Number 202

Casual Cruelty

Recently, Dylan Mulvaney, a transgender woman who is posting videos on Tik Tok describing her transformation posted a clip where she described the challenges faced by many trans women: finding clothes that both affirm our identity and fit well. I understand her struggle all too well. And is it really all that different than the lament of cis women everywhere who search for well-fighting clothes that fit their individual aesthetic? Of course I'm biased toward her, but she is a bundle of positive energy so she makes it easy to cheer for her. She's adorable.

It also occurs to me, that the only substantive difference between making Tik Tok videos detailing her gender journey and me blogging about mine is one of medium. She's using video, I write: Otherwise we're kind of doing the same thing. One of the other similarities we share is that once we post something, we have no control over how people will respond to it. Without acknowledging agreement with them, many folks out there believe that transgender folks are mentally ill. (Why these people then feel it is okay to bully and harass people they think are mentally ill is a question to ponder.) There's no stopping it if someone decides to respond in a non-supportive or hostile way. (Why these same people feel the need to go out of their way to be nasty is another question to ponder.) I've been very lucky so far - probably because the audience for my blog is mostly me "preaching to the choir," as the saying goes. My sister on Tik Tok has not been so fortunate.

In response to the video I referenced above, Marsha Blackburn, a U.S. senator from Tennessee took it upon herself to score some points with her base by tweeting that "... Joe Biden and the radical left wing lunatics want to make this absurdity normal." Think about this - a U.S. senator is describing another human being as an "absurdity." Nice, huh? If that wasn't bad enough, Caitlyn fucking Jenner felt the need to jump on the pile by tweeting: "He [referencing Dylan] is talking about his penis." 

This is hateful stuff - pure and simple. That it came from another trans woman raises it to a loathsome, revolting, almost unspeakable level. Intentionally using the wrong pronouns is just despicable.

Because I have empathy, I can imagine how awful it would be to lose my home in a tornado even though that has never happened to me. I can also imagine how terrible it would be to have a state trooper knock on my door at 2 AM to tell me a family member died in a car accident. Because I have empathy, I can envision how random tragedies affect the people to whom they befall. I also believe that most of you can, too.

I don't have to be Black or Jewish or Asian or Latinx (or any other ethnic group), to know that it hurts when a derogatory term is maliciously used to intentionally belittle someone .

So please believe me when I tell you that it hurts when someone uses the wrong pronouns on purpose. Why Marsha and Caitlyn felt the need to be randomly hateful to Dylan is beyond me. I just don't understand their need to be so casually cruel. It's almost as if they searched out an opportunity to denigrate another person. If they don't support a trans person's journey, fine (although I believe there is a special place in hell for Caitlyn for running down another trans woman). But like the old saying goes - If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything. So Dylan put out a public Tik Tok video describing one of the travails of being trans. As far as I understand, a person still has to click on the video before viewing it. If you don't support or enjoy that sort of content, why go out of your way to watch it? I can only hope that hate speech like theirs becomes increasingly marginalized until it disappears altogether.

Number 201

 Bruce

In March, 2023, I will go to see Bruce Springsteen (& the E Street Band) for probably the last time. I spent way too much for the tickets; but when I reflect back on how significant his music has been to me over my life, the experience of seeing him live one more time is, as the commercial says, "priceless." Cindy will be coming with me. She knows very little about Bruce or his music. As she's never seen him live before, I'm almost jealous of her - you only get to experience your first Bruce show once.

What's that? You've never seen him either? You think he's an over-rated has been with gravel for a voice, or that he used to be okay before he became a liberal shill? That's okay. Everyone is entitled to their opinion. You're wrong, of course, but that's an issue for another day.

Actually, I'm of the opinion that Bruce is merely a cult artist (as opposed to a main stream superstar). He might have the largest audience of any cult artist in history, but it's always seemed like you 'get' Bruce, or you don't. And I've listened to myself enough times when I say something like: "No, really, if you just paid a little bit more attention to his message..." to know I sound like some evangelist trying to get someone to convert to my religion. So I don't try anymore. You say you're not interested, and I just say "OK," and leave it at that. (Although inside, I'm still thinking: "Your loss, if you would just pay a little bit more attention...")

He's been, as he describes himself, "a prisoner of Rock 'n' Roll," for sixty years now. That's a long time. The core of the E Street Band has essentially remained unchanged since 1974, except for the (natural) deaths of two members. That's incredibly unique in the "here today, gone tomorrow" culture of popular music. Their performances together have been buffed to a high sheen over the decades, and like a fine wine, they seem to have gotten better with age. Still, they're all in their mid 70's now, and Bruce doesn't go out on tour very often, so this might be their last hurrah.

Of course the evening will be full of well-played rock n' roll music, but that's not what makes a Bruce concert so special. It's the fact that he is somehow able to turn the whole show into a party with 20,000 of your new best friends. A Bruce concert starts with an implicit agreement between Bruce, and the audience: Bruce promises that he and the band will play and sing their hearts out; and the audience promises to reflect back the energy and passion coming at us from the stage. All that's left to do is to turn up the house lights and marvel at all the dancing fools caught up in the magic spell being conjured up on stage. Of course, the fact that you're one of those dancing fools goes without saying...

