Treating Myself

 It was another life: A lifetime ago.  

It was April 1987.  I was twenty.

My parents drove up to State College on a Thursday to my apartment in Beaver Hill to pick up my things.  The school year was over, but I had one final left, the next day.  The next week, a subletter- the girlfriend of a fraternity brother, would move in.  My roomie, Marc, moved out the previous day.  I would never see nor speak to him again.  That's life.

Fortunately, it was a furnished apartment, so there was nothing huge to move.  They left a pillow for me.  As my mom left, my dad lingered behind.  He gave me a twenty dollar bill and said "go out and have some fun tonight."  Never mind that I had a final the next day, and was too young to get into the bars.  Also, all the people who meant the world to me had already gone home.  

I spent a part of the cloudy sullen afternoon cleaning.  I didn't want the new tenant to think we were slobs!  (We were.)  Then, in mid afternoon, I decided something.  I had $20 in my pocket, and I wanted to treat myself.  I walked several blocks downtown to South Fraser St, to a store then called Book Swap.  In addition to used books, they were also State College's comic book store.  I'd visit there occasionally, just to look and occasionally pick up a comic or two when I had money.  Well, recently, a collected edition of an amazing comic run was released.  I now had the money to buy it.  As I walked to the store, it started raining- first a fine mist which eventually become a light spring drizzle- the kind that leaves that slightly musty smell.  

I looked around the store a bit- I used to love book stores before I worked in one.  Still kind of do.

Anyway, I found the book I wanted.  Nowadays, this would be called a "graphic novel" but back then it was a trade paperback.  This one collected issues #227-231 of Daredevil.  As a story, it's called Born Again.  I read it in the original run, but wanted the collection.

Trade paperback cover

This arc marked the return of Frank Miller to Daredevil after a several year absence.  During that time, he'd remade comics with the publication of Batman: The Dark Knight Returns and Batman Year One.  In the latter, he teamed with artist David Mazzucchelli.  For Born Again, he'd do so again.  

Without going into detail, it's a story of Daredevil's life being destroyed, and his steps toward rebuilding that life.  It's a story of redemption full of Catholic symbolism and amazing subplots (including my favorite version of Captain America ever.)  I took it back to the apartment, but didn't read it.  I studied for that final.  Later that day, I walked downtown again, through a purposeful rain to get a slice of pizza.

The exam was 8 AM.  I don't remember how I did.  After I finished, I returned to the apartment, grabbed the pillow, put the few bits I still had with me into the pillow case and walked up Beaver Ave to the fraternity house.  There I gave my fraternity brother my key.  From there I walked across town to the bus station, and boarded the bus back to southeast PA.  On the way, I read the Daredevil comic twice.  It's arguably Frank Miller's best work on Daredevil.  

From Born Again by Miller and Mazzucchelli

The past few days have been eternal.  I hate the holidays.  On Monday, I received bad news.  I was up for a job as transgender trainer where I work- exactly: 

1. what I do for the place as a grad student and 
2. exactly what I do for my PhD. 

The people deciding are a couple of my supervisors, some of my coworkers, and an HR person. I didn't even make the second fucking round of interviews for some reason.  I washed out on a PHONE interview.  

Now I know that my coworkers don't think I can do the job- that they think I'm incompetent.  Incapable.  A loser only fit for menial tasks.  That the first interview was a mere courtesy, and I was never even fucking considered for the job.  "Give it an interview to shut it up."

I wrote a whole blog entry about it, then took it down.  I didn't want anyone sending police over for a "wellness check."  Maybe I'll post it again after it's all said and done.  

Anyway, I've been very depressed since.  I decided today I'd take a walk downtown for the exercise.  The day was cloudy, cold, and heavy.  I found myself in Comic Swap- the shop is still there, but changed its name.  Now, I have a version of the Born Again story in a hardcover omnibus, but the paperback copy went missing some time ago.  Maybe it's in one of the still unpacked boxes I sealed up when I was thrown out back in 2013.  Who knows.  In any case, I was now in Comic Swap, the same store as long ago.  I have little money, and bills that are overdue.  My PhD program is such that I'm strongly considering withdrawing.  

There on the shelf, among a section of Daredevil graphic novels, was Born Again.  After all these years, it's still in print (that's how good it is.)  I looked at it, spined along with the other titles, with my older eyes.  My entire life was different now.  Then, I was a kid with dreams and hopes.  I was on the cusp of summer and there was so much to look forward to.  Now, I'm an old, fat, transgender woman whose life self-destructed a decade before.  So many dead friends.  So much pain.  So little left.  So little that like a coward I ran back to Penn State in search of refuge in academia.  I don't recognize the thing in the mirror with hollow dead eyes and thin scraggly long hair.  Back then, I knew how to smile.  I can't remember how to smile now- except to fake it for pictures.  

I removed the book from the shelf.  It was a newer edition with extra material.  I flipped through the familiar pages and remembered.  I decided to treat myself.  I pulled out the credit card I use only for "emergencies" such as when I have no money and need food.  I bought the book.  The worker put it in a slim paper bag, just like a different person had done decades before.  I thanked them, wished them a happy holiday, and walked up the steps to Fraser street.  I turned onto College Ave and walked toward my car, parked a few blocks down the street.  One block further was a new pizza place- it replaced a series of pizza places.  When I was in undergrad, it was Brother's Pizza.  Back then, it's where I'd stop for a slice.

I opened my car door and put the bag on the passenger seat.  I walked the extra block to the new pizza shop.  I'm treating myself.  I'm trying to drive away the holiday hate and the Darkness of my failure.  I ordered a slice of pepperoni and a drink.  Sat in a booth in the empty pizza shop alone, and ate it.  

After I finished, I returned to my car, and after another quick stop on campus, went back to the apartment.  My roomie/bestie Linda was at work, so I sat alone.  On the table sat the book chapter, one hundred pages long, that was assigned to me months before.  I simply couldn't pick it up and do my job- read the damn thing.  It's gotten to the point that I'm afraid of it.  

I sat on the couch, and the paper and I stared at each other.  The room was darkening- it was after 4, and it's winter.  Next to me on the couch was the paper bag containing the comic I'd read countless times.  My treat to myself.  I looked over at the Christmas tree, which I'd plugged in after returning.  

I removed the book from the bag, and read it again.  Anything to escape the wreck I've made of my life.  To escape the hellscape that elected officials are making for people like me.  In Born Again, the characters have Hope, and the good guys win in the end.  A life that was destroyed has been rebuilt but not restored.  Heroes exist.  

If only for an hour.

Be well.  Those who celebrate, please have a happy holiday season.  

