The Last One?

The past year or so has been pretty strange.  Not bad, just unnerving.  Or I just don’t know what to make of it, or perhaps I’m not accepting something.

Of course I am still sad about John’s death.  Yesterday the mail carrier brought one of those “In Memoriam” cards with his photo and an inscription:  his birthdate, date of death, “Beloved husband of Mildred, father of Stefanie and Lisa, grandfather of Melanie and Steven.” And friend to me, to Joanne, to many other people.

I’m realizing that he’s probably the last male friend I’ve made in my life.  I can call him that because I never thought of him as someone I knew just because he was Mildred’s husband; he is one of the few men with whom I’ve felt comfortable.  In some ways, it seems improbable:  On the surface, we didn’t have that much in common.  But he, like Millie, knew the kinds of things about people and life that you don’t learn in classrooms, in seminars or seminaries, or in any place where people try to explain life in terms of theories or categories.  That, I believe, is the reason why they met me near the end of my life as Nick and became even better friends as I changed my clothes, my name, some of my surroundings, the way I think and, finally, my body.

I’m realizing that he may have been the last male friend I had.  Perhaps it was inevitable that, one day, I wouldn’t have any more male friends, if for no other reason that I never had very many.  Over the past year, I’ve met some men who have been nice, even kind, to me and didn’t seek anything in return.  Some belong to, or at least attend, the church that’s become part of my life.  At least two or three seem like they genuinely want to be friendly with me outside the eglesial walls, perhaps one of them might want to be in a more intimate relationship with me.  But I’m not ready for that, for him, for them.  To tell you the truth, I don’t want to be.  If anything, if I’m going to have such a relationship, I’d be more interested in having it with another woman, but even the prospect of that doesn’t interest, much less excite, me. 

For that matter, I don’t even feel ready to make new friends.  Actually, that’s not quite right:  I’m not ready to call anybody I’ve met within the past year, two years, a friend.  Perhaps it’s a matter of my age:  At this point in my life, I don’t think I can make instantaneous or even quick friendships. Perhaps it’s generational:  I didn’t grow up with the notion that someone I met only on some social medium is a friend.  (What can I say to someone who says he has 789 Facebook friends?)  It’s hard to think of anyone I’ve known less than ten—or, maybe, five—as a friend.

Someone might say I haven’t quite recovered from what Dominick or other men in my life have done to me.  They’re probably right.  Maybe I’m not ready to recover, whatever that means.  Maybe I can’t, or shouldn’t.  And, perhaps, it might keep me from thinking of myself as having made a new friend, especially with a man.

Am I Ready?

Yesterday I started teaching a summer class.  It’s the first such course I’m teaching in three years.  In the past, I’ve had good experiences with them:  Students who take them are usually committed or, at least, are working on a different clock from other people.  Maybe the latter is what I like about them.

Perhaps it’s the reason I’ve found myself becoming friendly with a particular faculty member.  This person is a self-described “odd person out”; at the very least, the route this person took to become a professor is very different from others.  This prof—I am doing everything I can not to reveal her/his identity—graduated near the bottom of hiz/hir high school class and didn’t start college until almost the age of 30.

The person of whom I’m speaking conducted a workshop in which I participated before spring break.  That’s how we met.  Actually, I passed this prof any number of times in the hallways and lounges but we never exchanged anything more than a “hello”.  I didn’t have any particular impression of the instructor I’ve mentioned, except for one of suffering.  Maybe that’s the reason I didn’t initiate a conversation:  I knew one or both of us would be telling or hearing a very long story and I wasn’t ready for it.

I’ve found out a bit about this prof’s circumstances and earlier life.  I’ve shared a bit about mine, but of course only in so much detail.  Part of the reason is that we have a professional relationship, but I also knew that anyone who has that person’s sense probably would not talk or listen to anyone who shared any more than I did in the brief time we’ve come to know each other.

What I know is that it won’t be an intimate or romantic relationship.  It has nothing to do with gender identity, sexual proclivities or even either of our relationship status (or lack thereof).  It’s not even a matter of our professional relationship or, at more precisely, my principle (which I’ve broken at least once) of not getting involved with anyone with whom I work.  Rather, I simply sense that sort of energy or chemistry or whatever you want to call it doesn’t exist—and that, if it did, I wouldn’t want to act on it.  In fact, I’m not sure I want to be in that sort of relationship with anybody, even though more than a few people have told me I should “find somebody”. 

