Number 135

 It's Okay, Have a Laugh or I Intentionally Dead-Name Myself or A Love Letter to My Ousley Family

Just like Uncle Albert in Mary Poppins, I love to laugh. It's a good thing too, because there's a lot about life that deserves to be laughed at. To my mind, some of the most charmless people in the world are those that take themselves way too seriously. One of the things that is universally human is our ability to be or do the most ridiculous things. Occasionally on purpose, sometimes by accident. Sometimes no one else notices, and you feel like you've dodged a bullet. Sometimes only the family pet sees (and they're good at keeping secrets). Other times there's an audience and all you can do is shrug your shoulders and laugh. Heck, there are times when it feels good to laugh at yourself.

That said, it's important to remember that humor should never come from a place of cruelty. For example, I absolutely hate videos when people wipe out on their skateboards or bikes, or otherwise lose a battle with gravity. The video always cuts away before you get to see the painful result of such accidents. Attempts at humor based upon bullying suck. So too, are jokes aimed at people who are in a subordinate position to the alleged comedian. Sarcastic humor sometimes works, but can just as easily come across as mean-spirited. Much like a delicious high calorie dessert, it should be used sparingly. I used to think that I'd developed the skill to tease others in a gentle, non-hostile manner; but I misfired enough times to learn two things. (1) How to apologize; and (2) Not to tease others in a gentle, non-hostile manner.

In any event this happened the other day on a Christmas family Zoom call. To get the full effect of the story, you need to know my dead-name. For those of you unfamiliar with that term, it is straight out of the glossary you would encounter in a Transgender Identity 101 class. It is simply the former name of any trans or non-binary person prior to their coming out. As a general rule, you want to be very careful not to use it, as it is quite hurtful to many folks. In my case, it's not hurtful, but I do avoid it as much as possible. It's just not who I am anymore. Having said all that, my old name was Hugh.

Back to the family Zoom call. One of my nephews was sharing his pet - a monitor lizard, I believe. Other family members were asking questions, because curiosity is an Ousley family trait. Someone asked about the color of the lizard, and my nephew responded by saying, "actually he changes hues frequently..." I immediately thought to myself, "Whataya know, I'm a changing hue (Hugh), too." I almost said it out loud to the group. I thought it was kinda funny. But then I realized, as far as jokes go, it might not land real well, simply because many of my family members might not know how to react at me making a joke at my own expense like that. For the record my family has been nothing but loving and supportive of me as I've journeyed through Gender Identity Land. They just didn't know that it's okay to laugh along with me.

So consider this permission. If you are a friend, a family member, or just a supportive ally please feel free to joke away. Some of this stuff is pretty funny.

Number 134

 A Christmas Miracle?

So last week, I'm walking our two dogs on a wooded trail alongside the Minnesota River. Max was on a leash doing his best to pull my arms out of their sockets. He's on a leash because if he isn't, he'll run off into the woods where it's about a 50/50 proposition that he will return when I call him. Ginger, allegedly the "good" dog, was off leash. But Ginger, who has become a bit of a willful old woman in her dotage, had wandered too far afield and was not responding to my calls. Frustration abounded.

Into that chaos, I received a call from my daughter Grace, who is home on break from school. In a brief moment of distracted driving (not related to her phone, thank you very much), the curb of the street upon which she was driving reached out and bit her right front tire resulting in a rather catastrophic blow out. At 20 years old, this was her first experience with any kind of serious, self-inflicted car damage. As such, in a moment of emotion, she reached out to her parent for support...

... who, remember, was going through her own moment of drama. I brusquely informed her there was not much I could do. I was in the middle of the woods and Ginger was AWOL. Immediately after hanging up, Ginger - who apparently has more empathy for my daughter than me - showed up. 

Fifteen minutes later, I met up with Grace who was doing her best to change a tire for the very first time. Did I mention that it was getting dark and the temperature was dropping? I quashed the guilt I felt for never showing her how to change a tire - a miserable experience which should never be experienced for the first time during an actual emergency. I helped a bit, but mostly I talked her through it. She acquitted herself well.

Once we got back home, she quickly scheduled a next day appointment for two new tires. She, of course, felt stupid about the whole thing, and was worried about the cost of repair. I regaled her with stories of my own history automotive misdeeds, and estimated the expense somewhere in the $400 range. A lot of scratch for a college student, sure, but I assured her that "we would figure it out."

The next afternoon, in another moment of impeccable timing, she called me during my manicure. With my phone in my purse, I had no way of answering - my nails weren't dry yet, you see? When I was finally able to reach out, she tearfully told me the total was going to be $2,200. "Shit!" I thought to myself, and as I was paying my manicurist at that moment, told her I'd call her back. It turned out that some car/tire thingy had gotten bent or whatever, so there was a lot more to the fix than two new tires.

"What the fuck?" I further thought to myself, "The damn car isn't even worth that much!" At that moment, my wife Rebecca reached out to me and offered me both perspective and a path forward. Though she's been gone for almost five years, she's still looking out for us. Grace needed safe, reliable transportation (that also afforded me peace of parental mind), and there was no way that $2200 was going to purchase a car that did all those things. I called her back and told her to go ahead and make the arrangement for the repair.

A few days later, when the repairs were finished, we drove over to pick up the car and settle the bill. The total we were given was $500 less than we had been quoted. Good news for sure, but unexpected. We both asked why that was so. We were informed that another customer, who had been sitting in the waiting room when Grace learned about the full extent of the damages, wanted help Grace out. She wished to remain anonymous. We were speechless. 

She had witnessed Grace in a moment of emotional turmoil and reached out with an act of great kindness. Perhaps Grace reminded her of her own daughter. Or maybe she remembered what it felt like to be young and on the verge of taking flight. Maybe she didn't know that Grace had a support system that would be helping her out. Maybe she did. It doesn't really matter 'why' she did it - only that she did. I titled this entry with a question mark, because, as special as it was - I don't think it was a miracle. It was just one person reaching out and helping another person.  Despite our jaded, cynical, and boorish world, I refuse to believe that any act of kindness is a miracle. It is a just a person, at one moment of time, choosing to help make another person's life just a little bit better. Something we should all strive to do.

So "thank you" to Grace's anonymous benefactor. I hope you know that your action was not lost on Grace and me. We will be paying your gift forward with a donation to the Connections Homeless Shelter here in Mankato. Merry Christmas and happy holidays, everyone.

Number 133

 Laying Low, or I've Gone AWOL

I owe a fair number of people an apology, for I have abrogated commitments that I made to a variety of different friends and organizations. I made promises (sometimes just to myself, but still...), and I am currently failing to live up to my responsibilities. I have an explanation as to why, but I can't help but wonder if it is a sufficient excuse for shirking my duties. Essentially it comes down to self preservation. I hope that's reason enough.

Number 132

 Uncle Milan

I didn’t see much of my Uncle Milan over the last 35 years. He lived far away, our political opinions clashed, and an unfortunate family squabble all served to keep us apart. But, through my mother (his sister), I was kept apprised of how he was doing. I was aware that his health over the last few years was not very good, so, although saddened by his passing, I was not entirely surprised. And despite this decline in health, the image I always carry in my mind is the one of him as an heroic SOB dressed in his Ohio State Patrol uniform.

In the summer of 1977, my entire life got turned upside down when my parents separated. My dad soon moved out of state. Into the breach, stepped Uncle Milan. At the time, we lived in the same town as Milan and Patty. I didn’t realize this until I looked back much later, but all of a sudden, Uncle Milan was taking me with him on various errands and adventures. I suppose I was a source of cheap labor, but he kept me in Pepsi, and he always fed me lunch so, all in all, it was good times.

