Book chapter: Thresholds

 

Interlude 6: Thresholds

Saturday, January 17, 2009  ’92 Ponzi Case Missed Signals About Madoff

In January 2009, I had my second makeover and photo shoot.

This one was with True Colors in Bethlehem, PA, under the hands of the legendary Amanda Richards. She did makeovers, photography, etc.  I went for the deluxe makeup and photo session, as I wanted new pics. She also said she’d teach me a little about makeup.

I arrived on time for a change, really nervous, but Amanda was very friendly. We discussed ideas and looks as she prepped me (corset, shoes) and then went straight to work. She described what she was doing as she worked, so I learned a bit.  She had satellite radio, so we talked a lot about music, which we are both passionate about.

Then we chose an outfit and a wig, and then she had me stand in front of a mirror to “get into Sophie,” telling me to repeat “I am Sophie” as she set up the cameras.  The first outfit was a miniskirt and two different tops.  I’d never worn a mini, but I always loved how they looked.  

2009

We did different wigs, and then changed to a minidress.  I posted the pictures on my new Flickr page and myspace (where my blog also lived at the time.)

My time with Amanda ran out, so I changed for Renaissance and Angela’s Laptop Lounge.  During that time, Amanda’s next appointment arrived.  We chatted as she looked through Amanda’s show collection.  Her name was Vannessa (she would later change that to Andie) and she became one of my dearest friends.  Anyway, I loved the brunette wig, so I bought it, and Amanda touched up my makeup for the 90-minute drive to the meeting.  It was so thrilling to drive down en femme- I was wearing a new dress, my bird-seed boobs, and pantyhose.

I liked it so much, I took makeup lessons the next weekend.  I needed them — I knew absolutely nothing.  Unlike girls who were socialized female and had sleepovers or whatever to learn makeup from each other, I was starting from scratch.

 

Amanda Richards

Friday, March 13, 2009  Pope Sees Internet As Resource

In any case, a few months later, I went to Harrisburg for the First Annual Keystone Conference.  I can’t believe I actually signed up for it.  I was scared as hell: I mean, the cream of Pennsylvania’s T-girls would be there, and then there would be “amateur night” Sophie.  Still, it was nothing that blasting the Grateful Dead while driving down the turnpike at warp 7 couldn’t cure.

I arrived and checked in at the Sheraton Harrisburg/Hershey quickly enough, unloaded everything, and figured I’d take a look around in drab (in guy mode.) I found that the registration desk was already open and three stunning girls were there.  One was from “Bahston”—that’s Boston.  Her name was Cheryl, and she became a dear friend.  And there was me, in drab.  Oh well, I checked in anyway, dropped the packet back in the room, and went to the bar for lunch.

The bartender was uncomfortable about the conference but tried to be professional.  A girl came in and I bought her a drink.  The bartender told me that he really didn’t want all “those freaks” but there was some kind of convention.  The girl and I spoke briefly, then I went back to the room.  It took time to shave everything, as I was as hairy as a Wookie, but eventually I was Sophie.

It took a lot of courage I could muster for me to turn that doorknob and leave the room.  I was so worried—would I get beat up?  What if someone I know was out there, as I wasn’t wearing makeup yet?  Would I be laughed at?

Annnnd, there was the maid, an older woman.  She asked if she could make up my room.  As I had girl stuff everywhere, I said no, while trying to hide my face.  I was ashamed and scared.

I headed for the elevator, AND SHE FOLLOWED ME telling me I had to sign something that said I didn’t want the room done.  Every part of me just wanted to disappear.  I scribbled on the page and asked her to leave me alone.   

Then I went to enjoy a drink in the bar with my new friend.  I think the bartender recognized me before I told him “you should really think twice before insulting guests.”  (I didn’t see him again until the fourth Keystone.)  Other girls joined us, and I began to feel the lump in my throat disappearing and my heart starting to beat at a regular pace.  It didn’t matter how I looked: They accepted me.

One Amanda Richards makeover later, and we all went downtown.  I was looking GOOD.  Dinner, dancing, drinks.  Drinks.  And so on.  A guy even bought me one!  Another bar.  Drinks.  Pool!  I love pool!  Why won’t the balls stop moving?  Didn’t matter—I shot well enough.  For me it was another drunken game of pool, but I was wearing a dress. Don't get me wrong, I was still reeling with the idea that I was wandering about a city dressed like a woman, but to me it really was just another drunken game of pool.

“Did I leave my glasses back there?”
“No, Sophie, they’re on your face.”

Time to go back to the hotel. I was going to hate life the next day, but I was out with maybe sixty T-girls, and I was one of them—and so happy.

