Halloween 2008

I don't think I ever wrote about this night for my blog.  So, I wrote this for my book, Men of the Skull, and, well, here it is. 

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            It’s an ancient cliché that the smallest events, even a single word, can change a life. In this case, an off-hand suggestion over dinner.

 

Interlude 4: Forty-Two (Halloween 2008)

Friday, October 24^th, 2008 World Series tickets a hot commodity

The past year had been very hard— what with a newborn and all.  For my wife’s fortieth birthday, she wanted a weekend at Bethany Beach, Delaware, at the Addy Sea, a beautiful, haunted bed and breakfast.  We left our daughter—with her first birthday just days away—with my parents, who’d retired nearby.

That night, we went south a few miles to Ocean City, Maryland, for dinner at the Blue Ox.  With Halloween just days away, the subject turned to costumes.  We both loved Halloween and often did couples’ costumes.  But “we went as Lois and Clark last year,” I mentioned.  As in Lois Lane and Clark Kent. 

“Yes,” she said, “but this year, you’re Lois.”

At that moment, our meal arrived, and the server refilled our wine glasses, which ended the discussion for the moment.

Me as Lois?  I hadn’t dressed as a woman in twenty-five years.  I had shut down and sealed off that “freakish” side of my life.  Should I do it again?  Could I?  I was now much taller and heavier—testosterone poisoning does that, as does age.

 

What was I thinking?  Twenty-five years… no problem.  One night in a skirt and out.  No biggie.

After all, I was a MAN.

 

Friday, October 31st, 2008.  Parade for the Champs

Halloween

It had been a busy work week.  I asked a bookstore co-worker, Elizabeth, to help.  She showed me a memoir by a famous drag queen called I Am Not Myself These Days.  Brilliant book.  I figured she wouldn’t be weirded out by my request.  She wasn’t.

In fact, Elizabeth was very enthusiastic—too enthusiastic.  She helped me choose an outfit at a store specializing in plus sizes.  I found a wig and shoes online.  The memoir suggested using birdseed in cut pantyhose to fill the purple and black lace bra (it was on sale- 42 D).  An old friend who worked at a salon said she’d do my makeup.  Oh, and she invited us both to her Halloween party.  So, we had someplace to go—but we’d have to bring the baby.

 

No problem.

 

Everything was ready.  What could go wrong?

 

Halloween night.  I showered, shaved my legs, and after a quick nap dressed up in the girl stuff in the bathroom.  With me, I had the Superman T-shirt my wife would need.  She already wore glasses, as do I.  But that night I wore contacts.

On a whim, I brought my digital camera into the bathroom. I figured I’d take a picture of her reaction upon seeing me.  I came out of the bathroom armed with a camera in one hand and a Superman T-shirt in the other.  I adjusted the camera, my hand bouncing off the birdseed breast as I did.  She was in the kitchen, maybe thirty feet away.  She turned and saw me.

CLICK.

The look on her face was utter disgust- a stark contrast to her smiling jack o’lantern t-shirt.  I stumbled over in heels and tossed her the t-shirt.  “I’m ready.  Your turn.”

She looked confused, still disgusted.  She had forgotten all about her idea and thought we were staying home with our baby daughter.  So, I explained her idea back to her—and that our friend would do my makeup at the party.  She reluctantly agreed.

Fast forward: the party, me going into the bookstore where no one recognized me (except Elizabeth) which set me a bit at ease, a bunch of us later at a local sports bar where one of my female co-workers grabbed my fake boobs, curious how they felt.  Lots of people in the bar laughed. 

At the book store

Laughing while wearing a constricting bra and waist cincher was a new experience.  Also, I got some looks when I went to the men’s room.

Driving home, I realized that I had a wonderful time that night.

But something felt… different.  Strange.

I looked down at my sweater covered, birdseed breasts and realized what it was.

I felt at peace. 

The anger and depression I’d carried for decades was gone.  Missing.

I knew then that I had made a major mistake.  I was in big trouble.  The metaphorical wall I had built to contain my feminine self, the one that had held strong and firm for twenty-five years, had been breached.

 

I felt right.

 

God help me.

 

 

 

I still have that purple bra, and even wear it occasionally, despite it being a cup size too small.  Now it’s me, not birdseed, filling out the cups.  Funny how things change.

Men of the Skull Prologue Draft 2: Electric Boogaloo

Ok, thanks to input from viewers like you, I've revised the prologue a bit.

Opinions welcome.  Please.  

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Prologue 2025: 

Let me tell you a story. 

  

I’ve fought to save lives. 