For the most part, we’d clear brush on the farm. He would chain saw the shit out of everything and I would haul it away and put it in big piles to be burned. Earlier, on our way to the farm, he always stopped and picked up a few old, treadless tires. Now, he would take one of those tires, pour a little gas on it, give it a light and… whoosh! A big black (and probably toxic) ball of smoke would head skyward. The purpose, of course, was to supply a source of fire strong enough to burn the green brush we were clearing. That his method of disposal was a little bit dangerous was very appealing to 11 year old me.

The other thing he did was allow me do was mow his lawn. I know how that sounds: “allowed me to mow his lawn” - but he had a John Deere riding lawn mower that he had taught me how to use, and if that isn’t some cool shit for a kid of my age at the time, I don’t know what is. This led to the one moment in time between Uncle Milan and me I will never forget. A moment of raw, exposed emotion that informed me how much he loved me.

I came visiting one hot, muggy midwestern summer day. The kind of day where you would start sweating just standing there. There was no breeze - you just felt encased by the wet air. In any event, my real reason for dropping by was to mow the lawn, and even though Uncle Milan was not at home, Aunt Patty gave me the okay, and I was off like a shot.

I went to the garage, where the lawn mower was parked against the back wall. Entering through the side door, the first thing I did was punch the button to open one of the automatic doors. I then walked to the mower, checked the gas tank, and realized it needed to be filled. As I was doing this, all of a sudden, a lick of flame shot out at me from the gas tank, scaring the shit out of me. I jumped back and dropped the gas can, all in one motion. I don’t know why I kept on moving, as opposed to stopping to try and figure out what happened, but it was a good thing I did - later we would realize my hair and eyebrows had been singed by the first burst of flame. By the time I stopped and looked back, the entire interior of the garage was ablaze.

I ran inside, and although I have no memory of what I said, Aunt Patty responded quickly. Soon the sirens from the fire engines could be heard. But by the time they arrived, the fire was fully engaged. All of a sudden, this was much too much for me. It was a total accident, and I wasn’t entirely sure how I had done it, but I had burned down the garage. I ran away, and hid in a corn field. I was at a complete loss as I wandered the streets with no idea of where I was going. I don’t know how long I wandered, but I was soon found by a police officer and driven back to the house. Uncle Milan was home by the time I arrived, and, with tears in his eyes, he engulfed me in a fierce hug. I can still feel it. 

Additionally, Uncle Milan was the one who finally figured out what happened. This was no small thing, either, for even the fire department folks were stumped. All I knew was that I felt a remorseless guilt that I had fucked up in some monumental way. By providing me with an explanation he enabled me to put that guilt to rest. This was a wonderful gift in its own right.

Remember how hot and muggy it was? How still the air was? When I walked in and opened the automatic door, I also turned on a light on the door opener engine mounted on the ceiling. Well, this light was programmed to shut off after, I don’t know, let’s say three minutes. There would have been a small spark when the bulb turned off - at the precise moment I was pouring gas in the mower’s tank. Given the weather, there would have been a huge concentration of gas fumes all around the mower just waiting for a spark to set them off. When Uncle Milan explained it to me, I felt so relieved. I hadn’t done anything wrong.

Rest in peace, Uncle Milan.

Number 131

 Did You Hear We Had an Election?

(It might be a good idea to go back and read AtRP #102, "MAGA is a cult..." from June 2020, first)

One of my least well kept secrets is how much I despise Donald Trump. Any of my long time readers can support this contention. I have slagged on; mourned the the election of; complained about; and wrote, in the strongest terms I could muster, the need to thwart the re-election of this narcissistic charlatan for over four years. And I hated every time I felt the need to do so (in general, I'd prefer to keep politics out of AtRP). But such was my conviction that his presidency was a cancer upon our country, that I was compelled to speak out. I don't know if I changed anyone's mind, but I knew I couldn't remain silent.

I remember when he was first elected and I was speaking with two friends who had voted for him (likewise, they knew I had supported Hillary). It was a careful, but civil discussion, and I hope they still consider me a friend - I've haven't seen either of them for awhile. In any event, one of them made the point of comparing the presidency to an airplane, and shouldn't we citizens all hope that our 'pilot' flies the plane successfully. She was lamenting that so many people (myself included) were already expressing concerns/protesting about Trump before he was even inaugurated. I didn't really respond, at least out loud, because I felt the three of us were getting suspiciously close to the point where our conversation would cease to be polite, but I thought to myself: "If I saw that the pilot was drunk off his/her ass when they came aboard the plane, I don't think keeping quiet would be the best strategy."

In any event, election day, 2020 has come and gone, and according to every credible news source around the globe, Joe Biden won fair and square. (Yay!) You'll note the use of the word "credible" in that last sentence. This word was chosen deliberately. For it seems there are a few news sources that confuse 'wish fulfillment' with 'truth,' who believe that DT won. According to these people, Trump won the vast majority of the 'legal' votes, but due to the machinations of 'Deep State' operatives and the Democratic party, he is being denied a second term. Where could these folks have gotten such a fanciful notion in the first place? Umm... Trump himself, it turns out. Which is odd when you consider all the times that he's failed as a business person. You'd think he'd be used to admitting he's a loser by now.

I could, if I wished to, detail all of Trump's shenanigans since the election, but it would take too long and I don't want to. Also, if I wanted to, I could list (and then refute with facts), the many conspiracies being put forward by the hardcore MAGA crowd, but it would take too long and I don't want to. It's enough for me to say that Trump has behaved like a petulant, cry-baby bully since the election; and that his followers have, well... as has been written before, sometimes "denial" is more than a river in Egypt. 

No, what I want to do today is celebrate their misery and disbelief. I want to laugh at them and their ridiculous theories, their twisted logic, their (very) poor grammar and spelling, and their mind numbing logical fallacies. I want to, but their stupidity and inability to accept basic truths quickly wears on me and leaves me tired. It's rather breathtaking how many of these people are deeply invested and impressed by their own ignorance. When I read some of their more mind-numbing comments on these fringe news sights, my first impulse is to write a factual, common sense rebuttal. However, this is quickly followed by a reminder of what Mark Twain once wrote: "Don't get into an argument with a fool. They will bring you down to their level and beat you with their experience." So I just shake my head, and move on.

Essentially, as it often does, it comes down to fear and ignorance. And it's impossible to get through to these knuckleheads if that's the lens through which they choose to view the world. In reading comments on right wing websites, it quickly becomes clear how frightened these people are of a world that is beyond their understanding. Unfortunately, instead of trying to educate themselves so they might understand things better, they seem to celebrate their simple-mindedness. It would be funny, except for the fact that DT received the second most votes ever cast in a presidential election. (Approximately 6 million less votes than Joe Biden, but still.) So mostly it all makes me sad. 

There are, however, two exceptions that are too good not to share. The first story detailed how many kool-aid drinking, MAGA hat wearing numbskulls were planning on boycotting the two Senate run-off elections in Georgia. They believe that the 'fix is in,' and that the two democratic candidates will be elected regardless of the popular vote. Umm, okay. To them I say: "You know, you might have something there, Sparky. I think you should stay home and skip the vote."

The second story detailed how certain anti-vaccination communities have become a pipeline for QAnon radicalization. In other words, many anti-vaxxers, who have already proven themselves susceptible to outlandish and untrue bullshit, are falling for the governmental conspiracies made popular by the execrable QAnon crowd. One of those theories, natch, concerns their suspicions about the various Covid-19 vaccinations that will soon (hopefully), find their way into my arm and yours. As I understand it, they believe that Covid is only a ruse to get every citizen inoculated with something that will then allow the 'deep state' to keep track of our every move.

