Airplane Pull

I was at the United Airlines Terminal at SFO this weekend and observed their latest cost-cutting measure. United claims this new technique of getting planes out of the terminals will save millions of dollars, even if it strains a few backs. :)

Lazy Days of Summer

Yikes! why has it been so long since I've posted an entry? It's not for lack of subject material. I could put lots of interesting things in - what I had for lunch, my scary nightmares, why I like the Geico Cavemen. I guess I'll have to 'fess up to a general laziness I've experienced over the summer. I've put on more weight, been spending too much time at work, over-eating, drinking WAY too much Coke, over-eating, watching WAY WAY too much television, over-eating. Well, you get the picture. And I haven't been jogging. And I've been cranky as Hell!

PMS? I'm taking my hormones. OH, I learned how to make a hormone the other day: you don't pay her. Anyway, so I'm taking a vacation soon? But I'm calling it my fake vacation? Cause I took home so much work? And I'm not going anywhere? And I left my cell phone number on my office voicemail and invited people to call me at home? What's wrong with me? No, really, what's wrong with me?

I did do some writing over the past few months. I wrote an article for QST magazine that they accepted and will publish in their online web version of their magazine. And they paid me $25 - isn't that nice? I'll link it as soon as it appears online. But I haven't worked on my novella in months and I took this vacation to finish it. Instead I brought home all this work. Oh well....somebody give me some encouragement. Summer will be over soon and maybe I'll get back to normal?

The Queen, Elvis & Truck Stops

Our recent encounter with the QM2 in San Francisco Bay (See February posting) was serendipitous; little did we know that we would breakfast on the original Queen Mary just a few short weeks later. We decided to take a long Memorial Day weekend and see some friends that used to live in Pacifica with us. Eric and Edgar moved to the land of make believe (the L.A. area) a couple years ago and it was time for a visit. Eric works in a resort hotel next to the Queen Mary in Long Beach so we decided to stay there during the long weekend. It was great—the hotel looked out over the harbor with a view on the QM and downtown Long Beach. First order of business on Sunday morning was champagne brunch on the Queen. Although the old girl is looking a little worn, the pride of this great ship is present everywhere. We breakfasted in the elegant first-class dinning room, still polished and majestic. Rich walnut paneling, columns and giant murals rendered graceful splendor to the giant room; you could envision being on the open sea as light and a hint of salt air streamed in through the portals. Waiters in crisp whites served champagne, orange juice and coffee as we perused the isles full of delicacies. I ate the best crepes I ever tasted there; we all feasted on everything from fish to pâté to Eggs Benedict to prime roast and freshly baked bread, scones and rolls.

A tour of the ship after brunch was a must. We strolled the decks and saw the bridge, the radio room and so much more. I especially appreciated the radio room; the Long Beach Amateur Radio Association staffs the room and uses it as their headquarters for ham operations. It was fascinating to see the old radios sitting above the new equipment that the club installed.

Later, it was off to Hollywood. I had complained that I had been to the LA area many times and never saw the Hollywood sign. The boys took us to the end of a dead-end street where the sign loomed large high above us. It was awesome. Then off to the Kodak Theatre, Mann’s Chinese, and all the tourist spots. We had our pictures taken with Elvis, danced on Fred Astaire’s and Ginger Roger’s star on the Walk of Fame and put our feet in John Wayne’s foot prints. We toured Beverly Hills and window shopped on Rodeo Drive. It was quite a place—surreal in its extravagance. I bought a little something as a souvenir, but Traci waited until we headed home. We hit a truck stop north of Bakersfield. She laid a T-shirt and do-rag on the counter and remarked to the cashier that “you can’t find good shit like this on Rodeo Drive.”

"Don't Fuck With Me, Fella's!"

What a fun afternoon we had yesterday. Marlena’s, a fun little bar in Hayes Valley, held a benefit for the Breast Cancer Emergency Fund. They held a drag show, raffle, auction and a great barbeque. In honor of Mother’s Day the place was decorated with Joan Crawford memorabilia—mostly pictures and metal coat hangers. And they played her old movies. One scene in particular had Joan screaming at a group of men at a board meeting: “Don’t fuck with me, fella’s!” The bartenders kept rewinding the scene over and over, and each time the whole place yelled in unison with Mommy Dearest. It was a scream.

The drag show was fab, with a Joan look-alike and lots of fun talent. Marlena, a local celeb and Internet blogger I like to read, actually told us about the event. She performed a couple numbers and was great. Hey how could you lose with a name like Marlena performing at Marlena’s? Though she used a different stage name, she was still Marlena to me and Traci, my partner.

I got to ride the Harley to the benefit. It’s been a long time since I had the opportunity to ride it! That was so much fun. And I got to try out my new leather riding jacket too. It kept me nice and snug in the cool San Francisco weather. I wore the jacket, chaps and riding boots—all black, including a black helmet. Maybe I should have gone to a leather bar instead! Hmmm.

How Do You Spell Albuquerque?