I’ve knelt in kitchens, compressing chests that didn’t want to rise. I’ve crawled into wrecked vehicles trying to stop people from bleeding to death. Run into flaming infernos searching for anything living to save. 

But there was one life I couldn’t save — nor did I want to: my own. 

So here we are: the revised, updated, now-with-Pine-scent prologue to a book you never read in the first place. This book shows how I buried myself alive in brotherhood, beer, and basement dive bars. Somehow, decades later, I finally dug myself out. 

Everything you’re about to read happened. Or most of it did. The memories are real, even if the edges have blurred. The names have been changed — some out of respect, some out of mercy, and some to protect the guilty. Some people are composites of several personalities. I haven’t exaggerated. If anything, I softened it. Like Obi-Wan said: it all depends on “a certain point of view.” 

This is the story of my college years — two universities, two fraternities, two lives. One of them was real. The other was the one I tried desperately to live, with mixed results and regrettable wardrobe choices. 

In the 2008 prologue, I asked: 

"Why in the world would I write about my college years? Who gives a damn? Is it a therapeutic assignment? An attempt to exorcise demons? To recapture the 1980s of my quickly ebbing youth? Maybe all of the above. Mostly, I just wanted to get it all straight in my head. To learn from it." 

That was 2008. And it was true — or at least the truth I could admit at the time. What I didn’t admit then was that I was in Pain. A deep, howling, soul-level Pain I couldn’t name. I tried to drink it to death. Didn’t work. So I tried to write it to death. 

Then came Halloween 2008. 

I dressed as Lois Lane for a party — my wife as Clark Kent. I knew what was trapped inside me — my dark secret — but I’d managed to control it, erase it, for twenty-five years. I would be fine. Wouldn’t I?

 

Nope.

 

The psychic wall I’d built crumbled. Driving home after drinking way too much (Wife and daughter drove separately), I felt at Peace. All the pain, the anger, all of it… gone. I looked down at my chest, expanded by a birdseed-filled bra, and knew — I was in trouble. 

I finished the first draft in summer 2008, sent it to agents and publishers. Some were politely uninterested. Some not so polite. Mostly I heard nothing. Meanwhile, the Pain kept growing. Not even my newborn daughter’s smile could assuage it. 

My first trip to PSU as Sophie.  July 2013

Fast forward to March 2014. I’d been to therapy, support group meetings, thrown out of the house, lost a dear friend to suicide, almost followed her, stopped lying — and Lance died. What emerged from the ashes of a ruined life was Sophie — the person who had been silently screaming for decades. I’ve also done a lot of writing: a blog detailing my transition, online columns, even The New York Times. The voice I found writing this book was honed along the way. 

This isn’t a trans memoir in the traditional sense. I don’t come out in Chapter 3 with a triumphant montage and a power ballad playing in the background. There’s no makeover moment, no wise mentor (okay, there was one, but she doesn’t appear in this book), no tidy resolution. Most of the people around me back then would’ve laughed — or worse — if I’d said the truth out loud. So I didn’t. I joined a fraternity. I chased girls. I learned how to chug beers and bury feelings deeper than a Springsteen song. I tried very, very hard to be what I thought a man was supposed to be. 

Spoiler: I wasn’t very good at it.

I didn’t write this book to make myself look good. I couldn’t if I tried. I was insecure, needy, petty, cowardly, and cruel when I thought it would keep me safe. I hurt people. I ghosted people. I threw good things away because I was afraid someone would see through me. And I hated myself for it — for lying. To everybody. For my silence. 

  

I hated myself a lot. 

  

But that silence, that pretending — it’s part of the story. It shaped every relationship, every misstep, every small triumph. If you read between the lines, you’ll see the cracks. You’ll hear the longing. You’ll understand the “shame” I couldn’t name because I didn’t have the words. Or the courage. 

That’s the real reason I’m telling this story now — because it’s not just mine. It’s about being the outsider. About wanting to belong so badly you forget who you are. About regret, hope, and the small mercies that keep us alive. 

And if you were there — if you knew me then — I hope you’ll read with grace. I don’t write this to embarrass anyone. I write it because the past deserves to be told honestly. Because I’m tired of pretending. Because for all its flaws, this story is mine. And if you deserve an apology, as some do, please know how sorry I am. 

The story is about brotherhood. About desire. About trying to belong in a world that felt like it was never built for someone like me. It’s about growing up in the 1980s, under Reagan, AIDS, and the eternal war between cassettes and vinyl. “Tastes Great” and “Less Filling.” It’s about Skull House and Crow House, about parties, betrayals, and those tiny moments of connection that made everything bearable. It’s about the people who shaped me, whether they knew it or not — and probably wish they didn’t. It’s a love letter and a requiem to a decade and a place — both more magical as time distorts memory. 