UPDATE 4/24:  The copy I bought in 1987 which had gone missing has been found.  As expected, it was packed away in a box among other unrelated things.  So now I have two copies, both which have meaning.  Life is funny sometimes.

Sophie's 2023 TDOR Speech

 Sorry it's been a while.  Depression sucks.  In any case, on November 14, I gave the keynote speech at Penn State's Transgender Day of Remembrance.  It was on that day instead of the 20th because the students were on fall break the week of the 20th.  

This is what I wrote and delivered that night, pretty much word for word.

************************************************************************

Despite the fact that the news and policies and losses should’ve left us numb or calloused our souls to the Pain, I offer the following trigger warnings: murder, suicide, death, history, and Hope.  I also acknowledge my privilege as a person of white, western European colonizer ancestry, and that the land where I write this was once home to the Susquehannock people.   

Tonight, we solemnly gather to honor our dead.  We do this to remember not just those we will name tonight, but those whose names we will never know.  How many transgender people died and were then misgendered by the police, doctors, reporters, and families?  How many took their own lives never telling a soul about the pain that dysphoria inflicted upon their souls?  How many homeless transgender teens search dumpsters for scraps of food as cisgender teens order an extra shot of espresso in their grande cappuccino?

The poet Lee Mokobe wrote that “Oncoming traffic is embracing more transgender children than parents.”  Torry Peters wrote “If you are a trans girl who knows many other trans girls, you go to church a lot, because church is where they hold the funerals.”

Why?  Why is gender non-conformity a mortal sin, punishable by ostracism, pain, and death?  I ask for the 327 transgender and gender diverse people reported murdered worldwide.  95% of them were trans-feminine.  65% were people of color.  [Transrespect vs Transphobia Worldwide].  This is not new.  Joan of Arc was burned at the stake on May 30, 1431 for wearing men's clothing, which the Church referred to as "idolatry.”  The Inquisition decided that there was not enough evidence to have her convicted of witchcraft.   She was 19.

Bubba Copeland, the Republican mayor of Smiths Station, Alabama, pastor at Phenix City’s First Baptist Church, and father of three, shot himself in the head two weeks ago.  They’d previously led their town through the aftermath of a tornado that killed 23 people.   Despite this, a far-right website revealed that they were also Brittini Blaire Summerlin, a transgender woman who posted photos and transgender erotica online.  They begged the website not to do this, but, as always, the cruelty is the point, and they doxed Brittini anyway.  Brittini was buried last Thursday.

Dark days.  Transgender people face an onslaught of legislation like a biblical flood of hatred.  The purveyors cover up their hate with names like “Protect children’s innocence act” and Protecting Children from Experimentation Act”, and “Productivity over Pronouns act.”   We are called every name except child of God by far-right politicians who use us to scare people into donating.

Why?  I don’t understand.  I’ve studied this very question for the past four years and can quote the research, cite the sources, and discuss academic theories.  I am considered an expert on the topic.  But I am transgender.  I don’t know what it means to be cisgender.  Oh, I know what it means to pretend- I did that for 47 years.  How does it feel to not think about gender constantly.  How does it feel to not worry about your rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness disappearing during election day, or due to the death of a judge?   Perhaps I just don’t understand the cisgender mind.

However... however... dark as these days may be, there is hope.  As the Bard wrote “True hope is swift and flies with swallow’s wings.” [Richard III' (1591) act 5, sc. 2, l. 23].  How do I know? 

A friend of Bubba Copeland’s, who didn’t know about Brittini, wrote “I just want to ask you people who thought it humorous to publicly ridicule him, ‘Are you happy now?’ What crime did he commit? Some of you people make me sick. I hope you are really proud.”  In the deep red south, an ally is forged.  Allies.  Friends. 

And that is what we need to go on.  If healing from these losses is possible, it will be helped along by friends and allies.  Transgender people can be very resilient.  After all, we’ve survived through the centuries, on the fringes, shunned or hiding.  We have community, but to actually heal, we need outside help.  We need people to understand one basic fact above all others:  that we are human.  That’s all- acknowledge our basic humanity.  Let us live our lives without superfluous laws designed to inflict cruelty, and with the basic rights afforded to human beings.

Friends and allies can be hard to find, but we are finding them.  We find them in the person who says “enough is enough!”  or at least “I need to know more before I make a judgement.”  We find them in people who extend their hand and say “let me help.”  Most of all, we find them in YOU: this current generation.  The generation of today has known transgender people most of their lives.  They have transgender friends and relatives.  They see positive transgender representation in movies, tv, and in books.  For them, being transgender can be just another facet making up a person, not something to fear.  These friends and allies join their voices to ours, lend us their strength when we need it, and vote out transphobic politicians. 

You help us heal from the losses.  You give us the strength to go on when everything seems bleak.  You give us HOPE- the hope that some way, somehow, things will get better.  You give us the hope that someday we will be accepted in society- that being transgender will be seen as no big deal, just another variety of people.  That day may come, but only if we all want it, and work toward it together.  Every vote, every voice raised in protest, every gathering can be another step forward.  They can generate the hope someone needs to stay alive.  As Cicero wrote “While there is life, there is hope.”

Sleep well brothers and sisters.  May the four winds blow you safely home.  We will take the baton and continue in your name.

For Jenny

Last week was not a good one, for several reasons.  It was my birthday, for one.  However, the day before that, on the night of September 12, I received word that Jennifer Jensen died that morning.

"JJ" April 2010

I don't know if Jenny (JJ) was out to her family, so out of respect for her privacy, I must keep certain personal details vague.

I met JJ at my first Renaissance meeting/ Angela's Laptop Lounge in December 2008.  I was a mess- no makeup, rumpled outfit, bad shoes, and a cheap Halloween wig.  Despite my trollish appearance, Jenny was warm and welcoming, as were most of the people that night.

After the Renaissance meeting, everyone went over to Shangri-La for Angela's Laptop Lounge, the twice monthly transgender inclusive party.  At dinner, I sat next to JJ, and we talked.

I don't remember what we talked about, but she remembered me the next month and we talked some more.  I told her that I'd gotten a room at Motel 6 so I could change into/out of Sophie stuff, and she replied she did the same.  It made sense that we pool our resources, so for over a year, we split the cost of a motel room- usually the Motel 6.  After a month or two, we started having lunch before changing at a restaurant near the motel.  Jen Lehman soon joined us, and three of us became a small group.  For me, it was lunch, go get my makeup done by Amanda Richards, then meet them at the Renaissance meeting.  

Those first months of going out were frightening, but JJ was a calming influence.  She was that way for everyone.  I discovered that this was due to her high stress occupation during which she had to keep a cool head- a career she enjoyed since the 1970s until her recent retirement.  