Another conference last week. I was in Albuquerque, New Mexico—The Land of Enchantment. It took me weeks of practice to learn to spell Albuquerque. So many U’s. But I was enchanted. I’m in disaster services, and hundreds of us came together from all over the country—to learn, to share, to celebrate our successes, to grieve our many losses.

I came back to San Francisco a little changed. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was the people there. They were friendly, but that wasn’t it. They seemed to me to be closer to God there. I don’t know if it was the incredible beauty of the stark landscape against sheer mountains, the strong presence of Native American history still living strong, old friends that I’d seen, or the new friends I made there.

Whatever it was, I am changed. I’d lost God over the past few years. Not by any dramatic moment, I just drifted away as I aged and changed so dramatically in my own life. But the people there—in New Mexico—they know God. They know God. Whether the Native American Spirit that guides all life, or the God of my ancestors, they don’t doubt. And those few days have sparked hope in me again.

I never thought I’d leave San Francisco. But I told my partner and love that I’d follow her to New Mexico (where she’s been trying to get me to go for years) when we retire in 5 years. I will go now. Something happened to me there. I’m still not sure what it was—maybe I just am so danged proud that now I can finally spell—Albuquerque.

Baby Killer

I was at a conference today. Federal Reserve Bank in San Francisco. Talk about security; when you’ve got millions of dollars under one roof you tend to be protective. Anyway, it was one of those conferences that I felt I should participate in. Call it obligation, call it duty, whatever. So I was scheduled to speak in the afternoon. A half-hour out of a whole day’s grueling seminar. I had felt uneasy about it from the beginning, when I made the commitment weeks earlier. The big corporate/government guys were coming in to show us how to do things right.

It started badly. Older white men in suits trying to tell liberal San Franciscan’s how to do it. I looked at the workbook; over 100 PowerPoint slides, each one filled with small print. The presenters were well meaning, but these were my people. These guys didn’t understand them. I felt a responsibility to do right by them. This wasn’t a model I supported, and I became agitated as the audience got restless. I went out in the hall for air. My stomach in knots. My head swimming. What can I do? I’m partly responsible.

Coworkers came to me; maybe they saw my frustration, turning to anger, turning toward tears. I was visibly aggravated, and they tried to calm me. I love them for it. But my many guilts return to haunt me in periods like this. One of my friends sat me down and talked of other things, trying to calm me, no doubt. We began to talk about all the security there; all the guns. She looked at me and remarked about how I’d been in the military—that I was some kind of marksman myself. I looked at her with raised eyebrows. “In the Air Force?” I said. “Well....didn’t you carry a gun?” “Yes, I had to as a flight crew member during the war. But I never shot anybody.” “You were in the war? Which war?” “The first Gulf War?” “Yes,” I answered and hesitated. “And Vietnam.” After she remarked that I didn’t look old enough to be in Vietnam she added, “You didn’t bomb any babies anyway.” I looked at the floor, sick to my stomach. This was turning into a bad day. I didn’t answer, and we moved on to the subject of how to repair the damage being done in the seminar.

So there I was, guilty about helping put on a sub-par event, and all my other guilts haunting me. My guilt about changing gender and losing my family, guilt about hurting my parents over it, my friends, my coworkers—and guilt about my role as a B-52 crew chief in the Vietnam War so many years ago, in another life.

At that time I was simply a teenager who got drafted and was doing what I was told. I loaded fuel and bombs and fixed the planes for their endless bomb runs—day after day, week after week, year after year. At that time I didn’t think about my role. I simply did my duty. But it hit me afterward, years later. I didn’t drop the bombs, I didn’t even fly in the planes. But I had a role. And I’ve often wondered where does the responsibility for killing stop? Is the pilot as guilty as the bombardier? The navigator? The people who planned the mission? The crew chief who loaded the bombs and fueled the planes?

I always saw the bombs come out of the sheds ready to be loaded with all sorts of epithets written on them. “Fuck you Gooks.” “Up your Ass.” And many more creative ones. I didn’t have the heart to add my own, and I look back now and am thankful for that much. But there are times, like today, when I’m forced to look back—and I don’t like what I see.

It was time for my presentation. I went to the podium, took the mic, and began talking. I attempted to redeem myself to the group sitting in those seats. Despite my anxiety, I put in an extra effort. I owed them. And for this group, at least, I could do something positive.

Falling Dreams

I have to roll the shades up at night so I can look at the shadowy figures outside my window as I fight sleep. The hills are dotted with lights from the windows of homes; the orange streetlights of the road that winds up the troughs outline the contours of the mountain. It all helps to calm me from the sleep that I always resist. Eventually my eyes get heavy, the scene fades into black, and I fall…into dreams.

I don’t like sleep because it seems as if I’m practicing for death. And I lose myself in dreams. I don’t know myself anymore in the land of Nod. I don’t know if I am one of the characters, multiple characters, or watching the whole dream from some omnipotent distance. You’d think sleep would be welcome – in dreams you can do anything, or so they say.

