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
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