Since I'm thinking this is my last show, I decided to put together my "Ultimate Bruce Springsteen & the E Street Band" Setlist. It was a fun activity. I limited myself to 30 songs (a longish, but not unheard of number of songs for an average Bruce show). I started by picking one song from each studio album so that I would be sure to have a show that was a reflection of his whole career. Then I went back and picked up other essential songs from the albums, as well as some of his live highlights which had never made it onto an album. Of course I ended up with way more than 30 songs, and some of the ones that ended up on the floor were painful choices to make, but such is life. You'll notice that my setlist actually consists of 32 songs. In the end, I decided that Bruce, especially revered for his epic encores, wouldn't want to leave me disappointed. Rock on, dudes!

Set one

1. Rave On!

2. Growin' Up

3. Thunder Road

4. No Surrender

5. Ghosts

6. Sandy (4th of July, Asbury Park)

7. Tougher Than the Rest

8. Because the Night

9. Mona/She's the One

10. Pink Cadillac

11. Detroit Medley

12. Ramrod

13. Prove it All Night (with the '78 intro) 

14. Rosalita

Set two

15. Racing in the Street (with the ’78 coda)

16. Death to My Hometown

17. Born in the USA

18. Badlands

19. 41 Shots

20. Tom Joad (electric)

21. Backstreets

22. Drive All Night

23. My City of Ruins

24. The Rising

1st encore

25. Thundercrack

26. Saint in the City

27. Cadillac Ranch

28. Born to Run

29. Jungleland

2nd encore

30. 10th Avenue Freezeout

31. Quarter to Three

32. Twist & Shout

Number 200

 Toast

As parent-of-the-bride, I was given the lead off position when it came time to toast Emma and Henry. After yesterday's post about the whole wonderful affair I thought I might publish the text of my toast. Not because I think it's great, or anything; but because being able to deliver it will be one of the highest privileges I'll ever have.

______

Before I start with the traditional first toast, I need to say a few words about the folks that aren’t with us this evening. It’s no big revelation that there’s always a few people missing when gatherings like this happen. But I need to acknowledge the absence of one person in particular who deserves to be here more than any of the rest of us. Please join me in a toast to Emma’s mother, Rebecca.

Thank you, everyone, for being here tonight. Celebrating Henry and Emma is truly a joyous occasion.

I owe a special thank you to, well… Emma. You see, this beautiful wedding and reception were almost completely planned by her and Henry. And, [turning to Henry] Henry, let’s be honest here…  

Emma’s always been an extraordinarily gifted planner - from both the idea standpoint and the implementation standpoint. 

We learned these things about Emma early on. There was the time when Emma was probably four or 5 years old, and we told her we were going to visit to Aunt Sarah and Uncle Chuck’s in New Hampshire.  Less than an hour later her packed suitcase was beside the backdoor, ready to go. The only problem was the visit in question would not be occurring for another three weeks.

We soon learned that the other crucial component of Emma’s planning was task completion. The satisfaction of a job well done paired with a conscientious desire to finish assigned work. An example of this occurred during the only argument Emma and I ever had about her school work. One evening, as I was getting ready to leave to go see the first Thor movie with my friend Steve. I became aware that Emma was a bit upset. She was working on a set of Physics problems and contrary to what was typical, she was struggling to the point of tears. I recognized that she needed to take a break.

“Why don’t you set that aside and come to the movies with Steve and me?”

“NO! I need to get this finished!” (by the way, it wasn’t due the next day).

“Seriously, Emma, it would be good for you to take a break. Come see Thor with us.”

“No!”

Me, exhibiting the exasperation of a parent who knows what’s better for their child than the child does: “Emma, put it down. You’re coming with me! For goodness sake, Steve’s an engineering professor, bring your homework and ask him.”

“Fine!” she said in a voice that suggested, “I’m only doing this because you’re making me, and just to spite you, I refuse to have any fun.”

In the end, she came with me and asked Steve her questions, he helped as much as he could, she saw Thor (and liked it despite her best intentions!), and then returned home and finished her problem set in good order.

As a professional level procrastinator myself, she almost certainly inherited this single-minded determination from her mother. In fact I know it. One summer afternoon when Emma was 15, Rebecca received an emergency phone call - her mother, Emma’s Grammy, had had a heart attack. The drive to Marshfield WI, where Rebecca’s parents lived, took four hours. As it happened, Grace and I were away at violin camp that week, so with no other alternative, Rebecca got Emma and our dog Ginger in the car and took off. 

After an hour or so. “Mom, I’m kinda hungry. Can we stop for something to eat?”

“No.”

A bit more time passes. “Mom, there’s a McDonald’s right there…”

“No.”

Finally, the necessity for gas forced Rebecca to stop. As she got back in the car, she tossed Emma a small bag of Cheez-its and said “Here you go.” Ginger, who was watching carefully from the back seat, knew better than to ask for her dinner.

Now Emma was certainly never in danger of starving, but it’s fair to say that she was slightly displeased with a few of her mom’s choices on the drive to Marshfield that day. But, Emma, if you’ve ever wondered where your determination came from - well it got your mother to Marshfield in record time that day. And, just for the record, Grammy recovered.

Now, about the couple of the hour: Henry and Emma.

I was frequently asked after Emma and Henry became engaged. “Do you like him?,” as if I was the one who was going to marry him. I usually deferred by replying, “Well, I’m pretty sure Emma does…”

The only question I’ve ever asked either of my children as it relates to potential romantic partners is “Do they treat you well?” If I get an affirmative answer, I’m okay.

But it does beg the question, ‘what does it mean to be treated well?’

