I Am Her, I Am She, I Am Woman!
**adult language and content warning**
I am suspicious of popular trends. Always have been. Until I get a chance to evaluate a movie, song, or whatever else that has captured the cultural zeitgeist, I am distrustful. This doesn't mean I won't jump on the popularity bandwagon - it just means I'm initially... careful. The world of Harry Potter is a perfect example of this. The year was 1998, and I was working in a second grade classroom. All of a sudden, it seemed as if every student was reading one of the three HP books that had been published at that point. The whole thing seemed ridiculous to me. On the other hand, I always tried to read the books that were popular with kids so that I could have conversations with the students about them. In that spirit, I picked up the first book - HP and the Sorcerer's Stone, - and began reading...
... and was utterly captivated by the third page. I got Rebecca hooked, too. We turned into those wacky adults you would see lined up at the bookstores at midnight when each subsequent book was published. It was, in a word, "magical" (ha-ha, funny, I know). With other supposedly mature adults we had important discussions regarding the: "True nature of the prophecy", "Whether Snape was good or evil," and the all important, "Would Harry survive the final book?" Universal themes such as the importance of friendship; the strength of loving one another; acceptance of those who are different than you; standing up for outsiders, the marginalized, and the bullied; and finally, the importance of doing the right thing - even against impossible odds, provided a backbone that ran throughout the entire series. In the end, the forces of good, though horribly bruised and battered, were victorious. It was all glorious stuff.
And then JK Rowling had to fuck it all up.
Background
I've described gender critical feminists on the blog a few times before. They're commonly called TERFs, (Trans Exclusionary Radical Feminists). In short, they are a small, but LOUD group known for their extreme hostility towards trans women (but not so much trans men - go figure). They assert only those born with a vagina and XX chromosomes are 'real' women. They view trans women as 'interlopers' who cannot know or represent the 'feminine' experience; and make the lives of cis women less safe. Finally, they also believe that the presence of transgender women (in the world), 'erases' the lives and experiences of cis women in their ongoing struggles against misogyny and oppression.
A lot of what they espouse is transphobic, hateful, and full of logical fallacies and blindspots. But before we go any further, let me explain something that goes to the core of my struggle to understand my gender identity. I don't completely disagree with them. There are many cultural and physical milestones that are quintessentially 'female' that I will never experience. I ruminate on that quite often, and to be honest, it fills me with sadness and longing. But I've come to realize that 'sadness and longing' is a very slippery slope. When I talk about feelings of 'missing out,' I'm making a huge assumption that the milestones I'm referring to were experienced exactly the same way by every single cis woman. Such a notion is patently absurd. Which brings us to a huge philosophical mistake these TERFs make when they assume there is only one, ubiquitous 'female experience' that disqualifies trans women from being considered authentically female. Yes, there are "girl things" I missed out on, but that's only because the path I'm on, uniquely my own, is a little bit different than most women. That doesn't make it wrong, though...
Back to the Present
Maya Forstater is a tax expert from Britain. She is also a TERF. She had a job at the Center for Global Development until recently. When her contract had run it's course, she was not re-appointed. She believed this occurred because of her vocal opposition towards transgender people and their, (well, our) desire for equal protection under the law. She was undoubtedly correct. Her problem, however, was that her "vocal opposition" created a hostile work environment for any trans people (and others), she came into contact with - she had a long history of abrasive behavior in the work setting specific to her personal believes vis a vis the rights of transgender people. She pursued satisfaction through the courts, and it became a bit of a cause celebre in Britain. Was her freedom of speech an absolute right or not? (See #76 for a full description of her comments, tweets, etc.)
On December 18, 2019, the court dismissed her claim. The ruling against her outlined her extensive history of transphobic remarks, and found that she "is absolutist in her view of sex and... will refer to a person by the sex she considered appropriate even if it violates [the person's] dignity and/or creates an intimidating, hostile, degrading, humiliating or offensive environment. The approach is not worthy of respect in a democratic society... If a [male to female transgender] person has transitioned from male to female and has a Gender Recognition Certificate that person is legally a woman. That is not something that the Claimant is entitled to ignore."
You might be wondering what it was about Ms. Forstater's behavior that was considered so offensive. Quite simply, she referred to trans people by intentionally using the wrong pronouns. Doesn't sound like such a big deal, does it? Let me digress...
A Crucially Vital, Really, Really Important Point I Need To Make
It really fucking hurts to get misgendered - even when there is no ill intent on the part of the speaker. As a trans person, I have worked so damn hard to get to where I am at - emotionally, legally, and physically. And I know it might not make sense to those of you who aren't gender dysphoric (ie. most of you), but one little fucking pronoun really can take a toll and leave an emotional scar.
Listen, I don't have to be Black to know that it hurts to be called a n*****. I don't have to be a gay man to know it hurts to be called a f*****. I don't have to be Jewish, or Hispanic, or Aisian, or whatever ethnic, religious, or societal group you want to mention to know that it hurts to be disrespected and insulted. And neither do any of you. More importantly, we all know better than to use that kind of language when referring to others. All I'm asking of you, my audience, is to realize that misgendering a trans person is tantamount to any other offensive term used to describe any group of people.
So, yeah, it was kind of a big deal that Ms. Forstater continued to belligerently and intentionally use the wrong pronoun when referencing her trans colleagues.
Where JK Went Wrong
With a hashtag and a tweet expressing support for Ms. Forstater, JK Rowling broke my heart when she wrote the following:
"Dress however you please. Call yourself whatever you like. Sleep with any consenting adult who'll have you. Live your best life in peace and security. But force women out of their jobs for stating that sex is real?"
Sigh.
Ok. Let's take this sucker apart, one sentence at a time.
1. Being a trans woman, and coming to terms with it, goes far, far beyond being able to chose from a wider variety of clothing. I mean, it's nice and all; but if it was just about the clothes, we'd be satisfied with occasionally crossdressing. In truth, as I'm writing this, I'm wearing blue jeans and a green shirt. An outfit that I might have worn in my old life.
2. Thank you Ms. Rowling. I will call myself whatever I like - is it too much that you call me that, too?
3. This line is especially ignorant and offensive. It's shocking that a woman of Ms. Rowling's intellect doesn't understand it. Being trans has NOTHING to do with sexual intercourse!
4. Again, thank you. Of course to "live [my] best life in peace and security," I need to transition so that I can finally reconcile my body and soul. (And hope that others, like oh, say, you and Ms. Forstater will respect that)
5. She was not forced out of her job because of her opinions. She lost her job because of the manner in which she expressed her opinions.
How could the person who crafted such a wonderful story where one of the primary themes is learning to accept and value the differences among all people fail so spectacularly when it came to recognizing me? Laugh at me, if you will, but it hurt a lot to realize that I would have gotten "chucked out of Hogwarts on my arse" as soon as I arrived just for being the person God made me to be.
Addendum
While were at it:
6. Claiming that trans women in bathrooms, locker rooms, prisons, etc. is harmful to cis women is dubious at best. I have destroyed this argument a few times. (see #68)
7. I come to womanhood with nary an eraser in sight. As a trans woman, I have no desire to "erase" the experiences and struggles of the women that have come before me. I'm pretty sure that most of my trans sisters feel the same way. We're not trying to take over the clubhouse - we just want to be invited in.
8. As I said earlier - there is no such thing as one, universal 'female' experience. To claim that there is, and that you alone get to define it demonstrates a hubris that Trump would aspire to.
9. Anytime your allies are religious conservatives, you need to reevaluate your thoughts and opinions.
10. The "what you are at birth is what you are" argument is really stupid. Surely, if a child is born with a hearing impairment that can fixed with surgery, you wouldn't argue against it. What about a cleft palate, or spina bifida, or some other disease or malady? Only insane people would argue against medical intervention.
Monday, December 30, 2019
Wednesday, December 18, 2019
Number 74
29 Pounds of Progress
I first need to offer up a bit of an apology. In the past, I have been clear about two things: (1) Feel free to ask me questions about my transition. If it's a question I don't wish to answer, I won't. (2) Don't ask me about my genitals. By publishing this post, in which my genitals are implicitly involved, I am guilty of sending you, my audience, a mixed message. That's not fair of me and I'm sorry. But seriously, don't ask me about my genitals.
Six months ago, June 18th to be exact, I had my first consult with the plastic surgeon who will (hopefully) one day be responsible for the vaginoplasty surgery that Idesperately urgently really badly want. A quick reminder for anyone new. Vaginoplasty is the fashioning of a vagina, vulva, and other various parts of the female genitalia, using the various parts from a penis and scrotum. Just to clarify, the penis and scrotum parts come from the same person having the vaginoplasty surgery. In that way, it works out really well for everyone involved. Except for Trump. He hates us.
Anyway, my optimistic feelings at finally meeting this doctor quickly turned to scared and bitter tears. He was unwilling to proceed with the surgery as things stood. In other words - I was too fat and too out of shape.
Way back in the Spring of 1988, I was a legit snack. I was a lean, mean, muscled 185 pounds. Unfortunately, as the years went on, I slowly added more and more weight and got less and less exercise. I tipped the scales that June day, six months ago, at an, 'ahem', less than svelte 260 pounds. In my defense, I've always kind of had a "fire plug" body shape, and a tribe of cannibals could survive off my thighs for a long while, so it wasn't 100% obvious that I had let myself go to such an extent.
Even so, part of me knew I was too heavy, and that I needed more regular exercise. At the time I was going to a gym two or three times a week to ride the bike or walk the treadmill. I was kind of trying to eat better, but it was a half-hearted effort at best.
A day or two later, my despair turned to firm resolve. The first thing to go was soda pop - my worst "food" vice - even if it was "diet." Cold turkey, I stopped. Milk and a lot of dairy went. Carbs, too. More importantly, I started counting calories, and was amazed to discover how quickly my normal eating habits took me past 2,000 calories/day. I quickly got to a point where I was averaging between 1,500 to 2,000 calories/day.
I hit the gym with a vengeance. From two or three times a week to 5 or 6. I started to lose weight. one to two pounds a week, but I was only doing aerobic exercise. I was instructed that if I wanted to be in better shape, I also needed to do weight training. So I did - for the first time since college. However, there was a Catch-22. While strength work does get you in good shape, it doesn't help you lose weight. Basically you're converting "bad" weight to "good" weight, but those good results don't necessarily show up when you step on the scale. I stopped weighing myself, because I knew it was a mistake to fixate on my weight alone. I hoped the surgeon would understand that.
Yesterday I had a follow-up appointment. I was a nervous wreck leading up to the appointment. I knew how hard I had worked, but surgeons don't take that into account. I had either prepared my body enough to proceed, or I had not. With trepidation, I stepped up on the scale. 231 pounds. I also knew my weight training had toned up my body considerably.
"Good Work", he concluded without indicating if that was good enough or not. He then proceeded to talk to me about what the surgery entailed, and what complications could happen. I then had a "wait a minute" moment, and it occurred to me that he would not be having this particular conversation with me, if he wasn't willing to proceed.
I had done it.
Now, it's up to logistics and scheduling. I don't know exactly when, but sometime this spring... I left the clinic building walking on air and giggling uncontrollably. What a wonderful feeling!
I first need to offer up a bit of an apology. In the past, I have been clear about two things: (1) Feel free to ask me questions about my transition. If it's a question I don't wish to answer, I won't. (2) Don't ask me about my genitals. By publishing this post, in which my genitals are implicitly involved, I am guilty of sending you, my audience, a mixed message. That's not fair of me and I'm sorry. But seriously, don't ask me about my genitals.
Six months ago, June 18th to be exact, I had my first consult with the plastic surgeon who will (hopefully) one day be responsible for the vaginoplasty surgery that I
Anyway, my optimistic feelings at finally meeting this doctor quickly turned to scared and bitter tears. He was unwilling to proceed with the surgery as things stood. In other words - I was too fat and too out of shape.
Way back in the Spring of 1988, I was a legit snack. I was a lean, mean, muscled 185 pounds. Unfortunately, as the years went on, I slowly added more and more weight and got less and less exercise. I tipped the scales that June day, six months ago, at an, 'ahem', less than svelte 260 pounds. In my defense, I've always kind of had a "fire plug" body shape, and a tribe of cannibals could survive off my thighs for a long while, so it wasn't 100% obvious that I had let myself go to such an extent.
Even so, part of me knew I was too heavy, and that I needed more regular exercise. At the time I was going to a gym two or three times a week to ride the bike or walk the treadmill. I was kind of trying to eat better, but it was a half-hearted effort at best.
A day or two later, my despair turned to firm resolve. The first thing to go was soda pop - my worst "food" vice - even if it was "diet." Cold turkey, I stopped. Milk and a lot of dairy went. Carbs, too. More importantly, I started counting calories, and was amazed to discover how quickly my normal eating habits took me past 2,000 calories/day. I quickly got to a point where I was averaging between 1,500 to 2,000 calories/day.
I hit the gym with a vengeance. From two or three times a week to 5 or 6. I started to lose weight. one to two pounds a week, but I was only doing aerobic exercise. I was instructed that if I wanted to be in better shape, I also needed to do weight training. So I did - for the first time since college. However, there was a Catch-22. While strength work does get you in good shape, it doesn't help you lose weight. Basically you're converting "bad" weight to "good" weight, but those good results don't necessarily show up when you step on the scale. I stopped weighing myself, because I knew it was a mistake to fixate on my weight alone. I hoped the surgeon would understand that.
Yesterday I had a follow-up appointment. I was a nervous wreck leading up to the appointment. I knew how hard I had worked, but surgeons don't take that into account. I had either prepared my body enough to proceed, or I had not. With trepidation, I stepped up on the scale. 231 pounds. I also knew my weight training had toned up my body considerably.
"Good Work", he concluded without indicating if that was good enough or not. He then proceeded to talk to me about what the surgery entailed, and what complications could happen. I then had a "wait a minute" moment, and it occurred to me that he would not be having this particular conversation with me, if he wasn't willing to proceed.
I had done it.
Now, it's up to logistics and scheduling. I don't know exactly when, but sometime this spring... I left the clinic building walking on air and giggling uncontrollably. What a wonderful feeling!
Sunday, December 15, 2019
Number 73
Was I a Good Role Model?
Before starting, I need to restate a few "truths" about my identity as a trans woman. Even though I appeared to be a male for the first 50 years of my life, it is more accurate to think of this as the amount of time it took for my true, female identity to come to fruition and reveal itself. I know, I know: I was surprised, too, when it revealed itself. The other important thing to remember is that I did not "choose" to be trans. Remember - the transition process is not a gender "switch," but a "confirmation."
In my 'old' life, I worked in elementary education for 20 years. I spent time working with children in every grade kindergarten through grade six. As I've written before, elementary ed. is, by and large, a woman's game. As an example, during my years teaching kindergarten, only 1% of K teachers nationally were male. My only point here, devoid of any sociological philosophizing as to "why?," is that almost all of my colleagues during this time were women, and that this was extraordinarily normal.
So, during this time, in addition to thinking of myself as 'husband', 'parent', 'uncle', etc. I identified myself professionally as a 'male elementary school teacher.' The reason I stress the "male" part has to do with the reality I wrote about above. There weren't many male teachers working the elementary school side of the street of public education. As such, it was stressed over and over how important these few male teachers were. For many students coming from broken and fractured homes, a male teacher might be their only quality encounter with a grown male all day. Therefore it was crucial, especially for young boys, that interactions with male teachers be as positive as possible.
I understood this reality, and willingly accepted the fact that many of my students might see me as some sort of role model, or even as a 'father figure.' It was important to me that I model behavior appropriate for a grown man - especially for the young boys in my charge. I always felt that I acquitted myself pretty well in this regard. At least until recently. Which brings us to the crux of today's question. Since I was really a "girl in boy's clothing" (which is better than being a "wolf in sheep's clothing," I suppose), I have become concerned about my legitimacy as a role model back in the day.
"Boys, this is how an adult male behaves - you should strive to emulate me. Just kidding - this is really how a (confused) adult female behaves. Joke's on you. Ha-ha"
I suppose I could claim that I was, as a man, a "super good mimic," which means that my efforts in this regard weren't all for naught. I mean, I thought I was a dude at the time. That's gotta count for something, right?
Look, I know I'm probably tying myself up in an unnecessary knot over this, but I put my heart and soul into my teaching; and I always strived to be as honest with my students as possible. Even though I was surprised as anybody when I realized I was trans, I do look back at this particular aspect of my teaching career, and feel like a liar and a fraud. Harsh judgement, it's true, but it won't be the first time I've been my own, worst critic. Unfortunately, it probably won't be the last...
Before starting, I need to restate a few "truths" about my identity as a trans woman. Even though I appeared to be a male for the first 50 years of my life, it is more accurate to think of this as the amount of time it took for my true, female identity to come to fruition and reveal itself. I know, I know: I was surprised, too, when it revealed itself. The other important thing to remember is that I did not "choose" to be trans. Remember - the transition process is not a gender "switch," but a "confirmation."
In my 'old' life, I worked in elementary education for 20 years. I spent time working with children in every grade kindergarten through grade six. As I've written before, elementary ed. is, by and large, a woman's game. As an example, during my years teaching kindergarten, only 1% of K teachers nationally were male. My only point here, devoid of any sociological philosophizing as to "why?," is that almost all of my colleagues during this time were women, and that this was extraordinarily normal.
So, during this time, in addition to thinking of myself as 'husband', 'parent', 'uncle', etc. I identified myself professionally as a 'male elementary school teacher.' The reason I stress the "male" part has to do with the reality I wrote about above. There weren't many male teachers working the elementary school side of the street of public education. As such, it was stressed over and over how important these few male teachers were. For many students coming from broken and fractured homes, a male teacher might be their only quality encounter with a grown male all day. Therefore it was crucial, especially for young boys, that interactions with male teachers be as positive as possible.