Keystone 2010

Jenny wasn't "out" to her work colleagues (and again, possibly not to family), so secrecy was a must.  During our lunches we would ponder ways to keep our secrets hidden.  Eventually, I came out to my Wife, then to the world, and Jenny was so supportive.

After she retired, Jenny moved back to her home state, so I rarely saw her except at the Keystone Conference.  There she volunteered her time and expertise to the conference and her presence there will be sorely missed.  JJ helped run the Debutante program for new attendees in addition to originating and continuing to run the popular Friday night Bingo Spectacular.  She and Amanda Richards would wear outlandish costumes and gave away great prizes to winners and those who answered transgender trivia.  

JJ was an incredible person.  She gave of herself without thought of reward or seeking laurels.  She helped because she could, and because she wanted to.  She was an amazing person and an amazing friend.

May the four winds blow you safely home, Jenny.  I will miss you and try to live up to your example.

Has it been Ten?

I still write to Lisa Empanada.  Not as often as I used to, but I still do.  Yes, I know she won't read it, but it helps me sort my thoughts sometimes.

For those who don't know, I write about Lisa often, but THIS is as good a starting point as any.

I hate this time of year, as the anniversaries come one after the other.  Being thrown out, SEC, birthday, Lisa's suicide, funeral.  This year it's a bit rougher.

This year it's 10.

Ten years since I was thrown out.  Ten years since I last spoke to Lisa.  Ten years since she died, and everyone endured her funeral.  Is it even possible that ten years have passed?  I'm much older now than she ever lived to be.  (Yes that's grammar error.  Live with it.)

Why do I still write about her?  Why do I still talk about her?  Only a small group of people have even heard of Lisa Empanada these days, compared to when she died, when she was relatively well known.  After all, the transgender community has a high attrition rate, what with murders and suicides and such.  Why do I still have a small urn of her ashes displayed next to her picture and one of her wigs?  Isn't that creepy?  Is this an obsession?

In the end, after all this time, aside from her family, who really gives a flying f*ck about Lisa Empanada?

I do.

She was my dearest friend (aside from my Wife).  She's not the only dear friend I've lost in my life, God knows, and not even the only suicide, but she was the closest.  Lisa exists now only in yellowing pictures, pixels, and memories.  Her voice is only remembered by a few, as she rarely recorded it.  But I remember her.  And I don't want that memory to die.

Lisa's story should be one of happiness and triumph, and, to a certain point it is.  Her wife and children for the most part were supportive.  She volunteered her time and love to the transgender community, and was an amazing ambassador.  BUT...

Then she killed herself.  All that life, that love, that strength... gone.  Died in the back of a dirty painter's van.  Alone.  The way she wanted it.  Then, burned to ashes, again as she wanted it.  Some of the ashes were spread at certain places.  Some were given to close friends.  Most are inurned in her old bedroom.  The urn is purple: her favorite color.   

So, now she's been gone for a decade.

As I said above, in the past ten years, many of my friends died.  Some were quite close.  One was very recent.  I've written about a few of them in this blog.  I also lost many (almost all) of my old friends when I transitioned in 2014.  I'm used to losing people, especially as I get older.  When I leave a job, I want to keep in touch with people, but the ties that bind fade with time.  People that once were family to me are now echoes on the internet.  Maybe an occasional phone call.  "We must get together sometime."  I'm used to being isolated, as I had few friends growing up, and in reality, I'm really socially awkward.  Anyone who knows me knows that I'm prone to saying the wrong things or committing faux pas at alarming rates.  I never learned what it meant to be among people.  That's the price of a lonely childhood.

Taken the day before she died

However, that also means that I treasure the friends that I have, and especially the ones I keep.  They are all that keeps me alive.  They remind me that maybe my life ripples beyond what little I perceive.  My closest friends, well I hope they know what they mean to me.  Linda has been my roomie for almost ten years and hasn't run away screaming.  Ally has also been here for me for ten years.  Other friends stayed despite my transition, some of whom I've known most of my life.  That word "friend" is one I don't use lightly- but I mean it when I use it.

Why do I still write about Lisa Empanada?  Because she was dear to me.  She was my friend, and I WANT people to remember her.  I want her memory to survive as long as it can- far longer than she did in my life.

Lisa was special, and I loved her.  

I miss you, Lisa, and I always will. 

Dream of a House

I want to get this down before it leaves my memory.  Last night I had a dream in which my mum and my old dog Nittany appeared, as did Wife, Daughter, and my Older Brother (OB) as he usually appears in my dreams: like he was when we were in high school.

The dream began (or at least this bit) with my approaching a house that my parents just moved into.  It was white, as were all the doors.  To my left was another door which was mostly window, like at a beach house.  It had horizontal blinds, and OB exited it along with a coworker from the past (whose name I won't use.)  

Once I entered the house, the first room was large.  The walls were white, and the carpet was tan, which I would discover all over the house.  There was a wraparound corner couch (blue), a TV, and the far side opened to a small kitchen with a fridge and stove.  That floor was tiled with tan tiles.  My dog Nittany (dead now 7 years) lay on the couch, sleeping.

Halfway through that room, on the left, was a staircase that I climbed.  It led to another floor.  There was a small room off to the side, with a small bed, a crib, and stuffed animals, all red and pink.  There was a door on the other side that led to another bedroom, but I didn't enter that- I knew these were guest rooms.  Exiting back to the hallway (where the first stairway ended), there was a short staircase of maybe 5 steps which led to a large kitchen, with wooden cabinets and marble counter.  The floor was tiled to look like brick and was the only floor that wasn't tan.)  There was a large kitchen "island" as well.  It was the biggest non-commercial kitchen I'd ever seen.  

Walking to the other side of that, and turning left I entered a large room, maybe 50 by 40 feet, that was mostly empty except for a large, overstuffed couch along one wall and a huge, almost wall sized high-definition TV, on which was a football game.  On the right-side wall were large windows, again like one would see in a beach house.  It was night, so I didn't see the view.  I knew this was the main "living room" and wasn't finished.  After all, they'd just moved in.

While all rooms (except where I mention) were lit, only the kitchens had light fixtures in the ceiling.  I saw no lamps or lights in any other room, yet they were lit.  

The living room had two adjacent rooms.  To the left, past a hallway back to the stairs and guest rooms, was a large entry (no door) to a room maybe 30 by 40 feet with another exit on the right-side wall (90 degrees from the one I entered).  Suddenly my brother was there.  I said, "this would make a great game room" and he agreed.  I then said, "I assume you have your room already picked out."  He smiled and left the room.  I proceeded through the other exit into a long room, which also opened to the living room.  