I’ve never been able to fly. Or I should say fly effortlessly and for as long as I want. I hate trying to fly in dreams because it is always such an effort. Even if I get off the ground (which is half the time at best) I can only attain flight for fleeting moments before gravity takes hold and brings me spiraling to the ground. In flying dreams I always know its me.

The other night I shot off the ground like a rocket. Usually it’s a tedious affair requiring much huffing and puffing, lots of hand motion (ala Superman) and jumping doesn’t hurt either. I rarely get heights higher than the tree tops. And it is awesome if I can stay airborne for more than a few blocks.

This night I leaped into the sky and accelerated to incredible speeds as the Earth shrank below me. I thought I’d had it licked for once. But as soon as I thought that I sputtered and fell. A long, gut-wrenching, stomach in your throat, fall. I went down even faster than I went up. And when I hit it really hurt. It always hurts. And I never wake up. I always hit. I’ve heard it said that if you hit the ground when you fall in a dream you will die for real. Nonsense. I’ve hit hundreds of times, maybe thousands. I really, really hate it. But I don’t die for real. I wake up shortly afterward, sometimes sweating, sometimes shaking, always reluctant to close my eyes again.

I don’t want to fly in my dreams. I don’t want to fall, and I don’t want to hit the ground. Probably will tonight after all this. Better keep the window shades open.

Suite Memories

: "1. Grand Canyon Suite - On the Trail - Arthur Fiedler "

[Rhapsody members click on the title "Suite Memories" to listen]

Traci came out from the bedroom this evening; I was sitting quietly in the big lounge chair reading my book. Traci put our cat, Puff, in her lap and began moving her paws to a tune she hummed—paws moving in unison to the beat. Dum, de dum, de dum, de dum dum de dum…..

“That’s the Grand Canyon Suite!” I’d blurted as the cat’s limbs bounced easily in Traci’s arms. Traci gave me a ‘so-what’ look and continued playing with her marionette. I hummed the tune with her and she became mildly more interested. She put the cat down and I raced to the computer to find the music I hadn’t heard since I was a child. While I searched the web I asked Traci where she knew the song from. “I think from old western movies.” That would make sense. It was perfect music for riding slow horses down the open trail.

The music meant something more to me. It brought me back to our living room in Rochester, NY. A time before my parents divorced; before I had to leave home for my own desert community, before harder times. It was when life was still simple and full of discoveries. My mother had bought the album and I fell in love with the orchestrations the moment I first heard it. She would narrate it for me as I sat tucked into her lap: “This part is the sunrise coming over the desert, a cloudburst, loping down the long trail, a mouse poking its head from its hole.” She painted pictures for me that accompanied the music. We often stole precious moments of time to sit together and listen to it. I played it endlessly; it was my introduction to orchestration, and my very first love.

I’d let it lapse into dim memory until Traci pulled it to the surface playing with the cat. As I played the various movements for Traci on the computer, I struggled with tears as the memory of sitting by the Hi-Fi with my mother swelled with the music coming from the computer speakers. In a moment I was transported back to my mother’s lap, a vibrant woman younger than I am now, but since passed away. She was as filled with wonder and curiosity as I was. And she loved music—big music. She loved orchestras and piano movements and she passed those loves on to me.

And Traci brought it all back in a flood of emotion by sitting there and humming a little tune while playing with the cat.

Transgender Support Group Scene

This is a scene from All My Children posted to You Tube by Red Emmie. Although the Soap Opera is fictional, the scene is more real-life than fiction. The participants are real-life trans men and women who were invited to the show to help show the pain many of us experience. The group leader is Jennifer Finney Boylan, a famous transsexual professor and author. Betty Crow is also a participant; she is a trans woman who is still married to a very understanding woman who wrote a book about their experiences together. All in all, I think this short clip relates a lot of the real pain and confusion trans people experience.

Failure To Launch

So I told my cousin, JoAnna Banana, this story and she said I should put it on my blog. I reminded her that she and I are the only ones who read the blog, so there was no sense wasting time writing it out just so she could post some snide comment. But she persisted and I yielded. After all, I’ve always been told to obey my elders.

We were talking about apartment living. Traci and I live on the top story of a three story apartment building in quiet little Pacifica. JoJo lives in the heart of the city on the fifth floor of a typical high rise. She has an asshole tenant who lives below her that has late night parties and plays his music as loud as self-centered assholes usually do. She gets even by vacuuming at 7:00am followed by a rousing exercise session on her mini-trampoline. Somehow it all evens out.

Traci and I have been fortunate. We’ve lived here for years and have never been bothered by noisy neighbors. But we do have one neighbor—I call her the moaner—who has loud, raucous sex. I first noticed it months ago when there was a rhythmic knocking on our bedroom walls late in the evening. At first I thought it was an odd time to be hunting for wall studs to hang pictures. Then I heard the moaning. Well, I finally figured it out. She found her stud all right, and he was nailing her. I might be slow, but I’m not so smart either!