I understood this reality, and willingly accepted the fact that many of my students might see me as some sort of role model, or even as a 'father figure.' It was important to me that I model behavior appropriate for a grown man - especially for the young boys in my charge. I always felt that I acquitted myself pretty well in this regard. At least until recently. Which brings us to the crux of today's question. Since I was really a "girl in boy's clothing" (which is better than being a "wolf in sheep's clothing," I suppose), I have become concerned about my legitimacy as a role model back in the day.
"Boys, this is how an adult male behaves - you should strive to emulate me. Just kidding - this is really how a (confused) adult female behaves. Joke's on you. Ha-ha"
I suppose I could claim that I was, as a man, a "super good mimic," which means that my efforts in this regard weren't all for naught. I mean, I thought I was a dude at the time. That's gotta count for something, right?
Look, I know I'm probably tying myself up in an unnecessary knot over this, but I put my heart and soul into my teaching; and I always strived to be as honest with my students as possible. Even though I was surprised as anybody when I realized I was trans, I do look back at this particular aspect of my teaching career, and feel like a liar and a fraud. Harsh judgement, it's true, but it won't be the first time I've been my own, worst critic. Unfortunately, it probably won't be the last...
Friday, December 13, 2019
Number 72
Sixteen Clues
If this entry was a "who-dun-it," Agatha Christie type mystery, the last page would read something along the lines of: "Whaddya know?! I'm a trans women." In other words, that would be the conclusion of this particular book. "Yeah, Nora, no kidding, we already know that. By the way, you have been paying attention to what you've been writing lately, right Captain Obvious?"
"Ouch." Apparently my audience is a little restless today.
Let me try again. I only became aware of my trans identity a few years ago, at age 51. Since starting my transition, I have spent a lot of time reflecting back on my 'old' life, wondering how this 'minor little detail' could have eluded me for so long (since it seems a wee bit obvious now). You know, kinda like in a murder mystery, after the killer is revealed, you let out an exasperated "Well, of course!" What follows are a list of "clues" that might have given me some insight, if I had been paying attention.
The itsy-bitsy little detail that, with great amounts of shame and self-ridicule, I tried very hard to avoid any meaningful acknowledgement or analysis of what my interest in women's clothing might mean. In the world of mystery fiction writing, this is a technique known as "misdirection." Or, in other words, I missed some of the clues because I had my head resolutely buried deep in the sand, and avoided giving them any serious contemplation.
There is not one, uniform life story among trans people. Not all of us have the: "Ever since I was little, I felt like I was in the wrong body" experience. Don't look for that here.
Clue One: That night I was home alone and the idea to explore my mom's closet popped into my head for the first time. I was 11 or 12. I still have no idea where the idea came from. I don't mean to imply that I had no awareness of men or boys dressing in female clothing. I had certainly seen crossdressing on TV and movies, among other things. What I mean to say is that before the idea popped into my head that night, I don't remember ever having thoughts of 'dressing up' myself.
Clue Two: Noticing the "training" bras the sixth grade girls were starting to wear. Other boys wanted to snap the straps. I remember wondering what it felt like to wear one. I also remember being jealous of the girls in junior and senior high school when they would come to school "dressed up."
Clue Three: This is a fairly significant clue in retrospect. Going to sleep at night, with my genitals tucked down between my legs, and wishing that I would wake up a girl. This happened frequently during my adolescent years.
Clue Four: Enuresis. More colloquially known as "bed-wetting." I had episodic experience of this twice in my childhood. The first was when I was younger - at a similar age that many children experience this issue. The second was when I was older, though. At the time I was in 5th grade, and my teacher hated me and caused me unending turmoil. (Trust me, she did - otherwise this entry will get hopelessly sidetracked.) I always thought it was because she considered me rich and privileged. Now I think differently. Since she basically had the instincts of a feral cat, I believe she "sensed" something about me that was different than the other boys.
Clue Five: What my 5th grade teacher "sensed." I was a fairly sensitive kid - especially for a boy (in terms of the socialized cultural norms of the time). I was shy and my feelings could be easily hurt. I suppose I could have been considered a "Momma's boy." A story that my mom tells, that I don't actually remember, has me returning from a birthday party and complaining about the way the birthday boy just "ripped the paper off the presents" without first taking the time to appreciate the way the gift was wrapped.
(Clues 4 and 5 together spotlight a general level of discomfited anxiety that I now realize was present most of my life. I didn't realize it, though, because I was so used to living with it everyday. The disappearance of this "baseline" level of functioning coincidentally coincided with the acceptance of my trans identity. Go figure.)
Clue Six: Halloween. This would have been a perfect time for me to indulge in a little bit of "gender-bending," right? Oh, how desperately I wanted to, but I was utterly convinced that everyone would know the 'real' reason I chose a costume that allowed me to dress up as a woman. Also, the way I immediately short circuited any (internal) discussion about a cross-gendered costume at Halloween is a perfect example of the way that I 'successfully' avoided my gender identity issue for so long.
Clue Seven: The Book of Lists #2. This book was originally published in 1980, and I was 14. One of their lists in the chapter "Sex and Love," was entitled "10 Renowned Transexuals." I owned the paperback version, and given that my love of trivia has been a life long obsession, I picked up the book and often read through it. Interestingly, the binding of the book was 'broken' in such a way that, after some time, it automatically fell open to that particular list. Go figure.
Clue Eight: My first grown-up job after I graduated college was to manage the office for a Neuropsychologist. As the office staff consisted of him and me, the 'management' part was pretty easy to handle. I would prep materials before an examination. Afterwards, I would score the various tests, and write the first draft of the report. As this 'first draft' only consisted of me entering test scores into an already written "boilerplate" report, this task wasn't as important as it sounds. In any event, one of the tests that I had to score was the MMPI - a personality inventory of over 600 questions. One day, when things were slow, I filled out my own MMPI and scored the results. Surprisingly, I scored highly on the scale that evaluated gender related issues.
Clues Nine & Ten: Early on, I made the decision that I would be open about my transition process, and that I would answer any questions about it, should someone ask. Primarily because I feel that by doing so, I can educate folks and de-stigmatize the transition process. However, I also reserved the right to NOT answer a question if I felt it was too much an invasion of my privacy. (For example - don't ask me about my genitals, unless you're prepared to discuss yours first!). I know what clues 9 and 10 are, but I am reserving the right to keep them to myself. (Believe It! Or Not!) But, yes, neither clue needs Sherlock Holmes to reach the conclusion: "Nora, duh! How dense were you?"
If this entry was a "who-dun-it," Agatha Christie type mystery, the last page would read something along the lines of: "Whaddya know?! I'm a trans women." In other words, that would be the conclusion of this particular book. "Yeah, Nora, no kidding, we already know that. By the way, you have been paying attention to what you've been writing lately, right Captain Obvious?"
"Ouch." Apparently my audience is a little restless today.
Let me try again. I only became aware of my trans identity a few years ago, at age 51. Since starting my transition, I have spent a lot of time reflecting back on my 'old' life, wondering how this 'minor little detail' could have eluded me for so long (since it seems a wee bit obvious now). You know, kinda like in a murder mystery, after the killer is revealed, you let out an exasperated "Well, of course!" What follows are a list of "clues" that might have given me some insight, if I had been paying attention.
The One, Huge Caveat Before We Continue
The itsy-bitsy little detail that, with great amounts of shame and self-ridicule, I tried very hard to avoid any meaningful acknowledgement or analysis of what my interest in women's clothing might mean. In the world of mystery fiction writing, this is a technique known as "misdirection." Or, in other words, I missed some of the clues because I had my head resolutely buried deep in the sand, and avoided giving them any serious contemplation.
the one, small caveat before we continue
There is not one, uniform life story among trans people. Not all of us have the: "Ever since I was little, I felt like I was in the wrong body" experience. Don't look for that here.
The Clues
Clue One: That night I was home alone and the idea to explore my mom's closet popped into my head for the first time. I was 11 or 12. I still have no idea where the idea came from. I don't mean to imply that I had no awareness of men or boys dressing in female clothing. I had certainly seen crossdressing on TV and movies, among other things. What I mean to say is that before the idea popped into my head that night, I don't remember ever having thoughts of 'dressing up' myself.
Clue Two: Noticing the "training" bras the sixth grade girls were starting to wear. Other boys wanted to snap the straps. I remember wondering what it felt like to wear one. I also remember being jealous of the girls in junior and senior high school when they would come to school "dressed up."
Clue Three: This is a fairly significant clue in retrospect. Going to sleep at night, with my genitals tucked down between my legs, and wishing that I would wake up a girl. This happened frequently during my adolescent years.
Clue Four: Enuresis. More colloquially known as "bed-wetting." I had episodic experience of this twice in my childhood. The first was when I was younger - at a similar age that many children experience this issue. The second was when I was older, though. At the time I was in 5th grade, and my teacher hated me and caused me unending turmoil. (Trust me, she did - otherwise this entry will get hopelessly sidetracked.) I always thought it was because she considered me rich and privileged. Now I think differently. Since she basically had the instincts of a feral cat, I believe she "sensed" something about me that was different than the other boys.
Clue Five: What my 5th grade teacher "sensed." I was a fairly sensitive kid - especially for a boy (in terms of the socialized cultural norms of the time). I was shy and my feelings could be easily hurt. I suppose I could have been considered a "Momma's boy." A story that my mom tells, that I don't actually remember, has me returning from a birthday party and complaining about the way the birthday boy just "ripped the paper off the presents" without first taking the time to appreciate the way the gift was wrapped.
(Clues 4 and 5 together spotlight a general level of discomfited anxiety that I now realize was present most of my life. I didn't realize it, though, because I was so used to living with it everyday. The disappearance of this "baseline" level of functioning coincidentally coincided with the acceptance of my trans identity. Go figure.)
Clue Six: Halloween. This would have been a perfect time for me to indulge in a little bit of "gender-bending," right? Oh, how desperately I wanted to, but I was utterly convinced that everyone would know the 'real' reason I chose a costume that allowed me to dress up as a woman. Also, the way I immediately short circuited any (internal) discussion about a cross-gendered costume at Halloween is a perfect example of the way that I 'successfully' avoided my gender identity issue for so long.
Clue Seven: The Book of Lists #2. This book was originally published in 1980, and I was 14. One of their lists in the chapter "Sex and Love," was entitled "10 Renowned Transexuals." I owned the paperback version, and given that my love of trivia has been a life long obsession, I picked up the book and often read through it. Interestingly, the binding of the book was 'broken' in such a way that, after some time, it automatically fell open to that particular list. Go figure.
Clue Eight: My first grown-up job after I graduated college was to manage the office for a Neuropsychologist. As the office staff consisted of him and me, the 'management' part was pretty easy to handle. I would prep materials before an examination. Afterwards, I would score the various tests, and write the first draft of the report. As this 'first draft' only consisted of me entering test scores into an already written "boilerplate" report, this task wasn't as important as it sounds. In any event, one of the tests that I had to score was the MMPI - a personality inventory of over 600 questions. One day, when things were slow, I filled out my own MMPI and scored the results. Surprisingly, I scored highly on the scale that evaluated gender related issues.
Clues Nine & Ten: Early on, I made the decision that I would be open about my transition process, and that I would answer any questions about it, should someone ask. Primarily because I feel that by doing so, I can educate folks and de-stigmatize the transition process. However, I also reserved the right to NOT answer a question if I felt it was too much an invasion of my privacy. (For example - don't ask me about my genitals, unless you're prepared to discuss yours first!). I know what clues 9 and 10 are, but I am reserving the right to keep them to myself. (Believe It! Or Not!) But, yes, neither clue needs Sherlock Holmes to reach the conclusion: "Nora, duh! How dense were you?"
Clue Eleven: Research, research, research. In almost every library or bookstore I visited in my old life, I always checked out the non-fiction sections for books that dealt with transgender issues
Clue Twelve: No big shock that having summers more-or-less off is one of the best things about being a teacher. One of the things I frequently did with my time was to take a week or two and volunteer to be a camp counselor. One year, when I was scheduled to have a cabin full of 4th grade boys, the two directors came to me and told me about one of the children they had placed with me. This child, they told me, would often dress in girl's clothing. As it turned out, this child made their own choice to leave any girl's clothing at home for the week, so it became a moot issue. However, I've thought often about why the two directors chose me to be that particular child's counselor. Although it was a vote of confidence on their parts, it also left me feeling "exposed." What did they know, hmmm?
Clue Thirteen: Though this is a significant clue, I don't need to spend a lot of time on it, as it has been written about previously. As an elementary school teacher, my vocational choice was incredibly female-centric. I don't ever remember being uncomfortable among a large group of female colleagues. I'm sure it would have been anxiety provoking had I ever been in the same size group with all men.
Clue Twelve: No big shock that having summers more-or-less off is one of the best things about being a teacher. One of the things I frequently did with my time was to take a week or two and volunteer to be a camp counselor. One year, when I was scheduled to have a cabin full of 4th grade boys, the two directors came to me and told me about one of the children they had placed with me. This child, they told me, would often dress in girl's clothing. As it turned out, this child made their own choice to leave any girl's clothing at home for the week, so it became a moot issue. However, I've thought often about why the two directors chose me to be that particular child's counselor. Although it was a vote of confidence on their parts, it also left me feeling "exposed." What did they know, hmmm?
Clue Thirteen: Though this is a significant clue, I don't need to spend a lot of time on it, as it has been written about previously. As an elementary school teacher, my vocational choice was incredibly female-centric. I don't ever remember being uncomfortable among a large group of female colleagues. I'm sure it would have been anxiety provoking had I ever been in the same size group with all men.
Clue Fourteen: I was recently visiting my mother who has, hanging on her walls, a shit ton of photographs of her children. Since that includes me, there are obviously many pictures of myself as a child. This clue might be a bit of a cheat, as it's much more obvious after the fact, but the pictures of me taken before puberty set in could just as easily been of a child assigned female at birth as one who was assigned male. Add to this the declaration that my mother would often make that my hair was "wasted on a boy!"
Clue Fifteen: I have played video games much of my life. I remember the exact moment I played Space Invaders for the first time - visiting my sister for little sibs weekend at Ohio University in Athens, Ohio. In any event, in some of those of the games I've played, I could choose my character (or my character's name). Whenever I felt I could get away with it, I would choose a female character or name.
Clue Sixteen: Two of Stephen King's earlier books - 'Salem's Lot & Firestarter - had one (very) minor character was transgender. Oh my goodness! I can't even guess how many times I read, and re-read those short, short passages.
There. 16 clues. There are probably others that will be uncovered as I simultaneously move forward and look back. But, to paraphrase the ending of the movie Babe: "That'll do, Nora, that'll do."
There. 16 clues. There are probably others that will be uncovered as I simultaneously move forward and look back. But, to paraphrase the ending of the movie Babe: "That'll do, Nora, that'll do."
Thursday, December 12, 2019
Number 71
On Debts That Can't Be Repaid
Debt #1 Late in the evening of February 13, 2016, I received a call from a surgeon who informed me that my wife was headed to the operating room for emergency surgery and her survival was at stake. She had been unwell all day; but when I had left her at the hospital a few hours earlier to be home with our daughter, the nurses and doctors seemed confident that they knew how to treat her. To say I was surprised is putting it mildly. In any event, I felt a need to get to the hospital ASAP. I called Paul, my brother-in-law in Northfield to come stay at the house with Grace, but he would not be arrive for another hour or so. What to do in the meantime?
I called my friend Patrick. He was a neighbor and good friend who I thought might be able to come over right away, so I could be on my way. He's also a pastor (not ours, though), and because I was putting out vibes of extreme anxiety, he took a moment to listen to me. He then said that he and his wife, Mary Beth, were visiting with family in St. Paul and, unfortunately he was not available. We hung up.
With nothing else to do, I sat with Grace until Paul arrived, and I scooted over to the hospital where Rebecca was still in surgery. (A brief aside: one person I didn't call with my wife's life in the balance, was our own pastor, because, well, he was a turd.) While I was pacing around waiting for news, who should walk in but Patrick. To be honest, I don't remember much of our conversation, but here's the gist. As soon as he hung up with me, Mary Beth handed him his coat and they left their party. She was experienced enough as a pastor's spouse that she knew when Patrick was talking to someone in distress and he needed to be somewhere. He wasn't my pastor, but he sat and comforted me as we waited for news that didn't come until long after the next day had started.
Debt #2 The morning of February 14, 2016 was even worse. When Paul, Grace, and I arrived at the hospital, we were told that Rebecca would not live through the day. The rest of day were to be a vigil. Unfortunately, Emma wasn't with us. She was three hours away at Iowa State University. One of my dearest friends, Kimberly, called her husband, Dayle, and asked if he could drive down to Ames, and bring Emma home (you know, before her mother died). Without hesitation, he was up and on his way. Only, let's make things more interesting and toss in a snow storm. Seriously.
Emma made it.
Debt #3 Two other people who were present as the worst day of our lives unfolded were Steve and Margo. They had been our closest Mankato friends ever since our family's arrival in 2010. They were as devastated as any of us at Rebecca's passing, but they quickly took the girls and me under their wings and offered professional levels of TLC.
On Monday, Steve accompanied me to the mortuary to assist me in the legal disposition of Rebecca's body, as well as the initial planning of her memorial service. I think I thought I was "on top of things", but honestly, how could I have been? Every time I needed to make a decision, or sign something, I would turn to Steve, and he would silently nod his head. I then knew it was safe for me to proceed. Without Steve, I could probably show you the deed I signed that day that tells you I own the Brooklyn Bridge.
Debt #4 My older brother, Bart, lives in Ohio. He's always been there for me. When I talked with him on Sunday evening, he asked if he should come to Mankato. I desperately wanted to shout, "YES!", but instead said, "No, we got things under control." He showed up Monday evening. Once again, he was there just when I needed him most.
