Number 190

 A Profound Truth

Did you ever notice how, sometimes profound truths just drop into your head fully formed? That just happened to me about ten minutes ago. I've been letting it rattle around my brain while I consider its ramifications upon my life moving forward. "I dunno," is my honest appraisal thus far. But the other part of it - the part where it dropped into my head fully formed? - I'm not sure I quite belief that. Instead, I think of an artist, who, while working on a piece of work significant to them, stops, assesses, and suddenly realizes their artwork is perfect just the way it is. In other words, the "truth" that just dropped is something I've been working on for awhile, and something happened (a piece of conversation over lunch), which tweaked my thinking in just the right way. Kinda like the scene in a heist movie when the final tumbler on the vault falls into place, and the door to the treasure inside swings open.

"I'm a great acquaintance, but a lousy friend," 

That was the thought that occurred to me. I could spend three or four paragraphs explaining why that's true, but I frankly don't want to. You don't want to read it either, trust me. It would just be a bunch of psychological goobledygook specific to me. Boring.

However, and more importantly, understanding that this is my current reality has a great deal to do with how I experience depression, anxiety, and gender dysphoria. (Psssst: "Not well" is the answer.) But it also gives me a fairly substantial starting point moving forward, based upon the (correct) assumption that I want to change this particular dynamic.

Wish me luck.

Number 189

 Grief, Part 666

How many of you would be surprised to know that I have created a playlist of songs that remind me of my late wife, and that I have imaginatively titled it "Rebecca"? Hmmmmm... Not a lot of raised hands out there. I guess when it comes to her and/or music, I'm a fairly open book. It's intentionally intended to provoke a 'case of the feels.' Not surprising really. What would be the point of such a playlist if it didn't elicit an emotional response? Anyway, I'm listening to it right now. Van Morrison is singing a song. I'll leave it up to you to decide which one - you only have a few hundred to choose from.

I miss her, you know. She's been gone almost six years, and there are still moments of pure grief that can lay me low. Moments when I feel like I'm still in the room, holding her hand while she struggles to take her last breaths. Sometimes these moments will inspire a cathartic, snot-producing cry. Sometimes not. Sometimes missing her will promote a wistful smile as I recall a few of the happy memories.

An emotion that is suspiciously absent when think about Rebecca is anger. In general, when grief and mourning are talked about in clinical, objective ways, it is often mentioned that it is natural for a person to feel anger at the loss of a loved one. Heck, the literature says, the anger can often be directed at the person who has died. Which begs the question (or else, why am I writing this blog entry in the first place), am I angry at Rebecca for dying.

Am I?

I don't think so. Or, if I was, I've forgotten that I was. I've found myself thinking about this a great deal lately. A delta variant of depression has been camped out in my head for the last little while, and has begun to take its toll on my sanity. When that happens, my thoughts often turn to festering thoughts of missing Rebecca.

But am I mad at her for dying? 

I'm mad at a lot of shit that happened in and around the circumstances of her dance with lymphoma. The fucking doctor that refused to take her seriously and delayed an official diagnosis for nine months. I'd spit in that prick's face if I had the opportunity. I'm mad at the fucking disease that cowardly snuck into her body without warning. I'm angry that fate decided our two daughters didn't need their mother anymore.  But mostly I'm tired of feeling overwhelmed by sadness. It mixes with my depression and saps my forward momentum, and that, in clinical terms, sucks.

No, I'm not angry at Rebecca for dying. She made a lot of lists of things that she wanted to accomplish, but I never saw a list that ever had "die unexpectedly," so I don't think it was exactly on her to-do list. I'm fairly certain she would prefer to be here, watching our children turn into the beautiful adults they have become (among many other things). I think she's on my mind, because, at the moment, I need a jolt of her grit and determination to get my ass into gear and begin moving forward again. Here's hoping.

(On the other hand, she did miss the twin disasters of #45 and COVID.)

Number 188

 Loneliness

"The desire to share your tears, sadness and pain; but feeling like there's no one that cares about you that much." (Nora)

"In fact, the most painful kind of loneliness is the loneliness that persists. Even in a crowded room." (Teal Swan)

"Sometimes the person who tries to keep everyone happy is the most lonely person, so never leave them alone because they will never say that they need you." (unknown)

"Understanding, without question, your own significant worth; but at the same time not believing it either. This is where madness lies." (Nora)

"Everywhere I look there are all these happy people and I think, 'What's wrong with me? Why can't I be like them?" (unknown)

"Negative self-talk is a little bit like watching FOX news. You know it's mostly bullshit, you feel guilty for paying any attention to it, and yet it's still capable of mind-fucking you." (Nora)

"That feeling when you're not necessarily sad, but you just feel really empty." (unknown)

"Music [is] my refuge. I [can] crawl into the space between the notes and curl my back to loneliness." (Maya Angelou)

"That feeling of reaching out, only to feel further away than ever." (Nora)

"Alone, again, naturally." (Gilbert O'Sullivan)

"Mental pain is less dramatic than physical pain... and more hard to bear. The frequent attempt to conceal mental pain increases the burden. It is easier to say, 'My tooth is aching' than to say 'My heart is broken." (C.S. Lewis)

"When you suffer from depression 'I'm tired' means a permanent state of exhaustion that sleep doesn't fix." (unknown)

"You sometimes think you want to disappear, but all you really want is to be found." (unknown)

"That feeling of wanting to do the right thing; but instead, somehow, it always seems to turn out wrong." (Nora)

Number 187

 What Would Clarence Do? 

I first saw It's a Wonderful Life in college. I was courting a young woman at the time who happened to be Jewish. Her religious background is completely irrelevant to this story other than I've always been amused by the fact that I first saw one of the ultimate Christmas movies with someone uninterested in the mythos surrounding the birth of the baby Jesus. My current disgust with Christmas, Inc. leads me to conclude that maybe she was onto something...

In any event, George Bailey (played by a brilliant James Stewart), is the main protagonist. After we, the audience, witness important events throughout his life, circumstances contrive to put him in a financial crisis where he thinks the only way forward is to complete suicide. Clarence, a third rate angel trying to earn his wings is dispatched from heaven to prevent this. He does this by showing George what would have happened to his town and family if he had never been born. George learns that, even despite the many perceived setbacks in his life, he has, indeed, lived a 'wonderful life.' He rushes home to his wife (a beautifully back-lit Donna Reed), and children (and the rest of the town, as it turns out, all pitching in to help him out, one quarter at a time). Problems are solved, tears are cried, and Clarence gets his wings. Roll credits.

Of late, depression has been kicking my ass. I'll not mince words: my thoughts have been dark. Of what purpose is my life? Would I be missed if I were gone? Have I ever actually made a difference in someone else's life? The problem, as usual, is the dichotomy between my heart and my head. My head knows I am a good person doing good works, and many people would miss me if I were gone. My heart: not so much.

This morning I had a passing thought. If I were in George Bailey's position, could Clarence show me anything to proof that I've made a difference in the world? Or, would he show me that I have lived the life of a wallflower: standing by and letting it all pass me by? I am tortured by thoughts of worthlessness. I could ask for validation, but what good are positive words from others when I'm the one who solicited them? On the other hand, as I sit quietly, marinating in the juices of my despair, I don't understand why no one perceives my hurt and rushes over to comfort me. I feel like a mime in a hurricane.

If you read this and feel worried, let me reassure you that I would never hurt myself. Despite my mental anguish, I love my daughters too much to do anything like that. "Then why write any of this," I can hear some of you saying. I'm taking a shot that writing this might 'jolt' me out of my funk. So far, it's not working. Alas. So long, for now, from the Shadowlands.

Number 186

Gone Fishin'

I'm not sure how long ago I started the first version of "As the Radio Plays." I do know there were a few false starts before I settled into a more or less regular groove where my internet presence vanished for over a year. This time I'm going to announce my, let's call it a sabbatical, before it begins. I enjoy writing the blog, and wish to continue, but right now, I just need to take a break for a bit. See you soon on the other side.

Number 185

 My Hero Is a Doofus

When I was nine years old I was the first youngster chosen by Bruno's Liquor Store in the annual little league draft in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin. I believe this happened in the spring of 1975. Interestingly enough, I was the first player chosen by ANY team. This is perversely funny. Let's count the ways: (1) A little league team sponsored by a liquor store; (2) Using a 'draft' to divide up young children among the various teams; and (3) Me getting selected first, because, and there's no way to sugar coat this, I sucked. In fact, I dropped the ball multiple times when it was thrown to me during the 'fielding' portion of the little league try-out. What the hell was the Bruno's brain trust thinking?