Saturday!  Wake up, Sophie! Shower and DO YOUR OWN MAKEUP!  I’d never done it before that.  My hands shook.  Not from nerves—no, it was a progressive hangover.  I was a wreck, and I knew it.  I thought the makeup went okay, but I was a mess.

So down to a makeup class by Amanda Richards.  Her model was BJ, an amazing girl who I thought was cisgender.  Perfect.  Amanda was doing her thing and the room started to pitch and rock a bit.  I left early and bumped into people I knew in the hallway.

“Hey, we’re going to lunch!”
Ummm… onto the elevator… okay, I can survive.
Sit down to lunch… maybe not.
Sprint to room!

After being sick, I checked my makeup and I was an even worse wreck.  I tried to fix it, but to no avail.  Oh well, back to lunch.  After lunch, I went back to the room and collapsed, missing some great seminars for much needed sleep.

Woke up, re-tied the corset, and dressed for the night.  Damn bra straps kept showing.  Oh well—they’re removable.  This wouldn’t come back to haunt me, would it?

Then another makeover where Amanda made me look incredible.  I looked as hot as Sophie could be (so I thought).  I never felt as confident as I did then.  I was Sophie, and I was a woman.

After forgetting and going back for my meal ticket once, I sashayed into the ballroom and made my entrance. Yeah, look at me, girls!

Dancing, fun, drinking water, and…Um… my boobs started to fall down. Pull the bra back up.

I listened to the incredible dinner speaker Donna Rose as well as Dr. Jeanine Ruhsam, who ran the conference as president of TransCentral PA, along with many others.  Both would become dear friends.  Jeanine talked about how there were around eighty of us there, and how we were bound by our mutual ‘need’ to express ourselves in a feminine way.  I thought about that for a very long time.

Boobs fall to my belly button.  Hey, I’m not that old!  Okay, this has got to get fixed.  Back to the room.  Get some help with the zipper for my red gown.  Put straps back on.  Sophie is back in business!

More dancing. Wine.  Oh, it was so fun!   People began filtering out, so what the hell—I’ll wear my last outfit.  I brought a PVC dress with me.  Time to sizzle!

And sizzle I did!  I must have lost five pounds wearing that!  

A bunch of the girls were going to a nearby lesbian club.  However, I declined and sat in the bar.  I was tired.  I regretted not going. 

Anyway, a glass of wine and off to bed.  I was soaked with sweat.  I peeled off the clothes, but not the wig.  Started packing.  Shoes… wash off my new breast forms…

And then I looked in the mirror at my face and my wig.  It made me so sad.  I would take off the wig, and Sophie would disappear.  If only for a while, I know—but still, it made me very sad.

So, I whispered to my reflection, “Goodbye, Sophie,” and removed my wig and makeup.

The next day was cloudy and misty.  I drove home back to my drab life.  It took me a few days to get over my feeling of missing Sophie.  I would later refer to this as a “Pink hangover” and it got progressively worse after each conference as the years went by.

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

The Keystone Conference still occurs every year, except for a couple of years it was cancelled due to Covid.  As of this writing, I have never missed one.  Sometimes I only go for a few hours, but I still register and go.  Eventually, it outgrew the Sheraton and moved to the Harrisburg Hilton downtown.  Keystone regularly draws around 750 people each year.  Jeanine helped run it until her untimely death in March 2019.

            Speaking of covid, the pandemic spelled the end of True Colors.  Amanda couldn’t afford the rent with no customers, so she ‘retired.’ 

            So much has changed for all of us.  Several of the friends I met back then have since passed on — some without ever living their truth.  Amanda is still one of my dearest friends.  And me?  Well…

 

"What Does It Mean" TDOR 2025 Speech

 I'll be delivering this tonight at Penn State's Transgender Day of Rememberance.  The capitalizations, etc, are for speaking emphasis.

TDOR 2024

What does it mean to be transgender today?

Today we mourn the loss of THREE HUNDRED THIRTY FIVE transgender people worldwide, (pause) FIFTY SIX of whom are in the United States.  Brothers (pause)sisters (pause), sons (pause), daughters (pause)- human beings.

What does that mean?  It means FEAR.

Transgender People today live in fear.

One of our dead committed suicide rather than live in a country with the current Administration, Because they were that afraid of what Could, and probably will happen.

I admit to having considered that option, as well as fleeing to another country.

That's fear.

What does it mean to be transgender today?

It means always being on guard.  

I remember when I first came out that one of my cisgender female friends said. “Now you know what it means to be a woman, you always must be on guard: Always must be aware your surroundings.”

She was absolutely right.  

Always being on guard is subset of fear.

So, what does it mean to be transgender today?

It means LOSS. (pause)

So many of us who have transitioned lost everything:

Jobs, Careers, Family, Friends, Homes, Marriages- (pause)

Everything.