Debt #1 Late in the evening of February 13, 2016, I received a call from a surgeon who informed me that my wife was headed to the operating room for emergency surgery and her survival was at stake. She had been unwell all day; but when I had left her at the hospital a few hours earlier to be home with our daughter, the nurses and doctors seemed confident that they knew how to treat her. To say I was surprised is putting it mildly. In any event, I felt a need to get to the hospital ASAP. I called Paul, my brother-in-law in Northfield to come stay at the house with Grace, but he would not be arrive for another hour or so. What to do in the meantime?
I called my friend Patrick. He was a neighbor and good friend who I thought might be able to come over right away, so I could be on my way. He's also a pastor (not ours, though), and because I was putting out vibes of extreme anxiety, he took a moment to listen to me. He then said that he and his wife, Mary Beth, were visiting with family in St. Paul and, unfortunately he was not available. We hung up.
With nothing else to do, I sat with Grace until Paul arrived, and I scooted over to the hospital where Rebecca was still in surgery. (A brief aside: one person I didn't call with my wife's life in the balance, was our own pastor, because, well, he was a turd.) While I was pacing around waiting for news, who should walk in but Patrick. To be honest, I don't remember much of our conversation, but here's the gist. As soon as he hung up with me, Mary Beth handed him his coat and they left their party. She was experienced enough as a pastor's spouse that she knew when Patrick was talking to someone in distress and he needed to be somewhere. He wasn't my pastor, but he sat and comforted me as we waited for news that didn't come until long after the next day had started.
Debt #2 The morning of February 14, 2016 was even worse. When Paul, Grace, and I arrived at the hospital, we were told that Rebecca would not live through the day. The rest of day were to be a vigil. Unfortunately, Emma wasn't with us. She was three hours away at Iowa State University. One of my dearest friends, Kimberly, called her husband, Dayle, and asked if he could drive down to Ames, and bring Emma home (you know, before her mother died). Without hesitation, he was up and on his way. Only, let's make things more interesting and toss in a snow storm. Seriously.
Emma made it.
Debt #3 Two other people who were present as the worst day of our lives unfolded were Steve and Margo. They had been our closest Mankato friends ever since our family's arrival in 2010. They were as devastated as any of us at Rebecca's passing, but they quickly took the girls and me under their wings and offered professional levels of TLC.
On Monday, Steve accompanied me to the mortuary to assist me in the legal disposition of Rebecca's body, as well as the initial planning of her memorial service. I think I thought I was "on top of things", but honestly, how could I have been? Every time I needed to make a decision, or sign something, I would turn to Steve, and he would silently nod his head. I then knew it was safe for me to proceed. Without Steve, I could probably show you the deed I signed that day that tells you I own the Brooklyn Bridge.
Debt #4 My older brother, Bart, lives in Ohio. He's always been there for me. When I talked with him on Sunday evening, he asked if he should come to Mankato. I desperately wanted to shout, "YES!", but instead said, "No, we got things under control." He showed up Monday evening. Once again, he was there just when I needed him most.
Wednesday, December 11, 2019
Number 70
Grief, again
Two different events took place this morning, at pretty much exactly the same time, that served to crystalize some thoughts that have been noodling around in my head recently. But before I tell you about them, I need to first comment upon the chapter that all the childhood experts leave out of their advice books for parents: What to Do When Your Children Don't Need You Anymore. Yes, I am aware that both of my daughters will always NEED me in some emotional, metaphysical way. And they both still occasionally need my financial assistance (especially the younger - tuition, you see). But, by and large, they're both full grown adults, each ready to take on the world on her own terms.
Emma will graduate from Iowa State University in less than two weeks. One semester early, by the way. Her degree is a Bachelors of Architecture. She already has a job with a firm in Boston, MA that begins on January 2. She and her significant person already have an apartment in Back Bay (which means nothing to me, although people in the know usually go, "oohhhh" with approval when they hear that), that they plan to fill with furniture from IKEA that has no vowels in the names. Grace will finish her second year at Concordia College in the spring. She is excited, because she and her friends will be moving off campus for housing next year. Hello independence, goodbye dorm rules. On top of that, she has secured a job for the summer that will keep her in Moorhead, MN. She is very excited about both of these things. Obviously, neither Emma or Grace will be at home for the summer.
All of this is reason enough for me to offer up to Rebecca a psychic high five, right? Isn't it the ultimate parental goal to raise up your children to be happy, healthy adults who are ready, willing and able to help make the world a better place? And I am extraordinarily pleased for them. I am filled with an exorbitant amount of pride in the beautiful young women they have each become. There is no question of that. But there's also this feeling of, well... kinda like finishing a hard job, dusting off your hands, looking around, and thinking, "Now what?"
It's been almost four fucking years since Rebecca passed, and in that time my grief has taken on as many shades as Crayola has crayons. Just lately I've been lamenting how much of their lives the girls will live without their mother's presence. It's a particularly vile strain of grief because it is accompanied by a crushing guilt that I am not missing out on all the things that Rebecca will.
Which brings us to this morning. On FB, there is a video is going around about an elderly foreign gentleman who is learning to speak English. At the end he travels to a far (English speaking) land where he is able to greet a young child with "Hello, I am your Grandpa." It's tender, sweet, and funny. Almost simultaneously, Grace sends me a piece of artwork that she has been working on - a sketch of her and her mother playing whiffle ball, circa age 3. The 'lines' of the drawing are words and terms that Grace is using to describe the relationship with her mom. All of a sudden, my chest was tight, and I couldn't get out of the house soon enough.
Graduations, new jobs, engagements, new homes, marriages, life's ups and life's downs, grandchildren, etc., etc., etc. were all things that Rebecca and I were supposed to share as we grew old together, and now it feels like I'm cheating because I'm here and she's not. And a giant "fuck you" to the first person that tells me that "fair" has nothing to do with it. I'm well aware that rationality has very little to do with the way I feel. But "knowing" something and "feeling" something are, always have been, and always will be two different animals. Grief has very little to do with "knowing." And sometimes grief really kicks your ass.
Two different events took place this morning, at pretty much exactly the same time, that served to crystalize some thoughts that have been noodling around in my head recently. But before I tell you about them, I need to first comment upon the chapter that all the childhood experts leave out of their advice books for parents: What to Do When Your Children Don't Need You Anymore. Yes, I am aware that both of my daughters will always NEED me in some emotional, metaphysical way. And they both still occasionally need my financial assistance (especially the younger - tuition, you see). But, by and large, they're both full grown adults, each ready to take on the world on her own terms.
Emma will graduate from Iowa State University in less than two weeks. One semester early, by the way. Her degree is a Bachelors of Architecture. She already has a job with a firm in Boston, MA that begins on January 2. She and her significant person already have an apartment in Back Bay (which means nothing to me, although people in the know usually go, "oohhhh" with approval when they hear that), that they plan to fill with furniture from IKEA that has no vowels in the names. Grace will finish her second year at Concordia College in the spring. She is excited, because she and her friends will be moving off campus for housing next year. Hello independence, goodbye dorm rules. On top of that, she has secured a job for the summer that will keep her in Moorhead, MN. She is very excited about both of these things. Obviously, neither Emma or Grace will be at home for the summer.
All of this is reason enough for me to offer up to Rebecca a psychic high five, right? Isn't it the ultimate parental goal to raise up your children to be happy, healthy adults who are ready, willing and able to help make the world a better place? And I am extraordinarily pleased for them. I am filled with an exorbitant amount of pride in the beautiful young women they have each become. There is no question of that. But there's also this feeling of, well... kinda like finishing a hard job, dusting off your hands, looking around, and thinking, "Now what?"
It's been almost four fucking years since Rebecca passed, and in that time my grief has taken on as many shades as Crayola has crayons. Just lately I've been lamenting how much of their lives the girls will live without their mother's presence. It's a particularly vile strain of grief because it is accompanied by a crushing guilt that I am not missing out on all the things that Rebecca will.
Which brings us to this morning. On FB, there is a video is going around about an elderly foreign gentleman who is learning to speak English. At the end he travels to a far (English speaking) land where he is able to greet a young child with "Hello, I am your Grandpa." It's tender, sweet, and funny. Almost simultaneously, Grace sends me a piece of artwork that she has been working on - a sketch of her and her mother playing whiffle ball, circa age 3. The 'lines' of the drawing are words and terms that Grace is using to describe the relationship with her mom. All of a sudden, my chest was tight, and I couldn't get out of the house soon enough.
Graduations, new jobs, engagements, new homes, marriages, life's ups and life's downs, grandchildren, etc., etc., etc. were all things that Rebecca and I were supposed to share as we grew old together, and now it feels like I'm cheating because I'm here and she's not. And a giant "fuck you" to the first person that tells me that "fair" has nothing to do with it. I'm well aware that rationality has very little to do with the way I feel. But "knowing" something and "feeling" something are, always have been, and always will be two different animals. Grief has very little to do with "knowing." And sometimes grief really kicks your ass.
Thursday, December 5, 2019
Number 69
Change Is Tough
Transitions in life are inevitable. Perhaps they're not as consistent as the tides, but they do occur with some regularity. Some are good and some are bad. Occasionally they're neutral. But the one thing all transitions have in common is change. Perhaps I'm only describing myself - although I think not - when I say that change is scary. And it doesn't matter if the transitions are the results of life choices you make or the result of unexpected circumstance. It's a big old scary world out there and it's natural to be a little bit fearful when your life throws something "new" at you.
I know, I know. "Really earth shattering stuff there, Nora." However, stating the obvious is not my intent today. I don't wish to write about the 'disease' of transition. I want to write about its symptoms. Specifically the ways that transitions have a way of bringing out, ummm... 'odd' behavior in people.
Actually that's not entirely true, either. Most of you know the last four years have been stuffed full of significant transitions for my family (daughters Emma and Grace), and me. Plus, in the next few weeks, there are a few whoppers coming up. What I really want to do is tell Grace and Emma about the biggest fight I ever had with my father (The rest of you, if you feel inclined, can follow along.)
Dear E & G,
It was 1988, and it was Memorial Day Weekend. Commencement at Oberlin College was scheduled for Monday morning. Despite the infinite number of dreams I've had to the contrary since then, I was to be among that year's graduating class. A time of celebration, for sure; but also a time of transition. Not just for me, either. It was a time of change for my entire family. Though Oma and Grandpa had divorced 10 years earlier; it had seemed for a long while that they were headed towards a reconciliation. And then... they weren't. As it turned out, my graduation was to be the first family gathering that would include my dad's new wife and her two young children. I think it's fair to conclude that this particular transition was, in that moment, a challenge for everyone.
Here's what happened. The night before graduation, either Dad offered to, or I asked him to buy pizza for me and the small group of friends I lived with. Honestly, I don't remember which, but it doesn't really matter. The seeds for disaster had been planted. A misunderstanding among my friends then occurred. While my intention had been for Dad to treat just my housemates and me; word got out about what was happening to a larger circle of friends. I soon had a variety of friends asking if they were included in the invitation. In that moment, I could either stick to what Dad and I had agreed to, or I could open things up to other folks. I chose my friends.
In the years since, I've considered this choice. Did I want to spend as much time with friends that would soon scatter to the four winds? Perhaps I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings. Maybe I wanted to stick it to Dad for not getting back together with Mom. The truth can be probably be found somewhere amongst all three reasons. Anyway, when I told my dad what was happening, and that the bill was going to be higher than expected, he exploded, said some choice curse words, and accused me of blackmail and/or manipulation. I exploded back, claiming I felt trapped by the circumstances myself, told him to "fuck it," and told him I would pay for the pizza myself (although I 'm sure I didn't have the necessary funds). In the end he paid, and I got drunk. For what it's worth, by the next morning the storm clouds had drifted away, and the temporary breach in our relationship had healed.
My point is this. Periods of transition don't always show us at our best. It's a good thing to know. It's also a good thing to remember that when the stresses of transition begin flexing particularly strongly, it's a good idea to have empathy, patience, and compassion for all the people around you, including - most importantly - yourself.
Like most "good advice," of course, this is easier said than done. And I'm well aware that I'm skilled at giving advice that I, myself, don't heed. Perhaps what I really intended to do with this particular blog entry was simply remind myself to pay attention to the things that matter the most: my ineffable love for you, my desire for you to lead content and full lives, and my promise that I will be there for you, always.
Love,
D
Transitions in life are inevitable. Perhaps they're not as consistent as the tides, but they do occur with some regularity. Some are good and some are bad. Occasionally they're neutral. But the one thing all transitions have in common is change. Perhaps I'm only describing myself - although I think not - when I say that change is scary. And it doesn't matter if the transitions are the results of life choices you make or the result of unexpected circumstance. It's a big old scary world out there and it's natural to be a little bit fearful when your life throws something "new" at you.
I know, I know. "Really earth shattering stuff there, Nora." However, stating the obvious is not my intent today. I don't wish to write about the 'disease' of transition. I want to write about its symptoms. Specifically the ways that transitions have a way of bringing out, ummm... 'odd' behavior in people.
Actually that's not entirely true, either. Most of you know the last four years have been stuffed full of significant transitions for my family (daughters Emma and Grace), and me. Plus, in the next few weeks, there are a few whoppers coming up. What I really want to do is tell Grace and Emma about the biggest fight I ever had with my father (The rest of you, if you feel inclined, can follow along.)
Dear E & G,
It was 1988, and it was Memorial Day Weekend. Commencement at Oberlin College was scheduled for Monday morning. Despite the infinite number of dreams I've had to the contrary since then, I was to be among that year's graduating class. A time of celebration, for sure; but also a time of transition. Not just for me, either. It was a time of change for my entire family. Though Oma and Grandpa had divorced 10 years earlier; it had seemed for a long while that they were headed towards a reconciliation. And then... they weren't. As it turned out, my graduation was to be the first family gathering that would include my dad's new wife and her two young children. I think it's fair to conclude that this particular transition was, in that moment, a challenge for everyone.
Here's what happened. The night before graduation, either Dad offered to, or I asked him to buy pizza for me and the small group of friends I lived with. Honestly, I don't remember which, but it doesn't really matter. The seeds for disaster had been planted. A misunderstanding among my friends then occurred. While my intention had been for Dad to treat just my housemates and me; word got out about what was happening to a larger circle of friends. I soon had a variety of friends asking if they were included in the invitation. In that moment, I could either stick to what Dad and I had agreed to, or I could open things up to other folks. I chose my friends.
In the years since, I've considered this choice. Did I want to spend as much time with friends that would soon scatter to the four winds? Perhaps I didn't want to hurt anyone's feelings. Maybe I wanted to stick it to Dad for not getting back together with Mom. The truth can be probably be found somewhere amongst all three reasons. Anyway, when I told my dad what was happening, and that the bill was going to be higher than expected, he exploded, said some choice curse words, and accused me of blackmail and/or manipulation. I exploded back, claiming I felt trapped by the circumstances myself, told him to "fuck it," and told him I would pay for the pizza myself (although I 'm sure I didn't have the necessary funds). In the end he paid, and I got drunk. For what it's worth, by the next morning the storm clouds had drifted away, and the temporary breach in our relationship had healed.
My point is this. Periods of transition don't always show us at our best. It's a good thing to know. It's also a good thing to remember that when the stresses of transition begin flexing particularly strongly, it's a good idea to have empathy, patience, and compassion for all the people around you, including - most importantly - yourself.
Like most "good advice," of course, this is easier said than done. And I'm well aware that I'm skilled at giving advice that I, myself, don't heed. Perhaps what I really intended to do with this particular blog entry was simply remind myself to pay attention to the things that matter the most: my ineffable love for you, my desire for you to lead content and full lives, and my promise that I will be there for you, always.
Love,
D
Saturday, November 30, 2019
Number 68
Restrooms Revisited
Today I give you seven points and two addendum to consider regarding the rights of transgender people to use the restroom that feels most appropriate to them.
1. Did you ever notice that in the debate over which restroom or locker room a trans person should use, transgender men are never discussed. Curious. A person might be inclined to assume from this that the entire movement to keep trans women out of the bathroom that fits their gender identity is just patriarchal bullshit designed to perpetuate the myth that women can't take care of themselves, and need men to look after them.
2. Many times the person arguing against trans women using the restroom will conclude with a parting shot along the lines of: "If you had a daughter, you'd feel differently!" As it turns out, I have two daughters. They are both well past the age where they need a parent (or other trusted adult) to accompany them to the bathroom. However, when they were that young, their mother and I always made sure they were looked after. I would assume that a parent who expresses the above stated opinion is also a parent that ensures that their young child is similarly supervised. In fact, don't all responsible parents do this as a matter of course? To the people doing this to make your point, I say the following: "Quit it!" It's logically inconsistent to assume that young children are using public restrooms on their own under any circumstances.
3. "Aha!" They say to me, "The fact that you ensured that your daughters were being supervised when using public restrooms proves our point!" No, not really. I will agree with them that there are people out there that have an evil intent aimed at young children, and that it's every parent's job to ensure their child's safety. I'm pretty sure those people are not trans women, though. An opinion that's backed up with both statistics and anecdotal evidence. By the way, just for the record, I think pedophilia is an utterly reprehensible crime.
4. Did you know that it's already illegal in all 50 states to attack or otherwise sexually assault another person? Shocking, I know. In other words, it doesn't matter where an attack takes place, it's already illegal. There is no reason for new laws to make it 'extra' illegal because it happens in a women's bathroom or locker room.