So Traci and I hear them every once in a while. They must go to bed shortly after the Letterman or Leno monologue and start playing around soon after. It’s always around midnight when we hear them. Unfortunately, we don’t hear the headboard pounding against the walls anymore. The moaning just drifts in through the window unannounced. Sometimes it’s spooky. We listen to Coast-2-Coast AM at night with our little bedside radio. That’s where Art Bell or George Noory talk about alien abductions, ghosts, and other bizarre tales. I sometimes jump a little when they’re talking about things like out-of-body experiences (OBEs) and I hear the moaning start. It creeps me out, but we turn down the radio and rush to the window to hear better.

After studying the situation for several months I’ve declared the woman is orgasm-free. The dude isn’t satisfying her. Now I’ve listened enough to know a faker from a screamer from a non-climaxer. This one is definitely on the launch-pad, but she is going nowhere. It’s so sad. I want to go over and help her. And the guy? Not a peep. No sounds whatsoever. So what’s going on exactly? Is she on top of him trying to spell RELIEF while he watches TV? Is he on top but not giving it his all? I really want to know. And it’s like she will moan and grunt and yip—then nothing for a minute. Then it starts over. She builds up, and you’re rooting for her to go all the way, but then she gets quiet again and she waits a few minutes before starting anew. She is working for this, but the guy is obviously getting too tired to go the distance. Maybe she should slip him some Viagra. It’s really weird that I can’t hear him at all. I’ve got to get a stethoscope or something so I can hear better.

Jo Jo asked why we don’t ask them to be quieter. “Are you kidding?” I said. “It’s the most fun we have when it comes to sex anymore.” We’re two fifty-something transsexual women who lost all our capabilities under the knife years ago. When they cut off our gonads, they turned off whatever it was that gave us our sexual appetites. And at our age, it’s too much work anyway. It’s much better and more fun to be voyeurs.

Maybe I’ll go over and congratulate her one night if she ever achieves orgasm. Better yet, I’ll leave a bottle of champagne at their door. She should know we’re rooting for her. But even if she never gets there, there’s always the vibrator.

Me And My Big Mouth

I have to say that I don’t think about being transsexual too often. But there are times when it can’t be avoided. And mostly those times, for me at least, are in social situations with friends and acquaintances. Last night is a good example. I’m at a conference this week with coworkers; we are typically scattered around the country, but come together occasionally for group work.

So we’re on a break and talking about our past, and I start talking about my past. That is dangerous for a TS unless people know your history. So I blurt out something like “back then when I was a little boy…” I caught my breath, stuttered when I realized what I had said, “…I mean little girl…” stuttered again, knowing I was fumbling all over myself. “I mean I’m trans, I was a boy then…” and just finished the story as best I could and left it out there.

Now I realize many people know I’m transsexual anyway, but it’s not something I normally talk about because I don’t know how uncomfortable it makes them. Just have a look at the horrible experience Marlene had when she came out to an acquaintance. She describes her experience in several entries on her blog dated in early February: http://www.adahlshouse.com/. It isn’t pretty. And that’s all I could think about after I blurted it out at the table over drinks.

We changed the subject to other business and we all acted normally. Now I was uncomfortable thinking about who I made uncomfortable. But instead of saying anything further I just let the whole thing drop.

Then tonight—again. A group of us girls are standing around talking about what nicknames we had growing up. When it was my turn I could have made something up, but I just stumbled through again and said I’m transgender and only had my female name since 1999. They asked my male name and I told them, but again, I felt uneasy afterward over who I may have made uncomfortable. Of course the first thing I think about is what if they see me in the ladies room. Will they be distressed when we’re together in there? The ladies room had always been the biggest problem for me during transition, and I still worry about what others may think if they know I used to have a penis.

I could have lied; I’ve done that before. But when you work with people that you may be seeing for years to come, lying always leads to more lies. That’s a poor alternative. So I tell the truth, awkwardly; I don’t elaborate, awkwardly; and I wonder what people are thinking about me when they know.

Trans people will face this all our lives. It will never be easy. Some people will be uncomfortable, and I will always be uncomfortable. But these are good people, and I respect them a great deal. I would rather have us be a little awkward with each other than build a tower of lies that will eventually fall down around my knees and hurt us all.

Whipers, Puff & Mousy at Play

Perfect Hair

There is nothing as frustrating as the search for perfect hair. First there are the typical MTF trans issues to deal with: receding hairline in front; bald spot in back. I took care of those years ago with transplants in Bangkok. I mean the transplants were on my head...and I had it done in...well, I'm digressing...never mind. It’s probably the best money I ever spent. A half-day session to move some hair around and it’s like –wow. It really works!

Even so, I am not fond of my naturally curly hair. So I am always looking to soften those curls by blow drying, chemicals, ironing, or whatever I can find to tone it down a notch. It would be wonderful to go from Bozo the Clown curly to Tyra Banks wavy, but I haven’t found the magic for that yet.

