language.  On the other hand, I couldn't do math worth a damn.  I can fix nearly anything on a bicycle, and I can fix some small appliances, but I never learned how to fix cars, planes, air conditioners or televisions, and I learned how to use a computer only when I absolutely had to.  I always felt that the only way to relate to people was emotionally; yet it was the very reason I withdrew and lived much of my life alone.


I think that everything I've said in the previous paragraph still holds true, if in different degrees and different ways from before.  But now that I am living as a woman, and my body mostly conforms to my gender identity, I feel complete, whole, in ways that I never did before.  That means I'm happier, if not necessarily more cheerful.  Flipper's trainer says the dolphin's smile is deceptive, especially if she is in captivity.  Cats don't smile, but you know when they are happy.  Sometimes I feel like I've become a cat!


Anyway, now that I've written what you've just read, something else makes sense to me:  why I have so little interest in Gender Studies or any other academic area ostensibly related to questions of gender identity and sexuality.  Even when they're practiced by people who aren't cisgendered and heterosexual, they seem simplistic at best and trivial at worst.  That's the reason why, inwardly, I winced the other day when a new fellow-faculty member said, "Well, you know, gender is performative" and all of those other things they say in graduate seminars.

Happy New Year!

I hope that the end of this year brings you fulfillment and that the coming year brings you hope, and that you will always find peace and happiness.  Thanks for reading!  (I can't believe this blog is almost three and a half years old already!)

Another Holiday--With Rest and Relaxation, I Hope

At Mom and Dad's again, for Christmas.  This year, I'm not staying until the New Year, as I did when I came last Christmas.  But it might be tempting to stay longer:  Today's weather--and ocean temperature--were reminiscent of summer at the Jersey shore.  It's not that I love warm weather in winter, or  hate the cold:  Staying may just give me some more time bike riding, or outdoors generally.  The only thing is that the bike I'll ride isn't my own, and, save for Mom and Dad, nothing else about this place is mine.

I wonder, too, whether this stay will lower my blood pressure.  It's been high enough that my doctor recommended medication, which I hate.  He said my condition might be the result of various stresses in my life.  I answered some  work-related e-mails just before I started writing; maybe I should put any new ones on "hold" until the New Year.  I mean, there's not much I can do about work-related stuff right now, anyway.

Plus, another situation I mentioned in an earlier post couldn't have been helping matters.  If he's so affected my health, that's reason enough not to have him in my life.  My new life wasn't supposed to be so dominated by his abuse and harassment.

Enough about him.  I hope the rest of you have a restful and fulfilling (Are they contradictory?) holiday!

Dow Down, Rape Up

Some of my students at York College are social work majors.  Others work for City agencies, including the Department of Education and the Office of Human Resources. Ever since the  city and country have tumbled through a recession and into a depression, they have been telling me that there has been more domestic violence.  It's not hard to see what they mean:  I have heard more and more stories about it from acquaintances and through various grapevines.


Now, it seems, the level of violence against women (which is what most of those domestic violence cases are) has escalated.  Instead of conducting it behind closed doors, more and more of it is happening on the streets and in other public areas.  None of the female students I talk to, especially those who enter or leave the campus after dark, feels safe.  Several have told me about men who tried to sexually attack them; others have told me about people they know who were attacked.  And, if my experience is any indication of anything, I think at least a couple of those women are telling "proxy" stories, if you will:  They themselves may have been attacked, or have somehow escaped an attempted attack but, for a variety of reasons, didn't want to say that they were so victimized.  Also, nearly every researcher in this area reports that sexual assault is one of the most under-reported crimes.


Now I've found out that in an area not far from where I live, a young woman was raped by three young men as she walked home from work in the wee hours of Sunday morning.   They dragged her into a parking lot in an industrial area of Long Island City, in the shadow of the Queensborough Bridge.  The particular spot where she was attacked is all but deserted most nights and weekends after workers go home, but the area around it is developing into a trendy residential area.  It is closer to Manhattan's East Side and Midtown than any place outside Manhattan, and the neighborhood offers unparalleled views of the UN, Empire State Building and other landmarks.  I sometimes ride or walk down that way for those reasons; also PS 1, a well-known art exhibition space located in a former public school, is just steps away.