5. I call this next point the "Linebacker in a Dress Bait and Switch." This is a favored tactic of opponents of trans woman using the women's room. It goes kinda like this: If we allow trans women ("men" is the word they would use there), to use the women's room; then any man can throw on a dress and stroll right into any bathroom or locker room designated for women. This, of course, would provide these men with a 'target rich' environment to pursue their nefarious deeds. The image that always accompanies this argument is a huge muscled dude with a buzz hair cut and leering grin wearing an ill-fitting dress. Take it from me: there is not one trans woman alive for whom this is a preferred fashion statement. Also, let me drop this little "truth" bomb on you: Most authentic trans women want to get in and out of the bathroom with as little fuss as possible. The last thing we want is a lot of attention. But that doesn't stop opponents from claiming that this "linebacker" image represents a typical trans woman.
5A. By the way, for any of you cis-male opportunists out there, you can't just say "I'm transgender!" and have everything magically change. Most trans folks have gone through an extensive series of steps: legally, mentally, and psychologically during the transition process. So, by the time a trans person has gotten to the point of using a 'different' bathroom a lot of hard work has already been done by a variety of people.
5B. In another interesting aside, I've heard a few male opponents of trans bathroom use say something along the line of: "I sure wish I'd known I could have done this back when I was in school. I would've just told my coach I was a female and then I could have showered with the girls!" (ha-ha-ha) In particular, I've heard this from Mike Huckabee - a conservative opportunist who would lose a battle of wits with a box of hammers. Umm, Mike... I think this comment says a lot more about you, as opposed to being a cogent point for opponents of transgender bathroom rights.
6. Did you ever notice that in all the debates, no one ever mentions homosexuality. What I mean is this. Opponents often use the scare tactic of declaring that if trans women use women's facilities, (again, they would use the word "men" here), then every other woman will feel as if they are being "ogled"; and that they are potentially fueling the sexual fantasies of trans women. I can't deny that this might happen, for the simple reason that some trans woman are sexually attracted to other woman. (And others are attracted to men, and some are attracted to both, etc., etc. You know, kinda like what happens in every other group of people the world over.) But haven't people who are sexually attracted to members of their own sex already been using the same restrooms and locker rooms as the objects of their affection since, I don't know, the beginning of time? In all the "sturm und drang" regarding homosexuality over the years, I've never heard an argument that gay and lesbian folks should be kicked out of their respective public bathrooms and/or locker rooms. Just sayin'...
7. Okay. For the sake of argument. Let's assume that every argument that the opponents of transgender bathroom access promote are correct. Basically that trans women are total horn dogs looking to rape and pillage their way through every women's room in America. In making this assumption, I'm only referring to authentic trans women, and not men who take on this identity in order to pursue their heinous goals. (I've already discussed those "cis" men in items 4, 5, 5A & especially 5B.) One problem, though. Most trans women are on some form of hormone replacement therapy. This process is specifically designed to suppress the production of testosterone, and, at the same time increase the amount of estrogen in their bodies to levels that are similar to an average "cis" woman. Let me put this in more blunt terms: If I tried to fuck anything right now using my archaic genitalia, it would work about as well as trying to shove a piece of cooked spaghetti through a pin hole. (And once again, assuming that such an assault did take place, it's already illegal.)
Other than that, I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving. Until next time.
Today I give you seven points and two addendum to consider regarding the rights of transgender people to use the restroom that feels most appropriate to them.
1. Did you ever notice that in the debate over which restroom or locker room a trans person should use, transgender men are never discussed. Curious. A person might be inclined to assume from this that the entire movement to keep trans women out of the bathroom that fits their gender identity is just patriarchal bullshit designed to perpetuate the myth that women can't take care of themselves, and need men to look after them.
2. Many times the person arguing against trans women using the restroom will conclude with a parting shot along the lines of: "If you had a daughter, you'd feel differently!" As it turns out, I have two daughters. They are both well past the age where they need a parent (or other trusted adult) to accompany them to the bathroom. However, when they were that young, their mother and I always made sure they were looked after. I would assume that a parent who expresses the above stated opinion is also a parent that ensures that their young child is similarly supervised. In fact, don't all responsible parents do this as a matter of course? To the people doing this to make your point, I say the following: "Quit it!" It's logically inconsistent to assume that young children are using public restrooms on their own under any circumstances.
3. "Aha!" They say to me, "The fact that you ensured that your daughters were being supervised when using public restrooms proves our point!" No, not really. I will agree with them that there are people out there that have an evil intent aimed at young children, and that it's every parent's job to ensure their child's safety. I'm pretty sure those people are not trans women, though. An opinion that's backed up with both statistics and anecdotal evidence. By the way, just for the record, I think pedophilia is an utterly reprehensible crime.
4. Did you know that it's already illegal in all 50 states to attack or otherwise sexually assault another person? Shocking, I know. In other words, it doesn't matter where an attack takes place, it's already illegal. There is no reason for new laws to make it 'extra' illegal because it happens in a women's bathroom or locker room.
5. I call this next point the "Linebacker in a Dress Bait and Switch." This is a favored tactic of opponents of trans woman using the women's room. It goes kinda like this: If we allow trans women ("men" is the word they would use there), to use the women's room; then any man can throw on a dress and stroll right into any bathroom or locker room designated for women. This, of course, would provide these men with a 'target rich' environment to pursue their nefarious deeds. The image that always accompanies this argument is a huge muscled dude with a buzz hair cut and leering grin wearing an ill-fitting dress. Take it from me: there is not one trans woman alive for whom this is a preferred fashion statement. Also, let me drop this little "truth" bomb on you: Most authentic trans women want to get in and out of the bathroom with as little fuss as possible. The last thing we want is a lot of attention. But that doesn't stop opponents from claiming that this "linebacker" image represents a typical trans woman.
5A. By the way, for any of you cis-male opportunists out there, you can't just say "I'm transgender!" and have everything magically change. Most trans folks have gone through an extensive series of steps: legally, mentally, and psychologically during the transition process. So, by the time a trans person has gotten to the point of using a 'different' bathroom a lot of hard work has already been done by a variety of people.
5B. In another interesting aside, I've heard a few male opponents of trans bathroom use say something along the line of: "I sure wish I'd known I could have done this back when I was in school. I would've just told my coach I was a female and then I could have showered with the girls!" (ha-ha-ha) In particular, I've heard this from Mike Huckabee - a conservative opportunist who would lose a battle of wits with a box of hammers. Umm, Mike... I think this comment says a lot more about you, as opposed to being a cogent point for opponents of transgender bathroom rights.
6. Did you ever notice that in all the debates, no one ever mentions homosexuality. What I mean is this. Opponents often use the scare tactic of declaring that if trans women use women's facilities, (again, they would use the word "men" here), then every other woman will feel as if they are being "ogled"; and that they are potentially fueling the sexual fantasies of trans women. I can't deny that this might happen, for the simple reason that some trans woman are sexually attracted to other woman. (And others are attracted to men, and some are attracted to both, etc., etc. You know, kinda like what happens in every other group of people the world over.) But haven't people who are sexually attracted to members of their own sex already been using the same restrooms and locker rooms as the objects of their affection since, I don't know, the beginning of time? In all the "sturm und drang" regarding homosexuality over the years, I've never heard an argument that gay and lesbian folks should be kicked out of their respective public bathrooms and/or locker rooms. Just sayin'...
7. Okay. For the sake of argument. Let's assume that every argument that the opponents of transgender bathroom access promote are correct. Basically that trans women are total horn dogs looking to rape and pillage their way through every women's room in America. In making this assumption, I'm only referring to authentic trans women, and not men who take on this identity in order to pursue their heinous goals. (I've already discussed those "cis" men in items 4, 5, 5A & especially 5B.) One problem, though. Most trans women are on some form of hormone replacement therapy. This process is specifically designed to suppress the production of testosterone, and, at the same time increase the amount of estrogen in their bodies to levels that are similar to an average "cis" woman. Let me put this in more blunt terms: If I tried to fuck anything right now using my archaic genitalia, it would work about as well as trying to shove a piece of cooked spaghetti through a pin hole. (And once again, assuming that such an assault did take place, it's already illegal.)
Other than that, I hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving. Until next time.
Wednesday, November 20, 2019
Number 67
My Trans Manifesto
Hi. My name is Nora, and I am a transgender woman. I 'officially' began my transition on June 21, 2018. That was the day I walked out the door of my house and introduced myself to the rest of the world. In other words, that's the day I began living full time as the woman I had come to realize I was. I was 52 years at the time. The understanding of my true gender identity had come later in life than usual, perhaps; but the truth of gender dysphoria is that there is no 'usual'. Before that day, however, my life as Nora had already started to take shape. I had begun telling friends and family what was going to be happening. Especially important in that process were my conversations with my two (young adult) daughters. I also did a lot of clothes shopping.
It's now November, 2019, and my life is good. I am mostly happy and content as Nora. My transition from male to female is perhaps the most emotionally fulfilling, intelligent thing I've ever done. Further, and this is directed at the many misguided, ill-informed, and frightened nincompoops out there, it is one of the sanest things I've ever done. Which brings us to the point of this essay. If you are reading closely, the word "mostly" from above probably jumped out at you. I have grown both weary and angry at the plethora of malicious and ignorant misinformation that is directed towards the trans community with mind-numbing regularity, from a variety of different groups whose one commonality is the stupidity and shamelessness with which they spout their drivel. I'm here to set the record straight.
Let's begin by dropping in on a recent taping of the television game show Jeopardy.
(Fade in)
(Fade out)
So here's the point. Many critics believe that being trans isn't a real thing. They claim that thoughts of gender dysphoria are the products of mentally unstable minds. In other words, they claim the brain of a trans person is already defective, and, as a result, produces defective thoughts of being transgendered. Problem is, none of these titans of idiocy have camped out in my brain. (Or the brains of other trans people, for that matter.) How can they claim that my mind is defective, without taking a little stroll around my head so that they might better understand my story? As Alex and the Jeopardy writer's have so succinctly pointed out, the biggest difference in the brains of trans and non-trans people is the fact that only transgender people tend to wonder about being transgender.
Let me be clear. I am not claiming that trans people couldn't benefit from the assistance of mental health professionals. Only that we're no more or less fucked up than the general population. It is true that the percentage of trans people in therapy is much greater than the general population. ("Ah-Ha!" claim my foes, "She just admitted we were right!") But you try to make your way in cultural environment where many people treat you with disdain, hostility, and violence that ends in murder far too often. No wonder we're in therapy - we need help dealing with all the hostile ignorance the world throws our way.
For you doubters out there who think my brain is defective, or that I "chose" to be trans, I offer up my own journey. Hopefully, by the end of it, you'll realize how little "choice" had to do with it. For most of my male life, I was a frustrated cross dresser. That is to say, I very rarely dressed in women's clothing, although I did think about doing so frequently. I believed this to be a sexual fetish, and nothing more. I wasn't proud of it, though. In fact, I was hugely ashamed. I desperately wanted to be rid of these thoughts, and a vicious circle developed because I couldn't. In an attempt to distance myself from these thoughts, I pushed them away from me and did my best to bury them deep. In other words, I never thought about, or examined them in a thoughtful manner; and for certain, I never talked about them!
In 2015, when I was 49 years old, I took stock of my life. By most measures, it was good life. I was in a stable marriage (although my wife would die, unexpectedly, in early 2016). Our two children were healthy, strong, and accomplished. However, there was a little "tickle" in the back of my head that left me vaguely unsettled. Among other things, I had struggled all my adult life with finding stable employment - a situation that I was at least partially responsible for. I decided to see a therapist. I also decided that I would be completely honest for the first time, and divulge, to another living person, my crossdressing fetish.
Many things happened over the next few years. The first significant event occurred when I reluctantly, and with great hesitation, told my therapist that I had a fetish for women's clothing. "So" she responded, rather nonchalantly. In that moment, the mountain of guilt that I had built up over many years began to dissolve. After a time, she referred me to a therapist who dealt almost exclusively with issues related to gender identity. You see, by this time, my therapeutic journey had begun to consider whether or not gender dysphoria was the source of the little"tickle" in the back of my head.
I desperately wanted the solution to be anything other than being transgender. I did not want it in my life. There was never a thought of: "Well, this seems like fun, let's give it a whirl!" Such a diagnosis scared the ever-loving shit out of me. I kept trying to short circuit the therapeutic process by claiming that we'd investigated this "whole gender thing" enough, and that maybe we should move on to something else. However, slowly but surely, the 'onion' layers that made up the core of my soul, kept getting peeled back and exposed. I was fighting a losing battle with myself. Finally, in March of 2018, I started my therapy with the following declaration: "I am a transgender woman, and I want to transition." It was the first time I said those words out loud, and when I did, I felt a peace and contentment that had eluded me all my life. Finally, I had scratched the 'itch'. But let's be clear about one thing: This wasn't me choosing to be transgender; rather it was me finally acknowledging the truth. My truth.
At that, I can't help but wonder if I've changed your mind. Since there's more than a good chance that many of you are already LGBTQA+ or allies; I'm probably just preaching to the choir, but whatever. If nothing else, the process of writing this has been an exercise in helping me process the many recent changes in my life. To whit: most of my life, I've claimed that I don't care what other people think about me. Another recent therapeutic breakthrough, however, made me realize that I actually care a great deal about what other people think of me. The truth is, I care too much. I believe my 'transifesto' is an effort to reclaim my story for myself, rather than for others.
So to all the haters out there; the angry TERFs (trans-exclusionary radical 'fatheads', in my book), who erroneously think I'm a threat; the moronic social conservatives who delightfully embrace a stance of intentional ignorance; and those who are simply too lazy to try and understand something beyond their own experience; I offer the most intelligent rejoinder I can come up with: "Piss off." I cannot make you accept what I know to be true. However, I can stop you from renting space in my head, where your thoughts and negativity do me no good whatsoever.
To the rest of you: Old and new friends who have embraced me with love, affection, and enthusiasm; my family that, albeit with a great deal of confusion, accepts the new me - I have no doubt that it has been a lot to get used to after 50 years; the health care professionals that have held my hand, given me tissues, and gently guided me along; and most of the general public, who if they even notice, respond with everything from enthusiasm to indifference; I offer a very sincere word of "Thanks." The only choice I've ever had was how I chose to live out the truth. To that, I can only repeat, with a slight change, what I said many months ago: "I am a trans woman, and I choose to transition." In fact, I embrace it.
It's now November, 2019, and my life is good. I am mostly happy and content as Nora. My transition from male to female is perhaps the most emotionally fulfilling, intelligent thing I've ever done. Further, and this is directed at the many misguided, ill-informed, and frightened nincompoops out there, it is one of the sanest things I've ever done. Which brings us to the point of this essay. If you are reading closely, the word "mostly" from above probably jumped out at you. I have grown both weary and angry at the plethora of malicious and ignorant misinformation that is directed towards the trans community with mind-numbing regularity, from a variety of different groups whose one commonality is the stupidity and shamelessness with which they spout their drivel. I'm here to set the record straight.
Let's begin by dropping in on a recent taping of the television game show Jeopardy.
(Fade in)
"Alex, I'll take 'Gender Identity' for $1,000."
Answer: "If you don't spend a lot of time wondering about it, you're probably not."
Question: "What is, 'How do I know if I'm trans?'"
Answer: "If you don't spend a lot of time wondering about it, you're probably not."
Question: "What is, 'How do I know if I'm trans?'"
So here's the point. Many critics believe that being trans isn't a real thing. They claim that thoughts of gender dysphoria are the products of mentally unstable minds. In other words, they claim the brain of a trans person is already defective, and, as a result, produces defective thoughts of being transgendered. Problem is, none of these titans of idiocy have camped out in my brain. (Or the brains of other trans people, for that matter.) How can they claim that my mind is defective, without taking a little stroll around my head so that they might better understand my story? As Alex and the Jeopardy writer's have so succinctly pointed out, the biggest difference in the brains of trans and non-trans people is the fact that only transgender people tend to wonder about being transgender.
Let me be clear. I am not claiming that trans people couldn't benefit from the assistance of mental health professionals. Only that we're no more or less fucked up than the general population. It is true that the percentage of trans people in therapy is much greater than the general population. ("Ah-Ha!" claim my foes, "She just admitted we were right!") But you try to make your way in cultural environment where many people treat you with disdain, hostility, and violence that ends in murder far too often. No wonder we're in therapy - we need help dealing with all the hostile ignorance the world throws our way.
For you doubters out there who think my brain is defective, or that I "chose" to be trans, I offer up my own journey. Hopefully, by the end of it, you'll realize how little "choice" had to do with it. For most of my male life, I was a frustrated cross dresser. That is to say, I very rarely dressed in women's clothing, although I did think about doing so frequently. I believed this to be a sexual fetish, and nothing more. I wasn't proud of it, though. In fact, I was hugely ashamed. I desperately wanted to be rid of these thoughts, and a vicious circle developed because I couldn't. In an attempt to distance myself from these thoughts, I pushed them away from me and did my best to bury them deep. In other words, I never thought about, or examined them in a thoughtful manner; and for certain, I never talked about them!
In 2015, when I was 49 years old, I took stock of my life. By most measures, it was good life. I was in a stable marriage (although my wife would die, unexpectedly, in early 2016). Our two children were healthy, strong, and accomplished. However, there was a little "tickle" in the back of my head that left me vaguely unsettled. Among other things, I had struggled all my adult life with finding stable employment - a situation that I was at least partially responsible for. I decided to see a therapist. I also decided that I would be completely honest for the first time, and divulge, to another living person, my crossdressing fetish.
Many things happened over the next few years. The first significant event occurred when I reluctantly, and with great hesitation, told my therapist that I had a fetish for women's clothing. "So" she responded, rather nonchalantly. In that moment, the mountain of guilt that I had built up over many years began to dissolve. After a time, she referred me to a therapist who dealt almost exclusively with issues related to gender identity. You see, by this time, my therapeutic journey had begun to consider whether or not gender dysphoria was the source of the little"tickle" in the back of my head.