A couple of things about that. (1) I'm pretty sure the government already has the ability to surveil anyone of us, if they want. As soon as I order a pair of shoes on-line, every ad on the next website I visit is for, you guessed it, footwear. I'm sure the CIA knows my clothing sizes; the NSA knows what I had for lunch; and the FBI knows what kind of porn I like (hypothetically speaking). In other words, folks, I think the train has already left the station on the idea of keeping secrets from Uncle Sam (Which would only bother me if I had something to hide). (2) It wouldn't necessarily be a bad thing if the crackpots pushing  harmful and unscientific 'theories' about vaccinations and the 'deep state' upon unsuspecting and vulnerable people refuse to get inoculated. Perhaps they will all get Covid-19 and die, taking their vile and dangerous ideas with them. 

Harsh, I know, and (probably) hyperbolic, but I'm so sick and tired of ignorance being passed off as edgy intellectualism. I'm tired of ignorance hidden under a veil of smug superiority. I'm tired of ignorance that takes a moral high ground that it has no right to. I'm tired of ignorance that can only evaluate a situation from one perspective. I'm tired of the shoddy absolutism that walks hand-in-hand with ignorance. I'm tired of the ignorance that confuses boorishness with candor. I'm sick and tired that Trump and his minions have allowed despicable ignorance to become mainstream.

I'll leave you with this. It was written by William Butler Yeats as he reflected back on the devastation wrought by World War I. It sums up my feelings of the entire Trump presidency.

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

are full of passionate intensity.

Number 130

 Coach Stories

A few blog posts ago (AtRP #126), I wrote about my time as a member of the varsity swim team at Oberlin College, and how that experience proved to be surprisingly meaningful to me. If you remember, the encouragement of the coach was an important part of the story. He provided an environment that allowed me to to discover previously hidden reservoirs of grit and determination that I did not realize I possessed. That I lacked the the skills or abilities of a competitive swimmer when I started makes the whole experience even more special.

The first thing you'll probably notice about Dick Michaels when you meet him is his chin. He could probably cut glass with that sucker. The next thing you'll notice, if you spend a few minutes speaking with him is his relentlessly positive outlook on life. I'm sure he's had bad days, and I'm sure there have been times when he was angry or lost his temper, but in all the years I've known him, I've never seen any evidence of it. The other thing you'll quickly realize is that he has a wicked sense of humor. It's mellowed some as he's gotten older, but, back in the day, it had the potential to cut you as severely as his chin could. 

When I didn't swim up to my potential, he had this rare ability to cut me to the quick without making it feel like an attack. It was impossible to take anything he said to me - no matter how critical, scatological, or profane it may have been - personally. That he cared about me, and my development as a swimmer and a person, was never in doubt. He was just very good at relaying the truth in a very direct manner.

I don't remember the exact meet, but after posting a lousy time in some event, I walked over to him to check out my 'splits' (how fast I swam the individual laps), and all he said was: Boy! You swam like shit." Coming from someone else that might have felt like a personal attack, but from Coach it was just a succinct, but entirely accurate, assessment. "Yep, I sure did." was my response.

And here's the reason whyI knew it wasn't personal. I made a career out of coming in last place - even when I started to improve. But if I swam a good time (for myself), he was the first one to congratulate me with a beaming smile on his face.

There was about three or four of us during my time on the team. The circumstances that led us to the team were varied, but what we all had in common was our speed, or lack thereof. He called as his "mullets." When asked why, he would respond that it was because "mullets are worthless fish." He also referred to us as his "lane six swimmers." Lane six was the most outside lane in the pool. It's where the slowest swimmers hung out

Once, at the College of Wooster, he put me in the 500 free to see if I might have a future as a distance swimmer. I didn't. By the time I finished, it seemed like all the other swimmers had probably packed up and gone home. I stumbled out of the pool, breathing hard, and crawled (okay, walked), over to where Coach was sitting. Without looking up, all he said was, "We don't need to do that again."

Another time, after finishing last once again, Coach could sense I was discouraged. In his own inimitable fashion he put his arm around me and said: "You know, you swim faster than 97% of the rest of the people on this planet. You're just swimming against the 3%." Perhaps, by now, you understand why I considered this high praise.

When I graduated, he was the only faculty member who sought me out to offer congratulations.

In the early 1970's, with precious few opportunities for women to participate in varsity athletics, Coach was the men's cross-country coach. He was approached by a few female students who wanted to run with the team. During meets, they would run 'exhibition', which meant that their times would be unofficial, and not count towards the team's overall placement. Unfortunately, allowing women to participate on a 'men's' team was specifically prohibited by conference regulations. There came a meet where the neanderthal coach of one of the other teams took Coach to task for this egregious violation of the rules and told him, in no uncertain terms, not to let the women participate. They ran the race that day. As a result he was officially sanctioned by the conference, and instructed to stop allowing the women to run. He let them run anyway, and by the following year the prohibition against their participation was lifted.

I've heard Coach tell this story a few times. He always makes sure to mention the courage of the other folks involved - especially the women, but also their male teammates who supported them as team members. Tellingly, he is very modest about his role in the whole affair, despite the fact that his brave decision to do the right thing in the face of great pressure (and the 'rules'), is the point of the whole affair. It also gives you a critical insight into this man's character. He was never much interested in his own adulation - and he was a very accomplished athlete in his own right. What he thrived on was watching the young women and men he coached and taught get better and better - not just as athletes, but as whole human beings.

I love this man. I am beyond fortunate that he became a part of my life all those years ago.

Number 129

The Sound of Silence

So it's been awhile. It's not that I ran out of things to write about - I just needed time to step away from the limelight for a bit. "What limelight?" you might be asking, and that would be a pretty sick burn, if I was claiming any sort of fame or celebrity. No, in this case, what I mean by 'limelight' refers to the manner in which I've written a lot of personal things about my life and my emotions in many previous blog entries. I'm not sorry that I've done so - to me, honesty and candor are necessary if I want this blog to be a worthy endeavor. It's just that my latest setback on my road to gender congruence left me feeling a lit bit like Icarus - I flew too close to the sun and got badly burned. 

Briefly: Six days before vaginoplasty surgery, after my surgeon decided my BMI was too high to guarantee a successful outcome, my procedure was canceled. I was both completely surprised and devastated by this decision. You may wonder how things could have possibly unfolded in this way, but frankly, I'm not interested in going into the details. Quite simply, there were some issues with communication.

And so I needed to lay low. First to lick my wounds and then to determine how to move forward. Believe it or not, I got through those two steps in fairly quick order. I made immediate and decisive decisions about changing the way I ate, so as to facilitate the necessary weight loss. As a result, I have already lost more than half of the weight that I need to. So why have I continued to lay low?

In a word, embarrassment. In my unbridled excitement leading up to my anticipated surgery, I told everybody. To now have to go back out, face all of you, and admit it didn't happen because I was too fat was a humiliation that was hard to countenance. Frankly, I lacked the fortitude to be out among my people - whether it was in person or online. The notion of having to tell the story of my canceled surgery over and over was unappealing and frightening. It still is.

Additionally, Covid-19's powerful resurgence and Trump's post-election temper tantrums have also been unhelpful in inspiring me to reengage with the rest of the world.