Well, it turns out that the previous year, my brother had torn up the (little) league. He was an excellent fielder, playing shortstop for his team. He also pitched. I don't know what his batting average was, but I believe it was north of .500. I would have been automatically assigned to his team were he were still on it, but he had aged-out and moved up to the next level of play. I wonder what the Bruno's manager thought when they realized they'd chosen the kid who liked to pick dandelions out in right field (while desperately hoping that no one would hit a fly ball in their direction).

Still, a part of me was impressed by my brother's athletic prowess. To this day, I've never beaten him in any sort of athletic competition. Unless you count miniature golf. (Which I do.)

Of course, he used to torture the hell out of me while we were growing up. At the time we were all operating under the assumption that I was his kid brother, so of course he used any occasion he could to either beat the snot out of, or mentally torture me. Sometimes both. One of his favorite tricks was to grab me by the wrist, use my hand to hit me, and then ask nonchalantly, "Why are you hitting yourself." Another favorite was to hold me immobile on the ground, while he let long strings of saliva hang down over my face. (To which he still, if reminded of this brutal demonstration of sibling affection, and I absolutely guarantee this, responds by saying "I never let one drop, though.") 

I learned to get in the cheapest shot I could, and then run like hell for the nearest room with a door that locked. Sometimes I made it. Sometimes I didn't.

Isn't it obvious by now that he became my hero?

By the time he enrolled at Ohio State, our frequent sibling skirmishes had begun to fade into the past. Now, I looked forward to visiting him, especially in the fall, when he would score a couple of seats to a Buckeye football game. One year he managed to get tickets to the Michigan game. It was there, while sitting in the raucous student section, that I learned the 'alternative' lyrics to the Michigan fight song. Then there was that time that he rescued me after I'd totaled my car in an automobile accident in upstate New York. That I was traveling with my soon-to-be ex-fiancé adds a whole level of heroism to his presence. When I got married, he was my first and only choice for best man. When Rebecca died in the blink of an eye, he showed up the next day even though he lived 14 hours away. He dropped everything and was there at the precise moment I needed him most. When I told him I was a transgender woman, he looked at me with confused wonderment, but he never, not even for a second, disowned or failed to accept me.

So why is he a "doofus?," I can hear some of you asking. Good question. You see, in many ways my brother and I are nothing alike - even though we were both produced from the exact same genetic sources, and raised by the same two parents. He took after the tall and skinny part of the family, I took after the short and squat part. He has brown eyes and mine are blue. When he had hair, it was straight. I still have hair, and it's a curly mess. He was naturally athletic and I was not. I was interested in music, and he was not. Maybe all these differences are less compelling since my transgender identity came to light. Maybe not. But they certainly illustrate that we are very much two different people.

Perhaps the biggest difference between us is our relative comfort with being emotionally vulnerable. I'll tell anyone who's willing to listen about my mental health struggles with depression and anxiety. I'm a fierce advocate for counseling, and think everyone would be better off if they had a therapist to talk to. My brother? Not so much. He has always kept his own counsel, and is very reluctant to talk about his 'feelings.' In my exasperated mind, that makes him a doofus. His hesitancy to discuss any emotionally fraught (usually family related) issue can be quite maddening. But there's nothing that can be done about it at this point. I just kind of shake my head at his obstinate refusal to go deep.

But he has my back. Always. He's just... there. His wife and daughters will tell you the same thing. He is the most dependable, reliant person I've ever known. Our mother will tell you this, so will our sister. His grandchildren, his grandmother, his aunts & uncles, his nieces & nephews, his friends, his work colleagues, and on and on and on will tell you this. He will be there. Maybe he's not the most emotionally sophisticated person, but in the long run that doesn't matter, because whenever I need him, I know he will be there.

My brother is my hero, and I love him very much. The big doofus.

Number 184

Estrogen Rock, Soul, & Pop

The other day at the gym I was listening to the Pretenders while I worked out. If you don't know, they are a band that has been around for over 40 years. Their lead singer and songwriter and de facto leader of the band for their entire existence is a woman by the name of Chrissie Hynde, ...

[Popular music, like society in general, has had a problem with institutionally ingrained sexism (racism, too, for that matter, but that's an issue for another day), that can best be summed up thusly: "Only men know how to rock." As a result of this marginalization, the vast majority of rock and pop music has been created and performed by (white) men. Sure, there have always been female performers, but for the most part they were denied the autonomy to control their own musical careers. Like I said, kinda like society in general. Slowly, it's getting better, but who knows how many brilliant musicians we missed out on just because they had a vagina.]

... a total badass who created great rock n' roll. Just like that, a blog entry devoted to women who thrived in a musical environment that was skewed against them popped into my head. And so, in no particular order, join me in praising:

Aretha Franklin: Just an absolutely thrilling vocalist. Listening to her will send shivers down your spine. She is the undisputed Queen of Soul.

Ann & Nancy Wilson: The heart of Heart. Despite playing with many different male musicians over the decades, Heart has always been their band.

The Go-Gos: They were the first group comprised solely of women who wrote their own songs and played their own instruments to have a number #1 album (The Beauty and the Beat).

Madonna: She brilliantly subverted society's expectations of what a female pop singer should be, became a cultural icon, and, in the process, paved the way for a lot of women behind her.

Chrissie Hynde: (see above)

Stevie Nicks: This sorceress has proven herself to be a peerless songwriter and performer.

Joan Jett: Don't fuck around with Joanie - she will leave you cut up and bleeding on the floor. She has rock and rolled on her own terms for decades. She is a total badass.

Janis Joplin: In the 60's, it was unheard of for a woman to be the leader of her own band, and yet, she (and her spellbinding vocals), did just that.

P!nk: I just love her. My daughters introduced me to her, and thank Goddess they did. A wonderful performer and songwriter who does things her way with zero fucks given.

Karen Carpenter: Don't dwell on the anorexia. Just listen to her sing. She had a stunningly beautiful voice.

Dolly Parton: For many, many years, she appeared to be the punchline to a joke. Weren't we all surprised when we learned she was the one telling it. She's a national treasure.

Lady GaGa: Madonna's most obvious heir apparent (and much better actress).

Ella Fitzgerald: She's not really a rock or pop singer, but she's a spiritual mentor to many of the women listed here. Just a fantastically, brilliant singer.

Carol Kaye: One of, if not the greatest, rock n' roll bassists ever. She mostly worked as a session musician, so you're excused if you've never heard of her. Her influence was massive.

Bonnie Raitt: One of the best slide guitarists anywhere.

Joni Mitchell: A one-of-a-kind singer songwriter who's had a massive influence on many performers - of all genders.

There are others, of course. There always are when it comes to lists like this. If I didn't mention your own personal favorite, my apologies - my intent was not to slight anyone. Instead I wanted to raise up the powerful, but relatively small (sigh), contribution that female musicians have played over the years.

Number 183

A Letter to Rebecca

Dear R,

How are you? We're all doing well. I imagine you already know that, though. The interesting thing is that I'm no longer as surprised as I used to be when I consider how well things are going for our family since you left. Not perfect, mind you, but good. Though the hole you left behind can never be filled, we've all chosen to continue to move forward. Just know that you are never far from our thoughts. But I imagine you already know all of that, too.

We were all in Marshfield last week to bid Marmee and her incredible legacy goodbye. It was never spoken out loud, but I think many of us realized that maybe we were saying goodbye to Marshfield as well. Without Marmee to anchor us to that particular port, who knows where we'll all gather together again. In any event, considering everything that has happened to the family since February, 2016, the vibe was one of gentle, healing reconciliation. I was wistful watching your sibs gathered together without you; but at the same time, I celebrated its significance. Time remains an undefeated champion, and I think everyone realizes how special it is anytime we can be together.

There's a lot more I want to say to you, but right now those feelings are a jumbled mess resisting my efforts to turn them into coherent words. I think the common denominator comes down to three words: I miss you.

I know it's a little early, but happy birthday.

As always, I love you,

N

Number 182

The Six Degrees of Chicken

When I pulled into the parking lot behind the building yesterday, I was not greeted by the pleasing scent one might encounter in a field of wildflowers. Instead, my nostrils were assaulted by the smell that could be described as rancid chicken guts left out in the hot sun for far too long. Which, I knew for a fact, was what I was actually smelling. Unpleasant for sure, but I knew it was merely the inevitable by-product of some serious community outreach and volunteer work going on inside.