I desperately wanted the solution to be anything other than being transgender. I did not want it in my life. There was never a thought of: "Well, this seems like fun, let's give it a whirl!" Such a diagnosis scared the ever-loving shit out of me. I kept trying to short circuit the therapeutic process by claiming that we'd investigated this "whole gender thing" enough, and that maybe we should move on to something else. However, slowly but surely, the 'onion' layers that made up the core of my soul, kept getting peeled back and exposed. I was fighting a losing battle with myself. Finally, in March of 2018, I started my therapy with the following declaration: "I am a transgender woman, and I want to transition." It was the first time I said those words out loud, and when I did, I felt a peace and contentment that had eluded me all my life. Finally, I had scratched the 'itch'. But let's be clear about one thing: This wasn't me choosing to be transgender; rather it was me finally acknowledging the truth. My truth.
At that, I can't help but wonder if I've changed your mind. Since there's more than a good chance that many of you are already LGBTQA+ or allies; I'm probably just preaching to the choir, but whatever. If nothing else, the process of writing this has been an exercise in helping me process the many recent changes in my life. To whit: most of my life, I've claimed that I don't care what other people think about me. Another recent therapeutic breakthrough, however, made me realize that I actually care a great deal about what other people think of me. The truth is, I care too much. I believe my 'transifesto' is an effort to reclaim my story for myself, rather than for others.
So to all the haters out there; the angry TERFs (trans-exclusionary radical 'fatheads', in my book), who erroneously think I'm a threat; the moronic social conservatives who delightfully embrace a stance of intentional ignorance; and those who are simply too lazy to try and understand something beyond their own experience; I offer the most intelligent rejoinder I can come up with: "Piss off." I cannot make you accept what I know to be true. However, I can stop you from renting space in my head, where your thoughts and negativity do me no good whatsoever.
To the rest of you: Old and new friends who have embraced me with love, affection, and enthusiasm; my family that, albeit with a great deal of confusion, accepts the new me - I have no doubt that it has been a lot to get used to after 50 years; the health care professionals that have held my hand, given me tissues, and gently guided me along; and most of the general public, who if they even notice, respond with everything from enthusiasm to indifference; I offer a very sincere word of "Thanks." The only choice I've ever had was how I chose to live out the truth. To that, I can only repeat, with a slight change, what I said many months ago: "I am a trans woman, and I choose to transition." In fact, I embrace it.
Friday, November 8, 2019
Number 66
Female Realities
A couple of things happened recently, and I found myself silently thinking "welcome to the world of women, Nora." I thought I'd mention them, along with a few other things that came to mind.
1. I had a mammogram last week. My dysphoria spiked a bit, as I was worried about being perceived as an interloper in a uniquely female centric world. But here's the truth: I'm a woman, I have breast tissue, and a family history of breast cancer. In truth, my nurse/technician was wonderful (go nurses!) and immediately put me at ease. While I was in the changing stall, I noticed a number of pink band-aids in the the small trash receptacle. "What's with those - do they take a blood sample, too?" (Note to any men reading this: All the women are laughing at me right now.) Turns out they aren't band-aids, but adhesive strips with a small metal 'bb' in the middle. These are placed over the nipples to help orient the mammogram's image. The things you learn! Anyway my results were positive, which is to say, negative. I do have 'dense' breast tissue, which apparently means I need to be slightly more vigilant than if I did not. The heated robes were a nice touch.
2. I carved the absolute hell out of my ankle shaving the other day. Now, I have nicked myself plenty, and even cut my legs a few times. This time, however, I almost fainted from blood loss. I thought I was going to have to call 911 and have an emergency skin graft placed over the wound. And the only f*cking towels in the bathroom were white.
3. Speaking of blood, in the last month I have participated in a handful of conversations with other women about menstruation. Did I say "participated?" What I meant to say was, I listened quietly while the other women discussed their periods.
Small Break to Discuss My Old Life: Now, all-in-all, I think I was pretty chill about this whole topic. I wasn't like my brother (love 'ya, Bart), who brought home frozen peas when my sister-in-law wrote down "pads." I knew what products my wife used, and had no problem shopping for her if need be. With my two daughters, I didn't go out of my way to have 'period' discussions with them, but again, I could ask if they needed anything and shop for them, if necessary. I knew what was up when the heating pad came out. In the female centric world of elementary education the topic of menstruation occasionally came up (especially among fourth and fifth grade teachers, if you catch my meaning); but it wasn't like I went around seeking conversations on the subject.
OK, let's continue. (Note to any women reading this: Men often wonder what women talk about when there are no men around. Most men won't admit this, but they do. It is my experience that men believe women are mostly talking about sexy lingerie, child-birth, and periods. How disappointed the would be if they knew the truth: Except for less sports, it's mostly the same mundane shit they talk about.) The significance of these recent, matter-of-fact conversations, is the fact that they happened in front of me. During the ebb and flow of conversation, the topic turned in that direction, and then just as quickly headed somewhere else. You know, normal like. I think what I'm trying to convey is that the other (cis)women were comfortable enough with my presence among them (as another woman), that the conversation followed its natural course. In a small, but significant way, that's really cool.
4. Seriously, what the f*ck is the deal with the pockets in women's pants? They're as small as Trump's fingers. (I just realized that I usually get at least one Trump zinger per blog entry - I think I'll make that my calling card)
5. The unstoppable gravitational pull as you begin to sit down on the toilet, only to realize halfway down, that the seat has been left up by the previous user. (f*cking men)
6. The wonderful opportunity to be able to express a full range of human emotion. (As opposed to the self-imposed, buttoned-up, reality of most men; which definitely included me). In many ways, this is the very best thing about my transition: The freedom to express my emotions more fully and honestly. I feel so much more my authentic self!
Until next time.
A couple of things happened recently, and I found myself silently thinking "welcome to the world of women, Nora." I thought I'd mention them, along with a few other things that came to mind.
1. I had a mammogram last week. My dysphoria spiked a bit, as I was worried about being perceived as an interloper in a uniquely female centric world. But here's the truth: I'm a woman, I have breast tissue, and a family history of breast cancer. In truth, my nurse/technician was wonderful (go nurses!) and immediately put me at ease. While I was in the changing stall, I noticed a number of pink band-aids in the the small trash receptacle. "What's with those - do they take a blood sample, too?" (Note to any men reading this: All the women are laughing at me right now.) Turns out they aren't band-aids, but adhesive strips with a small metal 'bb' in the middle. These are placed over the nipples to help orient the mammogram's image. The things you learn! Anyway my results were positive, which is to say, negative. I do have 'dense' breast tissue, which apparently means I need to be slightly more vigilant than if I did not. The heated robes were a nice touch.
2. I carved the absolute hell out of my ankle shaving the other day. Now, I have nicked myself plenty, and even cut my legs a few times. This time, however, I almost fainted from blood loss. I thought I was going to have to call 911 and have an emergency skin graft placed over the wound. And the only f*cking towels in the bathroom were white.
3. Speaking of blood, in the last month I have participated in a handful of conversations with other women about menstruation. Did I say "participated?" What I meant to say was, I listened quietly while the other women discussed their periods.
Small Break to Discuss My Old Life: Now, all-in-all, I think I was pretty chill about this whole topic. I wasn't like my brother (love 'ya, Bart), who brought home frozen peas when my sister-in-law wrote down "pads." I knew what products my wife used, and had no problem shopping for her if need be. With my two daughters, I didn't go out of my way to have 'period' discussions with them, but again, I could ask if they needed anything and shop for them, if necessary. I knew what was up when the heating pad came out. In the female centric world of elementary education the topic of menstruation occasionally came up (especially among fourth and fifth grade teachers, if you catch my meaning); but it wasn't like I went around seeking conversations on the subject.
OK, let's continue. (Note to any women reading this: Men often wonder what women talk about when there are no men around. Most men won't admit this, but they do. It is my experience that men believe women are mostly talking about sexy lingerie, child-birth, and periods. How disappointed the would be if they knew the truth: Except for less sports, it's mostly the same mundane shit they talk about.) The significance of these recent, matter-of-fact conversations, is the fact that they happened in front of me. During the ebb and flow of conversation, the topic turned in that direction, and then just as quickly headed somewhere else. You know, normal like. I think what I'm trying to convey is that the other (cis)women were comfortable enough with my presence among them (as another woman), that the conversation followed its natural course. In a small, but significant way, that's really cool.
4. Seriously, what the f*ck is the deal with the pockets in women's pants? They're as small as Trump's fingers. (I just realized that I usually get at least one Trump zinger per blog entry - I think I'll make that my calling card)
5. The unstoppable gravitational pull as you begin to sit down on the toilet, only to realize halfway down, that the seat has been left up by the previous user. (f*cking men)
6. The wonderful opportunity to be able to express a full range of human emotion. (As opposed to the self-imposed, buttoned-up, reality of most men; which definitely included me). In many ways, this is the very best thing about my transition: The freedom to express my emotions more fully and honestly. I feel so much more my authentic self!
Until next time.
Tuesday, November 5, 2019
Number 65
I Heard Her Laugh
To fully understand why what I'm about to tell you means so very much to me, I need to explain a few things first.
If you've been paying attention recently, the first two will things require very little explanation, as they're kinda what I've been writing about. (1) I recently returned from a two week trip to disperse my wife's ashes at various places significant to her life. In that way, I finally felt as if I put her properly to rest. (2) Also recently, I unearthed and came to terms with my own feelings of both homo and transphobia. As a result, uneasy feelings that my transition had somehow devalued my marriage to Rebecca were finally put to rest.
The third thing I need to explain is my mind-trippingly, bizarre dream world. One of the common side-effects of anti-depressive medication is a dream life that is more vivid and weird than otherwise. Let me state, conclusively, for the record: "Yup." I don't remember my dreams in any conventional sense. After one or two minutes of vague awakeness, almost all details of my dreams are gone. At best, I am able to recall a small snippet, or maybe a couple of details. Mostly what I recall is the 'mood' or 'emotional tone' of the dream, and nothing else.
That's a good thing too, because for the most part my dreams are a heady stew of intense violence, bizzaro imagery, and unlinear plotting. Frequently, when I'm involved in a dream, but also in a semi-consciece state, I try to intentionally wake myself up, in order to escape whatever fucked-up scenario my sub-conscience has served-up at that moment. Unpleasant doesn't even begin to cover it.
Interestingly enough, though, there does seem to be some sort of crazy internal logic to it all. What I mean is that there are common themes and images that often come up. For our purposes today, I only need to tell you about my 'Rebecca' dreams. After she passed, I don't remember dreaming about her for a long time. I kind of wondered about that. But when she did start showing up, I began wishing she hadn't. You see, the common 'mood' or 'tone' when she would appear was one of disappointment and unhappiness (with me). Quite often she would express her desire for the two of us to divorce. These dreams struck such disturbing chord in me that I would feel relief when I awoke and remembered that the reality was that she was dead.
Well, this morning, as I was in the sub-conscious state right before awakening, I was in the middle of one of my typical stream-of-conscious, outlandishly plotted dreamscapes (seriously, I have no memory of what all was happening), but at one point Rebecca was there. I could see her, but I also think she and I were on the phone together at the same time. In any event, something funny happened in the dream, and I heard her laugh.
For the first time in almost four years, I heard her laugh. And I recognized it. It was her laugh. My heart leapt inside of me in amazement and joy! For our entire life together we had laughed together so, so many times, and to hear that sound again was the gift of an angel.
Why did I finally have a dream like this now? Did it have anything to do with the recent events of my life that I mentioned above or was it coincidental? I don't know. But more importantly, I don't need to know. The only thing that's important in all of this is reflected in today's title: I heard her laugh.
To fully understand why what I'm about to tell you means so very much to me, I need to explain a few things first.
If you've been paying attention recently, the first two will things require very little explanation, as they're kinda what I've been writing about. (1) I recently returned from a two week trip to disperse my wife's ashes at various places significant to her life. In that way, I finally felt as if I put her properly to rest. (2) Also recently, I unearthed and came to terms with my own feelings of both homo and transphobia. As a result, uneasy feelings that my transition had somehow devalued my marriage to Rebecca were finally put to rest.
The third thing I need to explain is my mind-trippingly, bizarre dream world. One of the common side-effects of anti-depressive medication is a dream life that is more vivid and weird than otherwise. Let me state, conclusively, for the record: "Yup." I don't remember my dreams in any conventional sense. After one or two minutes of vague awakeness, almost all details of my dreams are gone. At best, I am able to recall a small snippet, or maybe a couple of details. Mostly what I recall is the 'mood' or 'emotional tone' of the dream, and nothing else.
That's a good thing too, because for the most part my dreams are a heady stew of intense violence, bizzaro imagery, and unlinear plotting. Frequently, when I'm involved in a dream, but also in a semi-consciece state, I try to intentionally wake myself up, in order to escape whatever fucked-up scenario my sub-conscience has served-up at that moment. Unpleasant doesn't even begin to cover it.
Interestingly enough, though, there does seem to be some sort of crazy internal logic to it all. What I mean is that there are common themes and images that often come up. For our purposes today, I only need to tell you about my 'Rebecca' dreams. After she passed, I don't remember dreaming about her for a long time. I kind of wondered about that. But when she did start showing up, I began wishing she hadn't. You see, the common 'mood' or 'tone' when she would appear was one of disappointment and unhappiness (with me). Quite often she would express her desire for the two of us to divorce. These dreams struck such disturbing chord in me that I would feel relief when I awoke and remembered that the reality was that she was dead.
Well, this morning, as I was in the sub-conscious state right before awakening, I was in the middle of one of my typical stream-of-conscious, outlandishly plotted dreamscapes (seriously, I have no memory of what all was happening), but at one point Rebecca was there. I could see her, but I also think she and I were on the phone together at the same time. In any event, something funny happened in the dream, and I heard her laugh.
For the first time in almost four years, I heard her laugh. And I recognized it. It was her laugh. My heart leapt inside of me in amazement and joy! For our entire life together we had laughed together so, so many times, and to hear that sound again was the gift of an angel.
Why did I finally have a dream like this now? Did it have anything to do with the recent events of my life that I mentioned above or was it coincidental? I don't know. But more importantly, I don't need to know. The only thing that's important in all of this is reflected in today's title: I heard her laugh.
Saturday, November 2, 2019
Number 64
I'm Not Brave, Just Desperate
One of the comments I hear from supportive allies quite frequently is one telling me how brave I am for coming out as transgender and going through the gender confirmation process. I am always struck by this, as it is completely discordant with how I feel about my transition. You see, I am going through all this because to not do so would be a little bit like dying. Once I knew my own truth, transition was the only way forward for me. I don't think of what I'm doing is brave, just necessary.
And it can be a long and lonely path, despite many supportive people in my life. It's a lonely path when I walk into a women's bathroom and wonder if my presence will cause a disturbance. It's a lonely path having my archaic genitalia poked and prodded with a laser or electrified needle designed to rid the area of any hair. It's a lonely road when I walk into a store wondering if this will be the time someone calls me a "freak" or "pervert." It's a lonely path when my depression and anxiety exacerbate my worst fears - whether they're truth or fiction. It's a lonely road when my president continues to make it easier for others to devalue my basic personhood just because it's politically expedient for him to do so. It's a lonely road when I am referred to using the 'wrong' pronouns.
Though I have shared with you my history with anxiety and depression, I have done my best over the last few years to keep details about the loneliness and fear that come with my diagnoses to myself. I do this for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is my desire to not bother or concern my friends. Silly, I know. I have many wonderful friends who would tell me, a la Bill Withers, to 'lean on them.' But the truth is, I don't. There are times when my demons overwhelm me. Where the best I can do is crawl away, sob, and think my sad and lonely thoughts.
I'm writing this as I'm (thankfully), coming out of one of these episodes. For some reason it seems important to share this side of me. But it's not because I'm brave. The specifics of my journey may differ from yours, but you have walked a long and lonely path of your own at some point in your life. And just like me you didn't go down that path because you were brave - you did it because you had to. I have a friend who often says: "The only way out, is through." Amen, sister.
One of the comments I hear from supportive allies quite frequently is one telling me how brave I am for coming out as transgender and going through the gender confirmation process. I am always struck by this, as it is completely discordant with how I feel about my transition. You see, I am going through all this because to not do so would be a little bit like dying. Once I knew my own truth, transition was the only way forward for me. I don't think of what I'm doing is brave, just necessary.
And it can be a long and lonely path, despite many supportive people in my life. It's a lonely path when I walk into a women's bathroom and wonder if my presence will cause a disturbance. It's a lonely path having my archaic genitalia poked and prodded with a laser or electrified needle designed to rid the area of any hair. It's a lonely road when I walk into a store wondering if this will be the time someone calls me a "freak" or "pervert." It's a lonely path when my depression and anxiety exacerbate my worst fears - whether they're truth or fiction. It's a lonely road when my president continues to make it easier for others to devalue my basic personhood just because it's politically expedient for him to do so. It's a lonely road when I am referred to using the 'wrong' pronouns.
Though I have shared with you my history with anxiety and depression, I have done my best over the last few years to keep details about the loneliness and fear that come with my diagnoses to myself. I do this for a variety of reasons, not the least of which is my desire to not bother or concern my friends. Silly, I know. I have many wonderful friends who would tell me, a la Bill Withers, to 'lean on them.' But the truth is, I don't. There are times when my demons overwhelm me. Where the best I can do is crawl away, sob, and think my sad and lonely thoughts.
I'm writing this as I'm (thankfully), coming out of one of these episodes. For some reason it seems important to share this side of me. But it's not because I'm brave. The specifics of my journey may differ from yours, but you have walked a long and lonely path of your own at some point in your life. And just like me you didn't go down that path because you were brave - you did it because you had to. I have a friend who often says: "The only way out, is through." Amen, sister.
Monday, October 28, 2019
Number 63
Yep, I'm Gay
OK, first thing, yes, I stole this title from the Time magazine cover when Ellen Degeneres publicly came out. Don't consider it theft so much as an homage...
