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.