A lot of things can go into that, but a short list might include kindness, protection, patience, and maybe a little bit of love and affection.

The first time I heard Henry’s name was after Emma found herself in a bit of trouble in college at Iowa State. I was too far away to help her, but when she told me about it later she mentioned that Henry had been one of a few people who had helped her out. Not too much later, she confirmed that they were a viable, ‘Facebook official’ couple. I was pleased, but not surprised. We can check off ‘kindness’. ‘protection’, too.

What about patience?  Emma has always been my “Just so” child. As in, she wanted things done “just so.” Anyone who’s known Emma for a while knows that she enjoys doing things very particularly. Or, as we used to say, “She’s not bossy, she just has good ideas.” Henry said “I Do,” earlier, so I can only assume he’s got a mountain of patience.

Then there’s love and affection. One day, I believe Emma would have been about 14 or 15, she and I were driving in the car together. It was her turn to choose the music, which I usually tolerated pretty well. In any event, we’re driving along when the following lyric came from the radio “… shut your lips. Make like Helen Keller - Do your talking with your hips…” I shut off the radio and loudly declared “Bullsh*t! If I boy ever says something like that to you - slug ‘em!” And if Emma wasn’t already thoroughly embarrassed by my loud declaration, I followed it up with “Smart is sexy!” 

Henry and Emma both graduated from college with academic distinctions so I can only assume… uh… well, they’re both very smart, and, ummm… sexy, and, ahh… you know what, I think I’ll leave this one right here. I’ll just quietly check off ‘love and affection.’

Almost done.

The last thing about Emma you all need to know is that she is the most insanely lucky person I’ve ever known. It’s uncanny. When she was little, her mother and I both agreed there wasn’t going to be any “let’s let Emma win, so she’ll feel good and be happy.” No, she needed to learn that you don’t always win the game, that sometimes you lose. We wanted her to know how to win with class and lose with dignity. Except she never lost! Games like ‘Chutes n’ Ladders’ or ‘Candyland’ which require no skill and are completely dependent on the draw of a card or a roll of the dice, she’d win every time! Finally, I had to resort to cheating myself, to ensure that she occasionally experienced losing!

Later on, when our family would play a board game like ‘Sorry,’ Rebecca, Grace and I would band together to take down Emma. After we accomplished that, then we’d each go our own way. Except Emma still managed to win, giggling in an infuriating way the whole time.

When she turned 18, a couple of her friends took her to a casino. I coached her on responsible gambling. “Figure out how much you want to spend for the evening. Only take that much money in with you, and when it’s gone, you’re done.” Except on the way past a roulette wheel, guess who decided to bet on a specific number, and came up a winner the very first time!

You might think that her luck would eventually run out. Certainly losing her mother at age 20 might suggest so. But she met Henry in the months after Rebecca’s death, and there can be no doubt that having Henry around to help her with her grieving - being there when she needed someone to lean on, to be vulnerable with, to care for her and to help her lick her wounds - well, that’s been her greatest experience of ‘good luck’ ever.

But Emma, I do have one piece of bad news for you. You will never be lucky enough to see the way that Henry looks at you when you’re not aware of it. It is a look of pure love. It's a look that lets me, your parent, who used to hold your little butt in one hand when you would fall asleep on my shoulder, know that you are now, with Henry, in the safest of hands.

So raise a glass as we celebrate Emma, and my marvelous new son-in-law Henry. I love you both. Cheers!

(9/24/2022)

Number 199

 Love Wins, Always

As I look back upon my daughter's wedding, the thing that astounds me the most is how happy I was. On the surface, I understand that that sounds ridiculous. "Of course you were happy at your daughter's wedding, nitwit, what else would you be?" But let's face it, sometimes weddings can be tear-fueled, anger pageants full of recriminations, jealous rages, and fingernail shredding anxiety. This wedding wasn't one of those train wrecks - in fact it was beautiful - but that still doesn't quite explain what I'm trying to convey. Let me try this another way. I am a solitary introvert, very used to living with depression and anxiety. I'm not exactly a pessimist, but I do kinda live with a nervous expectation that something bad is just around the corner. And, as I've explained previously, I expected Rebecca's absence to lend a wistful quality to the whole affair. So when it was all over, and I looked back, I was astounded to realize that I gone through the whole affair in a sort of extroverted, joyful haze. Ya dig?

______

Maybe it was the wine. You see, for the rehearsal dinner, Emma and Henry planned a five course meal and wine pairing. This happened on Thursday night - two days before the actual wedding. A group of thirty entered the room relative strangers and left as best friends for life. As for myself, I can't remember the last time I had five drinks in one evening (three or four, for that matter!), but I enjoyed everyone of them. I had met Henry's parents on one previous occasion, but this opportunity gave Cindy and me a much better chance to get to know them. Seeing them together only made me more certain that my child was choosing a partner who would revere, respect, and love her. For a parent, there is no better feeling.

______

Maybe it was the coffee shop. Across the street from the hotel was Fuel, one of a chain of local coffee/sandwich shops specific to Worcester, MA. The food, drink and atmosphere were all wonderful. Anytime I walked in, I would see someone I knew (and probably hadn't seen in a long, long time). By the time I stood up to leave after eating/gabbing with one group of folks, a new group would be walking in. As parent-of-the-bride, it would be rude for me to just leave, so I'd get another beverage and sit down with the new group.

______

Maybe it was Google maps. Seriously, we didn't get lost once.