In the second place, this entry is kind of a part 2 to Number 62. I went back and forth about doing it that way, but finally decided to write them as two (semi), autonomous entries. It's really not a big deal either way.
A while back, probably a year ago, I dropped this into whatever I was writing about: "Oh, yeah, technically I'm a lesbian." If you care that much, feel free to go back and check my past entries. Anyway, if you sense a little attitude behind that comment, congratulations - you win a prize. I probably thought I was being ironic, but when I read it now, it feels painfully sarcastic.
I believe there are a few different reasons for this. From the point that I was finally able to acknowledge my trans identity to the point where I unambiguously embraced my female identity took some time. It didn't happen instantly. I had over 50 years of socialized "maleness" that I had to overcome, after all. The truth is, this process is still on-going (and will probably continue, to a certain degree, for a long while). In any event, at that point in my journey, I had all I could handle coming to terms with true self-identity, let alone my sexuality. Also, I have a healthy disgust for our society's need to put a simplistic label on everything, and I was feeling chagrinned that the label for my sexual identity had to change just because of the gender confirmation process. Finally - well, if you read my last entry you all ready know - I had some unresolved homophobia of my own I had to work through.
After that breakthrough, however; and once I cleaned up that particular area of my Playground of Existential Contemplation; I began to think about what it meant for me to declare myself a lesbian. At the simplest level this was easy. I have always been sexually attracted to women. At some point in my early years, as a somewhat sensitive, non-athletically gifted young man (who occasionally crossdressed), I had put some serious thought into this, but the answer was always crystal clear: women turned me on, men didn't.
But as I continued to consider things more deeply, other truths presented themselves. As I looked back on my life I realized that even in situations that weren't sexually charged (i.e. most of the time), I preferred the company of women. When I began training to be a school teacher, I chose elementary education - not exactly a hot bed of testosterone. I taught Kindergarten for many years and was the only adult male (at least on the outside!), besides the custodian, in the school. When I taught 4th grade my colleagues were all women (whom I enjoyed being with beyond our work life together). The first time I had a female physician, I realized I preferred her to a male doctor. When I began therapy, I only considered women - I just knew I would be uneasy with a male therapist. (Please understand this merely a discussion of what made me comfortable and not a critique of male medical professionals).
I also realized that even though I'm still a bit of a professional sports junkie (which, I would argue, is erroneously looked upon as a male purview), I adore immersing myself in the more 'feminine' corners of the world. A couple of weeks ago, Cindy and I walked into a yarn store for no real reason, and I found myself getting excited about all the craft options that were available (none of which I knew how to undertake). I enjoy conversations among women more than men. If I'm completely honest, I will admit that I think that women as a whole are a lot more impressive than men - and I have some wonderful, wonderful male friends and family members to 'pump up' the numbers for the men. In large part, I believe this to be true simply because women have have had to swim upstream against male privilege for so, so long.
Look, in simplistic terms I was a member of the 'boys' club for a long time. During that time, I would look over at the 'girls' club with longing. For a long time, I didn't know why, exactly. Finally, I learned that I was living in the wrong club. Now that I've moved to the correct club, I couldn't be happier. For me it was like finding an elusive well-fitting bra - the struggle to find it was a challenge, but once I did, the fit was perfect!
So what does all this add up to? That's easy: I'm a lesbian.
OK, first thing, yes, I stole this title from the Time magazine cover when Ellen Degeneres publicly came out. Don't consider it theft so much as an homage...
In the second place, this entry is kind of a part 2 to Number 62. I went back and forth about doing it that way, but finally decided to write them as two (semi), autonomous entries. It's really not a big deal either way.
A while back, probably a year ago, I dropped this into whatever I was writing about: "Oh, yeah, technically I'm a lesbian." If you care that much, feel free to go back and check my past entries. Anyway, if you sense a little attitude behind that comment, congratulations - you win a prize. I probably thought I was being ironic, but when I read it now, it feels painfully sarcastic.
I believe there are a few different reasons for this. From the point that I was finally able to acknowledge my trans identity to the point where I unambiguously embraced my female identity took some time. It didn't happen instantly. I had over 50 years of socialized "maleness" that I had to overcome, after all. The truth is, this process is still on-going (and will probably continue, to a certain degree, for a long while). In any event, at that point in my journey, I had all I could handle coming to terms with true self-identity, let alone my sexuality. Also, I have a healthy disgust for our society's need to put a simplistic label on everything, and I was feeling chagrinned that the label for my sexual identity had to change just because of the gender confirmation process. Finally - well, if you read my last entry you all ready know - I had some unresolved homophobia of my own I had to work through.
After that breakthrough, however; and once I cleaned up that particular area of my Playground of Existential Contemplation; I began to think about what it meant for me to declare myself a lesbian. At the simplest level this was easy. I have always been sexually attracted to women. At some point in my early years, as a somewhat sensitive, non-athletically gifted young man (who occasionally crossdressed), I had put some serious thought into this, but the answer was always crystal clear: women turned me on, men didn't.
But as I continued to consider things more deeply, other truths presented themselves. As I looked back on my life I realized that even in situations that weren't sexually charged (i.e. most of the time), I preferred the company of women. When I began training to be a school teacher, I chose elementary education - not exactly a hot bed of testosterone. I taught Kindergarten for many years and was the only adult male (at least on the outside!), besides the custodian, in the school. When I taught 4th grade my colleagues were all women (whom I enjoyed being with beyond our work life together). The first time I had a female physician, I realized I preferred her to a male doctor. When I began therapy, I only considered women - I just knew I would be uneasy with a male therapist. (Please understand this merely a discussion of what made me comfortable and not a critique of male medical professionals).
I also realized that even though I'm still a bit of a professional sports junkie (which, I would argue, is erroneously looked upon as a male purview), I adore immersing myself in the more 'feminine' corners of the world. A couple of weeks ago, Cindy and I walked into a yarn store for no real reason, and I found myself getting excited about all the craft options that were available (none of which I knew how to undertake). I enjoy conversations among women more than men. If I'm completely honest, I will admit that I think that women as a whole are a lot more impressive than men - and I have some wonderful, wonderful male friends and family members to 'pump up' the numbers for the men. In large part, I believe this to be true simply because women have have had to swim upstream against male privilege for so, so long.
Look, in simplistic terms I was a member of the 'boys' club for a long time. During that time, I would look over at the 'girls' club with longing. For a long time, I didn't know why, exactly. Finally, I learned that I was living in the wrong club. Now that I've moved to the correct club, I couldn't be happier. For me it was like finding an elusive well-fitting bra - the struggle to find it was a challenge, but once I did, the fit was perfect!
So what does all this add up to? That's easy: I'm a lesbian.
Friday, October 25, 2019
Number 62
My Homophobia
(Adult content and possible language triggers ahead. Proceed with necessary caution)
When I was growing up in the 1970's and 80's there was one ubiquitous insult that seemed to flow from every boy's mouth - "fag." Looking back on my youth, I wish I could say that I hadn't used the word, but that would be an exceptionally egregious lie. My brother and I used to say it to each other on the daily. Did I say, "On the daily"? What I meant to say, was that my brother and I used to drop it hourly. Hourly? Once a minute? Ummmm...
As I recall, a typical conversation between us might go something like this:
"You're a fag."
"No, you're a fag."
"No, you're a fag."
ad infinitum. (Please don't ask about our version of the Brady Bunch theme song).
If we were actually angry with each other, we might use "fucking faggot!" Or for a change of pace we might throw in a "cocksucker." You know, real intellectual stuff. And it wasn't just us. The word was everywhere. To be thought by others that you might actually be homosexual was the ABSOLUTE worst thing that could happen to any red blooded American boy (even if you actually were gay). Instant ostracism awaited.
Now the thing of it is, I kind of understood that it was all bullshit. When I was in middle school, we rented a house from a gay couple that spent most of their time in New York City. They hired me to do some yard work, and I got to know them a little bit. With only my rudimentary adolescent understanding of sexual attraction to rely on, where the concept of homosexuality seemed extraordinarily abnormal, they didn't seem all that odd to me. I was also a 'band geek' all through high school, and everybody knew that most of the boys in the band were 'that way.' Finally, I was raised by parents who did not practice overt expressions of prejudice or hatred of 'others.' In other words, I grew up in an environment of, more or less, inclusion.
(BTW: Our mother absolutely hated the way my brother and I would insult each other. It used to make her crazy. Using the 'common' sense so prevalent among teenage boys, we would often fake arguments with each other just to get her to pitch a fit. Good times, I tell ya... It's probably too late, but, sorry, Ma.)
In any event, by the time I got to college, I was already kinda woke when it came to the burgeoning gay and lesbian rights movement. As Oberlin College proudly wore its liberalism on its sleeve, my awareness and acceptance only continued to grow. I don't believe the concept of "homophobia" existed yet, as such, but I had gay and lesbian friends by then, and didn't think about it as any big deal (as it pertained to me). I remember when one of my closest friends came out to me after college. He included words to the effect of "I hope we can still be friends" I remember replying, "You're gonna have to try a whole lot harder than this if you're trying to lose my friendship."
Two things started to happen symbiotically as I got older. My political views more and more hinged upon my notions of social justice and equality for all. I don't know if I could be described as a "bleeding heart liberal," as a strong sense of pragmatism always kind of got in the way. But injustices made me angry, and I did my (inadequate) best to pitch in and help out. I tried to be a good ally. The second thing that occurred was that I began to meet and become friendly with a variety of gay and lesbian couples. Marriage equality was still in the distance, but I certainly viewed those relationships as being as valid as those of my heterosexual friends. Or so I thought I thought.
Flash forward a bunch of years. A bunch of 'life' stuff happened. For our purposes the two relevant events are: (1) the death of my wife, Rebecca, in 2016; and (2) the realization of my identity as a trans woman during the Winter/Spring of 2018. When I began my transition, I started to realize that I was feeling 'uneasy' about something. The 'something' might be related to this entry's title, but my final awareness of it follows a rather convoluted path.
I became convinced that after I announced my transition to Rebecca's family, despite their lovely words of acceptance and support, they felt that my decision somehow devalued the relationship between Rebecca and me. I was convinced they were angry at me because my decision 'disrespected' her specifically, and our marriage in general. I held on to those thoughts far longer than I should have. It wasn't until a few months ago that I finally had the epiphany that left me both ashamed and at peace at the same time.
(it totally sucks when you have to face up to your own bad thoughts and deeds)
It's difficult for me to completely explain the exact train of thoughts that occurred, but a simplistic explanation goes kinda like this: I started by considering the notion that if I indeed had been a trans woman all my life, it implied that my relationship/marriage with Rebecca was one that occurred between two women. At the same time, I'm also considering the thought that my transition had somehow invalidated our marriage. From there, I began to think about the many gay and lesbian friends I mentioned above. Had I ever considered their relationships were less valid than ours just because Rebecca and I had been in a 'heterosexual' relationship and theirs had not been? "No!" I thought to myself. "In that case," I continued thinking, "It doesn't matter then, if your relationship with Rebecca was between a man and a woman, or two women, does it?"
In that moment, I realized all those hostile thoughts I had ascribed to Rebecca's siblings, were really my own feelings of unresolved homophobia that had probably been creeping around in my sub-conscious for decades. "Oh." I thought, "that's humbling." But then the most wonderous thing happened. Once I was able to name them, those thoughts seemed to disappear (cliche alert), like dust in the wind. The other thing that seemed to instantly disappear were my fears that I had alienated all my Ousley siblings.
Here is the truth. My relationship with Rebecca was good, and strong, and healthy. Sure it had a few dents and dings. What things that last that long don't? But it was based on mutual respect and love and affection. It was a blessed and holy thing. And that had nothing to do with the sexes and/or the genders of the participants.
(Adult content and possible language triggers ahead. Proceed with necessary caution)
When I was growing up in the 1970's and 80's there was one ubiquitous insult that seemed to flow from every boy's mouth - "fag." Looking back on my youth, I wish I could say that I hadn't used the word, but that would be an exceptionally egregious lie. My brother and I used to say it to each other on the daily. Did I say, "On the daily"? What I meant to say, was that my brother and I used to drop it hourly. Hourly? Once a minute? Ummmm...
As I recall, a typical conversation between us might go something like this:
"You're a fag."
"No, you're a fag."
"No, you're a fag."
ad infinitum. (Please don't ask about our version of the Brady Bunch theme song).
If we were actually angry with each other, we might use "fucking faggot!" Or for a change of pace we might throw in a "cocksucker." You know, real intellectual stuff. And it wasn't just us. The word was everywhere. To be thought by others that you might actually be homosexual was the ABSOLUTE worst thing that could happen to any red blooded American boy (even if you actually were gay). Instant ostracism awaited.
Now the thing of it is, I kind of understood that it was all bullshit. When I was in middle school, we rented a house from a gay couple that spent most of their time in New York City. They hired me to do some yard work, and I got to know them a little bit. With only my rudimentary adolescent understanding of sexual attraction to rely on, where the concept of homosexuality seemed extraordinarily abnormal, they didn't seem all that odd to me. I was also a 'band geek' all through high school, and everybody knew that most of the boys in the band were 'that way.' Finally, I was raised by parents who did not practice overt expressions of prejudice or hatred of 'others.' In other words, I grew up in an environment of, more or less, inclusion.
(BTW: Our mother absolutely hated the way my brother and I would insult each other. It used to make her crazy. Using the 'common' sense so prevalent among teenage boys, we would often fake arguments with each other just to get her to pitch a fit. Good times, I tell ya... It's probably too late, but, sorry, Ma.)
In any event, by the time I got to college, I was already kinda woke when it came to the burgeoning gay and lesbian rights movement. As Oberlin College proudly wore its liberalism on its sleeve, my awareness and acceptance only continued to grow. I don't believe the concept of "homophobia" existed yet, as such, but I had gay and lesbian friends by then, and didn't think about it as any big deal (as it pertained to me). I remember when one of my closest friends came out to me after college. He included words to the effect of "I hope we can still be friends" I remember replying, "You're gonna have to try a whole lot harder than this if you're trying to lose my friendship."
Two things started to happen symbiotically as I got older. My political views more and more hinged upon my notions of social justice and equality for all. I don't know if I could be described as a "bleeding heart liberal," as a strong sense of pragmatism always kind of got in the way. But injustices made me angry, and I did my (inadequate) best to pitch in and help out. I tried to be a good ally. The second thing that occurred was that I began to meet and become friendly with a variety of gay and lesbian couples. Marriage equality was still in the distance, but I certainly viewed those relationships as being as valid as those of my heterosexual friends. Or so I thought I thought.
Flash forward a bunch of years. A bunch of 'life' stuff happened. For our purposes the two relevant events are: (1) the death of my wife, Rebecca, in 2016; and (2) the realization of my identity as a trans woman during the Winter/Spring of 2018. When I began my transition, I started to realize that I was feeling 'uneasy' about something. The 'something' might be related to this entry's title, but my final awareness of it follows a rather convoluted path.
I became convinced that after I announced my transition to Rebecca's family, despite their lovely words of acceptance and support, they felt that my decision somehow devalued the relationship between Rebecca and me. I was convinced they were angry at me because my decision 'disrespected' her specifically, and our marriage in general. I held on to those thoughts far longer than I should have. It wasn't until a few months ago that I finally had the epiphany that left me both ashamed and at peace at the same time.
(it totally sucks when you have to face up to your own bad thoughts and deeds)
It's difficult for me to completely explain the exact train of thoughts that occurred, but a simplistic explanation goes kinda like this: I started by considering the notion that if I indeed had been a trans woman all my life, it implied that my relationship/marriage with Rebecca was one that occurred between two women. At the same time, I'm also considering the thought that my transition had somehow invalidated our marriage. From there, I began to think about the many gay and lesbian friends I mentioned above. Had I ever considered their relationships were less valid than ours just because Rebecca and I had been in a 'heterosexual' relationship and theirs had not been? "No!" I thought to myself. "In that case," I continued thinking, "It doesn't matter then, if your relationship with Rebecca was between a man and a woman, or two women, does it?"
In that moment, I realized all those hostile thoughts I had ascribed to Rebecca's siblings, were really my own feelings of unresolved homophobia that had probably been creeping around in my sub-conscious for decades. "Oh." I thought, "that's humbling." But then the most wonderous thing happened. Once I was able to name them, those thoughts seemed to disappear (cliche alert), like dust in the wind. The other thing that seemed to instantly disappear were my fears that I had alienated all my Ousley siblings.
Here is the truth. My relationship with Rebecca was good, and strong, and healthy. Sure it had a few dents and dings. What things that last that long don't? But it was based on mutual respect and love and affection. It was a blessed and holy thing. And that had nothing to do with the sexes and/or the genders of the participants.
Tuesday, October 22, 2019
Number 61
Autumn in New England (part IV)
Believe it or not! I'm not in a coffee shop right now. I'm actually in the waiting room waiting to see my therapist. Had the parking lot of the Caribou coffee shop down the street not been under construction, I would have been there, so I suppose, in that way, the coffee shop angle still holds. Anyway, In my last entry I promised I would finish telling you all about my trip. I believe I was on my way to Maine.
Thus far I have not mentioned anything about the scenery during my trip. In short, it was spectacular. When I planned this trip, I just looked at my calendar and found a time when I had two weeks free. It didn't occur to me that I would be driving through New England during prime 'leaf peeping' time. Mother Nature did not disappoint this year. I witnessed more shades of yellow, orange, and red than Crayola has crayons. There were so many 'happy trees' that I felt like I was driving through a Bob Ross painting. (That's a good thing).