What changed? Why am I now engaging with you by writing this? Well, for one thing, typing an essay while safely ensconced in a comfy chair with my two dogs nearby might be credibly termed "baby steps." But the more important reason is that I missed writing down my thoughts. Perhaps this blog is nothing more than a glorified journal, but if that's the case, I'm okay with it. I don't recall ever feeling worse after finishing a blog post. In fact, most of the time, I feel better. Writing this blog is not exactly therapy, but I'd be lying if I said that writing it wasn't therapeutic.

So, for better or worse, I'm back.

P.S. For the record: I do not yet know when my (hopefully soon to be) rescheduled surgery will take place, but when it is, you will not hear about it here until afterwards. Promise.

Number 128

 Reconciliation Park

If you're not from here, there are three possible reasons why you've heard of Mankato, Minnesota before: (1) When 'Pa' went to the "Big City" in the Little House books by Laura Ingalls Wilder, Mankato is where he came; (2) The Minnesota Vikings held their pre-season training camp here for over 50 years; or (3) The largest government sanctioned mass execution in US history occurred here on December 26, 1862. On that day 38 Dakota men were hanged because they had been warriors for the losing side of the US - Dakota War of 1862.

The Dakota War of 1862 began in mid-August. It took place on land the European settlers had named Minnesota. Interestingly enough, the name came from the Dakota language - a two word phrase which described one of the Mississippi River's main tributaries: the "mni sota" river. I say "interestingly" because in most every other way, the white leaders and settlers who wanted  the land where the Dakota people lived, viewed the native people with utter contempt. There are a few different stories about what actually lit the match that started the conflict, but what is undeniable is the completely shabby and inhumane way the leaders of European ancestry treated the native people leading up to the conflict. This, despite the existence of treaties that detailed what the US government had agreed to provide the native tribes in exchange for land concessions. It was a violent, bloody affair, and multiple atrocities were committed by people on both sides. It only lasted five weeks, at which time the last of the Dakota warriors surrendered to US troops. Afterwards, 302 Dakota soldiers were condemned to death, although Abraham Lincoln commuted the sentences of 264 of these men. Still, as stated above, 38 Dakota men were hanged for the part they had each allegedly played in the conflict. 

Enough of that. There are many good resources out there if you wish to know the specifics. But my goal here is not to tell the history of the conflict, but rather to write about the efforts of ancestors from both sides who have tried to come together in a spirit of healing. On September 19, 1997 Reconciliation Park was dedicated. It was built on the land where the gallows had been constructed.

Reconcile

by Katherine Hughes

Remember the innocent dead.

Both Dakota and White,

Victims of events they could not control.

Remember the guilty dead.

Both White and Dakota,

Whom reason abandoned.

Regret the times and attitudes

that brought dishonor

to both cultures.

Respect the deeds and kindnesses

that brought honor

to both cultures

Hope for a future

When memories remain.

Balanced by forgiveness

First things first - I am unqualified to accurately tell you what it all means. I know what the words "reconciliation" means, and I know how I feel when I look at the various displays, but I am not an expert. The chances are very high that I may (unintentionally) hurt or anger someone with what I write; but I am moved to proceed, not just to tell you what the people of this area have done to heal old wounds, but because our entire bitterly divided country needs to figure out how to 'reconcile' with each other as we move forward - whoever wins this stupid election next Tuesday.

The first thing you encounter as you walk in is a large 'tented' piece of faux parchment. On one side are the names of the hanged men. On the other side are two poems. One of which is "Reconcile" (above). The second, "A Dakota Prayer" is below. As a person of European heritage, reading the list of names fills me with a nauseous guilt. Not because these men were necessarily innocent of the charges against them - indeed some of them committed heinous acts of violence against other people. But because no one else was punished. Not the White settlers and US soldiers who responded to the conflict with equal amounts of viciousness, and certainly not the US government  authorities whose barbarous treatment of the Dakota people leading up to the conflict was criminally genocidal. Including one, who when told that the Dakota people were starving (because the government hadn't supplied promised funds for the purchase of food), replied "Let them eat grass." In any situation, if you push against a group of people long enough, they will eventually fight back. Really, it's hardly surprising that this conflict occurred. Actually, what's surprising is, considering the way the European settlers treated the Dakota people, that it took so long for them to respond violently.

But more than that, I feel guilt for the entirety of the extermination my ancestors perpetrated upon all First Nation people. The thought that scares me the most is wondering how I would have felt, had I been alive then, as opposed to now. Would I, as a White person stood with my native brothers and sisters to protest the injustices being perpetrated upon them? I doubt it. It's nice to think I would have been right in there, fighting for their basic human rights. Unfortunately, I would have probably been just like the vast majority of European Americans and looked upon the Dakota people as "savages" and "less than human." After all, for the last 50 years or so, I have patted myself on the back for viewing all people as my equals, deserving of equal treatment; while turning a blind eye, over and over, to the systemic racism that still permeates our culture. I'm sure the White settlers that were moving onto the land taken from the Dakota people, thought they were good and decent people. I bet they were busy patting themselves on their backs for doing the "Lord's work by 'civilizing' the native peoples."

Further on, you will come to a large buffalo. It was carved from a 67 ton piece of local Kasota limestone. Not only is it impressive, it is also slightly intimidating - especially when you look at it head on. I wish I could say more, for I'm sure that it's symbolically important, but I just don't know anything specifically. It is my understanding that many of Native American cultures rever the buffalo. Certainly it made me think of the way my ignorant ancestors did their bloody best to hunt the animal into extinction.

There's a bit of a winding path you can walk, and a few different things you can stop and read, too. If you look carefully you will see the remains of tributes that people have left over the years - in much the same way that people have left things behind at the Vietnam Veteran's Memorial in Washington D.C. But far and away, the part of the park that speaks to me more than anything else, is the bench that sits in front of the list of condemned Dakota men. For it embodies the entire purpose of Reconciliation Park. Carved into its side are the words: "Forgive Everyone Everything." Though it's a very hard thing to do, it's a beautiful way to try and look forward. Maybe back then, I would have been just as ignorant as the other settlers, but I'm not now. I am able to witness and acknowledge the horrible errors of my ancestors. Maybe in the same way, 100 years from now, my ancestors will be able to witness and acknowledge my sins; as they strive to make the world a better and more peaceful place for the people of their future. Peace everyone.

Dakota Prayer

by Eli Taylor

Grandfather, Father, Creator

Look down upon us

Whatever works we do

in a humble way

In the future, when the children

see them, they will understand

And have knowledge

For this reason, here at this

gathering place, we have come

Have pity on us and look!! Make us

live in friendship, as a community!! 

Number 127

 Food & I

I always hated 'liver' night. So did my brother and sister. We called it "ketchup and milk" night. Other than that, I pretty much ate whatever my mom made. I was never much help to all those kids in China, either. I always ate everything on my plate. My mother always claimed it was because anytime I tried to contribute to the evening's conversation, my older brother and sister would tell me: "be quiet - you don't know what your talking about." So I just ate.

No problems through college. I had the physiology of a young cis male at the time. In fact, during the swim season my junior and senior year, I was probably putting away six to seven thousand calories a day. I weighed 190 lbs. and I was a 'legit snack'.

It's after I graduated and sat down for a living that things began to change.

My problem was I love to eat. I enjoy the act of putting food in my mouth, tasting it, chewing it, and finally swallowing it. Though it would be a long time before I heard this term, I had no "portion control." The other problem was that food became my de facto reward or celebration when things went well, or my salve when things went wrong.

I didn't eat horribly, but goodness knows I didn't eat well. And I certainly relied on fast and processed food too much. The other issue was that I would eat out frequently - at the moment the restaurant industry in America decided to supersize their portions. 

Nor was I completely inactive - I was just mostly inactive.