______

Maybe it was the pastor. Emma initially had asked a minister here in Mankato with whom she has a close relationship to be the officiant. Unfortunately this person had to back out (early on in the planning - not at the last minute). Emma still wanted a pastor with whom she had some sort of connection, but she was on the east coast, and she didn't know where to turn. I thought of Mary. She had long ago been my pastor, and, in fact, had married Rebecca and me. I put Emma and Henry in touch with her and she readily agreed. When I arrived at the rehearsal and saw Mary, more than 15 years had passed since we had last seen each other - in fact, I had been a whole different person! After a fierce hug, we began chatting as if no time had passed at all. Not only that, and although she is now retired, she has lost none of her 'preacher chops.' I always joke with people that one of the reasons for my successful relationship with Rebecca was because Mary had "done a really good job marrying us." I hope Emma and Henry were listening, because she still knows how to bring it.

______

Maybe it was the venue. The Harding-Allen estate in Barre, MA. It was fantastically picturesque and incredibly romantic, too. Seriously, look it over ( https://www.hardingallenestate.com/ ). It also helped that the weather was entirely cooperative. Early fall temperatures - never too hot or cold, and only a few spots of rain. Henry's first look at Emma took place out on the front lawn prior to the ceremony on Saturday afternoon. All of her attendants, as well as Henry's mom, Cindy, and me were watching out of the second story windows. She (objectively) looked stunning. I don't know which attendant said it, but after he turned around she blurted out: "He'd better be crying!" Indeed. Oh, and the sunset provided the perfect back drop for the actual ceremony.

______

Maybe it was the love. I thought about Rebecca a great deal. No surprise, really, right? But strangely my thoughts weren't accompanied by my usual feelings of sadness at her absence. Instead there were feelings of joy and contentment. She was right there with me, celebrating that our daughter had found the one person to spend the rest of her life with. It's just so apparent that Emma and Henry are nuts about each other. It's also apparent that their relationship is healthy and strong. I couldn't be more pleased with my new son-in-law.

Number 198

Today I Am Sad 

Today is Monday. On Saturday my beautiful child Emma will marry Henry Thompson. It will be a joyous event full of happiness and laughter, music and dance. But today I am sad. You see, Emma's mother and my wife, Rebecca, won't be there to celebrate with us, as she left us way too early six years ago. She would have loved Henry, whom she never had the chance to meet. A shared hardworking geekiness would have bonded them. And the careful caring way that he loves and supports Emma would have cinched it. So today, I am sad. 

I've spent a lot of time over the last months wondering about my emotional state come wedding day. Anyone who knows me only a little bit knows that I start crying at the drop of a hat, so there's no doubt I'll need an extra large hanky on Saturday. A few days ago, Cindy and I attended the wedding of a close friend. As the music began, and she started down the aisle, I felt the familiar emotional hiccup inside, as the tears started to flow. "Oh shit" I quickly realized, "I'm gonna be a wreck next week." I told this to Cindy afterwards, and she smiled wryly at me, as if to say, "ya think?"

In a sense Rebecca will be at the ceremony and reception. Heck, she'll be a part of the whole affair. How could she not be? And there will be feelings of sadness experienced by a great many people in attendance. Again, how could there not be? So today, as I ponder the weekend to come, I am sad.

Right now, I'm sitting at the Coffee Hag. My home away from home in Mankato. I'm listening to a playlist I put together a few years ago entitled 'Rebecca.' Appropriately enough, Frank Sinatra is singing "The Way You Look Tonight," which we chose as our wedding song 28 years ago. Lord! Was she beautiful that night! The playlist's purpose is to provide a soundtrack for those moments when I feel her absence most strongly. And you guessed it, today I am sad.

But here's a thing I know. After Rebecca died, friends and family gathered together that evening to support one another in our shared grief. As often happens in these moments, our tears turned to laughter as we started to share our favorite remembrances of Rebecca. At one point, I turned to our daughters Emma (a first year student at Iowa State), and Grace (a high school sophomore), and told them: "If either one of you thinks you can use this as an excuse to screw up at school, you're mother will haunt you the rest of your lives!" That might sound kind of harsh, but my sense of humor has always had an edge to it. Besides, Emma and Grace both immediately agreed with my assessment of their mother's ghostly abilities to torment them vis a vis poor schoolwork. I bring this story up because it illuminates an important truth that I have come to rely upon a great deal since her passing: The very last thing Rebecca would have wanted was for the girls and me to stop living our best lives. 

If life were fair, Rebecca would be at the wedding But it's not, so she won't be. And today, that makes me sad. 

But not on Saturday.

Number 197

 Why I Stepped Away From SCPride or Hiding in My Cave

About two years ago, in an effort to give back to the queer community that had adopted me so readily into its ranks, I joined the board for South Central [Minnesota] Pride. The other members of the group welcomed me aboard and made me feel apart of the group, and soon I was helping out when and where I could. In everything that follows, I want to be perfectly clear that the uncomfortable feelings I write about are not directed at any of the other wonderful people on this board. They are merely the 'collateral damage' in my need to protect my mental health.