Let me try to set the table succinctly (not my strong suit). There is a restaurant/bakery in town called The Wooden Spoon (great food, by the way), that is involved in local hunger relief. They make and distribute food to a few different social service organizations in town, which then pass it on to the folks who can benefit from that type of assistance. Volunteers from the community also help in the food prep. Also in town is a large Wal-Mart distribution center. Sometimes semi trucks have their deliveries disallowed for some reason or another. When that cargo is food, The Wooden Spoon will often receive a call wanting to know if they want the rejected items. As a system of distributing food from people who have more than enough to the people whose cupboards are bare, it's pretty cool. But, on occasion, it becomes an all-hands-on-deck logistical nightmare.

That's where the scent of malodorous chickens comes in. You see, last week a semi full of whole chickens came into the Wally World distribution center. A large number of boxes had leaked, rendering them unfit for acceptance there. Uh-oh! What to do? A quick call to The Wooden Spoon, and the chickens were on their way there. The staff there got right to work roasting the birds before they spoiled for good, but then what to do about the hundreds of cooked chickens? That's when the call went out to all the volunteers: "Chicken shredders needed! Time is of the essence!"

Because this post is ultimately not about the wonderfulness of volunteerism (although it could be), I'll cut to the chase. The job got done. The Wooden Spoon has many bags of shredded chicken; all ready to put into their many marvelous entrees as needed.

No, this is a post about making connections. If I haven't made it clear by now, I have trouble connecting with people and making friends. I'm doing better now that I've more clearly sorted out my true self; but it's still a work in progress. (It is interesting to note that I do much better, friendship wise, when I have a role to play: teacher, youth group leader, choir member, parent, etc.; than when I'm just plain old Nora.) But when you're just standing there with other people ripping chicken carcasses apart, friendly conversation flows easily. Maybe I didn't find a new best friend, but it was nice meeting new folks and laughing over the shared misery of chicken fat, cheap disposable gloves, and dinner plans (no one was planning a chicken dish, I can assure you!)

The other topic that came up often was the 'mini bio.' You know, when you tell someone your life story in five sentences or less. Yesterday, the woman working across from me asked me where I was from. I usually hesitate when I'm asked that because we moved around so much when I was young. I usually want to say Ohio, even though I only lived there for 2.5 years (ages 9-12). I suppose it's because so many of my relatives were/are there. Anyway, I responded by saying, "I'm kind of a mutt." 

"Oh," she replied, "I was born in Illinois, outside of Chicago." 

"So was I. In Elgin." I said.

"Me, too!" (This was getting interesting.)

"Did you go to Larkin High School?" she asked.

"No, we moved to Wisconsin after I finished 1st grade. I went to McKinley Elementary," I said.

"Me, too!" (definitely interesting now.) "Who was your Kindergarten teacher?"

(This is an interesting question, because my teacher's name was Miss Rypczynski [rip-zin-ski]. She was an older woman who correctly inferred that 5 and 6 year old children were going to struggle with her delightful Polish surname. Instead, we called her "Miss Lorraine." Of course, at the time, we all thought that was her last name. I remember looking back at my classroom picture a few years later, trying to figure out how "R-y-p-c-z-y-n-s-k-i" could be pronounced "Lorraine." I asked my mom and she spilled the beans on the whole subterfuge. Anyway, I was a seal at the end of the year classroom circus.)

"Umm..."

"Was it Miss Lorraine?"

"Yes! You, too?!"

So 50 years, 10 homes, and seven states removed from my Kindergarten year, I found myself shredding chicken across from someone who had had the same teacher as me. What a marvelous coincidence!

Number 181

Uppity Women Speak Their Minds

"If men cannot cope with women in the medical profession, let them take a humble occupation in which they can." Sarah Josepha Hale (1788 - 1879) Editor of Godey's Lady's Book. The context of this quote is unknown, but it kinds speaks for itself.

"I've received my authority from the Lord God Almighty; have you anything that ranks higher than that?" Mary Ann "Mother" Bickerdyke (1817 - 1901) Spoken to a Union doctor after the U.S. Civil War battle of Shiloh. He questioned her presence on the battle field where she was distributing food, blankets and coffee to Union soldiers. "Mother" Bickerdyke personally marshaled supplies to feed and care for wounded soldiers in the south during the entire war. She set a new standard for getting things done.

"When I found I had crossed that line [into Canada], I looked at my hands to see if I was the same person. There was such a glory over everything; the sun came like gold though the trees, and over the fields, and I felt like I was in Heaven." Harriet Tubman (ca. 1821 - 1913) This was her reflection when she achieved freedom for herself. As a conductor on the Underground Railroad, she helped more than 300 enslaved people find freedom in Canada.

"It would not do for the men to fight and starve, too." Sarah Osborn Benjamin (ca. 1750 - 1837) Sarah was the wife of a private in the Continental Army led by George Washington. Before battles, she routinely carried food supplies to the men in the trenches. This was her response when General Washington asked "Aren't you afraid of the cannonballs?"

"I ask no favors for my sex. All I ask of our brethren is, that they will take their feet from off our necks, and permit us to stand upright on that ground which God designed us to occupy." Sarah Grimke (1792 - 1873) Context unknown, but, you know... yep, you do.

"And I've suckled many a white babe, to the exclusion of my own." Sojourner Truth (1799 - 1883) As a formally enslaved person, the six foot tall Sojourner Truth was a tireless speaker on the horrors of slavery. Once, in Indiana, a heckler accused her of being a man. Ms. Truth bared her breast to the audience, and offered the response printed above. Totally bad ass.

"It is not our differences that divide us. It is our inability to recognize, accept, and celebrate those differences." Audre Lorde (1934 - 1992) Context unknown.

"Of course I am not worried about intimidating men. The type of man who will be intimidated by me is exactly the type of man I have no interest in." Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (born 1977) In the words of Michael Scott, Regional Manager of the Scranton, PA branch of Dunder-Mifflin Paper Company, "Boom, roasted!"

"I think trans women and trans people in general, show everyone that you can define what it means to be a man or woman on your own terms. A lot of what feminism is about is moving outside of roles and moving outside of expectations of who and what you're supposed to be to live a more authentic life." Laverne Cox (born 1972) Context unknown. For the record, I love this woman.

"The most difficult thing is the decision to act. The rest is tenacity." Amelia Earhart (1897 - 1937?)

"Though the sex to which I belong is considered weak, you will nevertheless find me a rock that bends to no wind." Queen Elizabeth I (1533 - 1603)

Number 180

 If a Rant Falls in the Forest, But There's No One There to Read It, Is It Still a Rant?

When I was in college, I took a class about dinosaurs with my friend Michael. One day this weird young woman (and before anyone calls me out for being insulting, I'm fairly certain that most Oberlin students would be pleased to be thought of as "weird." With that in mind, I guess we could describe this particular student as being 'extra' weird), asked a question that had something to do with dinosaurs being feathered. "Oh my fucking God!" I thought to myself, "Just how delusional is this one, anyway?" (It is equally easy to encounter Oberlin students who have a shallow grasp on reality.) Michael and I had a lot of fun walking back to our dorm after class laughing about 'dinosaur sized chickens' hopping around; and generally making fun of the poor, deluded soul from our class. In that moment, we were quite secure in our intelligence and feelings of superiority: feathers on dinosaurs, for fuck's sake, how ridiculous! In other words, we were being ignorant assholes. 

Well, whadaya know, folks? Some dinosaurs had feathers. And with that, our smug feelings of supremacy over some twit weirdo took a direct kick to the balls. We deserved our comeuppance.

With that, I dedicate this post to all the smug, self-assured, dick heads out there, so secure in their ignorant and malicious stupidity, that they are threatening to take this world down with them. To them I offer up a sincere and deeply felt, middle finger salute.

To all those religiously conservative assholes who relentlessly quote mine the Bible; without understanding the inherent loss of nuance when translating from one language to another - especially when you go from one alphabet system to another (Hebrew to English, Greek to English), the different cultural norms in play when the Bible was written, or the splendid irony that their sainted "King James," was, in fact, gay; in order to prop up their own hatred of the LGBTQIA+ community I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you."

To all those who believe that "science" has an agenda - Folks, science only reports the facts, and hopes that we will make rational and well-formed decisions based upon those facts - I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you."