What angers--but, unfortunately, doesn't surprise--me is the way some have responded to it.  Some have expressed and given support to the victims, but others--mainly in comments left in response to online stories of the incident--say, in essence, that she "had it coming to her."  Some insinuated that any woman walking through that area at the hour she was attacked must have been a prostitute, or was breaking the law in some other way.  Just from the standpoint of logic, such a response is offensive:  After all, do people say that people who drive too fast, sell marijuana or commit other kinds of low-level crime "deserve" to be the victims of violent sexual assault? Of course, the assumption that the young woman was a "street walker" is equally offensive.  News reports said that she lived and worked nearby; my guess is that she was a waitress in one of the bars or diners within blocks of the site or, perhaps, was dancing in one of the clubs.  People who do those kinds of work often are going home at three, four or five in the morning. (In fact, I've had students who came from such jobs to morning classes I taught!)  


The thing is, getting raped--or simply living a life that is, in various ways, shaped by the threat of such crimes--has absolutely nothing to do with one's age, physical attractiveness or actual or perceived economic status.  It's all a  matter of domination and control.  Since my transition, and especially since my surgery, I can see that some men see women's bodies and wills as things to be controlled and dominated--or broken, if we won't submit.  When such men lose whatever "grip" they have on the world--for example, when they lose their jobs--or when they never had that "grip" in the first place, they get angry.  And they turn that anger on women, gays, transgenders, members of races or nationalities or religions other than their own, or anyone whom they feel is not in his or her "place."


Of course, one of the problems with acting on such (mis-) perceptions is that the people such men attack are, as often as not, little if any better off than they are.  If the young woman who was attacked was walking home from a job as a waitress or dancer, she probably wasn't making very much money and wasn't much, if at all, in a better social or economic position than those young men.  Furthermore, whatever she has, she didn't get by taking anything away from those guys.  They never would have gotten whatever job she was working; even if they could have had it, they probably wouldn't have taken it, or wouldn't have lasted more than a week in it.  (I've worked in a coffee shop and know how frustrating it can be to deal with customers!)  


Naturally, I feel sympathy for the young woman who was attacked.  I also feel very, very worried, for I can't help but to think "there's more where that came from."  I hope that there isn't, but if economic conditions continue to deteriorate, I don't know what will stop the tide of violence against women from swelling.  Meantime, I advise my female students, co-workers and friends to be very, very careful. Then again, I don't think most of them need to be told that.

Alan Sues

As you may have heard by now, Alan Sues has died.  


Like many other people, I first learned of him from his performances on Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In."  My family and I watched it every week.  I was a very young child then, so I didn't "get" a lot of the jokes or the visual or other kinds of humor that was in some of the show's rapid-fire sketches.  However, I found myself liking Alan Sues, and some of the other performers on the show, even if I didn't quite understand their characters.  It may have been the first time I had such a reaction to a TV program.


At that time, I had no idea of what "gay" or "lesbian" meant, though I had some idea that I wasn't, and never could be, the boy that I was told I was, and was conditioned to be. I also had the sense that I would never grow into a man, at least not one who in any way resembled the ones I saw, whether in person or in the movies or on TV.  As far as I know, the only thing people in my school, neighborhood or any part of my community knew about gender variance was that Christine Jorgensen had the "sex change operation."  (For a long time afterward, that's about all I would know, either.)  To be fair, most people I knew were limited by their experiences, which did not even allow them to conceptualize any other sort of experience but the ones they, their parents and their parents had lived.  It was a blue-collar neighborhood; most of the men left it only to fulfill their military service and many of the women never left it at all.  And their parents and grandparents knew only the "old country" until they came here.  Actually, about all they knew about the "old country" was the neighborhood or village they came from.  When they came to this country, they settled in that neighborhood, among people who came from the same sets of circumstances as theirs.


Although I didn't have a vocabulary, or any other way to articulate it, at the time, I understood that Sues and other "Laugh-In" performers like Lily Tomlin were living as men and women very different from the ones I was accustomed to seeing.  I realized that Sues was not "masculine" or "manly" in the ways, it seemed, that I was expected to grow into and the men were expected to be.  Likewise, although she didn't "come out" for many more years--and I wouldn't have understood what that meant, anyway--I sensed that Lily Tomlin wasn't going to fall in love with some guy, get married and have a bunch of kids.  For that matter, I wouldn't have expected such things of even the show's seemingly-straight performers like Goldie Hawn and Joanne Worley.