It’s about a boy who thought he was writing a coming-of-age story searching for answers, and a woman who finally found her way back to finish it decades later.  As Dylan wrote “We always did feel the same we just saw it from a different point of view...” 

And yeah, there’s Music. Always Music. If you want to understand the 1980s, you need to hear the beat. The Devil Inside that moved us all. 

What you’re about to read is what I wrote Before, with a needed heavy edit, and with commentary and observations from After. That After solved the puzzle after buying all the vowels. That After has no more secrets. And between that Before — and that After — that’s where the Truth awaits. 

 

Let me tell you a story.

Men of the Skull Prologue 2025 draft.

 

Prologue (2025): “Let me tell you a story…”

Wednesday, July 2, 2025:  Trump administration restores $175 million to Penn after deal reached on trans athletes

 

Right.  This is the revised, updated, all-new, now with Pine-scent! prologue of a revised book you never read in the first place. 

 

Everything in this book happened. Or most of it did. The memories are real, even if the edges blur a bit with time. The names have been changed—some out of respect, some out of mercy, and some to protect the guilty. I haven’t exaggerated. If anything, I’ve softened some of it. It all depends “on a certain point of view.”

 

Last week

This is the story of my college years—two universities, two fraternities, two lives. One of them was real. The other was the one I tried desperately to live, with mixed results and bad hair.

 

In the original prologue, reproduced next, I wrote:

“Anyway, why in the world would I write about my college years? Who gives a damn? Is it a therapeutic assignment? Is it an attempt to exorcise old demons and ghosts and move on with my life? Is it an attempt to recapture the 1980s of my quickly ebbing youth?
Maybe a little of them all, I guess. I’m doing this because I think it’s a story worth telling- if only so I can get it all straight in my head. I want to learn from it."

        Well, that was Truth as I understood it in 2008.  I was in Pain- a deep, howling psychological pain- and I didn’t know why.  I tried to drink it to death.  Didn’t work.  So I’d write it to death.  I finished the first draft in summer 2008.  I sent it to editors, agents, and publishers and received some polite rejections.  Some were not polite.  Mostly though, I heard nothing.  I also circulated a few printed copies to friends for their feedback.  Still, there was that Pain I couldn’t drink away.  Not even my newborn daughter’s smile could assuage it.  (Ooo big word!) 

Then on Halloween 2008, it all changed.  Long story short, I dressed as Lois Lane (accompanied by my Wife’s Clark Kent) for a party.  I knew what was trapped inside me- my dark secret- but I’d managed to control it, erase it, for twenty five years.  I would be fine.

 

I wasn’t.

 

The psychic wall I’d built crumbled.  Driving home after drinking way too much (Wife and daughter drove separately), I felt at Peace.  All the pain, the anger, all of it… gone.  I looked down at my chest, expanded by a birdseed filled bra, and knew- I was in trouble. 

 

Fast forward to March 2014.  I’d been to therapy, support group meetings, thrown out of the house, lost a dear friend to suicide, almost followed her, I stopped lying, and Lance died.  What emerged from the ashes of a ruined life was Sophie- the person who had been silently screaming for decades.  I’ve also done a LOT of writing, for a blog detailing my transition, online columns, even the New York Times.  The voice I found writing the book was honed a bit.

This isn’t a trans memoir in the traditional sense. I don’t come out in Chapter 3 with a triumphant montage and a power ballad playing in the background. There’s no makeover moment, no wise mentor, no tidy resolution. Most of the people around me back then would’ve laughed—or worse—if I’d said the truth out loud. So I didn’t. I joined a fraternity. I chased girls. I learned how to chug beers and bury feelings. I tried very, very hard to be what I thought a man was supposed to be.

 

Spoiler: I wasn’t very good at it.

 

I didn’t write this book to make myself look good. I couldn’t if I tried. I was insecure, needy, petty, cowardly, and cruel when I thought it would keep me safe. I hurt people. I ghosted people. I threw good things away because I was afraid someone would see through me. And I hated myself for it.  For lying.  To everybody.  For my silence.

 

I hated myself a lot.

 

But that silence, that pretending—it’s part of the story.  It shaped every relationship, every misstep, every small triumph. If you read between the lines, you’ll see the cracks. You’ll hear the longing. You’ll understand the “shame” I couldn’t name because I didn’t have the words.  Or the courage.

