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.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
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.
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.
Monday, March 12, 2007
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.
[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.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
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.
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.
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