On the afternoon of Friday, October 11, for the first time, I finally entered the Brewer Community School. The significance of this occasion needs a little back story. Rebecca, the girls, and I lived in the Bangor-Brewer area for 13 years before moving to Mankato, Minnesota in the summer of 2010. Grace was born there in 2000. (May 25th, to be exact.) We were happy there, and if circumstances hadn't changed so abruptly, we'd probably still be there. Briefly, In February of 2010, Rebecca was informed by hospital management that her position was being eliminated. (That they had the temerity to then come and ask her "just exactly what do you do anyway?" is an issue for another blog entry.) They offered her some other job for about a third of her salary, coupled with a complete loss of face. She felt she needed to look elsewhere. I understood this and supported her as she began to cast her net nationally. Eventually, she found the job that brought us all to Mankato.
Now, back to the Brewer Community School and why it took me so long to go inside. You see, by supporting Rebecca's search for a new job, I had also made the decision to resign from the best job I ever had. I was teaching a grade I loved (fourth), with colleagues and a principal that I loved working with. It had taken me a while to get to that point - struggling to get a teaching position, teaching kindergarten longer than I should have for a waste of an administrator - and letting go of all that hurt a great deal. The cherry on top of the whole sh-bang was that our district had been constructing a brand new school building and it was set to open that fall. If you're not a teacher yourself, you may not understand how exciting a new building is. Especially when you've been in a school building that was last state-of-the-art during the Roosevelt administration - Teddy's. So back in the spring of 2010, when all my colleagues were getting sneak peaks at the new building, I stayed away. Going to visit a building I would never get to teach in was just too painful.
As I was walking the halls that Friday, however, I finally realized that I had made peace with this part of my past. I was much more excited to visit with old friends than I was to lament something that never was. It was a wonderful visit with some of my all time favorite people. It was full of laughter over good memories, and a few curse words over some of the more exasperating ones. It was also full of acceptance for the person I had become during our time apart from one another. This is a gift that never fails to make my heart sing.
The next day, Saturday, was the same, but different. During our Bangor time, the Hammond Street Congregational Church had been a central part of our life. Rebecca and I both sang in the choir, served on a variety of committees, and volunteered our time in different ways. Many of our close friends in Bangor were folks from Hammond Street. That evening a number of us gathered together to once again re-establish old relationships, tell stories, and share laughter and tears. The next day, at Sunday morning worship, I was able to do that with another score of people. By the time I left, I felt as if I were walking on a cloud. The cumulative effect of all the wonderful visiting left me feeling lighter than air.
Before I left Bangor, I took the time to leave Rebecca's ashes in a few different places. The church that had been such a big part of our lives, the hospital where she worked and touched so many lives (I also offered my own 'one finger salute' to the dumb ass hospital administrators who had behaved so stupidly 10 years ago), and a park we liked to visit. In each place, I spoke aloud to her, remembering the importance of each place. And, as I did everywhere else, I ended with "I love you."
I drove home through Canada. It's more direct and I got to avoid Chicago. It's also fun to set the speedometer to 120 - even if it is kilometers/hour. It took me 2 1/2 days to make it back to Mankato. I arrived home on Tuesday night, October 15th. Two weeks since I had left.
Writer's are taught to write a good conclusion when they get to the end of whatever they're writing. Which I am. At the end, I mean. I actually don't know what more I can say to sum up my trip. I could try to use some 10 cent adjectives and adverbs to communicate just how much this trip meant to me. But if you've been reading along as I publish each entry, you already know that (I hope). If you can imagine how my two dogs greeted me on my arrival home, you'll have a good idea of the way my soul was soaring after a trip that accomplished what I had hoped for and then so much, much more.
Believe it or not! I'm not in a coffee shop right now. I'm actually in the waiting room waiting to see my therapist. Had the parking lot of the Caribou coffee shop down the street not been under construction, I would have been there, so I suppose, in that way, the coffee shop angle still holds. Anyway, In my last entry I promised I would finish telling you all about my trip. I believe I was on my way to Maine.
Thus far I have not mentioned anything about the scenery during my trip. In short, it was spectacular. When I planned this trip, I just looked at my calendar and found a time when I had two weeks free. It didn't occur to me that I would be driving through New England during prime 'leaf peeping' time. Mother Nature did not disappoint this year. I witnessed more shades of yellow, orange, and red than Crayola has crayons. There were so many 'happy trees' that I felt like I was driving through a Bob Ross painting. (That's a good thing).
On the afternoon of Friday, October 11, for the first time, I finally entered the Brewer Community School. The significance of this occasion needs a little back story. Rebecca, the girls, and I lived in the Bangor-Brewer area for 13 years before moving to Mankato, Minnesota in the summer of 2010. Grace was born there in 2000. (May 25th, to be exact.) We were happy there, and if circumstances hadn't changed so abruptly, we'd probably still be there. Briefly, In February of 2010, Rebecca was informed by hospital management that her position was being eliminated. (That they had the temerity to then come and ask her "just exactly what do you do anyway?" is an issue for another blog entry.) They offered her some other job for about a third of her salary, coupled with a complete loss of face. She felt she needed to look elsewhere. I understood this and supported her as she began to cast her net nationally. Eventually, she found the job that brought us all to Mankato.
Now, back to the Brewer Community School and why it took me so long to go inside. You see, by supporting Rebecca's search for a new job, I had also made the decision to resign from the best job I ever had. I was teaching a grade I loved (fourth), with colleagues and a principal that I loved working with. It had taken me a while to get to that point - struggling to get a teaching position, teaching kindergarten longer than I should have for a waste of an administrator - and letting go of all that hurt a great deal. The cherry on top of the whole sh-bang was that our district had been constructing a brand new school building and it was set to open that fall. If you're not a teacher yourself, you may not understand how exciting a new building is. Especially when you've been in a school building that was last state-of-the-art during the Roosevelt administration - Teddy's. So back in the spring of 2010, when all my colleagues were getting sneak peaks at the new building, I stayed away. Going to visit a building I would never get to teach in was just too painful.
As I was walking the halls that Friday, however, I finally realized that I had made peace with this part of my past. I was much more excited to visit with old friends than I was to lament something that never was. It was a wonderful visit with some of my all time favorite people. It was full of laughter over good memories, and a few curse words over some of the more exasperating ones. It was also full of acceptance for the person I had become during our time apart from one another. This is a gift that never fails to make my heart sing.
The next day, Saturday, was the same, but different. During our Bangor time, the Hammond Street Congregational Church had been a central part of our life. Rebecca and I both sang in the choir, served on a variety of committees, and volunteered our time in different ways. Many of our close friends in Bangor were folks from Hammond Street. That evening a number of us gathered together to once again re-establish old relationships, tell stories, and share laughter and tears. The next day, at Sunday morning worship, I was able to do that with another score of people. By the time I left, I felt as if I were walking on a cloud. The cumulative effect of all the wonderful visiting left me feeling lighter than air.
Before I left Bangor, I took the time to leave Rebecca's ashes in a few different places. The church that had been such a big part of our lives, the hospital where she worked and touched so many lives (I also offered my own 'one finger salute' to the dumb ass hospital administrators who had behaved so stupidly 10 years ago), and a park we liked to visit. In each place, I spoke aloud to her, remembering the importance of each place. And, as I did everywhere else, I ended with "I love you."
I drove home through Canada. It's more direct and I got to avoid Chicago. It's also fun to set the speedometer to 120 - even if it is kilometers/hour. It took me 2 1/2 days to make it back to Mankato. I arrived home on Tuesday night, October 15th. Two weeks since I had left.
Writer's are taught to write a good conclusion when they get to the end of whatever they're writing. Which I am. At the end, I mean. I actually don't know what more I can say to sum up my trip. I could try to use some 10 cent adjectives and adverbs to communicate just how much this trip meant to me. But if you've been reading along as I publish each entry, you already know that (I hope). If you can imagine how my two dogs greeted me on my arrival home, you'll have a good idea of the way my soul was soaring after a trip that accomplished what I had hoped for and then so much, much more.
Sunday, October 20, 2019
Number 60
Autumn in New England (part III)
Isn't it interesting that I initially thought I could put down all my thoughts about this trip in one post? I suppose I could have, but who wants to read a single blog entry that's as long as War and Peace? In any event, I'm in another coffee shop (The Coffee Hag in Mankato, MN)(my home turf), where I am planning (hoping?), to finish my account of my recent trip to New England.
Somewhere on my drive east, probably Pennsylvania, I decided to leave some of Rebecca's ashes on the grounds of the three hospitals where she had had spent most of her working life. In each of these places, she had touched hundreds, if not thousands, of people with her unique brand of humanitarian professionalism. With her, you couldn't separate the two. It was her calling card. She strove to work collaboratively with the M.D.s and other healthcare professionals using the most up-to-date scientific standards. At the same time, she never forgot the humanity of her patients. Time and time again she extended herself beyond what most others would do, to ensure that patients and their families were cared for properly. Most of us, in our lives, will encounter different situations that need attention and think "yeah, but somebody else will take care of that," and walk on by. That response was not in her DNA. If she encountered something that needed to be done or someone that needed to be looked after, she did it.
On Monday morning, October 7, I stopped at the Dartmouth-Hitchcock hospital. After a brief walk around (it was raining!), I reminded Rebecca of all the lives she had touched in that place, and let her ashes go with the wind.
The next stop for me was East Andover, NH. My sister-in-law Sarah, and her husband Chuck live there. Prior to my arrival, this was the visit that filled me with the most apprehension. You see, when I met Rebecca, I was immediately and enthusiastically welcomed into her family. For the next 20+ years, Ousley family gatherings were an important part of our life together. After her death, two events left me feeling unsure of whether or not I still belonged in the family. The first was my relationship with Cindy. The second was the discovery of my gender dysphoria and my decision to transition. I personally struggled a great deal with these two things - specifically in terms of what they may, or may not have suggested about my relationship with Rebecca. My anxiety about all of this was manifested in thoughts that her family no longer wanted anything to do with me. That by making the choices I had made, I had somehow 'disrespected' Rebecca in some unforgivable way. I had finally made my own peace regarding these feelings, but still didn't know if I would be welcomed by members of her family.
Three days later, after many tears, runny noses, and soiled tissues, I left their home secure in the knowledge that I was still a welcome member of the Ousley family. Sarah, who had been as devastated as anyone over Rebecca's passing, and I had many wonderful talks about Rebecca. They weren't all easy, as the wounds of her passing still possess the ability to cause great pain, but they were cathartic, I think, for both of us.
On Tuesday morning, October 8, Chuck, Sarah, and I arrived at the top of Mount Kersarge in central New Hampshire. We drove most of the way, and then climbed the last 1/2 mile. At least that's what the trail sign said. Chuck was sure that the mountain had gotten much taller since the last time he had walked that trail, some 20 years earlier! Rebecca loved the New Hampshire outdoors, and much of her recreational time when she lived there was spent hiking, biking, and skiing; so it seemed appropriate to leave some of her ashes in the New Hampshire wilderness. There was a stiff breeze blowing that Tuesday morning, so all I had to do was to hold up my hand, and let the wind take her ashes.
I left for Maine on Thursday, October 10. On my way I stopped in Concord, NH, to have a meal with Moira. Rebecca and I had met her when we all lived in the same (sub-divided) house in New Haven, CT. Moira is the oldest friend that Rebecca and I had in common. She has a wit as dry as the desert, and while I couldn't practice my skills with sarcasm around Rebecca, Moira and I could have a "dueling banjos" type of competition in this regard. She usually won. What most people don't know is that she actually has a huge heart, and an acute sense of looking out for society's underdogs.
When Rebecca died, I had her address book and phone (with its many contacts). I knew there were many people that I should have reached out to with news of her passing, but that was much too painful to contemplate in the immediate aftermath. By the time I began to consider doing so, I had lost the address book and forgotten her phone's password. I didn't really matter, though, because I still really didn't want to tackle notifying her old friends. Well, except for one or two people. Moira was one of them, but I now lacked the necessary information to reach out to her. Oh well... one more friendship lost to the passage of time.
Except I ended up not settling for that ending. When I started planning my trip, I did my best to find Moira. Thankfully, unless you're a hermit, the internet makes it relatively simple. I reached out, and she quickly responded with enthusiasm. We shared some life updates, and made our lunch plans. As lunch wound down, we wished we had more time. But she had a hair appointment that she considered more important than a long, lost friend, so we went our separate ways. (love you, Moira!) One more old friendship dusted off and re-established.
(to be continued)(and completed next time)(I promise)
Isn't it interesting that I initially thought I could put down all my thoughts about this trip in one post? I suppose I could have, but who wants to read a single blog entry that's as long as War and Peace? In any event, I'm in another coffee shop (The Coffee Hag in Mankato, MN)(my home turf), where I am planning (hoping?), to finish my account of my recent trip to New England.
Somewhere on my drive east, probably Pennsylvania, I decided to leave some of Rebecca's ashes on the grounds of the three hospitals where she had had spent most of her working life. In each of these places, she had touched hundreds, if not thousands, of people with her unique brand of humanitarian professionalism. With her, you couldn't separate the two. It was her calling card. She strove to work collaboratively with the M.D.s and other healthcare professionals using the most up-to-date scientific standards. At the same time, she never forgot the humanity of her patients. Time and time again she extended herself beyond what most others would do, to ensure that patients and their families were cared for properly. Most of us, in our lives, will encounter different situations that need attention and think "yeah, but somebody else will take care of that," and walk on by. That response was not in her DNA. If she encountered something that needed to be done or someone that needed to be looked after, she did it.
On Monday morning, October 7, I stopped at the Dartmouth-Hitchcock hospital. After a brief walk around (it was raining!), I reminded Rebecca of all the lives she had touched in that place, and let her ashes go with the wind.
The next stop for me was East Andover, NH. My sister-in-law Sarah, and her husband Chuck live there. Prior to my arrival, this was the visit that filled me with the most apprehension. You see, when I met Rebecca, I was immediately and enthusiastically welcomed into her family. For the next 20+ years, Ousley family gatherings were an important part of our life together. After her death, two events left me feeling unsure of whether or not I still belonged in the family. The first was my relationship with Cindy. The second was the discovery of my gender dysphoria and my decision to transition. I personally struggled a great deal with these two things - specifically in terms of what they may, or may not have suggested about my relationship with Rebecca. My anxiety about all of this was manifested in thoughts that her family no longer wanted anything to do with me. That by making the choices I had made, I had somehow 'disrespected' Rebecca in some unforgivable way. I had finally made my own peace regarding these feelings, but still didn't know if I would be welcomed by members of her family.
Three days later, after many tears, runny noses, and soiled tissues, I left their home secure in the knowledge that I was still a welcome member of the Ousley family. Sarah, who had been as devastated as anyone over Rebecca's passing, and I had many wonderful talks about Rebecca. They weren't all easy, as the wounds of her passing still possess the ability to cause great pain, but they were cathartic, I think, for both of us.
On Tuesday morning, October 8, Chuck, Sarah, and I arrived at the top of Mount Kersarge in central New Hampshire. We drove most of the way, and then climbed the last 1/2 mile. At least that's what the trail sign said. Chuck was sure that the mountain had gotten much taller since the last time he had walked that trail, some 20 years earlier! Rebecca loved the New Hampshire outdoors, and much of her recreational time when she lived there was spent hiking, biking, and skiing; so it seemed appropriate to leave some of her ashes in the New Hampshire wilderness. There was a stiff breeze blowing that Tuesday morning, so all I had to do was to hold up my hand, and let the wind take her ashes.
I left for Maine on Thursday, October 10. On my way I stopped in Concord, NH, to have a meal with Moira. Rebecca and I had met her when we all lived in the same (sub-divided) house in New Haven, CT. Moira is the oldest friend that Rebecca and I had in common. She has a wit as dry as the desert, and while I couldn't practice my skills with sarcasm around Rebecca, Moira and I could have a "dueling banjos" type of competition in this regard. She usually won. What most people don't know is that she actually has a huge heart, and an acute sense of looking out for society's underdogs.
When Rebecca died, I had her address book and phone (with its many contacts). I knew there were many people that I should have reached out to with news of her passing, but that was much too painful to contemplate in the immediate aftermath. By the time I began to consider doing so, I had lost the address book and forgotten her phone's password. I didn't really matter, though, because I still really didn't want to tackle notifying her old friends. Well, except for one or two people. Moira was one of them, but I now lacked the necessary information to reach out to her. Oh well... one more friendship lost to the passage of time.
Except I ended up not settling for that ending. When I started planning my trip, I did my best to find Moira. Thankfully, unless you're a hermit, the internet makes it relatively simple. I reached out, and she quickly responded with enthusiasm. We shared some life updates, and made our lunch plans. As lunch wound down, we wished we had more time. But she had a hair appointment that she considered more important than a long, lost friend, so we went our separate ways. (love you, Moira!) One more old friendship dusted off and re-established.
(to be continued)(and completed next time)(I promise)
Thursday, October 17, 2019
Number 59
Autumn in New England (part II)
So I'm home now. Actually I'm in another coffee shop (yes, I spend a lot of time in coffee shops). But this one is a Caribou Coffee, and it's in St Paul, MN. What I mean to say is that I got back home to Minnesota two days ago after one mammoth 15 hour drive. I didn't actually take the time to figure out my total mileage for the two weeks I was away, but I think 3,000 miles is a fair estimate. Perhaps I should calculate that number in kilometers as part of my drive took me through Canada. You know, that wonderful country to the north with the hot and sane national leader (sigh).
Ostensibly, this trip was about me distributing Rebecca's ashes in a few of those special places from her life. If I evaluate the trip using only that rubric it was a wonderful success. I have a feeling of great contentment, secure in the knowledge that I finally put Rebecca to rest in a befitting way. However, the trip became so much more than that. It is not hyperbole for me to describe it one of the most meaningful experiences of my life.