So, transgender also means loss.

But, you know, then there's the most important thing about being transgender right today.

Yes, there is fear.  Yes, there is loss.  

But the primary facet of being transgender today, or any time is  (pause) PEACE.

That component of life that so many people seek?

Many of us find that.  I did.

Did I find happiness?  I get asked that a lot.  

No, (pause) I did not find happiness.  I found peace.

An end to that raging storm of dysphoria that I lived with for almost fifty years.

Peace, and dare I say: HOPE. (pause)

I'm not a big believer in Hope these days, but peace?

That, in the end, is what it must mean to be transgender today.

Now, of course, there will always be fear.  There will always be loss.  

But Peace…(pause)

Maybe If we stand together- cisgender, transgender, LGB, straight, all of us.  (pause)

Together.

Just maybe,

There will be HOPE. 

Hope for a future where we can live without excessive fear and loss. 

A future where we can simply be allowed to live our lives in peace. 

A future when word transgender is just another adjective that applies to the beautiful tapestry of being human.

Tonight, we remember. (pause) Tomorrow… that’s up to those of us who remain. 

 

 

 

Pandora’s Box

Interlude V: Pandora’s Box

Thursday, December 4th, 2008

Okay, I knew how to end this foolishness.

Unlike when I was a teen, there was something now called “the internet” where I could look up information and figure things out. After all—I held a Master’s Degree—I was supposedly smart.

Also, the internet was where I found my cheap wig, ugly shoes, and a waist cincher from a place called Glamor Boutique.

In any case, I discovered terms like crossdresser, transgender, and more.  I also discovered there were people who specialized in transformation makeup, where they could make a guy up to look like a girl.  One was up the road in Bethlehem, PA.  Another was on Long Island, New York.

So—the plan.  I knew how bad I looked on Halloween.  Downright ugly.  My friend Dawn was a competent makeup artist, but I wanted to try a specialist.  When even they couldn’t make me look feminine, that could be the end of it.  End of story.  Solved.  QED.

But… which to use?  I knew nothing about either of them, except for the reviews on their websites.

One was in Bethlehem, PA, about an hour away.  Hmm.  Still close.  I might stumble upon someone I knew.  Long Island?  Two and a half hours away.  No chance of “chance” encounters.

Besides—the owner in New York was female. I wasn’t sure about the owner of True Colors.  I didn’t feel comfortable being all “girled up” in front of a guy.  Not yet anyway.

So I sent an email to Femme Fever.  Eventually all was set.  I paid in advance.  I told my wife that I was going up to Penn State main campus for the day—meetings.  Plausible, as I worked part-time as an instructional designer at the Great Valley branch campus.

Still, I hated lying to her.  I really did.

The trip took forever, but I was only fifteen minutes late.  Karen let me in, and we sat down to discuss what I wanted.  But first, she gave me a bra that had pockets for breast forms, a pair of forms (looked like chicken cutlets), and told me to put them on.  She left the room, and I did as she asked.

She returned and told me she did that, to quote, “put me at ease.” Got it.  She was right.

We sorted out outfits, hair color, that sort of thing.  The first outfit was a baggy orange sweater dress (yes, seriously) and a copper-colored wig.

After being dressed in the dress, hose, and shoes, she seated me on a barber’s chair in a room with a wall full of mirrors.  I told her that I wanted to be surprised, so please turn me away from the mirrors.  Karen did the makeup for about an hour and asked what name I was using. I told her Lisa but said it was not set in stone.  What would she suggest?

As the makeup was finished, she stepped back and looked at me. She looked at me and said, “I have a strong feeling your name is Sophie.”

She then turned the chair around, so I faced the mirror and said, “Say hello to Sophie!”

I couldn’t believe it!  I couldn’t believe that the person in the mirror was me!  I didn’t see myself at all.  I actually looked passably female.  Or so I thought.

Also, I usually don’t ignore strong feelings, so I kept the name.  In addition, Sophie is Greek for wisdom, and I can use all the wisdom I can get.

That woman in the mirror simply could not be me.  There was no way…

She took pictures of me in that outfit and a few others.  I ended up buying the pocket bra and the wig.

I was in deep trouble.

Saturday, December 20th, 2008

I needed help.  In addition to the other terms and shopping, I found a support group that met in nearby Malvern called Renaissance.

I told my wife I was going to play D&D (another lie, damn it).  I stopped in Valley Forge Park, tried to put on the waist cincher… which broke.  I decided to find the place and change there.  I pulled into the parking lot of an office park that looked rather empty.  Did I have the right address?  Then I saw someone walking toward the correct door. She wore a black, Goth-looking long dress and had very long, straight gray hair.  I asked her if this was the right place for Renaissance.