Then there’s length, volume, etc. I have a long face (like Cher, but not as pretty) so long hair is possible, but mine frizzes out the longer it gets. Not an attractive look. So I tried thinning it out. Ugh, horrible haircut. Fire one hair-stylist. I let the hair grow back out, and tried another stylist. He seemed to know exactly what I needed, and cut cut cut away. He hates that I use so much hairspray to cement my hair in place, but I’m trying to fight the Bozo effect. Result: short Bozo hair. I left the shop feeling depressed. Another cut that was too short, and I still looked like me instead of Jennifer Aniston. Sigh.

The cut is growing on me (there’s an intentional pun there :)), and I like the highlights. But I’m already looking to growing it out again. Will I ever find the perfect hair?

I Heard It On NPR

I rode home on a relatively typical commute – one that takes no more than a half hour. It really shouldn’t be called a commute. I only live 15 miles from where I work. And I’m lucky that the BART train keeps the traffic down on my route. So I can have a leisurely ride most days and listen to the radio. Today was one of those days.

But it wasn’t leisurely despite the mild traffic. NPR was interviewing Republicans in the middle states where campaigning, or pseudo campaigning for undeclared candidates, has been going on. It’s important to note that when this decade began I wasn’t anti-Republican. I was one of the Reagan Democrats, and proud of it. I have my conservative side, and even voted for Bush because I didn’t believe my party was tough enough on those that attacked us on 9-11. I thought Dems were too busy finding reasons to blame ourselves.

I have been kicking myself for most of this decade. I thought Bush was a moderate. Okay, so my head must have been up my a_ _ during that period. My friends and colleagues have not let me forget it. I thought we had another Reagan; instead we got a pig-headed, narrow-minded, right-wing fundamentalist who has almost single-handedly (almost because he has his cowboy cabinet helping him) destroyed the Middle East, and pitted the entire world against us. Not to mention all the deaths he is responsible for. And it’s taken him less than 8 years to do it. It may take decades to undo the damage he has done to us.

So, NPR interviewed several people and most were philosophical about their party, conceding that Bush screwed it up beyond salvaging—at least for the next election cycle. But one woman (I’m so distressed at my sex in this case) said that this country was so out of control because we keep killing babies (she’s strictly anti-abortion), and she also said we need to stop this Gay business. This Gay business? I almost ran off the road.

I never knew Republican was actually a synonym for Ignorant until I heard this woman spew her idiotic drivel. We can boil down the problems in this country to abortion and this Gay business. I’m so upset I don’t even want to go on. All I can say is that it will be a cold day in Hell (excuse the cliché) before I ever vote for a Republican again. And I’m proud to be a Gay woman who has a responsible, loving partner. And I’m proud to belong to no political party whatsoever. I’m so tired of them all. Especially the Ignorant Party.

All Hail The Queen

Superbowl Sunday. Colts vs. Bears – an all animal game this year. Even in laid back San Francisco people thought there’d be a lot of excitement around the game. And there was in some corners of the city. I even bought a Peyton Manning jersey, mostly because I like his commercials. He’s funny.

But I didn’t watch the Superbowl, nor did many others by the look of San Francisco Bay that day—a day that featured a hazy blue sky, mild temperatures and calm waters. My partner (Traci) calls those bluebird days, and they lure us out of our homes onto the playgrounds, the beaches and the parks. Coincidentally, Traci and I had booked a night tour to Alcatraz that day; a friend was visiting and wanted to see the famous prison. We’d never seen it, so we thought it would be nice to take her.

About a week before the tour, the papers were filled with stories of The Queen Mary 2 steaming into the bay for a stopover on her world tour. There were articles or TV news stories about it every day: The biggest cruise ship on the water today; Will barely fit under the Golden Gate Bridge; A floating city; $21,000 per person for the least expensive ticket, $125,000 for the most expensive. And on and on. I’ve always been excited by big things. Big trucks, big planes, big boats—I don’t know why. Maybe it’s a genetic defect, or maybe it comes from comparing penis sizes as boys when we were growing up. Who knows? But I figured maybe I’d get a chance to see the QM2 from our vantage point on Alcatraz or maybe from the docks. I’ve never been very lucky with my timing, so I didn’t count on anything.

The day of the tour we boarded the ferry to Alcatraz at 4:20pm. We launched, and as soon as we rounded the point and saw the bay, there she was. She’d cleared the Golden Gate Bridge by less than 30 feet, and she was headed straight for us. She was HUGE! Even from a distance. Our tour guide had been trying to talk about Alcatraz over the speakers, but even she decided to stop and watch the spectacle. We had to wait for the QM2 to pass before we could proceed to Alcatraz, and we were able to watch her approach for over 20 minutes as she seemed to glide over the calm gray waters, barely making a ripple behind her.