This room was maybe 40 feet long and 20 feet wide, with windows on the far wall and the right side wall (which lined up with the living room windows.)  On the left wall was the entry to another up stairwell which I took.  It went to another floor with narrower halls.  At the top of those stairs was the entrance to a room on the right, some steps up to a room ahead, and a stairwell going down to the left.  My daughter was standing there, and we hugged.  I told her I missed her so much, and she said she missed me too.  She said that the room to the right was hers.  I looked through the open door (only the second interior door I'd seen) to see a large room with a canopy bed with floral yellow covers, and some of her art on the walls.  There was a white dresser and doors to what I knew was a walk-in closet.  She turned and went into her room.  I saw the room ahead of me was huge, with windows along the far wall, but I didn't enter it.  On the left of that room, I saw another kitchen similar to the one in the entry room.  I went down the stairs to the left.  I remember thinking "we don't need all this space."

This led to a darkened hallway with two exits.  This hallway was lit by small wall sconces that had yellow glass shades.  These walls were paneled in cheap fake wooden paneling like from the 60s.  I took the left exit, where my mum met me.  This was completely normal (despite her being dead.)  She said she had a surprise for me.  She opened a large set of dark wood double cabinet doors, and inside was a 40-inch TV with large stereo speakers below it.  The screen was all static, as the cable hadn't been hooked up here yet (but it was upstairs?).  The room with this TV was narrow, like a finished basement, and it had wooden benches lining the walls.  The room was lit by two floor lamps again with yellow glass shades.  I asked her where OB's room was, and she said he had a suite of rooms on the top floor, where I also knew was a balcony.  I never found out where my parents' rooms were.  

In any case, she indicated an entryway with two steps going down to another room.  This room was small, maybe 10 feet by 20, with a door on the right wall.  The far wall had a window that faced out to a driveway and a highway, which I could clearly hear.  The carpet was a gold shag, but the walls were white.  The only furnishings were a rust covered couch, and another floor lamp with a yellow glass shade.  Mum said "this is your room."  

Through the other door was a stairway going up, but not connected to the others.  I followed mum up to the next floor, which was back to the white walls and tan carpet.  She went into yet another kitchen.  To the right was a hallway, at the end of which was another large room.  Wife was there trying to figure out where to put things, as this was her room.  It had a balcony on the other side through sliding glass doors.  To the right was a stairway that I knew connected to my daughter's room.  

That's when I woke up, feeling very sad.  The house was massive and twisting, and I knew I hadn't seen it all, but I'd seen enough.  It was where life was going on without me.  I'd seen places like this in dreams before with rooms upon rooms, but they were always businesses or such.  This was the family house, where they would be happy.

End of July Return

 Hey gang I'm back.

I'm still coping with what happened in early June.  It's been a brutal summer.  I've visited Wife several times, but my Daughter makes sure never to be there.  The Darkness tells me that I should be grateful- without Daughter to live for, I'm truly free to go.  No one cares if I stay.  I have no more obligation or responsibility here.  I think about this night and day.  

It's been raining a LOT

So what's stopping me?  Part of it is that I want to finish what I started and earn that PhD.  I'm ABD now (all but dissertation), so I'm almost there.  I've been having problems getting things done for it, but I'm slowly moving forward.  Very slowly.  I defend my Dissertation Proposal on August 14.  Add to that, I'd be putting my roomie/bestie Linda in a bad place, as she can't afford this apartment alone.  However, she's very resourceful.  She'd get by.  

The main thing stopping me is the fact that I'm a coward.  Any method except one would hurt, and I've experienced enough pain in my life.  Recently, a former coworker died when he jumped off a parking garage.  I envy his courage.

If you've followed the news, there's been a flood of anti-transgender bills signed into law in the last two months.  The GQP want us "eradicated", and yes, that's the word they used.  Where's the HRC?  ACLU?  Hello?

So is anything else going on?  Not really.  It's been a relatively cool summer here in the mountains, with some heavy thunderstorms.  The heat that's plagued the rest of the country finally reached us this weekend, so it's been toasty.  Hasn't mattered to me, as I've been inside staring at the ceiling or sleeping.  As I mentioned, I've taken a few trips to see Wife in SEPa, but that's really it.  I haven't gone anywhere or done anything.  I keep saying that I should start selling off the boxes of books that are in storage, or the games I have here (after all, they're just taking up space and I could use the money.)  But doing that would be a lot of work, and I've been busy (see: staring at the ceiling, above.)  

Part of the games shelf, taken as I write this.

I saw my therapist a couple weeks back.  We talked about the current situation, and she gave me some recommendations.  Essentially, she recommended that I do nothing.  Sigh.  That solves nothing.  I haven't made another appointment yet.  Out of money.

I wish I had something happy to write.  I really do.  That's why I haven't written- I have nothing positive to say.  August starts next week, which means the students will be back soon.  That means autumn is coming, and Halloween.  My favorite holiday.  Maybe I'll even do something this year.  

Be safe and be well.

One Million

 Yesterday, the blog went over 1 million hits.  

Thank you!  I really really appreciate it!

Maybe I'm doing something good after all.

Be well.

Deserted

 This entry will be short.

Last Saturday, I received a letter from my daughter (15) saying she no longer wishes contact with me- at all.  She gave some reasons some of which just don't... make sense.  She made me sound like I'm a horrible person.  And I can't defend myself.

And what if she's right?  Maybe I am horrible.

In any case, I've joined the sad sorority of transgender women who have been cut off from their children.

As you can imagine, I'm a mess.

I won't give many details as it is a family matter, but if I don't write for a bit, you now know why.

Summer's here and the time is wrong

Memorial Day passed yesterday, so now it's unofficially summer.  My fave season, because I hate being cold, and I love the freedom it used to represent.  

I really don't have much to write today, as I'm not feeling it.  I finished my dissertation proposal and turned it in last Friday, so now I wait for the next step (which will be defending it.)  After that, I can start the IRB process, as I will be using human subjects in my research.  Once I get through that, I can begin my actual research.  

Florida has become a fascist state under the GQP.  The HRC and NAACP as well as other organizations have issued travel warning to LGBTQ and people of color, warning that travel to Florida could be dangerous.  

https://www.tampabay.com/news/health/2022/11/12/florida-bans-transgender-care-minors-whats-next/

I found two articles in a Pensacola newspaper (actually, the amazing Sabrina Pandora found them, and I read them.)