She confirmed it was—in fact, she was the president.  Her name was Rebecca, and she became a dear friend and mentor.

I arrived dressed in normal street clothes, and changed on site, scared as can be.  I didn't bring any makeup.  Well that’s really because I don't have any yet but that’s a minor detail.  In any case, I wore a new white top and black skirt I recently bought, as well as the red wig from Femme Fever.

I looked like shit.  But the girls made me feel right at home.  Some could easily pass.  Others like me, well... In any case, they were very open and welcoming.  I felt I was among friends.  In fact, I met many people who would become friends and mentors that night.  And as a bonus, Renaissance was having a Christmas dinner at nearby Shangri-La, an Asian restaurant.  That was—gulp—NEXT DOOR TO THE BOOKSTORE WHERE I WORKED.

I went anyway, as one of the girls spotted me the money to go.  I was pretty broke.

I was terrified the whole night.  What if someone I knew saw me?  Or my car?

Turns out that Shangri-La has a TG night the third weekend of every month called Angela’s Laptop Lounge.  The DJ, Angela, was one of the founders of Renaissance, and was editor of a transgender news website called Transgender Forum.  Anyway, it was really crowded!  I didn’t know there were so many people… like me.  I felt myself easing into the role of Sophie. Or was it just the drinks?  Does it matter?  I was dressed and having a ball!

I spoke with two girls (one of whom became a dear friend) and mentioned this was my first night “out.”  They looked at each other and said “Pandora’s box is open!”

They were absolutely right.

I stayed several hours, but eventually had to go.  I changed in the car then drove home.

While at Renaissance, I also got some recommendations on local gender specialists.  Maybe they could cure me?

Please?

I didn’t want to be a… freak.

Small dreams of books

Everyone has dreams.  Big dreams, small dreams, some in between.

 

But I have dreams that are dead, destroyed.  Most of the big ones anyway.  Transition destroyed most of those.  Destroyed long ago.  But I still hold on to some small dreams.

 

One of the dreams that I had held on to for a long time was a dream of growing old with my wife by my side, surrounded by my books.  The books I picked up over my lifetime, most of which I've never read.  But I thought that in my dotage, I would have the time to read these books.  To sit back, relax, not have to worry, and just read.

Some of these boxes haven't been opened since I was thrown out in 2013.

Wife and I would travel occasionally, going to places that we’ve only dreamed about as well.  But my time, for the most part, could be spent reading those books.  Those books that I have acquired over a lifetime.

 

Well, really, it’s been a few years.  I determined that I will never be able to retire, as I will never have the money to do this, which means I will never be able to read these books. I still have them—boxes of them in storage, over 20 boxes full of books, most of which I have never read. And it looks like I never will.

Oh look- another stack of book boxes

So, what does one do when a small dream is broken?  What does one do with the books? Well, I could throw them all in the dumpster, but that would be an entire waste.  There’s no one who will buy them from me, not in that bulk, except for pennies on the dollar, if that.  So, what to do?

You know, I’ve had so many dreams smashed in my time.  Big dreams, middle dreams.  

 

But sometimes it’s the small dreams, when broken, that hurt the most.

Old dreams

When I was young, I remember having pleasant dreams.  The ones I remember are when my toys were alive (like Toy Story) and we would talk and play together, and for those dreams I wasn't alone.

As I got older, Nice dreams became rarer.  As a teen and twenty something, some of the good dreams were, ahem, spicy shall we say.  Haven't had that kind of dream in forever.

In college (Summer 88), I remember a dream that was me going to the McDonald's down the street and enjoying a Big Mac.  I really don't like Big Macs, but that summer I was so broke I literally didn't have two coins to rub together.  Being able to afford such an extravagance was a dream come true.

Summer '88.  Living next to McD's didn't help

I've written several times that I almost constantly have nightmares now.  I don't remember my last pleasant dream.  That doesn't mean I don't have them- I just don't remember any. 

 

My dreams these days are usually me trying to go somewhere but I keep getting further away.  Others are sort of typical, taking tests after not attending class, or such.  In many dreams, I’m extremely frustrated or angry, and unable to make anything right.  Some are my being pursued by something I never see, but I know to be caught would be fatal.

 

Still, most are memories gone wild.  Rescue squad calls gone tragically wrong, or dead victims returning to blame me for their deaths.  Many involve being rejected by loved ones or abandoned by everyone.

The last ones are the worst, as I wake up exhausted, sad, or depressed. Sometimes that would last for days.  

The rescue ones tend to be the ones that repeat- frequently enough that I know what happens next but can't change it.  Like I'm just a spectator, or it’s a kabuki play.

I don't remember any good dreams since before transition.  Even before. 

 

 

I miss them.