If I become friends with the prof in question, that could be a good thing.  But I’m not quite ready to make a new friend anywhere, especially in a workplace.  A friendly acquaintance or colleague would be fine, though.

Doctor Of Hate

It's amazing how much hate you can get away with spreading if you have a "Dr." in front of your name or "Ph.D." after it.

Nobel Laureate William Shockley--who is often called "the father of Silicon Valley"--went on the lecture circuit to call for eugenics, saying that blacks were innately less intelligent than whites.  Of course, wherever he went, anyone tasked with promoting his lectures played up the fact that he won one of the world's most pretigious prizes.  However, the fact that it was for Physics was never mentioned; Shockley had no expertise in genetics, which was supposed to be the intellectual foundation of his prejudice.

More recently, Charles Murray and Richard Herrnstein used the confidence bestowed upon them on account of their academic attainments to promote nonsense much like Shockley's.  But together they had even less knowledge of genetics than Shockley had:  Murray was a political scientist and Herrnstein a psychologist.

Now we have another doctor in the House of Hate.  At least he is employed where he belongs:  Faux, I mean Fox, News.  I am referring to Dr. Keith Ablow, who excoriated the parents of Ryan Whittington, the six-year-old transgender boy whose parents are aiding his transition.  The estimable Dr. Ablow says that young Whittington--whose inspiring video went viral--would be better served by "antipsychotic" medications.


Whoa, there. First of all, too many lives have been ruined and people destroyed by the notion that transgenderism (or, for that matter, homosexuality or bisexuality) is a psychosis or mental illness.  Plenty of LGBT people were given such medications as children and even adults; some who survived the experience were left in a haze, unable to function in school, jobs or relationships.  Note that I said "who survived the experience":  Who knows how many committed suicide or died accidental deaths in their drug-addled states?

Whatever you think of helping such a young child transition, you probably wouldn't want your kid on most of those medications even to treat the conditions for which they're intended.  While I spent large parts of my life in one degree or another of depression, I am glad I was not prescribed such medications.  In fact, a therapist wanted to put me on Prozac, but I refused because I knew people who took it and didn't like what I saw.

Then there is the issue of Dr. Ablow's expertise.   Whatever it is, it ain't in gender issues.  And, whatever it is, it is not the core foundation of his work:  He seems to operate from the same phobias one finds in those who use their "faith" or religion as a rationale for their prejudices.  On top of the veneer of faith is the sheen of his scientific--or, in any event, academic--credentials.  "If he has those degrees, he must know what he's talking about."  I can hear people thinking that, just as they believed the Nobel Laureate Dr. Shockley must have had some insight into racial heirarchy the rest of us don't have.

In the end, he's really no different from Marcus, a.k.a. Mr. Michelle, Bachmann.

 

"It's Only Words." Sure.

From Amy Dentata

In The Garden

Yesterday, after riding to church, I took a ride with my friend Lakythia.  Before I embarked on that ride, I stopped in the church's garden.  I apologize for the poor quality of the photos:  I took them with my cell phone.  However, I thought I could share at least a little bit of the beauty I experienced on a beautiful late spring afternoon.

In case you're wondering, the church and garden are St. Luke In the Fields in Greenwich Village.

 

Naked In The City Of Rosebuds

OK, I admit it:  I've never been to Portland.  Now you might be asking yourself, "What kind of cyclist is she, anyway?"

And, sad to say, I don't expect to be there on the 7th.  Then again, some might be happy that I won't be in the City of Rosebuds for the World Naked Bike Ride.

I've never participated in a Naked Bike Ride.  Sometimes I had a very convenient excuse:  I was in a different part of the world from wherever the ride was taking place.  Even when the ride was in a more convenient location, I had a "scheduling conflict" or had less than a moment's notice.

Now, as to why the amount of notice should matter when the ride is happening in the city where I happen to be:  I don't know.  After all, how much planning could it take to get on your bike while wearing nothing at all?  Right?

Anyway, the ride's organizers say they're trying to promote positive body images.  Maybe that's the best reason for me to participate in the ride: I know I'm among the 99 percent.  Well, yeah, that 99 percent, but also the vast majority who look better with clothes than without them.  (Don't ask how I gained such knowledge!)  

What I've said, of course, makes me an example of something researchers have found:  high rates of body image issues--and a related problem, eating disorders--in the LGBT community.  While gay men and LGBT adolescents seem to be most at risk, the rest of us in the "rainbow" are far from immune because of our struggles with "coming out" and facing discrimination.