As far as I know, Sues never officially "came out," either.  But his "flamboyance" (It seems that everything written about him uses that word in reference to him.) showed me, and other people, that maleness and femaleness--and sexuality--weren't the neat, precise categories that had been presented to us by our families, schools and communities.  Plus, even when I didn't understand the jokes, his sketches and the show were a lot of fun.

To Continue or Renew--Or Leave?

The Classical Transgender Narrative (Is that pretentious, or what?) says, among other things, that a transsexual is supposed to, not only forget his or her past, but to create, in essence, a fiction about him or her self.  You are supposed to move away from the gender in which you had been living, and all of its trappings and everything you associated with your life in it, and become something new.

The whole idea seems pretty creepy to me, especially now. I mean, why would someone want to induce amnesia in him or her self.  Ever since I undertook it, the journey from the gender that was imposed on me  to the one I truly am has seemed to be, or at least should be, one toward greater balance rather than the creation of a new imbalance. 


While I am not looking to deny the fact that I lived as male for more than four decades, and did many things that are completely congruent with life as a male,  I am moving away from many aspects of that life.  I have come to realize this because of two people who have seen this blog, and other places online where I'm present, and have contacted me.  Both say they want to be in touch.  One was a classmate (more or less) at Rutgers; the other is a woman with whom I had a relationship.


While there is much about both of those times in my life that I'd just as soon forget--and, in fact, have forgotten--I realize now that those two people are not necessarily embodiments of what I'd like to forget (or, for that matter, remember) about those times.  The classmate was, in fact, a good friend to me at that time in my life.  Perhaps she could be one again.  As for the former paramour, I have no desire to have the kind of relationship we once had.  So, I am asking myself what, if anything, I want to renew, or can be renewed, about our relationship--or whether it's possible to build some sort of new relationship.


And somehow I suspect that my old classmate doesn't have the sort of lurid curiosity others from my past have shown when they found out about my transition.  

Another Voyage of Discovery

I realize now that I've been cycling for so many years because it's always been a window of sorts.  Sometimes I see interesting things across my handlebars; other times, I have interesting experiences when I get to wherever my bike--on today's ride, Arielle--takes me.

Sometimes I think she has an even better eye than mine for form. It seems that rides with her lead me to pictures like this:

I don't feel that I've "captured" the bird or the fisherman as much as Arielle brought me to them.  Even when I take a ride to some place I've been many times before (in this case, the Canarsie Pier), a scene like this is a discovery. That makes the ride an exploration.  Now you know why I keep on cycling.

I Never Tried To Become A "Cougar". Honest!

Even though I've been on both sides, if you will, I don't think I'll ever understand sexual attraction.  And, after an experience I had tonight, I'm not sure that I want to.


No, I didn't get date-raped, or raped in any other way.  Fucked, maybe.  Well, I didn't have sex; then again, I wasn't looking for it.  But I  feel that, in some way, I was ambushed by someone's sexual desire or curiosity.


I'd just gotten back from taking a bike ride after the class I taught.  I hadn't showered or changed, so I was kind of sweaty and grimy. (It was unusually warm for this time of year.)  Also, as you can see in the photos I've posted, I'm not a particularly attractive woman and I don't look particularly young for my age.


But I was feeling really good after the ride:  The day was perfect for it, at least by my standards, and I felt even more energized near the end of it than I did when I started.  Maybe that had something to do with the experience I had tonight:  When I stopped during my ride, men were coming up to me to ask for the time of day or to compliment me on my bike.  The latter is plausible, as it is a really nice bike; still, I have to wonder whether all of those men knew enough about bikes or cycling to know how good a bike it is.  And the others came to me because they wanted to know the time of day like all of those fathers who disappeared were "just going out for a pack of cigarettes."


Yes, I was having fun. I've noticed that people respond to that.  As Cyndi Lauper sang, girls wanna have fun.  And guys seem to like girls (even ones my age!) who are having fun.


Still, I have to think that the young supermarket employee who "accidentally" bumped into me must have met other women--at least some of whom had to be younger and much more attractive than I am--who were enjoying themselves.  After all, this is a holiday weekend, so people are under less pressure than they'd normally be.  (At least they are if they don't have kids or other people to take care of!)  And, given the kind of neighborhood this is, I'm sure that some women who fit that description found their way into that supermarket during his shift.