I left on Wednesday afternoon, October 2, from Minneapolis. I had just finished a therapy appointment. It rained on me pretty much the entire drive to Beloit, Wisconsin where I stopped for the night. The next day's drive would take me to Oberlin, Ohio where I had gone to college more than (cough, cough), 30 years ago. I had only been back a few times since I graduated and was looking forward to a walk down memory lane.
It was a weird mixture of deja vu and discombobulation. So much of the campus looked exactly the same, but then I would turn a corner expecting to see students throwing a frisbee on the quad and there would be a new building instead. I went to the physical education building to re-visit the pool where I used to swim back and forth when I was on the swim team. I told the student working the desk that I had an ID but it was off by "30 years, 50 lbs., and one gender." She smiled and let me through.
Much like Scrooge's first visit on that long ago Christmas eve, I felt that the ghosts of the past were very close. I really felt like I was taking a walk with my much younger self. We had a good visit. That night I visited one of the many new options for a meal that the town now offers. (Back in my day we had two pizza parlors and a diner). I had a great deal of fun observing that the current crop of students act pretty much the same way my friends and I did back in the 1980s.
My next stop was Scranton, PA. I picked this because I had to stop somewhere for the night, it was along my route, and, of course, The Office. The Office is one of my daughter's favorite shows, and I couldn't resist visiting some of the real world Scranton places that had been on the show. Taking selfies of myself at those places and sending them to Grace sounded like fun. There was, however, one problem (and it brings me no joy in reporting this): Scranton is a dump. I got a picture of myself in front of the "Welcome to Scranton" sign you see during the opening credits of the show, and then beat a hasty retreat. The best thing I can say about the motel where I stayed that night is that I did not catch any communicable diseases.
On Saturday afternoon, October 5, I arrived at the First Presbyterian Church of New Haven, CT. This was my first place to distribute ashes. Way back in 1993, I was singing in the church choir when a new soprano started singing with us. Her name was Rebecca, and I was smitten. She was apparently smitten, too, because we were married in that same church eleven months later. A few years later, Emma would be baptized in the same building. That afternoon, back in the present, I spoke some words to Rebecca, told her I loved her and tossed her ashes into the air.
The next morning, I was there for Sunday services. I nervously entered a building I hadn't been inside of for over 15 years. I was immediately greeted warmly by the current pastor, which served to put me at ease. In this context, "served to put me at ease," should be interpreted as "started crying lots of happy tears." I was soon surrounded by good friends I hadn't seen in far too many years. The visiting continued after the church service until the time came for me to leave.
If I say "It was a very meaningful visit," and move on my next adventure without analyzing it further, I fail to communicate to you why this entire trip became about far more than I imagined when I planned it. (1) I re-established contact with friends I thought were 'lost' through the passage of time. (2) It re-kindled memories of Rebecca's and my life when we were in that "stupid-in-love" stage. (3) It was a time where condolences on Rebecca's passing were offered up in kind and loving ways. In that way they felt like words of healing. (As opposed to other times when cloying attempts at sympathy feel like the emotional equivalent of ripping a bandage from a fresh wound.) (4) And finally, it was a time of acceptance. Since the time that I began telling my friends and family about my transition, I have been BLESSED time and time again with words of acceptance. It doesn't matter that it's happened many times, because, even still, each and every time it happens, I am reminded that I am loved just for being myself. I simply lack the words to explain how extraordinary that feels. Each time. And it happened a lot on this trip.
(to be continued)
So I'm home now. Actually I'm in another coffee shop (yes, I spend a lot of time in coffee shops). But this one is a Caribou Coffee, and it's in St Paul, MN. What I mean to say is that I got back home to Minnesota two days ago after one mammoth 15 hour drive. I didn't actually take the time to figure out my total mileage for the two weeks I was away, but I think 3,000 miles is a fair estimate. Perhaps I should calculate that number in kilometers as part of my drive took me through Canada. You know, that wonderful country to the north with the hot and sane national leader (sigh).
Ostensibly, this trip was about me distributing Rebecca's ashes in a few of those special places from her life. If I evaluate the trip using only that rubric it was a wonderful success. I have a feeling of great contentment, secure in the knowledge that I finally put Rebecca to rest in a befitting way. However, the trip became so much more than that. It is not hyperbole for me to describe it one of the most meaningful experiences of my life.
I left on Wednesday afternoon, October 2, from Minneapolis. I had just finished a therapy appointment. It rained on me pretty much the entire drive to Beloit, Wisconsin where I stopped for the night. The next day's drive would take me to Oberlin, Ohio where I had gone to college more than (cough, cough), 30 years ago. I had only been back a few times since I graduated and was looking forward to a walk down memory lane.
It was a weird mixture of deja vu and discombobulation. So much of the campus looked exactly the same, but then I would turn a corner expecting to see students throwing a frisbee on the quad and there would be a new building instead. I went to the physical education building to re-visit the pool where I used to swim back and forth when I was on the swim team. I told the student working the desk that I had an ID but it was off by "30 years, 50 lbs., and one gender." She smiled and let me through.
Much like Scrooge's first visit on that long ago Christmas eve, I felt that the ghosts of the past were very close. I really felt like I was taking a walk with my much younger self. We had a good visit. That night I visited one of the many new options for a meal that the town now offers. (Back in my day we had two pizza parlors and a diner). I had a great deal of fun observing that the current crop of students act pretty much the same way my friends and I did back in the 1980s.
My next stop was Scranton, PA. I picked this because I had to stop somewhere for the night, it was along my route, and, of course, The Office. The Office is one of my daughter's favorite shows, and I couldn't resist visiting some of the real world Scranton places that had been on the show. Taking selfies of myself at those places and sending them to Grace sounded like fun. There was, however, one problem (and it brings me no joy in reporting this): Scranton is a dump. I got a picture of myself in front of the "Welcome to Scranton" sign you see during the opening credits of the show, and then beat a hasty retreat. The best thing I can say about the motel where I stayed that night is that I did not catch any communicable diseases.
On Saturday afternoon, October 5, I arrived at the First Presbyterian Church of New Haven, CT. This was my first place to distribute ashes. Way back in 1993, I was singing in the church choir when a new soprano started singing with us. Her name was Rebecca, and I was smitten. She was apparently smitten, too, because we were married in that same church eleven months later. A few years later, Emma would be baptized in the same building. That afternoon, back in the present, I spoke some words to Rebecca, told her I loved her and tossed her ashes into the air.
The next morning, I was there for Sunday services. I nervously entered a building I hadn't been inside of for over 15 years. I was immediately greeted warmly by the current pastor, which served to put me at ease. In this context, "served to put me at ease," should be interpreted as "started crying lots of happy tears." I was soon surrounded by good friends I hadn't seen in far too many years. The visiting continued after the church service until the time came for me to leave.
If I say "It was a very meaningful visit," and move on my next adventure without analyzing it further, I fail to communicate to you why this entire trip became about far more than I imagined when I planned it. (1) I re-established contact with friends I thought were 'lost' through the passage of time. (2) It re-kindled memories of Rebecca's and my life when we were in that "stupid-in-love" stage. (3) It was a time where condolences on Rebecca's passing were offered up in kind and loving ways. In that way they felt like words of healing. (As opposed to other times when cloying attempts at sympathy feel like the emotional equivalent of ripping a bandage from a fresh wound.) (4) And finally, it was a time of acceptance. Since the time that I began telling my friends and family about my transition, I have been BLESSED time and time again with words of acceptance. It doesn't matter that it's happened many times, because, even still, each and every time it happens, I am reminded that I am loved just for being myself. I simply lack the words to explain how extraordinary that feels. Each time. And it happened a lot on this trip.
(to be continued)
Monday, October 7, 2019
Number 58
Autumn in New England (part I)
I am writing this in a Starbucks in Lebanon, NH. Sounds pretty normal, right? Except for the fact that I live in Mankato, Minnesota. What am doing here? Did I get lost somewhere? Did my map app lead me to drive into a lake? (That's what she said). No, No, and two obvious references to episodes of the Office (more on that later).
I'm here on purpose. Not the Starbucks necessarily, but New England. Why? Good question, and if I can force myself to stop distracting my narrative with thin attempts at humor, I'll tell you. But first let me tell you why I'm deflecting from this entry's stated purpose. This one's going to take me to places I don't like to go, and I'm using humor to try and keep me away. But here goes...
One of the great intimacies of being in relationship with another person are the late night, after the lights are out, conversations. Sometimes they're silly: "Honey, would you rather be a llama or a giraffe?" Sometimes they're profound: "Honey, do you think we'll survive the Trump presidency?" Sometimes they're about the state of the relationship questions: "Honey, are you happy with me?" (This type of conversation is a little scary, and feigning sleep to avoid it, while chickenshit, is occasionally allowed). Then there are the death questions. "If I die, do you think you'll remarry?" or "What should I do with your body, if you die before me?"
Interestingly enough, these "death" questions (and the conversations they engender), aren't as macabre as they sound. Sometimes they're funny, and can lead to fits of giggles (God forbid you laugh out loud and wake the kids!), and other times they can be thoughtful and loving. They're rarely hurtful or scary. I suppose the point I'm trying to make is that the answers to these questions are rarely definitive. At least in my case that's true.
Rebecca died on February 14, 2016. Valentine's Day, if you're keeping score at home. I left her at the hospital the previous evening promising to be back the next day. Even at that late point, no one, not even the doctor's knew how sick she was. Well, I did see her the next day, but she was unconscious and dying, so our ability to converse was somewhat limited. (I'm sorry about the sarcasm, it sometimes takes on a life of its own). In any event, and the entire purpose for this post, she and I never had a definitive, "what should I do with your remains?" type of conversation. I knew she wished to be cremated, but beyond that: zip, nada, nothing.
The next day at the mortuary, my friend Steve propped me up long enough to help me decide on a simple oaken box for her ashes. I had enough sense to know that she would not have approved of anything more elaborate than that. I'm sure she would have found most of the urns I could have selected to be more than a tad ostentatious. If you knew Rebecca, I am betting you know this to be true. She was not about flash - she was about substance.
When I brought her ashes home, they took up residence on the fire place mantle. It surprised me that
I felt comforted by their presence. However, this never felt 'final' to me. I always felt the she deserved something a little bit better than the fire place mantle, even if I did find solace in them. Emma and Grace were each given a portion of their mother's ashes, so that she would continue to be with them, in body as well as spirit. But other than that, I struggled to come up with a worthwhile idea. Of course, part of the problem was the fact that, at the time, I was living a life dominated by shock and grief. (Not a good place for innovative thinking or planning, I can tell you.)
So there they sat until about a little over a year ago. An idea fell into my head already fully formed. In other words, it wasn't really my idea. Somebody just "unscrewed my skull cap" and dropped their idea inside. (Thankfully they screwed my skull cap back on before they left.) The idea went something like this: Rebecca had lived in five different places in her lifetime, and through her grit, determination, heart, decency, ability to reach out, and the sheer goodness of her soul, she had imbued these places with deep meaning. I was to visit those five places and leave some of her ashes at each so that her spirit in those places would continue to live on and on and on.
I originally planned this trip for last summer, but then I chickened-out, and then I got distracted. At an Ousley family reunion last August, Her family and I DID distribute some of her ashes in some woods where she often ran as a youth. This took place in her hometown of Marshfield, Wisconsin. I struggled to say something profound in the moment, but speaking extemporaneously has never been a strong suit. I hope the others gathered don't hold that against me. On the other hand, she was back in a place where she had run swiftly among the trees without a hint of the cancer that was in her future. That felt good.
Finally, during the recently passed summer, I made the decision to finish the task. Logistically, this meant a trip to New England, because three of the "Rebecca Places" were located there. (1) New Hampshire. Rebecca lived here for ten years after she graduated. She worked at Dartmouth-Hitchcock hospital, and she loved being outside as often as she could exploring the wilds of NH. So to, her sister Sarah and Sarah's young family lived nearby. (2) New Haven, CT. Rebecca and I met and were married there. We started our family there too, when Emma came along. And (3) Bangor, ME. We moved there from New Haven and lived there for 13 years. Grace was born there. (The fifth place was/is Mankato. I finally decided it was OK for a portion of her ashes to remain on the mantle.)
I decided to drive, so that I could take my time. Not to "savor" it like you would do with something enjoyable, but to treat it with the reverence it and she deserve. I'm about half way through the trip right now, as I sit in this Starbucks. I'm going to edit the title now, and add "part I" to it, as this has already gotten lengthy. "Part II" will follow shortly where I tell you how things have gone so far. (Short preview: don't ever stay at the "Red Carpet Inn and Suites" in Scranton, PA). I'm amazed at the way I have been moved by my journey - far beyond the emotions stirred up by taking care of Rebecca's ashes. I now realize that this trip, for me, is about much more than that. Until next time.
(To be continued)
I am writing this in a Starbucks in Lebanon, NH. Sounds pretty normal, right? Except for the fact that I live in Mankato, Minnesota. What am doing here? Did I get lost somewhere? Did my map app lead me to drive into a lake? (That's what she said). No, No, and two obvious references to episodes of the Office (more on that later).
I'm here on purpose. Not the Starbucks necessarily, but New England. Why? Good question, and if I can force myself to stop distracting my narrative with thin attempts at humor, I'll tell you. But first let me tell you why I'm deflecting from this entry's stated purpose. This one's going to take me to places I don't like to go, and I'm using humor to try and keep me away. But here goes...
One of the great intimacies of being in relationship with another person are the late night, after the lights are out, conversations. Sometimes they're silly: "Honey, would you rather be a llama or a giraffe?" Sometimes they're profound: "Honey, do you think we'll survive the Trump presidency?" Sometimes they're about the state of the relationship questions: "Honey, are you happy with me?" (This type of conversation is a little scary, and feigning sleep to avoid it, while chickenshit, is occasionally allowed). Then there are the death questions. "If I die, do you think you'll remarry?" or "What should I do with your body, if you die before me?"
Interestingly enough, these "death" questions (and the conversations they engender), aren't as macabre as they sound. Sometimes they're funny, and can lead to fits of giggles (God forbid you laugh out loud and wake the kids!), and other times they can be thoughtful and loving. They're rarely hurtful or scary. I suppose the point I'm trying to make is that the answers to these questions are rarely definitive. At least in my case that's true.
Rebecca died on February 14, 2016. Valentine's Day, if you're keeping score at home. I left her at the hospital the previous evening promising to be back the next day. Even at that late point, no one, not even the doctor's knew how sick she was. Well, I did see her the next day, but she was unconscious and dying, so our ability to converse was somewhat limited. (I'm sorry about the sarcasm, it sometimes takes on a life of its own). In any event, and the entire purpose for this post, she and I never had a definitive, "what should I do with your remains?" type of conversation. I knew she wished to be cremated, but beyond that: zip, nada, nothing.
The next day at the mortuary, my friend Steve propped me up long enough to help me decide on a simple oaken box for her ashes. I had enough sense to know that she would not have approved of anything more elaborate than that. I'm sure she would have found most of the urns I could have selected to be more than a tad ostentatious. If you knew Rebecca, I am betting you know this to be true. She was not about flash - she was about substance.
When I brought her ashes home, they took up residence on the fire place mantle. It surprised me that
I felt comforted by their presence. However, this never felt 'final' to me. I always felt the she deserved something a little bit better than the fire place mantle, even if I did find solace in them. Emma and Grace were each given a portion of their mother's ashes, so that she would continue to be with them, in body as well as spirit. But other than that, I struggled to come up with a worthwhile idea. Of course, part of the problem was the fact that, at the time, I was living a life dominated by shock and grief. (Not a good place for innovative thinking or planning, I can tell you.)
So there they sat until about a little over a year ago. An idea fell into my head already fully formed. In other words, it wasn't really my idea. Somebody just "unscrewed my skull cap" and dropped their idea inside. (Thankfully they screwed my skull cap back on before they left.) The idea went something like this: Rebecca had lived in five different places in her lifetime, and through her grit, determination, heart, decency, ability to reach out, and the sheer goodness of her soul, she had imbued these places with deep meaning. I was to visit those five places and leave some of her ashes at each so that her spirit in those places would continue to live on and on and on.
I originally planned this trip for last summer, but then I chickened-out, and then I got distracted. At an Ousley family reunion last August, Her family and I DID distribute some of her ashes in some woods where she often ran as a youth. This took place in her hometown of Marshfield, Wisconsin. I struggled to say something profound in the moment, but speaking extemporaneously has never been a strong suit. I hope the others gathered don't hold that against me. On the other hand, she was back in a place where she had run swiftly among the trees without a hint of the cancer that was in her future. That felt good.
Finally, during the recently passed summer, I made the decision to finish the task. Logistically, this meant a trip to New England, because three of the "Rebecca Places" were located there. (1) New Hampshire. Rebecca lived here for ten years after she graduated. She worked at Dartmouth-Hitchcock hospital, and she loved being outside as often as she could exploring the wilds of NH. So to, her sister Sarah and Sarah's young family lived nearby. (2) New Haven, CT. Rebecca and I met and were married there. We started our family there too, when Emma came along. And (3) Bangor, ME. We moved there from New Haven and lived there for 13 years. Grace was born there. (The fifth place was/is Mankato. I finally decided it was OK for a portion of her ashes to remain on the mantle.)
I decided to drive, so that I could take my time. Not to "savor" it like you would do with something enjoyable, but to treat it with the reverence it and she deserve. I'm about half way through the trip right now, as I sit in this Starbucks. I'm going to edit the title now, and add "part I" to it, as this has already gotten lengthy. "Part II" will follow shortly where I tell you how things have gone so far. (Short preview: don't ever stay at the "Red Carpet Inn and Suites" in Scranton, PA). I'm amazed at the way I have been moved by my journey - far beyond the emotions stirred up by taking care of Rebecca's ashes. I now realize that this trip, for me, is about much more than that. Until next time.
(To be continued)
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