To all those who believe a thrice-married, failed and bankrupted real estate developer, who has been accused of marital infidelity and sexual harassment multiple times, with the personality of a carny in a circus sideshow, as well as being a litigious, thin-skinned, folicly-challenged, self-important jackass is the savior of the western world, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you." (Seriously dudes, he doesn't give a fuck about any of you.)

To all those people who dismiss any information that they don't care for as "fake news," I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you."

To all those people who use "socialist," and "fascist" interchangeably, with no sense of irony, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "People, read a fucking book!" Oh! and "fuck you," too.

To all those people who keep electing light-thinking, extremist demagogues who believe compromise is a dirty word, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you."

To all those politicians who play upon the fears and worst notions of their constituents in order to gain power, instead of legislating through challenging and nuanced issues, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you."

To all those people who participated - including all the politicians who whipped the crowds into a frenzy - in the insurrection of January 6, 2021, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you."

To all those who deny an insurrection occurred on January 6, 2021 - who would be calling for the execution of every participant if they had had black or brown skin - I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you."

To all those who champion White supremacy, believe that supporting Black lives is tantamount to hating other groups, or actively denies that our country has a troubling past related to race relations, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you." 

To all the gun fetishists of the NRA, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you. May your dreams be haunted by the fearful cries of the young victims from the Sandy Hook shooting"

To Tucker Carlson, and the other pundits of his ilk, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt, slimy and gangrenous "fuck you, you Pied Piper lying sacks of shit."

And finally, to all those misguided, ignorant assholes who have turned mask wearing and vaccination shots into an assault on personal freedom instead of the common sense, "lets pull together to rid the world of this fucking virus" solutions that they are, I offer up a sincere and deeply felt "fuck you, you rabidly dumbass motherfuckers."

Now. I know this post won't change a thing. But I have felt the bile in my soul rising, day after day, one Marjory Taylor Greene tweet at a time, to the point that I was swimming in an existential cesspool of hatred and ignorance. With hope, this post will open a drain, and all the slimy, snot covered stupidity and vitriol will disappear into the sewer. However, the way things have been going, it's likely to be eaten by the alligators that dwell there, growing them to a size roughly akin to a Boeing 747. Cheers.

Number 179

Can You See the Real Me?

1. How to trust others in times of vulnerability

2. Can You See the Real Me?

"Queer people don't grow up as ourselves, we grow up playing a version of ourselves that sacrifices authenticity to minimize humiliation and prejudice. The massive task of our adult lives is to unpick which parts of ourselves are truly us and which parts we've created to protect us." (unknown)

In 1977 I was eleven years old. It was then that the voice first whispered to me that my gender might not be the same as the sex I was assigned at birth. Actually, what it whispered was “Nobody else is home, why don’t you go try on your mother’s clothes?” 

3. ”How did that make you feel?" you might ask. 

4.”Scared," would be my response. "How scared were you?" you might follow up with. "Shitless," would be my colloquial response.

However it didn’t stop me from doing it again and again. In a more enlightened time, I might have been willing to investigate what the voice was really saying; but, alas, it was not. That didn't stop the voice from insistently whispering at me for many, many years; but the guilt and self-loathing just kept me from properly considering what it had to say. My fear led me to completely distort the voice's message to the point of complete misrepresentation. In other words, I was completely afraid and ashamed of something that wasn't even true. It was only at the start of my sixth decade that I began to investigate my own authenticity.

Perhaps that's why this quote spoke to me so clearly. For 50 years I often felt uncomfortable or anxious in my own skin. There was a baseline nervousness that was always present. I often felt self-conscious and awkward. I had trouble making friends, and spent huge hunks of time all by myself feeling lonely. It's only now, looking back, that I realize what the rest of the world was 'interfacing' with was a fake, inferior version of the real me. And let me be clear, for the record, that "massive task" is a great way to describe discovering my true self via the gender confirmation process.

Ultimately, I'm glad it happened. I just wish I didn't feel like I owed the world an apology for taking so long to introduce it to the 'real me' 

note: I wish I remembered where I go this quote from, so I could properly credit the person. But since this blog is entirely profitless, I feel OK using it. As far as the title of this post goes; Yes, it's a complete steal from the Who, circa Quadrophenia (1973).

Number 178

 The Most Devious Lie

Here is the truth. I am a good person. I celebrate and practice kindness. I intentionally look for ways to help others. I listen and learn so that I can use my privilege to lighten the load for other folks. I volunteer and am active in groups that assist folks that need a helping hand. I support causes that work for fairness, justice, and equality. I look out for and support my family and other loved ones. There is only one problem. I don't believe any of it.

As a consequence, I am left at sea, aimlessly drifting in a sea of negative self talk and feelings of unworthiness. Where isolation feels like the only respite, because there is no way that anyone else could want to be with me. In a room full of people, I am utterly alone.

_______________________________________________________

I've done something like this once before, where I began a post while amidst one of my depressive episodes only to return to it, unfinished, the next day when the sun is shining a bit brighter. And just like that previous time, I am choosing to post the thoughts written by me when I was at a low ebb.

Negative self talk and I are old... acquaintances. I was thinking 'friends,' but it is no friend of mine. For most of my life, it has whispered the most insidious thoughts into my ears. Thoughts of ineptness and unworthiness. Thoughts that inspire isolation where they can flourish and grow like weeds that threaten to take over an entire garden.

_______________________________________________________

Here is my vicious cycle. In general, I don't enjoy talking on the phone - especially when I need to engage with someone for their assistance in completing some sort of personal business. Why? Because I feel unworthy of taking up another person's time and/or energy. Where did I get such a crazy idea? Why, negative self talk, of course. "So," I can hear you thinking, "Since you know what's holding you back, go ahead and engage with the world, and tell the negative self talk to fuck off." While I agree that that is a simple and elegant solution to the problem, there's just one problem. For me, negative self talk is similar to a pernicious computer virus. And by this point it has completely corrupted my hard drive to such an extent that I often feel frozen, or stuck in place. And what happens then? I engage in negative self talk, which further reinforces my unworthiness, which further reinforces my need to isolate myself from the world, which further reinforces my fear of picking up the phone and taking care of myself, and on and on and on and on and on...

Number 177

 The Life You Choose (part I)

“Energy is the currency of the universe. When you ‘pay’ attention to 

something, you buy that experience. So when you allow your consciousness 

to focus on someone or something that annoys you, you feed it your energy, 

and it reciprocates the experience of being annoyed. Be selective in your 

focus because your attention feeds the energy of it and keeps it alive. Not 

just within you, but in the collective consciousness as well.”

- Emily Marchitan

Do you remember the recession of 2008? That’s when I learned that I also had a generalized anxiety disorder along with my previously diagnosed moderate depressive disorder. My doctors and I were able to figure this out because I have historically been a bit of  a news junkie. During this period of time I became fixated on listening to details of the worsening financial crisis that was engulfing us at the time. From a personal standpoint, it meant that my retirement accounts were losing value by the day, the hour, the minute. It’s incredibly disconcerting to watch this happen in real time, especially when you’ve been working hard to set funds aside for your future. Perhaps you’ve heard the expression: “As nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.” That was me during this time. It got to the point that it was effecting my daily quality of life. Something had to be done.

A trip to my doctor elicited two suggestions. Switch to a medication that was more effective in treating anxiety and stop watching the news. Positive results were achieved by following through on both things. It’s a good thing, too, because the next time I inadvertently saw what was happening on Wall Street, the blood-letting had actually gotten even worse. “Well, shit,” I thought, “I guess it was a good thing I stopped paying attention to it.” This was my first big lesson in being careful about what I focused my attention upon. Since then, I’ve kept abreast of current events much like the person who walks along the shore allowing the wave of water to briefly touch their toes before receding back to the ocean. In other words, I’m a headline reader.

(As an aside, it’s important to note that ALL news services - from the craven conservative bullshit of OAN to the socialist leanings of Mother Jones - hype the news. User beware.)

That was roughly 15 years ago. Generally, I’ve done a good job of avoiding obsessively watching the news. Given my slightly to the left (ahem), political leanings, it has been much easier for me to avoid the news during Democratic presidencies than Republican ones. (Of course the only Republican administration during this time was a doozy.) However, there have been many short term failures over the years. My latest bender occurred last November after Joe Biden won the election. Schadenfreude is a German word that means taking delight in other peoples’ misery. I started obsessively looking for new stories about how the MAGA crowd was taking their leader’s defeat and eventual concession. (Unfortunately we’re all still waiting for this.) I soon realized the telltale depressive effects on my overall mood from my fixation and stopped. Since then, I’ve been on the wagon and only occasionally checking the news.