You’d never know there was a Superbowl playing somewhere by the looks of the people lining the shores, the piers, and the numbers of boats on the water. The bay was a spectacle of sailboats, yachts, motorboats, ferries, and almost anything that could float trailed alongside and behind the giant ship like ducks behind their mother. QM2 blew her horn occasionally and was answered all along the Bay. Her decks were lined with hundreds of people waving and we waved in return as she passed right beside us. Our SF Fire Department fireboat, “The Phoenix” escorted QM2 into the Bay with geysers of water spraying in all directions, and passed on the one side of us as QM2 passed on the other. Even those staid types among us couldn’t help cheer and wave as the behemoth made way to her berth. For me it was more striking than the jail tour on Alcatraz.

I took the opportunity to sneak away from the tour on the island later that evening. I looked back toward the city shortly after the sun set in the distance; the city lights glittered with reflected brilliance in the still water at its feet. The QM2 was carefully nested in its berth a little to the city’s left (as I looked at it) and glittered with its own brilliance. It truly was a floating city. It’s a sight I won’t soon forget. And these pictures can’t convey the excitement of that bluebird day.

And by the way, not all legends are true: The QM2 is the biggest cruise ship in the world, but The Birdman of Alcatraz never had birds at the prison on Alcatraz.

An Old Essay

In Sociology class I had to write an essay on why I was in school (community college). It was meant for kids out of the house for the first time, but it was apt for this old woman too. Here it is with all its warts:

Why Am I Here? Sept 10, 2003

It has taken me some fifty-odd years to get here. The path here is littered with many trials—battles won and battles lost, friends remembered and forgotten, family found and family lost. It has been a hard road and it has left its marks on me. Along the way I have learned a few things. I have leaned that happiness is elusive, but attainable. I have learned that sorrow is unavoidable, but manageable. I have learned that contentment can be a close companion. Most of all I have learned that the struggle for achievement is never ending.
Several years ago I had a conversation with my employer about my education. I was lamenting the fact that I had never finished college and gotten my degree. At that time it had been 15 years since I had been in school. He asked me why it was so important to have a college degree. I was doing well, making decent money, and had a good family. I should just forget about college and concentrate on my career. This advice offered from a college graduate and owner of the company. I was an office manager for him and would never advance. I think he liked it that way. I didn’t like it, and I went to night school anyway. Unfortunately, I did not have a plan for my education and I ended up taking a smattering of courses that achieved nothing in terms of a degree. In the meantime, events occurred that lost me that job.
I suppose when I first considered going back to college I still believed in the American dream—at least a little. It’s funny how after years of being kept down, struggling to make ends meet, losing ground year after year to increasing taxes, decreasing wages, and increasing costs that I still held out hope for that dream. It is incredible how ingrained that myth is in our psyches. But with the encouragement and support of my new love and partner, Traci, I came back. And I came to Skyline College.
My immediate goal is to obtain a two year degree. My long term goal is to obtain a four year degree, if circumstances permit. I found that my strengths are in writing so I am majoring in English at present. However, I discovered something incredible this semester, my second at Skyline. I am discovering additional experiences by broadening my course structure—something you have to do to obtain a degree. I love my drawing class and found I can actually draw a little. I run as fast as a crippled tortoise in my PE class but I can out distance kids half my age. Journalism is a new kind of writing for me and I am immersed in it. I have discovered how history can come alive and enrich me in so many ways that I never imagined before. I learned to read as many as four and five books at a time, and it never seems to be enough to satisfy my thirst to discover more. Most amazing to me is my math class. I am actually learning math—and I kind of like it!
My initial fears I had about going back to school so late in my life are a distant memory as I plunge ahead with electric enthusiasm. I am meeting people here that are enriching my life beyond anything I could have hoped for. And I hope I am helping some others as much as they are helping me. Getting a degree will certainly help me in the future. But experiencing and living the vibrant colors of college is reinvigorating me with a magic as powerful as the fountain of youth.

Chris Daley Leaves Transgender Law Center

Chris Daley, E.D. of the Transgender Law Center in San Francisco is moving on. I read the announcement with some sadness. TLC grew under Chris’ watchful eye. He’s not transgender, but he is a young, dedicated lawyer who found a cause with a little slice of society that needed his help. I first met Chris when he was the lone attorney working as TLC out of the offices of NCLR (National Center for Lesbian Rights) in San Francisco. He and Shannon Minter, a NCLR attorney, worked tirelessly. TLC grew under Chris. He fought many battles including the murder trail of Gwen Araujo and her mother’s fight to get her name legally changed after her death. But Chris was also there for those of us who needed help with name changes, identification issues, discrimination cases, divorces, and so many other not so glorious causes that afflict the majority of us day to day.

I have many fond memories of Chris when we worked together early in TLC’s infancy. I volunteered only a couple hours every couple weeks, but Chris was always gracious no matter how little time I spent there. And Chris was always respectful of the people who came to see him for help. And nobody who came could afford legal help, but Chris always gave them excellent counsel.

Now TLC is out of its infancy; it is well staffed, doesn’t struggle for funding like in the early days, and fights battles nationwide. Now Chris is leaving his baby to another. It’s only natural, but it leaves me a little melancholy; change is hard. Can you believe a transsexual saying that? I only hope that whoever they find to fill Chris’ shoes comes to TLC with as much care and concern for those they help. TLC will miss you. The community will miss you. I’ll miss you.