The first is about Florida now able to legally kidnap children,

https://www.pnj.com/story/news/politics/2023/05/17/florida-sb-254-florida-abduction-transgender-bill-now-law-what-it-does/70206291007/

The second is what to do if you're transgender and living in Florida.

https://www.pnj.com/story/news/politics/2023/04/25/floridas-trans-people-parents-of-trans-kids-see-options-steadily-banned/70132161007/

In other words, if you're trans, they GQP is coming for you, and this is what they want for ALL of the US.  Remember, the GQP has said out loud that they want us eradicated.  Or parents who allow their transgender kids to live should be shot in the head.  

So, yeah, I'm feeling a bit down.  I wonder if my research is too little too late against the tide of right wing Hate.  They lie, and people believe the lies.  We have science on our side, but the GQP has a propaganda machine that stokes anger and fear.  

Why hasn't the federal government stepped in?  HRC?  Lambda Legal?  Anyone?  (Answer: because we're transgender.)

Sigh.

Stay safe and be well.

Mid May Musings

 Spring sprung, with its pollen and leafiness.  Here in the mountains, the leaves are in their raw green coats and flowers are beginning to show themselves.  The spring semester ended, and a whole crop of fresh graduates are unleashed upon the world.  

This group is a little special to me as they arrived on campus when I returned four years ago- they in pursuit of their first degree and I looking for my third.  I remember that first day of class, a cool, dewy morning as I arrived early and went to the little store that is among the East halls dorm complex.  I was startled to learn that they didn't take cash- card only- as I bought a coke (I needed caffeine).  I looked around at all the freshmen (East halls are mostly freshmen) and felt so old.  These students were young enough to be my children.  I received some odd looks.  Were they due to my age or my being trans... or both?  In any case, for many of them, their college days are now behind them, and they will re-live those stories they made for the rest of their lives... just probably not to their children.  

Parents are funny that way.

Still working on my dissertation proposal, but now I have a deadline: May 26.  

Now 11 US states have anti-trans laws in place, with many more coming.  Texas has the lead with over 60 proposed bills and several passed into law.  Florida is doing its best to out-crazy them though.  How long before we're wearing pink triangles?

In any case, summer's here and the time is right... for doing whatever you do during the summer.  

Stay safe and be well.

Mutants, Devils, and Imps

The words of Webster Barnaby, Republican state representative from Florida, on April 10, 2023:

“I’m looking at society today and it’s like I’m watching an X-Men movie with people that when you watch the X-Men movies or Marvel Comics — it’s like we mutants living among us on planet Earth. And, you know, some people don’t like that, but that’s a fact. We have people that live among us today on planet Earth that are happy to display themselves as if they were mutants from another planet.

“This is the planet Earth, where God created men male and women female. I’m a proud Christian, conservative, Republican. I’m not on the fence. There is so much darkness in our world today, so much evil in our world today, and so many people who are free to address the evil, the dysphoria, the dysfunction. I’m not afraid to address the dysphoria or the dysfunction.

“The Lord rebuke you Satan, and all of your demons and all of your imps who come and parade before us. That’s right, I called you demons and imps who come and parade before us and pretend that you are part of this world. So I’m saying my righteous indignation is stirred. I’m sick and tired of this.”

(Source: Los Angeles Blade)

Oh, then he apologized... AFTER they passed yet another anti-trans bathroom bill.  Like that will make it all better.  

So he invokes comic books AND the Bible while degrading transgender people as less than human.  Insert your own joke here.

Hey Rep. Barnaby, you said you're not afraid to address the dysphoria and dysfunction, but you missed one.  Because you yourself are PART of the evil, and you know it.  You just wrap it in a flag and stamp a cross on it like that will make it all better. 

Keystone Conference 2023 briefly

 Last week (March 22- 25) was the 13th Keystone Conference, held for the first time at the Hilton Harrisburg downtown near the action on Second Street.  The Conference outgrew its home of twelve years, the Sheraton, where so many wonderful memories were made.  

Thanks again to Krystin King who gave me her spare hotel room, so I could be there for two days instead of just popping in for a few hours.  So I drove to Harrisburg from State College, a ninety minute rain soaked drive.  My roomie/bestie Linda had to work, so couldn't come.  It was just me, my overnight bag, and makeup box.  Turns out, one of those wasn't needed.  

My first stop was over by the aforementioned Sheraton.  Lee nails is right behind it, and they are TG friendly.  I wanted a mani-pedi as my nails looked like a train wreck.  I spent a pleasant if quiet two hours there- quiet as my tech didn't speak much English and my hearing is bad anyway.  She did a fine job though!  

I arrived at the Hilton around two pm, and, after spiraling up a claustrophobic parking garage, finally found a spot near the top.  Eventually, I found my way to the front desk, where check in was fast and efficient.  I was given room 423, which was at the end of a long hallway.  As I was to learn, the bank of three elevators were slow and unreliable, one of which got stuck and people had to be rescued through the roof of the car.  That didn't inspire confidence.  

After picking up my name tag and conference packet, which included a Hershey bar since nearby Hersheys was a conference sponsor, I headed for the ground level where I figured most people would be- after all, that's where the bar was located.  In the lobby, I saw one of my Vanity Club (VC) little sisters, Gina, and stopped to say hi to her.  I saw her in passing as I was checking in.  She said she knew that I'd eventually be at the bar, so she waited to greet me near there.  Great- so my reputation as a drunkard still holds over a decade after I stopped heavy drinking.  Joy joy.

In any case, I saw my other VC little sister in the bar, Samantha.  I sat with her for a while, drinking wine on an empty stomach (I didn't have lunch.)  Gina later joined us.  I saw Sandy Empanada (Lisa's wife) at the bar, and arraigned to have dinner with her, which, after a nap, I did.  Sandy and I caught up on each others' lives in between people coming over to say hi to her- she is still a rock star in the community.  She also gave me a very belated Xmas gift: a Michael Kors handbag.  Thanks again Sandy!

Gina, me, Samantha

After dinner, I wasn't feeling well (go figure).  I was also very tired so I retired early- in bed by 9:30.  So much for seeing everyone after dinner!  I saw a few dear friends earlier though.

I didn't sleep well- kept waking up.  At one point I gave up and stayed awake.  The restaurant was serving breakfast, so I went down to eat.  It was a small buffet, but good.  After breakfast I bumped into friends, and chatted with them for a bit, then went back to the room for a bit.  I had a meeting to attend at 10:30, which lasted until 12:15.  I went to the lunch banquet, and found a seat at a table marked "Veterans/First Responders."  The tables were labeled by hobbies and other things to encourage conversation.  As I'm not "Outdoorsy type" and there were no seats at "Creative endeavors," I asked if "former paramedic" was good enough to sit at their table.  At the table was the amazing Joanne Carroll, who is one of the founders of Keystone, as well as writer extraordinaire Bree Fam.  As the room was loud, I didn't participate much in conversation (trouble hearing).  That's one of the troubles with hearing loss- the feeling of isolation in a crowded room. The food was ok... or so I thought.