That young man is one year younger than half my age.  In fact, he's younger than the last guy I was involved with and found to be too immature for me.  He's not bad-looking; in fact, I'd say he's kinda cute.  Still, I don't understand why he wants to see me again.  And he was not at all shy about making his feelings known to me.  I guess that's really what's bothering me:  I scarcely know him (I've seen him a few times in the store; he started working there a couple of months ago.)  and, out of the blue, he started hitting on me.  I suppose I should be flattered by that.  All right, I'll admit that I am.  But I still don't want it or, at least, I don't feel the need to be flattered in that way.  Plus, I haven't really gotten over the emotional abuse I experienced in my last two relationships (one fairly long, the other a "fling").  Perhaps I'm still on "high alert," which could be the reason why I see the attention as a kind of mind-fuck, or something that has the potential to become that.


Hmm...I wonder how he'd react if he saw me some time during the coming week after a day of work, especially now that I'm coming into one of the more stressful parts of the year at work.  Then again, I'd be cleaned up and dressed better, and would probably be wearing some makeup.  Is he the type who'd like women who are well-dressed and stressed-out.  Maybe he doesn't have any experience with a woman like that.  I'm not so sure I'd want to be the one to give it to him.


Then again, he might not be there the next time I go to that store.  After all, he is young and, hopefully, on the move. Or he might get fired for hitting on one of his co-workers.   On the other hand, his boss is the kind who might not fire him for something like that.  


Sooner or later, I'll need something or other and go back to that store. (It's right on the corner of my block, so I have little reason not to go there.)  If not next time, soon after I'll go in after a bike ride or something else that has me in a really good mood.  What then?

For Thanksgiving

On this day, I am thankful that I've had the opportunity to live a life I'd envisioned for myself.  Some of the particulars aren't ones I'd planned.  But at least I got the opportunity to become the person I wanted to be.  Too many people, including ones I've known, have never had the opportunity.


I am grateful for myself, and hopeful for them.

The Day Before Thanksgiving

In the last moment of my life, I saw the day before Thanksgiving...


I'd just pedaled a few strokes around the virage; a bed of wildflowers turned, in an instant, into a glacial field.  The sun was so bright it turned into the kind of liquid haze through which dreams skip and float along with the words that make sense only in those dreams.


It was noon.  We were all lined up--the boys on one side, the girls on the other--to leave school for the day, the next day, and the three days that would follow.  For some reason, when I was a kid, that was always my favorite moment of the year.  Even the seemingly-capricious discipline of the Carmelite nuns who taught in our school could make that moment less happy.   They could cast a pall over the day before Christmas Eve, over Holy Thursday.   Whether or not they loaded us down with homework, they left us in such a mood that Christmas, even if we got the gifts we hoped for, seemed more like a truce, and Easter was just too holy of a day to really consider as a vacation, even if we were home for the week that followed.  


But noon on the day before Thanksgiving always seemed like the most carefree moment of the year.  In most years, it began the last interlude of Fall; the lights of Christmas only accented the darkness that consumed ever-larger parts of the days that would follow.  In that moment, on the day before Thanksgiving, one could still see the last flickerings of the autumnal blaze that burned green leaves into the colors of the sunset.  Somewhere along the way, they turned as yellow and, for a few days, as bright as the sunlight that filled the air around the mountain I was climbing on my bike.


It was just about noon; I would soon be at the peak of le Col du Galibier, one of the most famous climbs on the Tour de France.  From there, I would have a long effortless ride to the valley.  In the meantime, each pedal stroke would become more arduous.  I'd been pedaling all morning, but even more important was the altitude:  I was more than a mile and a half above sea level.  The air is thinner, and even though my breath steamed as I puffed up that mountain on that July morning, the sun burned through the layers of sun screen I'd lathered on my arms and face.  


Bells rang.  Dismissal?  Or the cows in the herd down the mountain?  I stopped for a drink and one of the crepes I'd packed into my bag.  I took a bite and a gulp.  


You're free.  I wasn't sure of whether I was hearing that.  Perhaps I was giddy from the thin mountain air.  Yes, you're free.  But I wasn't hearing it:  It was being told--or, more precisely, communicated--to that child who was being dismissed from school on the day before Thanksgiving.  You can go now.  What are they talking about?  Who's "they"?


