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.
Monday, October 28, 2019
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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