Slowly I started gaining weight. The problem was I had a body type that hid it fairly well. I had, what was described to me as a "Henry" build. Kind of short and squat, like a fire plug. My thighs were huge. If I had ever been cannibalized, a small village could have fed off of them for a long while. Finally, in my mid 40's I took a close look and said, "Holy Shit! You're getting fat!" 

I'm sad to report that I didn't start to make positive changes until after my wife died unexpectedly in 2016. I had just turned 50. She had been worried about me, and had tried to gently persuade me to start taking care of myself, but I never did. A few months later I made plans to begin working with a personal trainer at the YMCA. When I got back in my car I began sobbing, begging her forgiveness for waiting too long.

For the past four + years, I have slowly tried to get my body back into shape. The problem was, it was mostly time spent in the gym. I hadn't yet done anything to change the habits of my knife and fork. So I kept shoveling the food in. I reached a high of 260 lbs. in June of 2019. Uh-oh.

This happened to be the same month that I first met with the plastic surgeon who will (hopefully), one day perform my vaginoplasty surgery that will allow my to finally achieve gender congruence between my heart, head, and body. He told me I was too heavy. So I hit the gym with a fury and finally began to look at my eating habits, especially at the amount I ate. I lost 30 lbs. The surgeon agreed to go forward.

Then Covid, and the lethargy associated with living an isolated, quarantined life hit, and I began to slip into the bad old habits. I should be preparing for my gender confirmation surgery today. It was going to take place tomorrow, but my surgeon pulled the plug because I was too fat. He gave me that news five days ago.

I hope to God it's not yet too late to tame my beast.

Number 126

 Resolve, 25 Yards At A Time

If I told you the most important thing I learned in college was taught to me in the college's swimming pool, would you believe me? I went to a pretty good school, had a lot of great classes taught by some pretty smart people, but it's true; the pool is where I learned the most important lessons Oberlin College had to teach me. How can this be so?

Mostly Sean is to thank (or blame). He was (and remains) one of my close friends who just happened to be a really good diver. (He was the division III national champion his senior year.) So my other friends and I spent a lot of time at swim meets watching Sean dive, which was boring. (Not the diving part, that was exciting, it was the rest of the swim meet that was boring.) At the end of my sophomore year, I got it in my head that if I was going to come to all these meets to watch Sean, I should just join the swim team. I'd always been a decent swimmer so I thought "why not?"

Now when I say I'd always been a decent swimmer, I must point out that I'd never actually been on a swim team before. Nor had I ever swum competitively. I mean just what I said - I was a decent swimmer. And that's all. Oberlin was a division III school, which meant that any ill-informed neophyte (such as myself), could introduce themselves to a particular coach and say something along the lines of: "Hey, I wanna join the swim team."

Coach looked at me...

(A quick word about Coach. I love this man. Perhaps you'll understand why by the end.)

... and asked me what strokes I swam. "Uhhhh... freestyle, I guess." 

"Okay. What distances do you swim? What are your times?"

"Uhhhh... I don't really know," I stammered, suddenly feeling way out of my element. "I've never actually been on a swim team before. I decided to give this a try 'cause Sean's my good friend," 

As it turned out, there was plenty of room on the swim team that year. Coach welcomed me aboard, with a "I know something you don't know" look on his face. In retrospect the thing he knew was how fucking hard it was going to be for me to become a competitive swimmer starting from scratch  the way I was.

I still remember my first practice. I had barely learned how to do a flip turn over the summer which became an instant source of embarrassment. Also, I was hopelessly behind everyone else. They'd all get back and have a chance to catch their breathe, before starting off on the next swim. Not me. I just went back and forth, 25 yards at a time, as many times as I could for 90 minutes, gasping for breathe the entire time. In other words, I was not good.

Because I was either too stupid or stubborn to realize I was a lost cause, I kept showing up at practice. Perhaps the kindest thing would have been for Coach to congratulate me on trying something new, but tell me it just wasn't working out. He didn't do that. Perhaps the easiest thing Coach could have done was just ignore me while I swam back and forth and focused his attention on the more accomplished team members. But he didn't do that, either. Instead he encouraged me to keep at it.

In the long run, I never contributed very much to the team, point wise, but that never mattered to Coach. He celebrated my microscopic improvements just the same as he would my teammates who won races. The best thing was when he posted the stat sheet of our latest meet and I would see an "ab" ('atta boy), next to my name (even if I'd come in last). And so I kept at it. By the end of my first season, I was selected as the team's most improved swimmer. At the end of next year, too.

At my last meet, in the Spring of 1988, I crushed all my personal bests. They were still not comparatively fast, but for me, "Wow!" At my first meet, I had swum the 200 freestyle in 2'48". Glaciers move faster than that. My last competitive swim at that final meet was the 200 free. This time I managed it in 2'06" (with 1'03" splits for those in the know). I imagine you can guess the first person to congratulate me.

The gift he gave me all those years ago was the opportunity to learn that I could persevere and succeed in the face of a difficult challenge. When I joined the team, I had no idea how hard I would need to work. The amount of physical exertion necessary during a 90 minute workout is extraordinary. Once my eyes were opened to that fact, I wondered if I had it in me. By the time I hung up my speedo for the last time, I knew that I did. What a crucial and powerful life lesson to learn. Thanks, Coach.

Just now, life has just served me up an unanticipated new challenge. And despite the brutal disappointment of having my surgery delayed six days beforehand, I know without a doubt, I will succeed in preparing my body to my surgeon's specifications. I learned that lesson a long time ago, 25 yards at a time.

Number 125

 A Bad Day

As I write my gender dysphoria lays heavy upon me, like some sort of claustrophobic fog. 24 hours ago, and six days before my 'bottom' surgery was to take place, my surgeon pulled the plug. I weighed too much, you see?

I failed, utterly.

I thought I was doing the things I needed to do. I was going to the gym regularly and working with a trainer. I think she'll tell you I was working my ass off. I purposely didn't watch my weight, as everything I heard about getting in shape said that "muscle weighs more than fat," and I wouldn't see a great change in my weight as I converted one thing to the other. Apparently that was a mistake on my part.

On the days I wasn't in the gym, I was taking the dogs for a two mile walk at the local dog park. I was trying to make sure I worked up a sweat each day, you see? Apparently that was a mistake on my part.

It would be very easy for me to turn this post into a screed about my surgeon, and make no mistake, I am very angry that he waited until six days out to do this, but ultimately I am the one responsible for my own body. I should have had it prepared to his specifications.

I am trying to bounce back with the necessary resolve to do the things that need to be done. I played "Gonna Fly Now" - the training music from Rocky - earlier this morning, but just as quickly the blanket of dysphoria covers me. Right now my body feels like a freaky hybrid, and existing inside of it causes me great psychic pain. I'm no longer my old self, but nor am I the woman I long to be. I am a weirdo.

It is an ironic coincidence that in my last blog post, I apologized to Karen Carpenter for a tasteless joke I once told at her expense, because right now it feels as though anorexia might be the only way for me to lose the necessary weight before I'm too old for the surgery.

Oh, how my soul aches.

Number 124

 Apologies

1. My second 'girlfriend' and her family

"Why is girlfriend in quotation marks?" You might be asking. It's because we were barely teenagers when the event upon which I am writing took place. In the time and place that this took place, 'dating' consisted of holding hands at the high school football games or the movies. No lip action whatsoever. Were this romance to be considered using Paradise By The Dashboard Light as a rubric, I would have been called "out" on a passed third strike.