Soon after lunch, I went back to the room as I was experiencing, um, lower gastro-intestinal distress, and spent the next eternity waiting for the Imodium to kick in.  I was worn out and not feeling the whole "put on makeup and dress up" for the gala that night.  I decided to leave early.  (So I didn't need to bring my makeup kit, as I didn't use it.)  This was a hard decision, as there were friends I hadn't yet seen, and some I hadn't really spoken to (like Alexandra or Christy), and I'd paid for the dinner.  However, I knew I'd feel isolated by the din of conversation, and I really didn't want that feeling either.  Or another bout in the bathroom.  

In the end, my sour digestive system (and laziness) won out, and, after saying goodbye to my dear friend Jenny North (who saw me with my bag), I worked my way back to my car.  From there, it was out into the low-cloud rainy afternoon.  

Going to State College from Harrisburg involves going through several mountain passes and driving the length of valleys, making rte 322 look like a strange set of stairs.  That is, except that last valley: to get into Happy Valley, one must ascend Seven Mountains and go over the top, as there is no pass.  That's where the low clouds came into play- the top of the mountain was covered in very thick fog; so thick that I could barely see three car lengths ahead of me, even with fog lights on.  It made for a white knuckle few minutes before I descended down the other side into the valley enough to get under those clouds and back into the rain for the last leg of the trip to State College.  I arrived back at the apartment before the attendees of keystone sat down to dinner.  

I've never missed a Keystone conference, but this was the shortest time I've ever spent at one, thanks to my depression and my digestive tract.  I wanted to see friends; I wanted to have fun, but I seemed incapable of doing it.  For the most part, I wandered the convention area alone, or stayed in my room feeling sick.  I was so glad to see friends when I did, and the time I spent with them was beyond precious.  

Hopefully better next year.

Be well.

Random Thoughts on Nine Years "Out"

 March 25th marks nine years full time as Sophie.  Sometimes it seems like an eternity, and other times it feels like a heartbeat.  In any case, I'm still here, still breathing.  

A dear friend (Hi Jill!) asked me what is the biggest difference from now until then.  That's a good question.  On the surface, I've moved several times, done classes for a PhD, gained weight (too much), sold more than I bought, and a partridge in a pear tree.

Still, on a deeper level, am I better off than I was nine years ago?  Nine years ago, I was living in a room by the grace and charity of a dear friend.  I was working as a head cashier at a chain bookstore.  I saw my Wife and Daughter pretty much every weekend and occasionally during the week.  It still felt like we were a family, despite my living thirty minutes away.  Still, that uprooting, sudden and swift, tore me apart (especially as it was closely followed by Lisa's death.)  I was still very much recovering from those traumas when I declared my Truth to the world.  

Should I have waited?  

Now, I live at Penn State, just outside of town.  I'm no longer employed by the book store.  In that time, I've worked for a chain grocery store for a year, and part time for an LGBT Center for two years  I've completed my classes for my PhD and stalled out working on the dissertation proposal.  I'd argue that my depression is as deep, if not deeper than ever.  Now I spend days sleeping or staring at the ceiling when I should be working on my school stuff.  

In the end, what's changed?  I get to wear dresses and people mostly keep their comments to themselves.  I have boobs.  That's really about it.  Not very deep, is it?

Do I ever regret my decision?  Well, it's a bit too late for that, isn't it?  I regret all that I lost, and what could have been.  Remember, my choice was either transition or death.  In the end, no matter which I decided, I lost everything.  

So to answer my earlier question: am I better off?  Jury's still out on that one.

RANDOM THOUGHTS

Baseball season is almost here.  Japan just won the WBC over the USA, despite the efforts of several Philadelphia Phillies in the US lineup.  Soon I'll be able to listen to (or watch) baseball on sultry summer evenings.  Heaven!

The Keystone Conference is underway in Harrisburg, PA.  I'll be there Saturday to see old friends and maybe meet new ones.  I'm not doing my class this year.  It's at a new hotel, which we've booked solid.  I wonder how the staff will react to hundreds of transgender women at the same time?

My brain isn't braining too well today, so I can't even come up with random thoughts, never mind thoughts worth typing, so I'll end this here.

Be well.

Long Covid?

 Today is the final day of February.  

What have I accomplished?  Well, I finished that literature review that I was stuck on for all that time.  I won't say it was my best work, but it was finished.  Now I'm working on my overall dissertation proposal.  I'm 18 pages into it, and moving slowly.

I've been reading about a condition called "Long covid."  It's like the after effects of having it, but they stick around.  I had covid in June.

The following is from the CDC website: (Italic ones are ones I have).  If you're interested, they also link to the actual science behind this, which I tried reading, but was over my head.

General symptoms (Not a Comprehensive List)

• Tiredness or fatigue that interferes with daily life
• Symptoms that get worse after physical or mental effort (also known as “post-exertional malaise”)
• Fever

Respiratory and heart symptoms

• Difficulty breathing or shortness of breath
• Cough
• Chest pain
• Fast-beating or pounding heart (also known as heart palpitations)

Neurological symptoms

• Difficulty thinking or concentrating (sometimes referred to as “brain fog”)
• Headache
• Sleep problems
• Dizziness when you stand up (lightheadedness)
• Pins-and-needles feelings
• Change in smell or taste
• Depression or anxiety

Digestive symptoms

• Diarrhea
• Stomach pain

Other symptoms

• Joint or muscle pain
• Rash
• Changes in menstrual cycles

Some of these, like depression, I had previously.  However, the "brain fog" fits like a wet glove.  I don't feel as 'sharp' as I used to, and working through standard tasks (like writing) seem like monumental feats.  

I've made an appointment with my doctor at the University health center to discuss it, and what (if anything) can be done.  If I'm not working on a given day, I'll sleep 18 hours either in bed or on the couch- dozing off while trying so hard to write something; anything.  I missed my column deadline for TG Forum a couple weeks back, and have been trying to put together the next column since.  Oh, and to write this entry.  And the dissertation proposal.   

At this point, the speed of my academic program is on me, and I stalled out at the gate.  I should be finished the first draft of the proposal by now, and working on the next step.  Instead, I have an entire section still to be written, then revisions.  

I'll keep plugging along I guess.  What else can I do?  

Oh, I signed up for the Keystone Conference in late March.  It's in a new location in downtown Harrisburg.  I'll be there on Saturday only to see old friends and maybe meet new people.  If you're a reader, please say "hi" if you see me.  