But I’m not here to write about the news.

(end, part I)

Number 176

Stare Down!

I've mentioned in the past how appreciative I now am to be 5' 10". Earlier on, in my old life, I felt kind of cheated that I wasn't as tall as my father or brother. It was only later, when I came to understand that I was a transgender woman that I became thankful that I stopped growing when I did. Still, 5' 10" is pretty tall for a woman.

I've also written a lot about my weight struggles over the last few years. When I started the gender confirmation process I tipped the scales at approximately 250 lbs. These days I'm a relatively svelte 195 lbs. Still, no one is going to accuse me of being skin and bones.

Finally, I've also written about the fact that I'm undergoing HRT (hormone replacement therapy). I've been taking feminizing hormones for three years now. My facial features have definitely softened as a result. Still, considering where I was starting from, I still have a few stereotypically masculine features.

What does this all add up to? Well, it means that if you only offer me up a quick casual glance, you'll probably think you've encountered a cis-gendered woman. However, a second glance will probably reveal the truth to you - you've encountered a transgender woman. Now to be sure, I'm totally cool being out in public as a trans woman; and for the most part, the people I encounter during the day are totally chill about it as well. I've enjoyed interacting with many wonderful and supportive folks. To that end, I'm at the point that I don't really care how other people respond to me. I am perfectly at peace with who I am, and I don't much give a damn if somebody disapproves of me. That's their problem, not mine.

There's another type of encounter that occasionally happens - utter curiosity. These are the folks that just stare at me, trying to figure out what's going on. For the record, though this can sometimes be a little off putting, I've kinda got used to it. There's a lot about being transgender out there in the world right now, and maybe I'm the first trans person somebody has knowingly encountered. I am secure in the knowledge that I'm more or less normal, so if someone sees me and realizes that transgender people aren't nearly as scary as Ben Shapiro or FOX news led them to believe, I feel like I've performed a valuable public service for myself and my trans siblings.

Because adults have been socialized not to stare, they're not as easy to catch, but just the same I notice the quick 'look away' when they realize I've spotted them. Little kids are another story. They have yet to learn the societal conventions against staring, so if they see something that catches their interest, they're all eyes. Yesterday, I was at the grocery store with my family. The store had large tanks of live crabs, lobsters, and shrimp among other things, and we were having fun looking them over. However when I turned around, there was an eight year old boy who was looking me over the same way we were just staring at the crabs. He saw me watching him, but he kept on staring, trying to make sense of what he was seeing. I thought for sure he would turn away when he saw me looking at him, but nope, he kept looking me over.

I don't know if he figured out what he was wondering about, but I was greatly bemused by the intensity he was giving the whole situation. The teacher in me sure hopes he did.

Number 175

 My Black Best Friend

This post is about race. Except I'm not sure that it is.

Did Kevin and I become best friends in fourth or fifth grade? I honestly don't remember. It was the mid 1970s, and the two of us, along with a few hundred others, attended East Elementary School in Urbana, Ohio. Urbana was (and basically remains), a town of just north of 10,000 folks in west-central Ohio. Most of the people who lived there were White, but there was a sizable minority of Black people as well. At the time I didn't understand the sociological implications of integration vs. segregation; or the deep, vile roots of systemic racism that have permeated our country throughout its entire history (suck it, Texas et al.), but it was readily apparent that most of the Black folks lived in neighborhoods in the southern part of the town. In fact, as far as I can recall, Kevin and his twin sister Sheri were the only Black kids in our grade at East.

As a White kid, assigned male at birth, what did I know about race relations, racial prejudice, or just racism in general back then? What did any of us know? In general my parents brought me up to be respectful of all people. However, I heard (and retold), jokes in which Black people were the butt of the joke. The same was true about folks who were Polish, Irish, Italian, Jewish, Asian, Hispanic, etc. (Way to punch up, Nora.) Additionally, I heard and occasionally repeated derogatory terms for the minority groups listed above. Sometimes I didn't even know they were ugly slurs, but I at least felt vaguely uncomfortable when I did. Is it at all mitigating if I tell you my behavior was an ignorant reflection of the culture I was raised in, and not mean-spirited? 

On the other hand, despite the casual racism associated with 'jokes,' I heard and retold, I was not raised in an overtly racist household. Black athletes were celebrated equally with White ones (if they wore the uniform we were rooting for). The only two-time winner of the Heisman trophy, Archie Griffin, played football for Ohio State (Go Bucks!), and was a huge hero in our house. I was not taught to think of Black entertainers and/or actors as being inferior to White ones. In fact, one of the first television shows I can remember watching together as a family was the Flip Wilson Show. (A comedian who happened to be Black). 

I'm sure I was aware that the enslavement of Black Americans was a historical fact by the time I met Kevin. I have a clear memory of watching Cicely Tyson's moving performance in the television movie The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman (1974). In it she plays a 110 year old Black woman born into slavery. At the point that the movie's climax takes place - the early 1960s - she has lived long enough to play a part in America's Civil Rights movement. In a powerful act of civil disobedience, she drinks from the town's 'Whites only' drinking fountain. I can only surmise that I was moved by the movie's portrayal of the many injustices through which she had to persevere. In any event, by the time I was ten, I had certainly started to realize that "race" was a thing.

These days, I am a 55 year old caucasian woman trying to come to terms with race in a world that witnessed four police officers murder George Floyd with the same sense of casual detachment that one might use to peruse a restaurant menu. And so I reflect back on my friendship with Kevin a great deal, as if there might be a secret there that remains undiscovered. We were two different races, sure, but we never discussed it. It was simply an unacknowledged fact. My parents never mentioned his race to me, and although I was never privy to private conversations between him and his parents, they never made me feel conspicuous about the color of my skin when I was in their home. As far as I understood, there was nothing ambiguous about our relationship. We were just two kids who, because we liked spending time together, became best friends.

In any event, before I entered seventh grade, my family moved away from Urbana. Who knows how our relationship would have developed as we got older? Perhaps our respective ethnicities would have become a topic of conversation between us. Almost assuredly it would have. Would that have changed things between us? The ebbs and flows of friendships that all of us navigate in our teen years dictates that Kevin's and my relationship would have changed in some way regardless of the difference in our skin colors.

I also want to acknowledge that Kevin, quite possibly, perceived our relationship in a manner much different than me. Not just because he was black; but because he was a wholly autonomous person who was allowed to have his own thoughts and feelings. However, I don't think it's a big jump to assume that his world view, even though he was still a child, was influenced by the color of his skin. Also, his experience living on the east side of Urbana, where his family was the only non-white family in the neighborhood, was probably substantially different than mine.

These days, I think I'm a pretty good ally. I am aware of the many advantages and privileges I've had in my life, and try to use them to help achieve long-lasting, equitable societal change. I acknowledge that systemic racism is a real thing, and I support policies that work to eliminate these inequities. I try to listen more often than I speak. I pay attention to those moments when I feel uncomfortable during conversations about race. However, it's also understood that, despite my best efforts, I fail as often as I succeed. If nothing else, my parents will be happy to know that I do a pretty good job of treating other folks with dignity and respect, regardless of their skin pigment.

Still, I can't help but wonder what it was that my ten year old self knew that my 55 year old self no longer understands. Our friendship was so simple and pure back then. And it's not that I'm suggesting that Kevin and I could never be friends again - only that our different races would now be a challenge we would need to acknowledge if our relationship was to have any chance of succeeding. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? I don't know.

Was this a post about race? I still don't know.

Number 174

 Rabbit Hole Hell

It's Grace's fault really. I was perfectly happy leading a TikTok free existence until she got me hooked on the addictively short DIY videos TikTok is famous for. Who knew there were so many auteurs out there? My first obsession were videos put out by other trans folks. That led me to medical doctors that had a lot of trans-supportive content. Interestingly, many of those doctors are female OB/GYNs. From there, I discovered videos produced by progressive Christian pastors (and a few articulate atheists with whom I agree with quite often). There's a few other folks I've bookmarked, but that's basically it.

Except there's a little more to it than that. If only I would check in with the creators that I've bookmarked, it wouldn't be that big a deal. Remember - these are short videos. No, the problem is that it is super easy to get sucked into a rabbit hole on some particular topic, and the next thing you know you've lost an hour. I mean, if I only eat a few potato chips, I'm not going to blow up my diet, right? But if I come up for air only to  realize I've eaten the entire f*cking bag, all I can offer up is a repentant, "oops, didn't mean to do that..."