In the preceding year, my parents had divorced, and, as a result, I was about to move FAR away. My 2nd girlfriend made a sensible decision and said... well, I don't remember the actual words, but I was sent packing, literally - given that the move was soon to happen. Of course, what made sense to every other person on the planet, left me addled and confused. So in a grand gesture of love that only makes sense to adolescent boys, I proceeded to ride my bike, back and forth, in front of her house, for over two hours. Surely, if someone had asked me what I hoped to accomplish, I would have responded with the perfect mixture of confusion and melodrama.

It was all for naught, I thought at the time. No one appeared to be home. (Which begs the question why didn't I stop if I thought no one was home. What can I say, hope springs eternal. And I was stupid.) It wasn't until years later that I learned that she and the rest of her family had been home. Oh good Lord! What exquisite embarrassment. By that time, their annoyance had turned to amusement, but still.

In any event, I never apologized. So, in the spirit of this post, I'm sorry.

2. A few folks in my high school class.

I imagine every high school has certain students, that for whatever reason, never escape one of the worst circles of hell ever created. In a Venn diagram it would be the confluence of unpopular, and (conventionally) unattractive. Throw in the manifestations of an impoverished home life (dirty, unkempt, or unfashionable clothing), and these kids have no fucking chance. They are teased relentlessly. They are the butt of jokes and the occasional cruel prank. The stratification of popularity in high school is so rigidly enforced that you risk your own demotion merely by acting friendly towards such classmates.

My class had a few such students. If you want to know the reasons why they found themselves in this unenviable position, you'll have to look elsewhere. They've already served their time in hell and don't need me to bring up the particulars at this late date. I never actively participated in their debasement. I suppose I can pat myself on the back for that. But, more importantly, I never tried to empathize with them. Nor did I ever reach out and try and help them in any way. One of the things I have learned as I've gotten older is that being kind to others is really not much harder than being indifferent. I wish I had done better by these classmates.

So, to those folks who went through high school hell (BHS, class of '84), I'm sorry.

3. Karen Carpenter (yes, that Karen Carpenter) 

My sense of humor is like a shot gun blast - a huge swath of pellets that mostly miss the target, but for the ones that do hit the target, they can cause a lot of damage (i.e. they're funny). I also have a tendency towards provocation - I love to get a "Nora!" response when someone can't quite believe that something that inappropriate came out of my mouth. I also love gallows, or dark humor, too. (I also love really bad puns, but that has nothing to do with why I owe Karen Carpenter an apology).

In any event, a long time ago, but at an age when I should have known better, I made a 'joke' at Karen's expense that consisted of all those elements listed above. I was quite pleased with the reaction I got. It was provocative, it was tasteless, it was dark. What it wasn't, was funny. I'm not going to write it down, but, as you can probably imagine, I used her struggle with anorexia, which ultimately led to her untimely death, as the crux of the joke. I've regretted it many times since then, especially the part where I felt so fucking witty afterwards. Raising two daughters, with their demographic propensity towards eating disorders, has only compounded my regret.

Fast forward a bunch of years. As a trans woman who loves to sing, I am actively working on raising my upper vocal range so that I can comfortably sing the alto line. I'm getting there. In Calliope, the all women's choral group that I sing with, I am in the Alto 2 section. As the rest of the section is (currently) made up of cis women, I'm very pleased with how I fit in. 

I recently heard a song by the Carpenters and, in singing along, I realized how enjoyable it was to sing with Karen. One of the things that makes her voice unique is that she sings in the alto voice range -  most popular female singers are sopranos. The other thing that makes her voice unique is how beautiful and rich it is. Really, she has a great voice. I should know, I've been singing along with her a lot lately. Frankly, her voice is what I aspire to.

So, to Ms. Carpenter, please accept my most heartfelt apology.

Number 123

 An Updated Non-Update Update

A little while ago (AtRP #112), I wrote a post entitled "A Non-Surgery Update." It basically detailed how the Trump Pandemic (Covid), had indefinitely postponed my long hoped for "bottom" surgery that had been scheduled for early June. "Are you kidding me?" I thought to myself at the time, "A global fucking pandemic?" Because it had been roughly a century since the last one, the casinos in Las Vegas didn't even have 'surgeries delayed by world-wide sickness' as a betting option as 2020 dawned. And even if they did, I'm sure the odds would have been ridiculously high. (Now that I think about it, maybe I should have checked out if that wager was an option - I'd have cleaned up.)

In any event...

(Quick aside: You should immediately be suspicious of any blog post that doesn't contain the phrase "in any event." I'm quite sure I use it at least once a post. It really is a great transitional phrase for someone like me who gets easily distracted by parenthetical thoughts.)

... I promised all of you that I would provide an update before my surgery actually takes place. I remember telling you that it might be as I was on the gurney on the way to the operating room, as I didn't want to make the same mistake as before when I started celebrating publicly six months beforehand. This time I would be a little more circumspect.

As it turns out, I am not currently on my way to the O.R. However, my surgery is scheduled for October, 29th - 19 days away. All indications at this point suggest it will happen. Of course, my surgeon could always slip on a banana peel at some point between now and then; so I'm doing my best to remain calm. 

That's all for now, but trust me, all the preparations thus far certainly indicate that I'll have plenty of subject matter about which to write in the future. As I wrote a few years ago: "You can't make this shit up."

Number 122

 Daughters

I was carefully strolling around FB last night - doing my best to ignore any post remotely political or partisan - and came to discover that yesterday, or possibly the day before, was something called "National Daughter's Day." It sounded utterly contrived, but it didn't cost anything, so I decided, as the parent of two daughters, to join in the fun. There was a problem, however, as I soon discovered. How do I express the true depth of emotion and love I feel for my daughters in a few quick words? I did alright, I guess. It's just that there will never be words good enough to get to the heart of how much I love the two of them - brats though they be.

In any event, I continued to ponder the subject of 'daughters,' when the thought occurred to me that I have way more than two daughters. What I mean to say is that along the way, for the past twenty years or so, I've been 'adopting' many of my daughters' friends, and other young women I've come into contact with who inspire a "parental" tug in my heart. It's really not all that hard to do, and I imagine all the parents out there kinda know what I mean. If your child spends any meaningful time with a friend or two, you will inevitably come to have strong feelings of affection for those other children. It's a little extra jam on the biscuit of parenthood.

When Rebecca and I moved to Minnesota from Maine back in 2010, one of our biggest concerns was Abby. She had been Emma's best friend since the first grade, and they were almost inseparable. They didn't quite have their own secret language, but they did have a way of communicating with one another composed of giggles, tickles, and (non-violent) punches. We were backyard neighbors with Abby's family, and chances were, if Emma wasn't at our house, she was at Abby's (and vice versa). Sleep overs were so common, I barely registered Abby's presence when I stumbled out of bed on a weekend morning. It was easy to think of her as our third daughter (and I know that Abby's parents felt the same about Emma). Not only did it break my heart when our move separated Emma and Abby, I realized I was genuinely going to miss seeing Abby myself.

Abby was the first. She would not be the last.

There was one (who shall be nameless), that when I introduced myself, replied: "Yes, we've met before." Before I could stop myself, I asked: "Did I like you?" "I think so," she replied somewhat hesitantly. But that became our calling card. Anytime I saw her, I informed her that I still liked her. (You really need to know my sense of humor to know this was done in a gentle teasing manner - kinda like a parent would do.)

There was another, on the other end of our move to Minnesota, who unhesitatingly reached out to Emma with friendship at the exact moment Emma felt adrift and alone. When I explain that this all happened when Emma was between seventh and eighth grade does it make more sense as to how special it was?