For information on the Transgender Law Center: http://www.transgenderlawcenter.org/

I Don't Have Enough To Do Already?

I went to my first writing class last night since I left college. I graduated (lets call it late in life) May of last year and have been writing this and that ever since. I enjoy the writing, and I want to continue to improve my skills. So off I went to this private class; we’re lucky in San Francisco where we have many opportunities outside the university system to pursue arts in various forms. It’s not as if I don’t have enough to do though. My job is demanding and takes more time than ever. It requires me to travel quite a bit out of state, and be at training sessions all over CCSF (that’s official-speak for City and County of San Francisco). I try and exercise. I have a ham radio license. I like to spend time with my partner.... But I truly love to write, so there I am in the living room of a local author with a small group of like-minded individuals who share a common passion.

What’s so funny is that I thought I’d be taking on less as I got older. I’ve got more projects now than I’ve ever had before. But I seem to love it all, and I’m not getting stressed. Maybe my age has helped me to learn to take it all in stride. Or maybe that nervous breakdown is lurking around the corner. Yikes!

Spanking is Illegal

Spanking is illegal, or it will be in California if this insane law passes the state legislature. I am so fed up with our political system—it is totally dysfunctional and will probably never get better in my lifetime. Now, mind you, I don’t condone child abuse. But I gave my kids a good swat in the seat of their pants when they were young from time to time. It didn’t traumatize them, ruin their lives, or turn them into monsters. It helped discipline them when time-outs and reasoning didn’t work. What really galls me is how legislators increasingly want to intrude into our personal lives: where we can smoke, when we can drink, who we can marry—do this, don’t do that. All this while our wages are going down, the homeless still don’t have care, medical costs are as insane as gas prices, our infrastructure is crumbling, our prison system is broken, our legal system is dysfunctional, there are more poor than ever, and poverty is lurking around the corner for more families than ever in my lifetime. You’d think there were enough legitimate issues to occupy a legislator’s time. But since they don’t want to get any real issues solved they pony up lame non-issues like child spanking. I should put them all over my knee!

A Moment of Appreciation

Sometimes I have to whirl through the day going to meetings, getting on conference calls, making presentations, and you know the rest. Many of us are in similar situations. Today I had a meeting on Treasure Island. Every time I go there I’m amazed at the view and have to take a moment to look around me and appreciate where I am, who I am, and thank God for all my blessings. Here are some pictures of the incredible panorama that includes the Bay Bridge, the cityscape, the Golden Gate Bridge, and Alcatraz. All from one spot. The pictures don’t do it justice, but I hope you get the idea.

Timbuktu to San Francisco

As country western music drifts in from the movie, Brokeback Mountain, my partner is watching in the main room of our one-bedroom apartment, I lay in our bed with the December copy of Smithsonian magazine in my left hand and a hard plastic dilator in my right. I am reading the “Treasures of Timbuktu” while pushing the dilator into my man-made vagina; small groans escape my lips and sweat breaks out on my forehead.

I find I have to reread some of the passages as my mind wanders to the pain in my pelvic region. “‘Tin Bouctou’ means the well of Bauctou,” the author (Joshua Hammer) writes in the glossy pages of the magazine. Its name is believed to come from the woman who ran a rest stop in the dusty desert for camel caravans on a tributary of the Niger in the 1100’s, he continues. The treasure he writes about is not gold or even life-giving water.

It’s a cold San Francisco mid-morning as I read and dilate. Our wall-heater has struggled for days trying to keep our little place cozy for us and our two cats. The temperatures have dipped into the high 30’s the last few nights, lower as you move off the ocean where we live. Low enough for life-long residents who are acclimatized to conditions that rarely dip below the mid-40’s in the fog-shrouded hills of the San Francisco peninsula to bundle up in thick coats, gloves and scarves, and complain about the bitter weather. My attention wanders and I lower the magazine to look out our third story window east onto the coastal mountain range that borders our ocean community; the visibility seems extraordinarily clear in the frigid, still conditions.

I push the dilator in further, millimeters only, and I gasp again. ‘It’s been too long since I’ve done this,’ I think. ‘I promise to do this more regularly.’ It’s been more than a month this time, and although I would prefer never to dilate again it’s the only thing that stops the bleeding. And if I stop the procedure permanently my vagina will close completely, much like a piercing that closes without its jewelry.

The treasures that Hammer refers to deep in the Mali desert are ancient texts. Manuscripts dating back hundreds of years—scores of generations. They are writings on Islamic religion (surprisingly tolerant), astronomy, astrology, nutrition, medicine, and society. There is a race in the desert there against time—time that is slowly destroying the writings. The pain I feel contrasts sharply with the bright morning outside my window, and with the textual riches buried half-a-world away. I treasure books, diaries, manuscripts—voices from the past. I want to pack up and go to Mali and help. I want never to dilate again. I want to be warmer.