__________________________________________

In February of this year, I happened to be visiting Austin, Texas when the governor declared that treating gender dysphoric children in a trans affirmative manner was akin to child abuse. Further, any healthcare workers in the state found "guilty" of this 'egregious' (sarcasm font), crime would be prosecuted. That evening, as we drove by the governor's mansion, I gave him my opinion with the middle fingers of both hands. (That he made this proclamation the same day a report dropped that was harshly critical of the way he and his administration had handled the state's response to a catastrophic ice storm the previous winter was  'merely a coincidence.') Unfortunately Texas was not alone. The need of religiously conservative politicians all over the country to try and prove that they knew more than healthcare establishment in general, and individual parents/care takers specifically, led to all sorts of malignant, and misdirected legislation over the past year. If that weren't bad enough, a small, but vocal minority from the left had begun to push to have the "T" removed from the LGBTQIA+ movement. (Think JK Rowling and her ilk.) Suddenly being a trans person was thought to be immoral, illogical, and even illegal by large swaths of the public. Sure there were still a great many allies out there doing their best to push back against this tsunami of hate; but even a little bit of vitriol can make even the most hearty of souls start to feel scared and lonely.

Annnnnnnnd, since I don't always have the most hearty of souls, I began to feel as if the entire world was against us - even the people who had had our back in the past. More to the point, I began to feel as if the entire world was against me. Interestingly, mixed in with my feelings of fear and loneliness was a healthy dose of anger. I was genuinely pissed off at the world based upon my perception of how my trans siblings and I were being treated. 

So, between anger, fear, frustration, anxiety, and depression, I made the decision that putting myself out in the world in any kind of public way as a trans person was both unwise and unhealthy. I am not one of those fierce advocates who is able to take the ignorant slings and arrows thrown their way, chew them up, and spit them back at the haters with both authority and righteous truth (Glory, Hallelujah!)

___________________________________________

I wish it weren't so, but the safest place for me is inside my cave of solitude. I hope that someone remembers to come for me when the news gets better.

Number 196

 What's New?

Some of you folks out there might have wondered a time or two if I had any inkling that I was a trans woman before I began actively exploring this idea at age 49. The answer is both "yes" and "no." I was aware of 'something' but I very intentionally left it unexplored. "Why?" You might ask. Which, I have to admit, is a pretty good question to ask. I have a long history of advocating for people to seek counseling when faced with issues effecting their emotional health, so why would I not follow my own advice? I'm fairly certain the short answer is that some part of me already knew what the 'something' was; and I was scared to face it. "So?" You might ask. And again, I have to admit, that's a pretty good question. I have always considered myself a strong ally to other LGBTQIA+ folks, so why would I be afraid to explore my own gender identity? It wasn't until a few days ago that I fully understood the reason why: I was deeply in love with my wife Rebecca.

You see, to explore this part of me meant that I would risk losing her, and that was too steep a price to pay.

The problem is, of course, that those 'secret,' unconscious areas of ourselves have a sneaky way of making their presence felt in our conscious, waking lives - and seldom in helpful and constructive ways. In my case I internalized all my sadness, confusion, depression, and anxiety. I did my best to hide these feelings away. So while on the surface things looked good, the inside of me was a mess. 

An untenable situation, right? Except for the fact that there were many (outward) things in my life that were wonderful, I made this schism work for a long time. Believe it or not, my relationship with Rebecca was very sound. And we had two beautiful children that bound us together even more tightly. In teaching, I found a career that felt like a calling. We had good friends and family supporting and loving on us. In this way it took my inner misery 49 years to finally declare that "enough was enough."

This part of my story I have written about many times before, so I'll go with the short version here. In November 2015, I walked into a therapist's office and declared my affinity for women's clothing. "So." She responded. And thus I began to work on my gender identity. 

Except that in February 2016, barely three months later, R became sick and died within 24 hours. 

_____________________________________________________________

It has long haunted me that Rebecca and I never got to talk together about my dysphoria. There's a part of me that feels like I 'lucked out,' by never having to have what would have no doubt been an incredibly difficult conversation. On the other hand, I'm forever left to wonder what her reaction might have been. Again, I've written about this in the past, so I'll leave it alone for now, other than to say that the knowledge that Rebecca would want me to be happy is a big part of the reason that I'm on the path I chose for myself.

______________________________________________________________

For a long time, the idea of being in a relationship with another person was laughable. The pain of Rebecca's death was too fresh in my mind for one thing. For another, I couldn't imagine ever finding another person that I loved as much as I had her. Thirdly, I had done enough work on my gender identity by this point to realize that "Nora" was going to be a part of my life going forward. How much I didn't yet know, but she was definitely going to be present. There was no returning this part of me back into the closet going forward. Certainly there wasn't anyone out there who'd be interested in taking on all of this; assuming, of course, that I was willing to even put in the effort to search for someone.

And then I met Cindy, and everything in my life shifted one more time. We met through good friends, and after a bit of time, I worked up the courage to ask her out to coffee. "Sure," she said. 

Cindy was similarly aged. She had never been married and had no children of her own. Similar to me, she assumed the notion of a romantic relationship was something to be glimpsed in the rear view mirror. She was very content with her status as 'favorite' aunt to her young nephew. But there was a certain spark when we met that first time for coffee. In my conversationally challenged case, she and I talked for two hours straight before I thought to look at a clock. We met for coffee again a few weeks later. Then again the following week. Pretty soon we felt the need to see each other everyday. I feel safe in speaking for the both of us when I express the shock we felt at discovering we were soul mates.

But what about Nora? The more work I did on my gender identity, the more clear it became that she was going to be a substantial part of my life. "Well, shit." I thought. But telling Cindy was the only fair choice available to me. So I did.

"I fell in love with the candy bar, not the wrapper."

