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...