One of my 'adopted' daughters entered my orbit when she and Grace got into a physical altercation. At church! I can't remember how long after that occasion that Grace announced that she and this friend were getting together to do something. "Really?" I said. "Yeah, We're cool now." She replied. And so they have continued to be.

Another was my (much younger), chaperone on a church mission trip. She had (and continues to have), a wisdom far beyond her age. She's a new mom, now. That's one kid I know I don't have to worry about.

Another was my personal trainer for a time. I liked her immediately when she accepted my profane cursing with a knowing smile. I texted her after our first session and accused her of being a voodoo priestess. "You broke my ass," was my concluding remark. She replied with an "LOL" and an emoji that had the same sadistic smile she had on her face every time she told me what the next set would be.

Many of them put smiles on my daughters' faces and laughter in their hearts. Others were there to pick them up when things got bad. On the day Grace's mother died, she had a friend show up to be with her. The thing of it was, her own father had died in the same hospital, under similar circumstances, less than one year previously. How can you not love someone who does that for your child?

One works with bugs. One salvaged Grace's first year of college after Grace experienced a horrible roommate situation during her first semester of college. Another delights in the most scatological t-shirts ever imagined. One had a crazy illness out of left field, and almost left us way too soon. One was Miss Mankato for a year. And I delight in every single one of them.

I will (always) stand guard, like the postcard of a Golden Retriever.

Number 121

 Stop Blaming 2020

If you've been following your FB memes lately, you'll know that 2020 is taking it on the chin. The consensus seems to be that this is the worst year ever. I mean this year's had a little bit of everything: A global pandemic, racial disharmony, an American presidential election straight from the pages of the National Enquirer, etc. etc. Right now, 2020 is about as popular as a bad case of hemorrhoids. It delivers the same kind of pain, too.

I can't wait until I wake up on January 1, 2021. Everything will be fixed and working perfectly. Covid will disappear and racial harmony will be achieved. Institutional racism will be a thing of the past. The hungry will be fed, and the folks without a home will find shelter. That annoying road construction project will be completed. Dogs and cats will live in harmony, and we'll be able start putting Trump in our rear view mirrors.

Yeah, right. 

First of all, according to Jewish tradition, the year is actually 5781. The Chinese will tell you it's 4718. The Balinese Saka calendar insists it's 1942. And on and on. So to blame it all on 2020 is a little bit provincial when we have so many other years we can choose from.

And really, when you think about it, how many of the things that are making 2020 so historically miserable really be blamed on 2020? The most obvious example is Covid-19. It may not have been number one on the charts back in 2019, but, as a song, it was already being played on a few radio stations around the world. And if you seriously think that we're just around the corner from this fucker disappearing, I have a bridge in Brooklyn I'd like to sell you - cheap!

Donald Trump has been an amoral, narcissistic, PoS all his life. Why would 2020 be any different?

Maybe you have a point about George Floyd being the first Black person to be murdered while in police custody. Surely we can blame 2020 for that. For goodness sake, we sorted all that pesky racism stuff out when the North won the US Civil War. We were doing so well until Mr. Floyd made the mistake of volunteering to be that nice police officer's knee rest. What was he thinking? Didn't he know that might be dangerous?*

Or, in other words, 2020 became the year that maybe, just maybe, our country finally decided to have a real conversation about our indefensibly bloody and torturous racial history. If the legacy of George Floyd's murder is eventually perceived of as the tipping point - when our country stopped turning a blind eye to the racism that permeates our society - then his death (among all the others), will not have been in vain.

Look, I know it's tough right now. There's a lot of shit we're trying to live through right now. It has left us feeling raw, wounded, and vulnerable, and there are times when it's really, really hard to move forward. But it's not the fault of 2020 that all these kettles came to a boil at the same time. We'll survive, especially if we remember to be kind to one another; as well as ourselves. I wish you all well.

*This paragraph has been brought to you by Intense Sarcasm, Inc. Bringing you the best in sarcasm since 1966.

Number 120

Requiem for a Boy (The Birth of a Girl)

This one's for my family.

Once upon a time a beautiful child was born in the middle of the night - January 9, 1966 to be precise. As these things go, everything went the way they were supposed to, and soon the child and her mother went home. The child was lucky beyond measure. She didn't know it yet; but she had parents and an older brother and sister that loved her. She would thrive as she grew up without knowing any hunger or want. But something was not quite right...

At first she was too young to notice anything, but as she got older something - she couldn't quite figure out what - felt a little bit... off. But mostly things were still good and she grew to become a young woman. By then the thing that wasn't quite right began to poke and prod with more insistence. She couldn't explain the thing - in fact she found it so scary she pretended it wasn't there. But no matter how hard she pretended, it never went away. For many years, she tried hard to ignore it; until finally, she turned around one day and said to the thing: "I'm so very tired of running away from you. I guess it's time for me to listen to what you have to say." 

And so the thing began to whisper its secrets to Nora (for that was the name of the now, middle-aged woman).  "Nora, it said, "When you were born, a mistake was made. Everybody thought you were a boy..." At first Nora found it hard to believe what the thing was telling her. Then Nora found herself scared of what the thing was telling her, and hoped it wasn't true. Finally, though, there came a moment when Nora gave up, and cried out to thing: "You're right! You're right! I give up - You win," as the tears streamed down her face.

Now dear reader: If you were paying attention, you noticed the fairy tale beginning; and everyone knows that fairy tales have happy endings.  Something magical happened in that moment of Nora's seeming defeat. Instead of feeling sad, Nora felt a peace that had always seemed to elude her. She felt calm. The anxiety that had always followed her like a shadow disappeared. In fact she felt a tremendous sense of joy. It was a wonderful moment when Nora embraced the truth and celebrated being the woman she had always been. And she lived happily ever after.

Number 119

A Reflection on 9/11

On September 11, 2001, I was teaching Kindergarten in Bangor, Maine. It was a brilliant late summer day in that part of the world - a beautiful blue sky with nary a cloud in sight. A colleague came by with a confused message about a plane crash involving the World Trade Center in New York City. I did something unprofessional then, and turned on my radio for more information when I was supposed to be teaching a lesson. I listened with increasing dread as the horrible reality became increasingly clear. It took me about an hour, but all of a sudden, I remembered that my wife was currently in Washington, D.C. for a medical conference. 

That's when I really fell off my game - I think my kiddos had about three hours of recess that day. I tried calling, but couldn't get through to her. Towards the end of the day, the principal came to my room to let me know that Rebecca had gotten a call through to the front office. She was fine, in no danger, and going to her sister's home, who lived in the district. Immediate feeling of relief for me and mine, contrasted against the unfolding tragedy our nation was experiencing. I held my two young daughters extra tight that evening.

Rebecca eventually made it home from D.C., although her travel experience could have provided the script for the sequel to Planes, Trains, & Automobiles. Her version might be titled "Trains, Busses, & Begged Rides." In the end, I packed up the girls and drove to the Maine/New Hampshire border to pick her up for the last leg home. But our little family was intact again. Her travel issues were trivial when compared to the pain and agony suffered by so many families, so needlessly, in the blink of an eye.

And then, nineteen years passed by...

The other day was the anniversary of the attacks, and as often happens on such occasions, I found myself reflecting back. My thoughts made me sad. And while that, in itself, is an appropriate reaction; the specific reasons for my sadness were not for obvious reasons. In fact, my thoughts on the attacks themselves might be considered rather contrary. To wit: It could have been so much worse. The total number of passengers on all four planes was extraordinarily low considering how many people could have been aboard. So too, there could have been so many more people in the two towers. And more than sadness, I am in awe of the heroism demonstrated by first responders who ran into the buildings, intent on saving as many people as they could. So too, the bravery of the ordinary citizens who refused to let United 93 be the fourth bullet in a gun inspires a fist clenching "fuck yeah!" as much as it does sadness at their fate. Please don't misunderstand - I believe the attacks were a national tragedy, and sadness is an all together appropriate response. It's just not the only one.

