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.