Time and the retelling of the story has rendered certain details kind of foggy. I have her saying the above, while she contends that I was the source, but since this is my blog, I win. After I told her of my gender journey (up to that point), she took a moment to collect herself, and then made it clear she wasn't going anywhere. And she hasn't. Through her, I learned that the human heart has no limit on love. Indeed the human heart has an infinite capacity for love. I didn't think such a thing was possible, but I fell in love all over again. "Love wins," as the saying goes.

So there the two of us were earlier this year (May 14th, to be exact). Standing face to face, reciting words of a certain incantation that have been repeated over and over for eons. There were a few others present - my daughter Grace, her sister Teresa, our common friends Steve and Margo, and Lindsay our pastor. We professed our love, and Lindsay did her magic, and just like that we were married. Maybe not to the State's exacting criteria, but certainly to the Cosmo's enduring spiritual standards.

______________________________________________________________

For what it's worth, I'm sure that Rebecca approved.

Number 195

 In For a Penny...

If I mention "socialized gender roles" to you, do you know what I mean? They're the type of behaviors that folks typically attribute to one sex versus another. They are also behavior expectations that folks assign to one sex versus another. I could provide many examples - from the sublime to the ridiculous - but I respect my audience too much to do that. Y'all know what I mean. Besides, that's not what I'm really writing about today.

I'm writing about using the women's locker room at the local Y. 

Now to be clear, no matter your opinion of transgender folks, my body, in its unclothed (and out-of-shape, "put down the french fries, Nora") state, is a woman's body. You're welcome to think that I'm nuttier than a fruitcake for believing I'm a woman (You're wrong, but you're still welcome to think it), but my vagina, vulva and breasts send the world a clear message: This is a person that should use the women's locker room at the local Y.

Given my frequent claims of womanhood, the intricacies of my body, and a legal status that declares my sex as "female," you might be wondering what the issue is. It's just this, for the first 50 years of my life I was indoctrinated with the idea that I was unwelcome in any women's locker room. Any move towards entry was unethical, illegal, and un-gentlemanly. Even a quick 'sneak-peak' as I walked past was considered poor form. In other words, the issue is in my head. And just to clarify, I'm not concerned about being seen by other women in a state of undress - after everything I've been through surgically in the last few years, I'm no longer much concerned with who might see me naked - it's overcoming the notion that it's taboo for me to see other women unclothed.

Because I desire to get into shape, and would love to do so by swimming, I need to get past this psychological impasse, because I'm fairly certain no one at the Y, employees and members alike, want to see me change into a swimsuit in the lobby.  I've discussed this a great deal with my therapist. She told me in her calm and caring way: "Nora, I challenge you to accept that you have as much right to be in that space as any other woman."

So I came up with a 'baby steps' approach to help get me to a point where I feel as comfortable as any other woman in the locker room. According to my cis female friends, the answer to that is "not very," but, once again, I trust that my audience knows what I mean. The first step was this: I'd walk in, have a pee, wash my hands, and walk out, looking down the whole time. This worked great the first few times, but then it finally happened. On my third trip I caught a glimpse of a woman in just her underwear.

Uh-oh. But then the most wonderful thing happened. Nothing. Alarm bells did not go off. I was not immediately struck blind by two lightning bolts from the heavens. 

In the aftermath, I decided it was time for a few more 'baby steps.' I was going to wear my street clothes to the Y, and change into my workout clothes in the locker room. Which I did. When I entered, I found a quiet alcove all to myself. I got out my workout gear, and began to change, staring straight ahead the whole time. Almost immediately, my hearing and peripheral vision told me that someone else has entered the area. As it turns out, I'd parked myself in front of her locker, so, still looking forward, I shifted my things out of the way.

"Oh! What a pretty bra!" she exclaimed. I looked down. I was wearing a functional, white Vanity Fair number - that couldn't be it - so what is she talking about? As it turns out I'd brought my fuchsia sports bra that day, and it was lying on top of my workout togs. It was this bra that caught her eye.

"Where did you get it?" she asked. 

When I recovered my ability to speak I tell her "Title Nine."

"Does it hook up the front?"

"Uhh, no. It zips." ("Please let this be over, please let this be over, please let this be over," I'm thinking in a continuous loop.) But no, because my hearing and peripheral vision told me that another woman had entered the area on the other side of me. As it turns out the two women were friends, and the bra conversation continues to the point that I needed to offer the second woman a discreet look at my undergarment (which is, by now, under my t-shirt).

Now as it turns out. The previous day I had been at Target, and while looking through the clothes on clearance, I had purchased a rather flamboyant pair of pink yoga pants. (They were only $6.99, how could I not buy them?) Would it surprise you to find out that my yoga pants then became the topic of conversation? But by now, I had entered a sort of "what the hell" kind of mindset. They either realized I was a trans woman and didn't care (yay!), or they thought I was a cis woman (yay!). But mostly, neither one of them was concerned about my presence among them (big yay!)

"Yes," I replied, "I was at Target, and they just jumped into my cart as I walked by."

At that, I finished tying my shoes, grabbed my water bottle, smiled, and left for my workout. I guess it's time to start planning for a swim.

Number 194

 A Requiem For Eric

From yesterday's (4/4/22) New Haven [CT] Register: "Body Found in Memorial Field Dugout, No Foul Play Suspected" (East Haven) - The body of a deceased man was found Monday in a dugout at Memorial Field, according to police. Capt. Joseph Murgo said initial investigation revealed "the deceased died from either a medical issue or due to a drug overdose. There were no signs of foul play," said Murgo.