From last year's Philadelphia Naked Bike Ride

  Like other Naked Bike Rides, only the starting point has been announced.  The route is a secret.  The reason for that, of course, is to minimize the risk of arrest and of meeting protesters, hecklers and those who would wreak havoc with the ride (as in breaking bottles in the roadway).  I'm thinking now of one of the objections voiced by Orthodox Jewish communities to bike lanes being built in their Brooklyn communities:  The paths would channel "scantily clad bicyclists" (Yes, they used that phrase) through their streets, in front of their houses and shuls.

Interestingly, fundamentalist Christians and Muslims--Yes, there are lots of such people in the Big Apple!--did not voice the same objections.  And the Hasidic Jews of Williamsburg have become among the biggest users of Citibike, New York's bike share program.

In any event, I wish the Naked Bike Riders well. From what I've heard about the city, I'm sure they'll have a great time in Portland.

Thanks to Mandie's Bikes and Beyond for alerting me to the ride!  Check out the blog.

How Many Stereotypes Can You Maintain With $200,000?

Sometimes you can tell that someone just had to get a grant--whether to secure tenure or some other kind of promotion, justify his or her (or his or her organization's) existence--or get another grant.

Actually, sometimes it seems as if at least half the grants in this world fall into that category.  Perhaps I'm cynical from having spent so much time in the academic world, but I have heard of more than a few studies or projects and wondered, "The world needs this...how?"

I found myself asking that question when I read that the National Institutes of Health are  spending nearly $200,000 ostensibly to study how transgender women use social networking sites like Facebook, and how said use affects their chances of getting HIV.

What have the folks at NIH learned?  Well, they say, transwomen use Facebook and the like to "develop social support structures, connect with members of their community, receive positive and re-affirming perspectives on their gender identity and inform behavioral norms."

No!  Really?

I mean, couldn't the same be said of any member of an isolated, discriminated-against community...or any number of teenagers?  Or Goths? Or anyone with a hobby, a fetish or any interest, whether or not it's in the mainstream? Isn't that one of the reasons why people--especially the young--use Facebook:  to engage with people they can't meet in person or to enter worlds they're too shy to encroach upon?

The study also says trans women use social media to find illegal hormones and sex-work partners.  I mean, really:  This reinforces stereotypes about us that, really, are just exaggerations of the worst characteristics of the most deviant members of any group of people-- the ones who want to use engage in illegal or un-approved behavior.

Plus, as Kelli Busey of Planetransgender, points out, plenty of trans people have no access to the Net because they're homeless or simply too poor to afford a device or connection, or even time in an Internet cafe. We are disproportionately poor and homeless, and many spaces are off-limits to us, especially if we are, or are perceived as, poor, homeless or sex workers.

So what, exactly, is the NIH trying to accomplish with the study?  Kelli and others have suggested that it might be a way the government is spying on us.  I wouldn't discount that idea.  But I stick to my theory about needing a grant for the reasons I mentioned.  When people and organizations get and use grants for those reasons, they've already made up their minds about their subjects and the conclusions they will reach about them.  

Medicare Will Accept Applications For GRS Coverage

A US Department of Health and Human Services board has just ruled that Medicare recipients can no longer automatically be denied coverage for gender-reassignment surgeries.


Of course, this does not mean that every senior citizen who wants the surgery will get it at taxpayers' expense.  Rather, it gives Medicare recipients can seek authorization for the procedure by submitting a doctor's and mental health professional's documentation stating that the surgery is medically indicated in the applicant's case.


State-run Medicaid organizations as well as private insurers often take their cues from the Federal government in setting guidelines for coverage.  So, some have suggested, today's ruling could pave the way for gender-reassignment surgery becoming a routinely-covered benefit.


Such a prospect, of course, has opponents' knickers in a twist.  They believe that "anyone and everyone" will ask for the surgery and costs will rocket to the stratosphere.  However, even the most liberal estimates indicate that transgender people are no more than 0.4 percent of the population. Moreover, preliminary research indicates that coverage of medical treatments and procedures related to transgender issues has no discernible effect on the number of people who avail themselves to them.

A Spring Night On Grove Street

Is it true that in the Spring, a young bike's fancies turn to romance?  How does that saying go?

As the young would say...whatever!  I don't give advice about love and romance, but I'm willing to make recommendations for floral gifts:

Prejudice, To The Letter

Last night, I was having dinner with two friends and a friend of theirs—who, as it turns out, is a neighbor of mine.  We’re all artists and teachers of one kind or another so, as you can imagine, topics of our conversation included writers and writing, education and politics.