You don't have to do this again.  I'd never heard that before, certainly not in those days.  What did that mean?  What won't I have to do again?  Climb this mountain?  Go to school?


Down the Col du Galibier, through the Val de Maurienne, as the eternal winter of that mountaintop turned into the hottest day of summer in the valley, my mind echoed.  What, exactly, wouldn't I have to do again?


Near the end of that day, I reached St. Jean de Maurienne, just a few kilometers from Italy.  There, I would see the stranger who, inadvertently, caused me to see that I could follow no other course but the one that my life has taken since then.  A year later, I would move out of the apartment I'd been sharing with Tammy; about a year after that, I would change my name and begin my treatments.

For Shelley Hilliard And Her Mother On The Transgender Day Of Remembrance

The other day was the Transgender Day of Remembrance.  Actually, ceremonies and vigils are being held this week in a variety of venues.  But some of the bigger, and longer-running, ones were held on Sunday.  As it happens, I attended one after bike riding with Lakythia and Mildred.

For those of you who are new to this blog, or things having to do with transgenders, the Day of Remembrance began in 1998 after the murder of Rita Hester in the Boston suburb of Allston.  On the Day of Remembrance, we do not only mourn our dead; as the name indicates, we keep the memory alive of those who've been killed for their gender identity or expression.  

Now, some would argue that we're elevating our victims over others who aren't transgendered.  It's true that all murders are horrific tragedies; I would even go as far as to say (actually, to echo someone I deeply respect) that there is no way to justify killing another human being.  Killings are often rationalized, but that is not the same:  Coming up with a logical reason for something does not equal justice.  And, I would argue, if you believe in a supreme being or even a force beyond yourself, you have to come to the conclusion that human beings can't achieve justice.  But I digress.

The reason why we need to remember transgender victims in particular--and treat our murders and beatings as hate crimes--is that when we are killed or beaten to within an inch of our lives, more often than not, our perpetrators have targeted us because we are transgendered.  Because we are so targeted, our murders tend to be particularly gruesome:  It's not unusual for investigators--including those who are Armed Forces combat veterans-- to say that our murders are the most grisly they've ever seen.

Such was the case of a victim whose name I read at the vigil I attended.  Shelley Hilliard was only nineteen years old when she was decapitated and dismembered, and her body burned, in her hometown of Detroit.   Her body was found on 23 October.  The police could not make a positive ID; that task fell to her mother.  

Nearly any mother will tell you that the worst thing she can imagine is losing her child.  It's hard to imagine a much worse way of dying than the one Shelley suffered, so I can only imagine what was going through her mother's mind and spirit when she had to identify her daughter's body.

I would hope that other parents would support us as allies if for no other reason that they wouldn't want their children to meet such a fate.   And I want to remember Shelley Hilliard for the same reasons I've made it a point to remember Amanda Gonzalez-Andujar, Gwen Araujo and other transgenders who were murdered:  Nobody should die the way they died, for the reasons they died, as young as they died.  If they've gone anywhere after this life, I hope that they'll have the opportunity they didn't have in this life:  I hope they will have the chance to grow into, and with, their beauty.

Post-Post Op; After An Ex

I suppose it was inevitable that I would stop the practice of posting daily (or nearly daily) I developed during the weeks and months leading up to, and immediately following, my transition. 


But I don't think I ever envisioned going weeks without posting.  Now that I think about it, I never could have predicted the state of mind in which I now find myself.  That is not to say I'm unhappy about it, for it is, I believe, a sign that my life has gone in a direction I'd hoped it would take.


Although once in a while I mention to someone or another that I'm transsexual, and I often encounter people who witnessed parts of my transition or read about it on this blog, I don't think of myself as post-operational anymore.  In fact, I hardly think about the surgery.  I haven't made any effort to forget about it, or my transition--or, for that matter, my life that preceded it.  Rather, I just see them fading into the background, and myself moving onward.  I am a woman living mainly among women, although I am different in many ways--especially in some of my past experiences--from those women.  Although my face and body have feminized to some degree, I look different from them, if for no other reasons than I'm taller and bigger.  