Yesterday, one of my pastor crushes posted a video in which she replied to a commenter who declared she shouldn't even be a minister because she possessed, GASP! a vagina. I made the mistake of clicking on the profile of this individual with whom I disagreed, because the next thing I knew I fell down a rabbit hole that presented excerpts from sermons being preached by a variety of independent, conservative preachers. I suppose my only defense is to point my finger at y'all, and make the accusation that you, "slow down to stare at car wrecks, too!" A dubious defense at best because it's tantamount to an admission of guilt.

Now, so far, I've tried to play nice, but I'm about to take my gloves off. There's no way I can tell the rest of this story attempting any sense of neutrality. So if there are any overly sensitive independent, conservative preachers out there, you might want to step away from this post, because I'm about to get medieval on your ass. To start with, in the above paragraph, I used the word "preached." That was incorrect. I should have used the word "ranted." Or "spouted off." "Bloviated," "blustered," or "bellowed," would have worked, too.

Then there were the intermittent interjections of "Praise, Jesus," or other some such; at such random occurrences, as to render the expression meaningless. And the spittle. There was a lot of that, too. One of the random, overweight, white guys (seriously, maybe they can't help their ethnicity, but most of them look like "all you can eat buffet" are their five favorite words - eat a salad, guys), was telling us why Robert E. Lee was an exemplary Christian. There was also a fair bit of homophobia, which was particularly telling, because homosexuality was rarely the topic upon which they were inarticulately sounding off upon. Apparently it's just some random chum they  like to toss out to the sharks sitting in the pews every so often. But more than anything else, the topic that kept popping up was a particularly vicious strain of misogyny that would make Mel Gibson blush.

The worst was this one dude who kept listing all the different ways that a woman shouldn't dress for fear that she might be accused of being the worst sort of evil temptress. There are so many problems with this that I don't know if I can unpack it all. (1) It's victim blaming of the worst sort. Anything bad that happens to a woman because a man sees an inadvertent bra strap is her fault (2) It implies that men aren't responsible for their own behavior. He can't help himself if he sexually assaults a woman wearing a sleeveless blouse. (3) If this dude really wants to make a point about dressing more modestly, why doesn't he detail the way women should dress, rather than going on and on about how women shouldn't dress. Apparently spewing about modest dress is not very interesting to him. Too bad it's easier to impart a lesson by stressing the positives than it is the negatives. So much for the alleged doctorate he claims to possess. (4) Listening to this dude go into such great detail describing the sartorial sins that a woman can commit made me feel so dirty I felt like I needed a shower. He has obviously obsessed about this subject a great deal. The way he describes the slit of a woman's skirt, I can only imagine he wrote that particular section of his 'sermon' one-handed. He was a disgusting man blaming women for his own lustful thoughts. 

The way the all spoke with such complete certainty was scary. In my mind, one of the biggest mistakes a person can make, is to believe completely in the inerrancy of their opinion. As soon as you stop questioning or wondering about things and close your mind to other possibilities, you start to stagnate. To me, a closed mind is incredibly dangerous. The most depressing part of this whole rabbit hole experience was the part I couldn't see or hear. Every single one of these idiots had a receptive audience.

Number 173

 Apologies & Forgiveness

I try to avoid using the expression "I hate [whatever]," because I find the concept of 'hate' rather repugnant. That said, there are a few things that I actually do hate. Certain things, such as cruelty, injustice, greed, or willful ignorance almost all other people find hateful, too. Other things are more idiosyncratic. Examples of this kind might include lentils, people who don't use turn signals, or women's clothing with functionless pockets. For the purposes of today's post, I especially hate apologies that include the word "if." Seriously, any apology that contains the phrase "If you were offended by my words/actions...," makes me lose my shit. They're wasted words that put the onus upon the aggrieved person - like there is something wrong with them for being hurt and/or offended. You either regret your word/actions or you don't. If you do, offer up an unqualified apology, if you don't, don't.

Except it's not quite that simple. For one thing, some people (ie. women), apologize far too often for many things that don't require an apology. Other people lack the self-awareness to understand when they've really stepped in it, and don't apologize nearly enough. Which leads to the biggest problem with apologies: sincerity (or the lack thereof). If it is brought to a persons's attention that they need to apologize for something, AND they do so; do they really mean it? The only person who really knows is the person who apologized. Ultimately, the receiver(s) of an apology need to decide two things: (1) Is the apology sincere; and (2) Will they accept it.

Which brings me to the main point I want to make. I am greatly concerned by our society's trend towards a hard-hearted and cynical reaction to public apologies. We are living at a time where we are beginning to better understand that our culture's tacit acceptance of institutionalized racism, sexism, homophobia, transphobia, etc. has resulted in devastating consequences for so many of us. (And let me be clear, not only do I support this movement, I'm doing my best to work on my own shit, too.) As a result, many people are being held accountable for past bad behavior. It is entirely appropriate that this is happening. And the fact that many people are offering unqualified apologies for past mistakes (whether they were made intentionally or not), is also a good sign. It's what happens next that concerns me.

Above, I said that the only person who knows if an apology is sincere, is the person who makes it. That leaves it to the rest of us to make our own judgments as to its genuineness. "I don't know? Whadaya think? Do they really mean it?" are exhausting questions to ponder. And the reality is, we'll never know the answers. However, if it's someone whose politics closely align with mine, I'm much more likely to believe the apology than a person's that don't. And that's a dangerous bias I'm pretty sure I share with, oh I don't know, let's just say, everybody else. And that just breeds more distrust and division in an already fractured society. Scary, right?

So I've thought about this a lot. What happens inside of me when I accept an apology? What happens when I don't. When I don't forgive an apology, I hold on to the hardness I feel. It leaves me tense and anxious. In the long run, a lack of forgiveness on my part will hurt me more than my antagonist. On the other hand, choosing to forgive usually makes my heart lighter and help me feel more at peace. And forgiveness doesn't equate to forgetting, despite the conclusion of the trite cliche to "forgive and forget." It is important to remember, because if somebody keeps trying to get away with the same shit then it's on them if their sincerity is considered suspect.

I suppose what I'm asking is that everyone turn their default switch to one of acceptance rather than cynicism. I suspect that makes me sound a little bit like Pollyanna, and I can accept that. I just know that for myself, trying to put my faith on everyone else's better nature makes my life more serene and pleasant. And for the record, I'm not naive. I know there are bad people out there, and I pay attention when my interpersonal barometer tells me to be careful around someone. It's just this. I have done things in my life that fill me with shame and embarrassment. I've apologized for many of them over the course of my life, and I believe I've mostly been sincere. I've also grown and become a better person, in part, because of my mistakes (as well as my willingness to acknowledge that many of my past assumptions about fairness and equality were, in a word, wrong). I'm just willing to assume that I'm not the only one who has failed to be perfect as we stumble through our lives together.

TTFN

Number 172

Clocking

So I'm sitting in my favorite coffee shop (yes, the Hag). I sat down planning to write about apologies and forgiveness (which will come next, in fairly short order), when I realized there was a trans woman sitting near me. Now you may wonder how I knew she was trans. Did my 'tranny sense' start tingling?* Was she wearing a sign? Did she give off a scent that only I could smell? No, it was none of those things. Sometimes you (and by "you" I mean "I"), just know. What do you think I did?

A. Went over and greeted her with the secret trans woman handshake.

B. Greeted her by her name since we obviously all know one another.

C. Both A & B, but I also tossed a handful of glitter into the air to celebrate us living our authentic lives.

D. Nothing.

It's not A. There is no secret trans woman handshake. I'm sorry to disappoint you, because I'm sure, if we had one, it would be fabulous. It's not B. We don't actually all know one another. Some of us are introverts. It's not C. Glitter is bad for the environment (sad but true). That leaves D as the correct answer (also sad but true).

However, this has less to do with shyness or introversion than you might imagine. It has much more to do with the concept of passing. "Passing" is a term used by our community to communicate how well our outward appearance resembles the gender image that most aligns with our own sense of gender. If a trans person is 'passing' well, a casual glance by the public at large sees them as a cis member of the gender they feel themselves to be. If they are 'passing' badly, the public sees them as the gender they were assigned at birth.