No, my sadness came as a result of contemplating how fractured our country has become since then. The overwhelming shock and horror we felt after we were attacked served to unify the entire nation. I don't think that's terribly surprising, really. Moments of tragedy often serve to bring people together. And it's not shocking that it didn't last. That's human nature, too. By 2003 and the start of the war in Iraq, there were already great disagreements among us regarding how our country was responding to the terrorist attacks of 9/11. I remember my own strong feelings about what we should be doing, as well as my disgust at the folks who disagreed with me. But we were still united in our hope that we would get it right, in terms of how our nation was going to respond.

But over the years, as the wise philosopher once noted, shit happened; and we began to fragment and pull apart as a nation. Our ability to communicate with others that held differing opinions began to atrophy. The ability to compromise began to be seen as a weakness rather than a strength. As a culture, we began to consume a false notion that "reality" should be confrontational and argumentative. That extremes of behavior were normal and worthy of celebration and praise. As a result, many undeserving people became celebrities over night. We became enraptured by the pablum and idiocy spouted by these morons. Worse, we began to think their simpleminded drivel was worthy of consideration. Lost in this ascendency of a reality based celebrity culture was the ability to discern good ideas from bad ones. At the same time, the manipulators and liars, who twisted reality to suit their purpose, began their dirty work while we were distracted by the Kardashians and their ilk. We lost the ability to tell truth from fiction, lie from fact, and a good idea from a bad one. We lost our common sense of decency. We forgot how to treat one another with simple respect. 

In 2016 we really stepped in it, and elected a president who exemplified every bad trait that, for our sins, we had somehow made worthy of praise. That he has continued to exploit our nation's misguided definition of praiseworthy behavior should come as no shock. The fact that he has made things worse by a factor of ten is an idea almost too scary to contemplate.

As a result, we are as divided as a nation to a degree not seen since our Civil War in the 1860s. I shudder to think that it will take another armed conflict to solve our current situation. And so I am sad.

Number 118

 Are They Still Funny? Were They Ever?

Two of the "funniest movies of all-time!!" came out in the 1970s. Blazing Saddles (1974) and National Lampoon's Animal House (1978) were both broad, ribald, R-rated comedies where the jokes and gags came at the viewer non-stop for the duration of each film. They both delighted in being naughty and boundary-pushing. I remember a punchline from the Animal House parody in MAD Magazine which declared "There's nothing too gross for this movie." Despite their R-rating, I still managed to see them both (in the theater) before I turned fifteen. Like everyone else in the audience, I laughed my ass off.

As a matter of fact, I've seen both of them multiple times. I can quote from multiple scenes of both movies. Indeed, I purchased both movies (among many others), so that I could watch them whenever I felt the inclination. However, I haven't watched either in a long time. Did I forget about them? No, on the contrary, I found myself thinking about them quite frequently. You see, as part of their 'take no prisoners' attitude towards their jokes and gags; as well as changing societal attitudes, there are some elements from both movie that have left me feeling uneasy. 

Let's take a closer look at each movie.

The main protagonist in Blazing Saddles is a black man (Cleavon Little), who is appointed sheriff of a small town in the old west. This appointment is due to the machinations of the movie's 'villian' (Harvey Korman), who believes that the negative reaction of the town folks towards the sheriff's ethnicity will allow his nefarious plans to come to fruition. The movie was written by Mel Brooks and Richard Pryor (among others), and directed by Brooks.

Watching it now, there is one big problem with the movie - its frequent and carefree use of "n*****." Its use is ubiquitous to the point that Quentin Tarantino, who has a fetish for the word, would declare: "Stop It! Enough is enough!" Now I'm perfectly aware of what has happened here, because it has happened in my own life. In my youth, around the time the movie was made, that word was used by many folks in an almost casual way. For myself, I was aware it was a nasty slur, and I'm reasonably confident that I never said it directly to a black person, but I did use it - usually when repeating a racially charged joke that seemed funny at the time. I haven't used the word or told racially based jokes for many years, and our culture has, at last, invested the word with the weight it deserves. It's no longer used as a punchline in lazy attempts at humor.

The movie has two other problematic scenes. The first is a joke about rape, which, honestly, should have never seemed funny - even in 1974. The other is a scene at the end of the movie where gay men are stereo-typed as limp-wristed, lispy caricatures of effeminacy. There is some attempt to turn the joke in on itself, but it does very little to challenge the hateful homosexual cliches.

Back to the word. The confounding thing about its use, is that it's never really used in anger. It's used as if it's just the word used to indicate a black person in both 1874 and 1974. It could be argued that the film is, in fact, a satire of the racism it seems to wallow in. In Blazing Saddles, the people who use the word can be grouped into three categories: (1) Black people referring to themselves, with pride; (2) The caucasian bad guys, who all face their comeuppance by the end of the movie; and (3) White people who learn the error of their prejudicial ways by the end of the movie. Do those categories earn the movie a pass? I honestly don't know. Along with the other problems, as funny as this movie still is in many places, it am vaguely uncomfortable watching it now.

Animal House has a different issue, although there are a couple of scenes with some uncomfortable racial overtones. The problem with this movie is its attitude towards woman. They are often objectified, and used in derogatory ways to propel a joke forward. Briefly, Animal House describes the antics of Delta House, a fraternity of 'heroic' slobs and outcasts who raise their collective middle finger at the strict social mores of the early 1960s.

Early on, the women of a nearby sorority are exploited in a voyeuristically rendered joke that informs the audience that John Belushi's character is capable of a powerful erection. While using a ladder to reach the second floor so as to spy on the women while they are undressing and getting ready for bed, said erection causes the ladder (and Belushi) to push away from the house and crash to the ground below. We're supposed to think they deserve to be spied on because they belong to the snobby sorority, even though any woman should be able to assume that they have privacy at such a moment.

In another scene, a teenaged girl passes out, just as she and one of the boys are about to begin a heavy duty make out session. He looks down upon her, naked and vulnerable, and begins considering his options as a devil and angel character magically appear, arguing the pros and cons of raping the unconscious and underage girl - she's only thirteen. At one point the 'devil' character encourages him to "fuck her brains out." That he decides not to in the end is irrelevant to the fact that this young woman, a child really, was objectified in such a reprehensible way in order to get the gag across.

Then there's the young boy reading Dad's Playboy magazine who thanks God when a scantily clad woman flies in through his bedroom window during the chaos of a sabotaged homecoming parade. Or that the Belushi character kidnaps another woman at the end. Or that a male professor sleeps with one of his female students.

The problems with Animal House, as compared to Blazing Saddles, are specific scenes as opposed to a generalized racist feeling, but the are just as upsetting. Part of the challenge in combatting violence against women is the ugly notion that it's okay to objectify women if there's a good punchline, primarily written by and for young men, at the end. These women are not treated as people - they're treated as a means to an end, and that's really yucky.

So are these movie's still funny? Were they ever? Did we think they were so funny back then because we didn't know any better? Are we troubled now because our sensibilities have changed? Or maybe I'm making a mountain out of a molehill? Are we sometimes too earnest for our own good? Do we need to lighten up? Is it okay to appreciate both of these movies as products of their time? Maybe it's some combination of all these questions. I don't pretend to know the answer, but humor is important to me - which is why I took the time to write about it.