And, although I have become more friendly with the prof I mentioned in a previous post, I don't feel it's entirely a result of my experience as a transwoman.  Yes, I can empathise with her as her body is changing along with some of the ways she deals with her past.  I have great admiration for her partner, who is not only standing by her, but helping her in various ways, through her transition.  Nevertheless, I find myself becoming friendlier with this prof mainly because I am drawn to her intelligence, integrity and generosity of spirit.  And, of course, we can talk about the college and various experiences we've had in it.  Oddly enough, that makes me even less conscious of my trans background.


I also have another reason why I haven't been posting much:  Someone with whom I'd had a relationship is now stalking me electronically.  This person has managed to find out work-related and other information that was supposed to be confidential, and has tracked down the identity of the prof I mentioned.  This ex has threatened to make false accusations against that prof, as he made against me.  I'm talking about the sort of stuff that gets people run out of jobs and homes, and subjects them to violence, whether or not the accusations are in any way factual. 


To that ex, I say, I know you're reading this, and you know that I'm talking about you, and if you don't leave me and that prof alone, I'll reveal your identity on this blog.

Coming Out From The Cold

Last night, I went out for a cup of tea with a York College prof.  I hadn't done that--or, for that matter, gone to lunch or dinner with a faculty member or any other co-worker from York--in a long time.  What is even more remarkable is the circumstance that led me to the cafe with that prof.


We have been greeting each other in passing practically since the day I started teaching there.  At first, I couldn't understand how someone who was a full professor with tenure, and has been with the college for decades, would want to talk to me.  But I quickly came to suspect that he wanted to offer me something, or needed something from me.  Actually, what he was offering and what he needed were exactly the same thing, which is the reason why I didn't make an effort to build a friendship with him.  


Plus, when I first started working at York, I tried to keep an upbeat attitude and tried not to upset anybody.  I actually succeeded, at least to some degree, at both for the first three years I worked there.  I was labelled the "queen" or "angel" of the department in which I was teaching; people liked me because I was about as close as I've ever been to being inoffensive to almost everybody.  Furthermore, I didn't hang out with any of the "wrong" people.  Somehow I sensed that, in spite of that prof's stature and apparent influence, being seen with him--at least too often or for too long--might not be a good thing for me. He had developed the sort of cynicism I was trying to avoid but, as I've learned, is a means of survival (though at what price!) for a faculty member at York.


Mind you, I rather liked him.  He was clearly more intelligent than most of the other people there (including yours truly!) and I sensed that he was one of those tough people who would use his combat skills, if you will, only for defensive purposes.  Which is to say, of course, that underneath the armor a real, honest heart was beating.


You may have guessed where this story is going.   I quickly realized that he was transitioning from male to female.  During the summer, he sent me e-mails in which he told me that he has been taking hormones and has had hair implants.  He is also making plans for his operation; his female partner has been supporting his transition.  


I am referring to him by male pronouns only because, for the moment, he is still presenting as male and working under his male name.  However, he revealed him nom de femme to me and, between us, I will always refer to him by that name and female pronouns.  He is not adamant about my doing so; it's simply something I want to do for him.


Last night, we greeted each other and parted in exactly the same way:  an embrace.  I did not want to let go; at one point, I sensed that he didn't want me to.  He is, in many ways, stronger--or, at least, tougher-- than I was when I first started my transition.  Plus, he is more knowledgeable about the ways of his workplace and the unspoken prejudices of some of the people in it than I was.  Part of the reason for that, of course, is that he has been there for much longer than I've been.  But, ironically, I think it also has to do with the fact that my parents have been supportive of me in ways that his aren't:  One is dead and he hasn't spoken with the other in about ten years, he says.  Of course, I wouldn't trade the relationship I have with my parents for what he has.  But what he has--essentially, no hope that anyone in the college's administration, not to mention many faculty members, are capable of or willing to have more wisdom or integrity than they have--has undoubtedly helped him to navigate the psychological minefield of that college.


After that opening embrace last night, I felt exactly the same thing as I did the first time I "came out" to anybody: an enormous sense of relief, as if I was finally being honest with somebody.  It's a bit like finding yourself in a tunnel but also finding, at the same moment, your way through, if not out, and knowing that the tunnel is the route to wherever you need to go next.  So you have a sense that, if nothing else, you're going to get there, if not out.