For some trans people, passing vs. not passing is a huge deal. For others, not so much. But since we don't actually all know one another, trans people tend to ignore each other when we come across each other. To do otherwise, is to be guilty of "clocking." This is a term used when anyone brings attention to a trans person specifically because they are trans. If you do this, you are guilty of clocking, and it is one of the worst gaffes you can make within the trans community. 

It's a shame, really, because there's not a trans person alive that doesn't need a little outside affirmation every once in awhile. And, in general, who understands better the particular challenges of being a trans person better than another trans person? It's not to imply that all trans people should automatically be best friends, or that we should convene a support group on the spot every time we encounter one another. But what would be wrong with a subtle nod of the head to one another? For many trans people, being out in public can be a scary thing. I think it would be wonderful if we could acknowledge one another's presence, if for no other reason then to let each other know we're not alone, or that at least one other person in the room is supportive.

Once again, I don't have an answer. The issue is actually more complex than my brief overview, in part because there are as many opinions as there are trans people. Or rather, since the continuum on the importance of passing is vast, we all just default to ignoring one another, unless we are specifically gathered in a setting geared towards our trans identities (ie. PRIDE, or some other gathering of queer folks). 

If you're old enough, you might remember a movie called The Sting. (Really, a great movie - search it out if you've never seen it.) In it, a group of con artists work to take down a mob boss. Every time they encounter one another in public, they acknowledge each another by subtly swiping their nose with a single finger. I wonder if I can get my trans brothers and sisters to adopt the same signal?

*Regarding my use of the word "tranny." I can use it. Other trans people can use it. Cis people cannot. For many in the trans community it is a hurtful, derogatory word. I only use it when trying to display my awesome sarcasm skills. And even then, I usually play around with language to see if there is another way to convey my intent without using it.

Number 171

 Nora Builds a New Life

Most of you know I had a wife, Rebecca, who passed away five years ago in February, 2016. Though I am intentional about continuing to reference her and our marriage in my posts, for the most part I have not written a great deal about her death. That's not going to change with this post, but it does kind of serve as a starting point for this entry.

I had a lot of thoughts in the hours after her unexpected death (go figure), but one of the clearest was the idea that, without her, the girls and I would soon be living on the streets without any health insurance. That irrational fear was soon put to rest. When I called our financial planner with the news of her passing the next day, he was stunned and saddened, but he immediately said, "You're OK. We planned for this," (meaning a worst case scenario-type situation). I shouldn't have been surprised. Rebecca had always been an amazing planner. She left us financially secure, in a house with no mortgage, and intact health insurance. 

In the years following her passing, the following things happened: I retired from teaching, and let my certification lapse. I began therapy which unearthed long buried thoughts of gender dysphoria. I surprised myself and fell in love again. Also, my two daughters grew into young adults who no longer needed me for daily (or even weekly), parental guidance. Finally, I realized I was a transgender woman and began my journey through the gender confirmation process. In other words, not much (haha).

For those of you who know anything about gender care, it will not surprise you a great deal that much of my time and energy since Rebecca's death has been focused on my transition. Not exclusively, mind you, but it certainly took a large majority of my attention. Two months ago, my efforts culminated in gender affirming surgery that left me feeling like a woman - both inside and out (yay!)

Since that time, I've felt a bit adrift. A large part of this, of course, was related to the considerable healing that needed to happen related to my surgery. There's not a great deal you can do when you're lying around weak and exhausted. The other part of my drifting is related to thoughts of "what now?" Where am I going to focus my time and attention now that I've, more or less, faced down and conquered my gender demons.

Before answering that, I need to go deep for a minute. What is the purpose of life? Why are any of us here? I am not super religious, though to outsiders looking in, I appear to be an observant Christian. I'm certainly not a nihilistic anarchist that feels that life just stumbles from one chaotic mess to another. Call me a philosophical spiritualist who believes we're all here for reasons greater than any of us are capable of understanding. Or maybe it's not that complicated. And what I mean by that is, when I strip my life down to its essential core, I believe I am here (indeed, all of us), to make the world a better place. And while I'm not so sure about the whole God thing, I am confident that the words/ministry of Jesus provide all the guidance I need to keep my eyes on that particular prize. (Which only means that that is the culture I am most familiar with; and not that there aren't other admirable folks for others to use as the 'North Star' for their own moral compasses.)

So I am rebuilding my life with my mind firmly set on doing 'good works' ... 

[Pardon the interruption: originally this part of the paragraph was filled with details of the things I am, or planning to do. But then it started to feel like I was going to dislocate my shoulder patting myself on the back, which was certainly not my intention when I came up with the idea for this post, so I deleted it. Let us now return to this paragraph, already in progress] 

... Of course, the main reason I have the time, resources, and ability to do these things are the numerous privileges and good fortune that have come my way during my lifetime. It is only appropriate for my to try and 'pay it forward.' With hope, I'll be successful.

TTFN

Number 170

 🌈 PRIDE Month

It's the first of June, 2021. That means it's the start of Pride Month. It's the one month each year where LGBTQIA+ folks (along with our wonderful, can't do it without you allies), celebrate our wonderfully varied, crazy, wack-a-doddle, authentically queer lives. For the record, we don't all know each other. As our world sloooooooowly emerges from our Covid enforced hibernation, this year is special. For the most part, Pride celebrations were canceled last year in response to the global pandemic. In that way, the queer community was one of the leaders in making the difficult, but prudent decision to put public safety ahead of individualized agendas. It was a hell of a sacrifice, because we love to throw big parties. 

It's the 52nd year for Pride. The first 'celebration' was actually a civil disturbance/riot (to-ma-to/to-mah-to), outside of the Stonewall Inn in Greenwich Village, New York City in 1969. The Stonewall was a known gathering spot for homosexuals. As such, given the times, they were subject to regular harassment by the NYPD. However, by 1969, the queer community in the city had run out of patience. A violent confrontation with law enforcement followed. That there were many trans BIPOC individuals on the front lines is a particular point of pride (no pun intended), for me. Since then, this event has been thought of as the beginning of the still ongoing 'Gay Rights' movement.

As befits our legacy, there continue to be controversies in the queer community related to PRIDE events. Realistically, that will probably never change. C'est la vie. Currently there are three topics that cause the most angst: kink at PRIDE, law enforcement participation at PRIDE, and PRIDE being co-opted by the corporate world. I don't feel well enough informed about those three issues to offer an opinion. I have heard compelling pros and cons regarding all three. 

Perhaps it's not a surprise that there are people in the queer community that are disdainful of PRIDE events. Even the greatest works of art have detractors - and PRIDE events are definitely not great works of art. In fact, with all the different rainbows, they usually look like the aftermath of an explosion at the Lisa Frank folder factory. 

Personally, I love PRIDE events. To me, they feel like really big family reunions without all the interpersonal issues. I like gathering with my community when the focus is one of celebration rather than protest. It's true that I'm still relatively new to the whole thing, so maybe my ardor will cool off in a few years, but for now, I'm gonna put on my best rainbow clothing and wave my trans flag high!

Number 169

The Coffee Hag Is Open!

So. Pre-Covid, I hung out at the Coffee Hag (or just, "the Hag"), almost everyday. I'm this weird kind of introvert who gets energy from being alone while amidst a group of people. How does that work? It usually means I'm working on my laptop, listening to my music through ear phones, while I'm surrounded by other folks. What can I say? It works for me. It also doesn't hurt that they have an awesome cook, and a huge variety of drinks.

The owners, Jen and Anna were super responsible and closed their doors to help halt the spread of Covid way back in March 2020. Since then they re-opened as take out only. That gave me the chance to pick up one of their tasty beverages, and say "hi" to the best baristas on the planet, but it just wasn't quite the same. You see, other than my own home, the Hag was the place where I felt completely welcomed. I was safe and comfortable being myself. That this occurred as I progressed through the gender confirmation process was huge. Not only was it a safe place, it was a place of affirmation. I missed it incredibly.

In the meantime, a few other coffee shops in Mankato eventually re-opened for indoor service. They're nice enough, and I knew that I would be welcomed; but I wouldn't be celebrated or cheered on like the folks at the Hag did. Also, to be honest, the thought of going to one of these other shops felt a little bit like I was contemplating an infidelity, so I stayed away.

Well today, as you can probably guess from the title, the Hag re-opened their indoor area. So here I sit writing about it, celebrating this sign that Covid is finally loosening its grip on us; while recognizing the loving care that Jen and Anna exercised during the pandemic, by putting the safety of their employees and the general public ahead of their bottom line. It's part of the reason I love them, actually.