If Captain Murgo were to reach out to me, I could supply a few extra details. The person they found had a name: Eric Henry Perkins, and he was 34 years old. He had a family, including a mother who loved him desperately. I could also supply the many challenging circumstances that Eric faced in his life - some of them his own creation, but many that were not. I could explain to Captain Murgo the long chain of events that left him homeless, and maybe feeling he had no place left to turn. I could also tell him that Eric left behind many people who are now wondering if there was anything they should have done differently. Maybe not, but the wondering will linger for a long time to come. Perhaps as long as the tears of a mother whose child has left this world much too soon.

Back in 1987, he came into the world on October 10th. If he'd have shown up a bit sooner, he would have been born on the 9th - his mother's birthday, but the 10th was just fine. He came into the world the usual way, with two parents, grandparents, and many others excited to welcome him. It was a blessed moment.

Unfortunately, for anyone paying attention, the storm clouds were already forming in the distance.

During the early years of his life, I lived close by, and so I had the opportunity to spend a lot of time with him. I don't enjoy dead naming myself, but I was his "Unca Who," and I was one of the select few he would run to and hug when he saw me. When it was bath time, I often sang "Yellow Submarine" by the Beatles because that seemed like an appropriate bath song. His Oma (my mother) reports that she had him at the grocery one day, and as he sat in the cart seat, he repeated over and over - a little louder each time - "In the town, where I was born..."

At his first haircut, we discovered that he was extremely afraid of the clippers and scissors. I don't remember quite how we figured it out, but we discovered that he would go with me to get his haircut. He and I would always talk about it beforehand, and he knew that if he was brave and allowed his hair to be cut, there was reward to be had on the other side (maybe McDonalds and a new Hot Wheel car).

In my own life about this time, I was in a relationship with a young woman from California. I moved across the country to be with her. It did not end well, and I soon returned to Connecticut. A few years later, Eric and I were bopping down the road listening to the Beach Boys signing "California Girls." You know: "Wish they all could be California girls..." Well, I don't remember what I had said to him sometime previously, (but clearly after I had returned home with my tail between my legs), because after the song ended, Eric looked up at me with big eyes and said: "Unca Who... Is it true that California girls will really cut your heart out?!?" That was my first lesson in learning that you had to be very careful in what you said to young children!

When he was ten, I took him to his first amusement park with serious roller coasters. We rode those suckers all day.

But nothing stays static. I had fallen in love (for real this time), and gotten married. Soon my wife and I moved from CT and I began to see Eric less and less. And by now the storm clouds that followed him for most of his life had fully arrived. As a child he began to face challenges and hardships that no child should have to face.

From the outside looking in his Oma and I became concerned for his safety. By the time he was three, his father had begun to drink heavily, and we suspected that Eric might be jeopardy. We spoke with our pastor at the time, and I clearly remember her saying to us that whatever happened, Eric had already "suffered damage." Looking back, this is the moment when I began to wonder if I was doing the right thing for my nephew.

From that point, the details really don't matter that much. Every family faces times of hardship when  someone is in crisis and everyone else does their ineffectual best to try and help. Sometimes these hard times don't last very long, and sometimes they last for decades. Sometimes they never end. And regardless of how long the hard times last, there are always consequences. And often the consequences leave everyone just as bruised, battered, questioning, and concerned as the hard time itself. And everyone involved is left wondering just what the fuck is the right thing to do.

My nephew Eric is dead. I think back to that sweet, sweet little boy and wonder how it's possible that things went so, so wrong for him. Many well-intentioned mistakes were made. And he is as culpable as anyone else if anyone is truly interested in tallying up all the fuck ups. God bless him, his lost soul is now at rest, and that does give me a small amount of comfort. And yet, I'm left wondering just what it is that I should have done differently...

Number 193

 Why U No Post, Nora???

Since I took my latest blog hiatus, a lot of shit has happened. You think I'd have strong opinions that I'd want to share. I'll not lie. Over the last little while, I've seen a lot of news pieces, or other some such, that tickles the part of my brain that says "That's a blog post, Nora! Get on it!" The problem is so much of those 'tickley' moments have been depressive, ugly, and/or down right hostile. And I have learned that dwelling on the negative is not good for my mental health.

For instance, conservative Republicans recently decided that transgender folks are responsible for the fall of Western Civilization and decided to declare war on us. As you might guess, I have a lot of thoughts about this. But to allot the required time and energy needed to write a response that is both soundly reasoned and devastatingly witty at the same time, means I have to wallow in their hateful, pig-shitted muck and mire, logically inconsistent train of 'thought' far longer than is healthy for me. "Well, don't do that," I can hear you say. "Only spend a small amount of time and energy." But that's just it. ANY amount of time and effort is too much. (Just writing this risks sending me into a tailspin.) 

I need to figure out a healthy way to express myself through my writing - because I do enjoy the writing part - that doesn't hurt so much mentally. So if you've been wondering where my blog went here you go. And if you're wondering if I'll return to regular blog posts, the best I can say at this point is, "I hope so."

Number 192

 Happy (Melancholy) Birthday

Memory is a funny thing. Nothing profound about that, I know, but I gotta start somewhere. I can remember minor details of things that happened half a century ago, but I can also walk from one room to another and have no fucking clue as to what I intended to do when I arrived. Again, nothing profound there. This is a common topic of discussion among folks my approximate age. Another frustration is those moments that you'd love to erase from your memory banks, but your brain stubbornly holds onto every single detail. Like when your wife suddenly dies on you over a 24 hour time period.