Unfortunately, I don’t speak French or read Arabic; outsiders aren’t easily trusted in this ancient land—understandably. Also unfortunately, I must continue to endure the pain of dilation, a consequence of my rebirth into womanhood. But fortunately, the cold-snap will pass, Mother Nature will change her mood, and my home will eventually warm—much like it does in a faraway desert hiding treasures in the sand.

It's Not Supposed to Hurt...Is It?

So I have this article on the web; it’s very serious. It’s about the importance for Transsexual women to dilate. I get a lot of questions on this article—mostly from pre-ops. The questioners almost always ask why I have to convince TS women to dilate regularly.

‘Doesn’t it feel good?’ No, it doesn’t. No, really, it doesn’t.

It’s an understandable question. Isn’t the whole point of having a vagina to use it to its best advantage? Isn’t it supposed to feel good when it’s all filled up? One would think so, and maybe for some transsexual women it does. But for many of us, dilation is a painful experience. It’s on a par with root canals and post-holiday exercise regimens. And of course, if it hurts that much, you put it off too long, and then it hurts even more, and then you wait longer, and then...well you get the picture.

I try to stress the importance of regularity because that reduces the pain and keeps the vaginal opening flexible. For those at least a year post-op, once a week for a half-hour to forty-five minutes should suffice. That doesn’t sound that bad, does it? And remember, it’s supposed to feel good! At least it sure seems that way when you look at gg’s (genuine girls) doing it—except they don’t call that dilation. But that’s a different subject.

So I’m out there in the world preaching to TS women to get some backbone, lay down and spread’em for a little vaginal exercise each week. It’s almost a crusade. So do I follow my own advice? Well, I try. But the last time I dilated was over a month ago, and I can almost feel the walls closing in down there. I tell myself every morning that I should dilate, but then something better comes along and I put it off. Besides—it hurts too much!

New Year's Insecurities

I started jogging on the treadmill today—again. Ugh. I hit the wall at 7 ½ minutes. I got my second wind in 8 minutes and quit in 10. I didn’t exactly resolve to start exercising again, but after clothes shopping yesterday with my cousin, I was too scared NOT to start exercising. But at least I won’t be breaking a resolution if I don’t keep it up!

I’m starting this year with a few insecurities. I’m beginning to get worried about getting old and looking like a little old man. I did very little to myself in the way of cosmetic surgery when I transitioned from male to female. Hair removal in some places, hair restoration in others. The SRS thing—some would call that more than a little cosmetic surgery. But I didn’t get a boob job, or facial work—all the cool, visible stuff. Now I’m getting all freaked out about aging and looking more like my grandfather than my grandmother. And all of a sudden I’m worried about my voice. I’ve never paid much attention to it, and it doesn’t seem to have bothered anybody, but now every time I open my mouth I am worried that I sound like a mix between Cher and Mick Jagger. Yikes! What is going on with me? I haven’t been this insecure since Mom took the diapers off me little bottom.

The Scales Say it all

It started with the Turkey; Thanksgiving--no longer an elegant dinner with family giving thanks for the gifts of the past year, but an all day gorge-fest complete with breakfast for the parade, all-day-grazing snacks for the football games, and a dinner big enough to choke an elephant. Cookies, pies and cakes round out the night. Let's not even talk about all the drinking that goes on. Here's what I weighed before the holiday's started...

Now it's early January and the holiday decorations are stored away, the Christmas cards filed, the presents all tucked neatly in their new places. The season has been a roller-coaster ride of office parties, lunches out with old friends, and dinners out with new friends. Egg-nog, chocolate, sugar cookies, and nut breads are sitting out everywhere, calling you from your work-desk or sitting on your holiday platter at home. Christmas dinner is sumptuous and rivals Thanksgiving. New Year's day is like taking all your food and drink intravenously. By the time it's all over, this is what the damage is...enough said?

I'd write more, but I have a pizza bread in the oven.

New Year's Rocks at Winters Tavern

So where do a couple over the hill trans-women go for New Year's in the Bay Area? Diva's in the Tenderloin, or maybe Crash Nightclub? No, these two oldsters went to our favorite biker-bar right down the street: Winter's Tavern in Pacifica.

This favorite haunt of ours is so close we could walk there in 4-inch platform heels. Good thing too because there were more cops out than at a Crispy Cream on two-for-one sale day.

Winter's put out a great spread of meats and cheeses, chips, crackers, spinach dip, and more tasty treats. They had oodles of party hats, streamers, poppers, and noise-makers. The beer was cheap and the atmosphere was awesome with a rock'in band, and people in a party mood. We danced, sang, and watched all the other New Year's parties on the big-screen TV's they had all around the place.



At midnight the balloons dropped from the ceiling, the owners passed out free champagne, and the party raged on--after a few kisses with the locals.

So we had a great time, and didn't have to leave the neighborhood. Now that's what I call a party I can get into!

Here is a picture of Traci, my partner, (in the foreground) with her new friend for the night.










I'm the one in full-party mode. A good time was had by all.