Is there such thing as Early February?

 February is here, short as it is.  It's so short that we're already almost at mid February.  Time flies.

Or it doesn't.  I don't know if it's the meds or what, but I could sleep 24/7 these days.  I spend over 12 hours in bed if I'm not working, then lay on the couch, enduring the day.  I have lots to do- my dissertation proposal, cleaning, and, if I wish, hobbies.  All I want to do is sleep.   It's not like hard labor, which many people do for a living, but its definitely the Darkness having its way.  And when I sleep, that's when the nightmares return.  At least I wake up from them.  

Lately the nightmares have been along a similar vein.  I have a destination, but no matter how much I travel, it keeps getting further away.  But not last night- last night was a Fridays dream.  I was doing a table shift at TGI Fridays, in the upstairs section (I worked at Fridays 1989-91).  All four of my tables were seated at the same time, and things just fell apart.  I was glad to wake up from that one, despite seeing old friends in the dream that I hadn't seen in decades: my coworkers, exactly as they were then, even if I wasn't.  I was as I am now: old, slow, and tired.  

Then I read the news about devastating earthquakes in Turkey and Syria, and I have no reason to complain.  1800 dead- crushed.  Horrible.  Helpless.

Be well.  

Men of the Skull Part 1, Chapter 27: Sucking Chest Wounds

For the most part, I've confined myself to posting chapters of my book, Men of the Skull, from Part II, which concerns Penn State.  Part I was about my time at Drexel leading up to my transferring universities.  To that point (2004 when I wrote that chapter, and until 2014) transferring schools was the most radical thing I'd ever done in my life.  I couldn't believe I had the guts to actually take initiative and do something that seemed so drastic.

Like climbing into wrecked school buses was ordinary, but I digress.

This chapter was the second to last of Part I, and, upon editing, will probably conclude Part I.  It's one of the best written chapters of Part I, and that's because I had some help.  A few years back, I posted an old story I'd written called "Disorganized Light."  I mentioned that a dear friend of mine liked it, and threatened to re-write it.  Well, he never did, but he DID re-write this chapter.  He read it as one of my reviewers once I finished the book in 2007.  Out of nowhere I received this chapter, re-written to the form you see now.  

Chris is an amazing writer, especially detective stories.  He introduced the 'dummy family' motif to the piece which I'd use while rewriting Part II.  In any case, his rewrite was far superior to the original (which I'd titled "It's Over") so I kept it this way.  Yes, I'll give him credit for that bit.  

However, none of that has to do with why I'm posting it now.  The piece concerns my final breakup with my first girlfriend, whom I call Julianne.  After this, I'd see her a few times before PSU took me in other directions.  I saw her once after college, and once at the bookstore pre-transition (She didn't recognize me.)  Well, I saw her again this past weekend.  I was visiting Wife and Daughter, and was in a grocery store, and there she was.  She'd aged, obviously, but still had her classic beauty and tiny nose.  She didn't recognize me (go figure) and I didn't say anything to her.  Even if nothing else has, that old wound has healed.  

***********************************************************************

Chapter 1.27 Sucking Chest Wounds

 Saturday, June 28, 1986 World Court: Aid to contras illegal

           “The doors are blocked.  We won’t get them open until the towing equipment arrives, and we’re losing time!”  Don shouted from in front of the crippled school bus.

            “Let’s cut in from the roof,” suggested Allen.

            “OK.  You and Lance do it.”

            Don, our captain, had sent me with Allen to the roof of the bus, because we were the thinnest, so the initial hole could be smaller.  It was an advantage of speed that we needed, but a disadvantage when it came to handling the massive hydraulic K-saw.  I steadied Allen as he pulled the big buzz saw across the yellow roof.  Sparks were still flying as he finished his third cut and I worked to pry back the metal of our make shift entry… revealing two steel struts and another layer of sheet metal blocking our path.

Modern K-12 Saw 

(https://www.thefirestore.com/Partner-K-12FD-Fire-Rescue-Saw)

“What the hell is taking you so long?”  Don called up.  He had a couple of other guys using the Jaws of Life on a wrecked car nearby.

            “We’ve encountered some roof struts and a second layer of metal.  Five more minutes, I’m guessing” answered Allen.

            “People inside may be bleeding to death.  Cut between the struts and have Lance climb through without his gear.  He’s scrawny enough!”

            “You just wish you were still so thin!”  I yelled back at him as I stripped off my jacket and tossed it down to Mike, who was tending the saw’s hydraulic line. 

Three minutes later, I kicked open a flap into the school bus.

            “Watch it!  That cut metal will be sharp and hot!”  Don warned from the ground. 

I put my gloves back on, but could still feel the metal’s heat through them as I lowered myself through the narrow hole and jumped down into the bus.  A bit of the metal cut my arm.

            “Ouch!  Sonafabitch!”  I yelled.

            “Watch your language with those kids!”  Allen called down, smiling.

            I quickly triaged the injuries of the four people in the bus—one with a broken arm, two with head injuries, one of those unconscious, and one… shit.

            Allen dropped a first aid kit down to me, then lowered himself through hole.  As we worked on the unconscious head trauma, our priority, Don and some of the other guys were finally making headway on removing the emergency exit in the back of the bus.

“Julianne comes home from the shore today” I mentioned to Allen as I held the victim’s head while he put on a cervical collar.

            “How long has she been gone?”

            “A week.”

Allen finished with the collar, and we started strapping the victim to a short back board to immobilize the spine.  “Are you going to keep dating when you go up to PSU?” he asked.

            “I don’t know.  I guess it wouldn’t make sense really.”

            “Especially when it’s been in and out of the toilet so much with you being close,” Allen added.

            “Straps are tight.”

            “OK.  Let’s move her from the seat” Allen said.

            The door in the back popped open with a large bang as the Hurst tool did its job.

            ‘We need another short board, two long boards and two more people in here!” Allen called to the back.

            “Take care of that person, there, next” I said, pointing at the other head injury.

            Mike and another guy jumped in and started caring for the victim I’d indicated.  Don brought in the two long boards and a short board.  Allen and I strapped our patient to a long board and carried her out the back.

            “Why did you direct Mike to Victim One?”  Don asked us after we put Annie on the ground.

            “Victim Three was dead, so I thought number One took priority after this one.”

            “What do you mean Victim Three was dead?!  Victim Three wasn’t dead, but she probably is now!”

            “There was no card, so I did a quick exam and checked for a pulse… there wasn’t one, so I figured she was dead or uninjured.  Either way, it put her at the bottom of the list.”