The particular memory that prompted this post comes from that awful time. It was the moment that Rebecca and I first realized that she needed to get to the hospital posthaste. Initially I was going to transport her myself, but we quickly realized the her level of pain was above my pay grade. A call to 911 ensued. 

(Before I proceed, I want you to know that it's okay to laugh at the end of this story)

"911, what's your emergency?"

"My wife is ill, and she needs an ambulance to take her to the hospital"

"What's your wife's name?" I told them.

"What seems to be the problem?" I did my best to tell them concisely what's going on.

"How old is she?" 

(If you didn't already know, here's the deal. Rebecca robbed the cradle when we got together - or I went cougar hunting - you decide. She was 5 and a half years older than me. Scandalous, I know. In reality, the only time it made a real difference was when we compared the cultural high points of our respective childhoods. In practical terms, it meant that sometimes she was five years older than me, and sometimes she was six years older. Usually, I was able to quickly do the required math to answer the question the 911 operator had just asked, but there was nothing 'usual' about this particular moment.)

"Uhh... 56." I replied.

"55!" Came an annoyed shout from our bedroom.

(end scene)

It was my birthday a couple of weeks ago, and February 14 (the day she passed), is quickly approaching. Since her death, holidays, anniversaries, and other assorted family celebrations always have a tinge of sadness about them because she's not there. Again, nothing particularly unique for any folks managing the grief of losing a loved one, but still... In any event, I was standing in the shower this morning thinking sad thoughts when the significance of my recent birthday revealed itself to me. You see, folks, it was my 56th birthday.

Number 191

 Nora Goes Gown Shopping

For those who don't know, my oldest child, Emma, is getting married to Henry this September. They have been together as a couple for about five years, and I wholeheartedly approve, so it's all good. Emma, ever the planning junkie is way ahead of most, if not all, of the different wedding details that must be considered (which I also approve of wholeheartedly). As I trust her judgement and character, all I've had to do so far is provide her with the necessary funds to pay for things as they come up. There's a long standing family joke that goes something like this: As her parents, we (Rebecca and I), would pay for four years of college and one wedding. As with most comedy, there's an element of truth there. In any event, as I said above, it's all good.

 There is one detail, however, that Emma could not handle on her own: my wedding attire. She could offer suggestions, hints, and/or advice, but ultimately, this is one that I have to take care of myself. And, to be frank, it was scaring the hell out of me. Ultimately, what it came down to, I finally realized, was how completely our culture had mind-fucked me into believing that I didn't have the proper womanly 'figure' for a dress. In terms of being a trans woman, that was a moment of what I term "reverse affirmation." In other words I felt a moment of kinship with cis women everywhere for thinking that my body wasn't good enough. You know: too fat, too skinny, too tall, too short, boobs too big, boobs too small, etc., ad infinitum.

A couple of weeks ago, Cindy and I went to Boston to visit with Emma. We had a wonderful time. Emma, who graduated with a degree in architecture, showed us the skyscraper that she is building. (Ok, technically, she's 'only' a member of the design team, but still...) I marveled to think that the little bundle that used to fall asleep on my chest had turned into this amazingly competent young professional (who knew how to drive in Boston, to boot!) We also visited the Salem Witch Museum, but that's a story for another day.

One morning, we decided to go gown shopping. It was time for me to suck it up and face my demons. Besides, Cindy, who was aware of my trepidation, would be there to help. Heck, she might find her own dress, too. Also, Emma would be there to ensure that anything we chose would not embarrass her or violate the wedding aesthetic she's aiming for.

Off we went to the local Macy's. And what do you know?! I found my dress.

First things first. We had a good time. After getting past a small case of nerves, I settled into the activity at hand. Initially my eye went towards the blue dresses (my favorite color), but Emma quickly (but diplomatically), shot those down - blue was NOT in her wedding color palette. Finally we selected about five that might work, so it was off to the dressing room. Secondly, in terms of size, I had many dresses to chose from, so my fear of being the 'wrong shape' just kind of vanished (yay!). Cindy had a few choices herself, so we decided to share a changing room. That worked well, because, as it turns out, putting gowns on (and taking them off), is quite challenging for one person! Then, the best part of the whole experience occurred. After I had the first dress on, I went out to show it to Emma - and the rest of the women (strangers) who were waiting their turn to try on their choices. In other words, my gender dysphoria was ready to pounce at the first sign of anything transphobic. Instead, perfect strangers ("perfect" being the operative word), gave me spontaneous and encouraging feedback. It was a complete surprise and wonderfully affirming.

The dress I chose was not my first choice, so I had to go back and forth a few more times. It got easier and easier each time. There were a couple of near misses, but when I tried this dress, I knew it was the one. Cindy found her dress, as well, and Emma approved of both, so there was a lot of winning going on.

As a trans woman who began the gender confirmation process after my 50th birthday there is still a great deal of learned, gender-based behavior that I am still trying to deconstruct. It's not second guessing my decisions as they relate to my gender identity: it's more a getting used to my new reality. All within the context of my self identity - which never really changed all that much - and our culture struggling to come up with new understandings of gender. And blah, blah, blah. Listen: Here's the bottom line - I look great in the dress. See you in September.