The friends are a couple; I met them in the church I’ve been attending.  Their friend—a nice straight woman who grew up Roman Catholic—is not religious but seems to be a theist of some sort.

Anyway, at one point, the conversation turned to the influence of religion in politics and what that’s meant for us.  One of the couple mentioned Michelle Bachmann, and talked about how she’s emblematic of what’s corrupting both education and politics:  She, like some other politicians and others working behind-the-scenes, attended fundamentalist Christian colleges and law schools.  “They want to run this country according to their version of Biblical law,” my friend exclaimed.

Of course, any time anyone tries to run anything according to the letter of any sort of scripture—religious or secular—said scripture is filtered through the mind of whoever is interpreting it.  We all have prejudices, but I am coming to realize that’s not the real problem of trying to run a country according to Mosaic or Sharia or whatever kind of law.  Instead, the real danger comes when someone tries to use a text—whether it’s the Bible or the Constitution or the Communist Manifesto—to support a particular agenda that has little or nothing to do with the text itself.

Here’s an example of what I mean:  Many well-intentioned people harbor unconscious prejudices against people whose races, nationalities, gender identities and expressions, beliefs or sexuality differ from their own.  Most of us learn those prejudices long before we learn even the words for them, let alone the intellectual tools to take those biases apart.  Being aware of, and fighting, them is all we can do.  On the other hand, some people will try to institutionalize those prejudices, whether through Biblical rationales for slavery or Koranic (Is that the proper word?) justifications for killing infidels—or using some interpretation of the Talmud as a basis for isolating themselves and their fellow believers from everyone else.

Essentially, Michelle Bachmann and her ilk are among those who are trying to use the Bible as a legal basis for discriminating against LGBT people.  What’s even worse, though, is that people like her have joined forces with lawyers and politician whose legal education is based mainly on property rights (or, again, someone’s notion of them) as well as laws and interpretations of laws designed to allow very wealthy people to gamble with what little people poorer than themselves have.

Why is the situation I’ve described so dangerous?  Well, making this country into a fundamentalist (again, according to someone’s interpretation) Christian state can leave us disenfranchised:  Enforcing bans on same-sex marriage, and repealing laws that allow it in some states, will be just the beginning.  Call me paranoid, but I can imagine someone creating a “heterosexuality test” or some determination of how closely someone conforms to accepted notions of gender identity and expression.  What will happen if such tests are used to determine whether someone can vote or get a job, loan or place to live? 

Such a test might be devised by Bachmann’s husband, a “psychotherapist” who practices “conversion therapy.”

Have I Crossed The Mason-Dixon Line Without Realizing It?

Yesterday I pedaled out to Somerville (NJ), in part to see the bike races.  I also wanted to just spend a day away from any obligations I normally have:  I could rationalize it to myself because Millie told me that she wanted to be alone and not to talk to anyone.  (Our mutual friend Joanne told me that Millie told her the same thing.)

But I also wanted to revisit an old ritual:  At one point in my life, I was pedaling out to Somerville every year, whether from Rutgers (half an hour, at most) or Inwood, Manhattan (about four hours).  I also wanted to see a place that had, and hadn’t changed during those years.

The first time I rode out there—on a non-race day—was some time in the late 1970’s, when I was a Rutgers student.  Then, Somerville had a certain kind of charm:  It seemed more like a Southern town than one in west-central New Jersey.  It had—as it has now—a pretty residential area full of houses with wooden porches framed by lacy wooden columns of carved vines or flutey stone colonnades.  And in the center of town, diagonally across from the courthouse (The town is the county seat.) is the Hotel Somerset, said to be the oldest continually-operating hostellerie in the nation.  The first time I saw it, I thought no one had stayed in it or eaten in its restaurant.  It still looks that way today, even though people actually do spend the night—or longer—there.

But I started to notice something disturbing about the town.  When I got there, I wondered whether I’d passed over the Mason-Dixon line somewhere in Middlesex Boro or Bound Brook.  At some point, I noticed that the pretty historic residential area housed only white residents.  I thought even I might have been too dark to live there.  All of the people of color—very few in number during my first visit, more numerous now—live in a tightly-bounded area of town south of the hotel, along East Main Street and   --which, interestingly, ends right by the race’s grandstand.

I wonder whether anyone else who came to see the races noticed--or knows that Somerville is the town in which Paul Robeson went to high school.