Having talked with that prof last night doesn't make me feel better about the college.  We agreed that the students are fine, that the most homo- and trans-phobic, and all-around-bigoted, people are found in the college's administration and among some sectors of the faculty. We have almost exactly the same impressions of various faculty members and administrators there, and the ones each of us trusts are the same.  (They include, among others, a longtime History prof and, interestingly, most of the Foreign Language faculty.) But we also know just how treacherous and simply mean-spirited some of the others are, and can be.  So, the college is not a safer or better place for me now than it was before, but at least I now know that someone understands, and I understand her.


He and I made tentative plans to get together with his partner next weekend.    In the meantime, there's someone else I'd like to talk with.  I've seen him in the hallways at York, but I don't know whether he's seen me.  From what I can see, he's a student--and in the early or middle stages of transitioning to female.  Every time I've seen him, he's been with other students who seem to be friends, or friendly acquaintances.  I hope that his path at the college, for however long he remains there (Only one of the gay or lesbian students I've had in my classes stayed in the college for more than one year!) , is smoother than what the other prof or I have experienced.  

Returning To Where I Don't Have The Choice of Anonymity

I can't believe so much time has passed since my last post on this blog.  The new semester is already a month old, which means that about a quarter of it has passed.  All of the class sizes increased by 25 percent this year, but it seems that I'm grading twice as many papers as I did last year.  


Apart from the beauty and energy of Prague, another thing I loved about my trip there was that I was utterly anonymous.  I didn't know a soul when I got off the plane there; nobody knew me.  I met some people and disclosed my past to three of them.  Two of them, Martina and Eva (Weird, how that name always seems to pop up in my life!) are a couple and, really, I didn't have to tell them anything; they knew.  And Spencer, the guy at the bike rental shop talked about gay friends and acquaintances and just seemed like a safe person to talk to.


At the Pride March, I didn't tell anyone about myself, but some of them had to have known.  After all, why else would I have marched with them?  To tell you the truth, it really didn't matter there, anyway.  Actually, it didn't really matter anywhere I went in Prague.  The people I met elsewhere extended the same sorts of courtesies to me that they would extend to any middle-aged woman in that city.  Perhaps I was the proverbial old lady in tennis shoes.


But now that I've been back, I'm around lots of people who know that I've transitioned.  Maybe that's why I sometimes feel as if I'm in my past, as if I were in high school, or even junior high school, again.  The difference is that nobody I see every day can be a role model for me.  Actually, nobody in my pubescent and teen years could have done that for me, either, but at least I could still live the illusion that such a thing was possible.  No, that's not quite right--I just did live that illusion, to the degree that I could.  I didn't know, and nobody else could have shown me, any other way at that time.


What this means is that, apart from having a job and whatever satisfaction I can gain from interactions with my students, there really isn't anything else for me on my job.  I cannot rise to any higher a position than the one I now have, and it's not likely that I'm going to teach any different courses or get involved in any different projects from the ones I've already done.  And the idea of going for another degree--at least another academic or a law degree--has absolutely no appeal for me.  Been there, done that.


Here is something I hadn't anticipated:  People who met me during some early or middle stage of my transition are (that is to say, most of my co-workers at York College), I find, far more presumptuous in their dealings with me than those who've met me recently or who knew me when I was still Nick (the ones who are still in my life, anyway).  I find that when I'm among some of the co-workers I met when I first started teaching as Justine, the spectre of my transition still hangs over everything.  Sometimes it's mentioned, though not by me.  


Plus, I notice that a lot of people, particularly in the administration, are imposing their religious beliefs on the life of the school at the same time they're using the students, whom they despise, to help them trump up charges against profs they don't like.  For one thing, I don't know how they're getting away with so much public religiosity in a state-sponsored institution.  For another, as they are behaving in the ways I've described, I can only imagine what else might be going on "behind the scenes."


How do you represent an institution of education, or the institution of education itself, when the people who run it--who are supposedly educated themselves--behave in such ways?  And, oh, should I mention that they're utterly homophobic.  They've stifled every attempt to start an LGBT organization on campus, and they don't want any public discussion of the issue.  I offered to take the "Safe Zone" training, at my own expense if necessary, so that I could make my office space a "safe haven" for students.  They said it was "too controversial;" never mind it's done at every other college in New York City.


Right now I just want to be in some quiet place, not in conferences and seminars, not behind a podium and talking to a bunch of people, not having to flatter people with whom I have absolutely nothing in common and who aren't listening. Better to be anonymous, even invisible.