            “No pulse, huh?  You think that’s funny?  Well, just so you know, you’re still wrong—you’re not a doctor, so you can’t pronounce people dead.  If that person’s family sued…”

            “The dummy has a family?  I didn’t know…  I’m really sorry.”

            “That’s why we practice” Don smiled.  “Are you sure there wasn’t a card that said ‘sucking chest wound’ on her?”

            “Not that I saw.  Besides, wouldn’t I hear a sucking chest wound?”

             “Sucking chest wounds might make a wheezing sound that you can hear, but accident sites tend to make a lot of noise of their own.  If you come across someone with a sucking chest wound that‘s louder than a siren, you can pronounce that person dead.  Now, get back in there!”

            Allen and I went back in the bus to take care of the driver.  We still couldn’t find a card detailing what her injuries were supposed to be, but this time I did notice a gear shift lever sticking out of the side of her coveralls.  “Still no pulse,” Allen called out to Don, “Is she dead, now?”

            “No, damn it, she has sucking chest wound, but she’ll be awfully damn lucky to be alive after you two guys are done with her!”

            “He can sure say that again,” Allen said quietly as we began to minister to another Resuci-Annie dummy.

            We spent the rest of the morning training in the junk yard.  We saved a lot of dummies that day; I felt even better about it than I had in the past, now that I knew they all had dummy-families waiting for them at home.

            After a shower, I sat around watching MTV while I waited for Julianne to call back.  Lenny was having a party tonight and I was hoping she would come along.  Julianne had never met Lenny—nor anyone else that I worked with for that matter, except Chrissy, who she knew from the Springsteen show.  Chrissy’d be there tonight.  She and Lenny were a couple now.

            I hadn’t spoken to Julianne in over a week.  Part of me wondered why she hadn’t bothered to call while she was down the shore.  Another part already knew the answer.  All of me didn’t want to hear it.  The phone rang as Phil Collins was singing to his drumstick “She reaches in, and grabs right hold of your heart.”

            “What’s up?” she asked as if we’d just spoken to each other this morning.

            “Lenny—the guy I work with—is having a party tonight.  Want to go?”

            “Sure.  What time?”

            “Seven?”

            “OK.  I’ll see you then.”

            “OK.”

            “OK, bye.”

            She sounded happy enough.

            It was a few minutes after seven when I got to her house.  She must have been waiting.  She came right out of the house and jumped in the car.  The trip to Lenny’s house was filled with hearing about how great Sea Isle City was and how much fun she had, but she seemed a bit cautious again, like she was editing and measuring her words.  Eventually, we pulled into Lenny’s front yard; his driveway was packed with cars.

            We followed the music into the open garage where we found Lenny pulling a beer from a nicely iced keg.  “Hey!  You made it!” he said, turning toward us.

            “Told you we would.  Lenny, this is Julianne.”

            “Pleased to meet you Julianne!  I’ve heard a lot about you.  Want a beer?”

            “No, thanks.  My parents would kill me if I came home with beer breath.”

            “Well, dating this guy has to make them suspicious, doesn’t it?” he said, nudging me. 

            I got myself a beer and followed him into the living room.  It was wood paneled and had a gold colored shag rug.  Several bookshelves full of knick knacks and a few books lined one wall.  Chrissy played with a high-speed stereo, which had a CD player and four huge speakers.  The cutting edge electronics clashed with the 70’s décor… but then what doesn’t?

            “Hi Lance!”  Chrissy cheered as she came over to hug me.

            “Chrissy!  You remember Julianne?”

            “Yeah.  Hi!” she said smiling.

 

            The stereo began to blast the new Peter Gabriel record.

            “This CD is awesome!” Lenny shouted above the music.

            “So’s the tape.”  I replied.

            “Huh?” Lenny asked unable to hear me.

            “SO IS THE TAPE.”  I tried again louder.

            Yeah, ‘So’.  This is it.”  He replied pointing to the stereo.

            I gave up.  The name of the new Peter Gabriel album we were listening to was ‘So’.  He must have thought I was asking about it.  Maybe he forgot that I worked in the record store with him where we played it to death every day.  In any case, my window for making a joke out of the fact that most people didn’t have a CD player was long gone, so I just smiled and nodded.

            We stayed for a couple of hours, but there wasn’t a lot of conversation.  When the party is at the guy-who-works-in-the-record-store-with-the-really-big-stereo’s house, music tends to dominate the evening.  Julianne followed me around and I introduced her to everyone, but she didn’t seem to be too interested in really getting to know these guys.  We said our goodbyes relatively early and started back to her house. 

            As the Rabbit sputtered down the road, Julianne stared out the window.  Finally, she spoke.                      “Lance, we, um, need to talk.”

            Uh oh.  Contrary to practical medical advice, I pushed my finger into my ear and wiggled it around in an attempt to reopen my auditory canal, so I could better hear that which I knew I didn’t want to.

            “I met some guys down the beach.  And it made me feel so… so wanted.  They made me feel sexy.”

            “And I don’t?”

            “You do, but this was different.  It was fun.”

            “Gee, thanks.”

            “That’s not what I meant.  It was fun playing the whole ‘chase’ thing with them.  It was fun flirting.  You know?  What I mean is…”

            “Well, we’ve been seeing other people for a while.  How is this different?”

            “It just is.  I don’t want to hurt you, but staying together would just hurt us both more.  And it wouldn’t be fair to me.  Or you.”

            “So, this is it?”

            “I think it is.  I’m 17, Lance - I think we both know this isn’t “it.”  I still love you, but I’m not ready to settle down right now.  I want to be fair to us both.”

             “Ok.”

            “I still want to be friends.”

            Oh shit – the “friends” line.  There wasn’t anything else to say.  No words can more quickly end a conversation between a man and a woman, leaving him dumfounded, than, “Let’s just be friends.”  I guess I should have been glad that she didn’t use them verbatim, but the familiar stabbing pain was back, stronger than ever.  I felt empty, and relieved, yet full of rage at the same time.  I knew I was just telling Allen this morning that it made no sense for us to keep dating when I went to Penn State, but somehow I didn’t expect it to end like this, with so much… ‘Fairness’.  I felt sick.

            The rest of the short ride was silent.  At some point, I thought I heard a faint wheezing sound.  I looked over at Julianne.  She looked fine… Too fine.  Oh, my God, it was coming from me!  Reflexively, I felt around my torso for a sucking chest wound.  She reaches in, and grabs right hold of your heart.

            As I pulled up in front of her house, she half-whispered, “Please don’t hate me.”

            Another cliché.

            She got out of the car and walked up her driveway. 

            I drove home to my dummy-family.

Next Chapter