So, Mankato (and everyone else, for that matter!), come on back. The best coffee shop in town is waiting for you.

Number 168

One Post-Surgical Reality (part I)

 Preface

Hello, world. Before reading this post you must be aware of one thing. This post is specifically intended for my trans sisters that have not yet had, but are planning to have, a type of "bottom" surgery known as vaginoplasty. In many ways I was unprepared for the realities of the long-term recovery process before I had my surgery. I read a great deal, yes, but my feeling now is, six weeks after surgery, that much of what I read was generalized and vague. My intent is to provide my sisters with more accurate and truthful information As such, I plan on being blunt, specific, and graphic about areas of the human body that are sometimes euphemistically referred to as "private parts." If that type of candor leaves thinking 'TMI,' while you simultaneously stick your fingers in your ears and loudly declare, "I can't hear you! I can't hear you!" this post might not be for you. On the other hand, if you're curious and wanna learn something new, by all means, keep reading.

Chapter One: Disclaimer

This is what happened to me. That doesn't mean it will happen to you.

Chapter Two: My Clueless Doctor

Five days after I had my vaginoplasty surgery, my surgeon entered my hospital room to check on my recovery and perform a few post-surgical procedures. I was exhausted, and every nerve ending I possessed in my heavily bandaged groin was still sending my tired brain an endless stream of "SOS" messages. In other words, I was a bit of a mess. "So, Nora," he asked out of nowhere, "Would you do this again?"

Chapter Three: Hospital Time

Interestingly, I have no memories of the surgery that I had long hoped and planned for.

I have a few brief memories of being in post-surgical recovery. Mostly about trying to regain consciousness and make my brain work. Full reality didn't occur until I was in my hospital room. I was utterly exhausted, but I was not yet in pain. I was content to just lie there, fading in and out of sleep. Imperceptibly, the pain meds began to wear off, until I realized I was becoming uncomfortable. About then, my nurse came in and gave me a dose of oxycodone. "What a wonderful coincidence," I thought to myself, as I faded out again.

Here's the thing about the 'pain' I felt during my week in the hospital. It was rarely sharp and piercing. It was usually an all-consuming, dull ache that I felt throughout my body, not just my groin - although there was plenty of specific ache centered there. Every nerve ending in that region had been 'insulted' by the surgery and wanted me to know it. One mistake I made in the hospital was trying to wean myself off the pain meds too soon. As a result, I didn't take pains meds when they were offered, instead waiting until I was truly suffering, which meant more agony as I waited for the meds to take effect. During that first week I would recommend staying on a regular schedule of pain meds in order to be as comfortable as possible. Also, a 'bulster' had been inserted into my new vagina to ensure it retained its shape. I saw it after it was removed. Essentially it was an eight inch phallus wrapped up in surgical gauze. It was uncomfortable and left me feeling like a stuffed Thanksgiving turkey.

Perhaps the greatest source of discomfort during my week in the hospital related to getting my digestive system working again. Prior to surgery, I had been on a restricted diet which culminated in a liquid only diet for the last 24 hours. I had also completed a bowel cleanse. My tank was empty. Afterwards, the first sign of success is passing gas. Of course, you can't "bear down," as you usually do for a good fart or bowel movement, for fear of tearing the sutures at the nearby surgical sight. I experienced powerful cramps throughout this entire process, which had me wondering if I was experiencing PMS for the first time. I eventually farted and moved my bowels but it was an uncomfortable, multi day struggle.

Speaking of PMS, there was a fair amount of blood and other discharge to deal with. (There still is, six weeks after surgery.) Although it isn't painful, it has fulfilled any curiosity I had about menstruation.

Another big milestone that needed to be accomplished before I could be discharged was the need to urinate on my own. The catheter was removed on the morning of the 5th day, and the waiting game was on. I was full of both questions and anticipation. I had been sitting to urinate for the last three years in order to feel less dysphoric - now, I didn't have a choice. Did starting and stopping a urine flow work the same way as before? After all, it was the same brain, nerve endings and muscles at work, wasn't it? It was a bit of a mystery. 

Unfortunately, the one thing I wasn't full of was urine. The next six hours became a misery. You see, my bladder started sending vague messages of being full almost immediately. This was in large part because all the 'insulted' nerve endings in my groin area were still sending messages of annoyance to my tired brain. This led to frequent trips to the commode where I sat there and did nothing. Was I broken? Had my bladder forgotten how to function over the last week? I commenced to drinking water, and as the day progressed, the message from my bladder became more insistent. When I felt sure I was close to bursting, a sonogram was done on my bladder that indicated that it was, at best, about 1/3 full. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," I thought. Soon I was in tears, wondering what was wrong. I was at the point that if I were traveling on a highway, I would have pulled over immediately and peed by the side of the road without caring who saw me. This time when I sat down on the commode, before I could even think about it, I heard the telltale sound of urine hitting the water below. Thank god!

Surprisingly, another source of hardship for me was getting out of bed and walking.  PT or OT came by the day after surgery to assist me in standing up. A big part of the challenge is moving to a standing position without putting any pressure on the many sutures associated with surgery. Standing up without bending in the middle is a tricky proposition! In any event, when all was ready, up I stood. Yay! But my victory was short lived. After about thirty seconds, I began to feel light-headed, so back to bed I went. The next day went a little better but a lot worse, in that I stood up, felt fine, and started to take small shuffling steps, before I passed out and gracelessly went to the ground. Thankfully, I had two people with me who ensured that I went down easy. They had to bring in a motorized hoist to get me back into bed. What a fucking embarrassment. Eventually, on the fourth day, I was finally able to get up and take short walks around the hospital unit I was on. Though I got tired easily, it felt good to move around.

I don't believe I had a sustained sleep of over two or three hours during my entire hospitalization. That was partly me - I have insomnia and I didn't have my sleep meds with me, and partly because of the frequent visits from my nurses to administer this or that medication. Not to mention the noise the IV machine made when a bag of fluids emptied. Bodily discomfort, and the inability to move around and change position in any meaningful way also contributed to sleeplessness.

Another thing that happened during my stay was the casual way I began to feel about people seeing me naked. It became almost automatic. If someone walked into my room, I'd pull up my gown and let them examine my new vagina. This was in large part do to the professionalism demonstrated by the nurses and doctors, so good on them for that. Also, I learned that if I surrendered just a little bit of my dignity, the nurses were there to help me feel as clean and comfortable as possible. Hell, when I finally pooped - and it was a messy affair - there was NO way I could have cleaned myself afterwards on my own.

Speaking of my new vagina, it wasn't until the day of my discharge that I got my first "full monty" look at it. Until that point, my only point of view was looking down at my groin from a prone position in my bed. Standing in front of a full length mirror, my first reaction was not one of euphoria. In fact, it was rather flat. "Huh, that's different," I thought to myself. It wasn't cognitive dissonance exactly so much as it was a bit shocking to see that the object of so much angst and dysphoric feeling was no longer there. In the time since I have come to love seeing it in the mirror, and being able to say, "my vagina" is a fantastic feeling.

Having said all that, I definitely experienced 'phantom penis' sensations while in the hospital. (Still do, for that matter - just not as frequently.) At first, when someone would come in to inspect the surgery sight, I felt that my (former) genitalia was flopping around in the breeze for all to see. I had to consciously think to myself, "No, it's not there anymore." Other times, by myself, I would put my hand down there and delight in the fact that there was nothing there :)

On the seventh day, I finally went home.

Chapter Four: The Question Answered

Here's the truth. My week in the hospital was a messy, achy, painfully yucky affair. There were many hardships that needed to be overcome. At the time that my doctor asked me if I would go through it again I hadn't showered in a week, my hair was a stringy mess. I hurt all over, and I was exhausted. It felt a little bit like a 'trap' question, so after a pause, I quickly said "Yes, I would." But I imagine I didn't sound very convincing. Since then, however, I wish I had said, "Not at the moment," because that would have been a better reflection of how I felt in that moment. The real answer to that question, upon further contemplation is something like: "Yes. A thousand times, yes. Very little about my gender confirmation process has been easy or fun. In fact, much of it has been emotionally and physically exhausting. I have cried many tears, and I thought my heart would break a few times along the way. This is the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, but my answer, doctor, will always be 'yes,' because once I learned that the true secret to living a happy life is to be my authentic self, there was nothing that was going to stop me from achieving the congruency that I now feel. Yes."