 

And if you were there—if you knew me then—I hope you’ll read with grace. I don’t write this to embarrass anyone. I write it because the past deserves to be told honestly. Because I’m tired of pretending. Because, for all its flaws, this story is mine.  And if you deserve an apology, as some do, please know how sorry I am.   

 

The story is about brotherhood. About desire. About trying to belong in a world that felt like it was never built for someone like me. It’s about growing up in the 1980s, under Reagan, AIDS, and the eternal war between cassettes and vinyl. “Tastes Great” and “Less Filling.” It’s about Skull House and Crow House, about parties, betrayals, and those tiny moments of connection that made everything bearable.  It’s about the people who shaped me, whether they knew it or not—and probably wish they didn’t.

 

It’s about a college boy who thought he was writing a coming-of-age story searching for answers, and a woman who finally found her way back to finish it decades later.

 

And yeah, there’s music. Always music. If you want to understand the 1980s, you need to hear the beat. The Devil Inside that moved us all. 

 

What you’ll read is what I wrote Before, with a needed heavy edit, and with commentary and observations from After.  That After solved the puzzle.  That After has no more secrets.  And that before- that after- that’s where the Truth awaits.

 

Let me tell you a story.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Three More Days 'Til Halloween

Title stolen from here.

As I write/type this, the date is October 28, 2024.  I awoke early today, as I had an 8 AM doctor appointment (transition med check among other things.)   I was rewarded with a beautiful sunrise featuring peach and blue-gray clouds.  

During my appointment, I found that my gall bladder issues were a side effect of estrogen that's uncommon, but happen.  Huh.  Learn something new every day.

In any case, it's Halloween season.  Samhain for some.  Long time readers know that this marks an anniversary- on Halloween 2008, I "rediscovered" myself.  That night I went out dressed as Lois Lane to my Wife's Clark Kent.  (Full story... hmmm   did I ever write the whole story?  I'll check TG Forum...)  The dam that held back 25 years of denial broke.  

That was *counts on fingers and toes* 14 years ago.  I didn't expect to live this long, never mind being Sophie full time among other things.  But, yes, it'll be 14 years, 10 of which I've been full time.  I feel so old.  But in any case, being my age and having been out for so long, kinda makes me a "trans elder."  I have stories to tell, many of which I've told here or on TG Forum (my last post there was August and concerns stories.  Read it HERE.)

I used to be a Halloween fanatic.  Don't get me wrong- I still love the season.  Heck, I'm wearing a jack o lantern face T-shirt as I type this!)  It's just... not as special.  It's been years since I've been to a Halloween party, and I haven't been out on Halloween night since 2019 (I wore my Supergirl suit.)  We don't get trick or treaters where I live.  I used to LOVE planning Halloween parties, which we held at M's house (see M here).  She didn't mind as I and a few others did all the setup, execution, and clean up.  I miss those parties, and the people who attended them.

Hmmm... it seems I never wrote the full story on that first night in 2008.  I thought I did.  Maybe I just can't find it.  

Right.

The story begins two years before: 2006.  Wife and I loved doing couple costumes.  That year, we did Lois Lane and Clark Kent.  Halloween 2007 we didn't as my daughter was born Oct 26.  No Halloween for Wife.  Anyway, a week before Halloween 2008, Wife and I went out to dinner to celebrate her birthday.  As we waited for our food, she brought up the topic of Halloween.  That year, Wife suggested another couple costume: Lois and Clark again.  I said "we've already done that."  She replied "No- this time YOU'RE Lois."  At that moment, the food arrived.  I seem to remember saying yes to the idea, but Wife isn't sure.

So that set off a week of panicked planning.  I enlisted the help of my coworker Elizabeth to help with an outfit and bra.  I got a wig from a Halloween store.  My friend Dawn, who is a beautician, volunteered to do my makeup.  

It took all week, but I managed to find everything (including getting shoes that fit sent 2 day air).  The night of October 30, after everyone was in bed, I pulled out the items and tried them on.  Everything fit.  I crafted my boobs from birdseed in pantyhose feet (a trick I learned from reading the fantastic I am not myself these days by Josh Kilmer Purcell.)  Everything fit.  

The next night as Wife fed Daughter (the natural way) I changed into my outfit and wig.  With me I had the Superman T shirt that I used for Clark Kent (which I still have.)  I finished dressing, put on the wig, grabbed he t-shirt and my phone, and exited the bathroom.  Wife was in the kitchen.  I called out to her and said "ready!!"  She turned and looked at me with a look of disgust.  I took a picture of that expression.  I then tossed her the t-shirt and said "I'll take care of changing [daughter], you get ready."  Then she remembered what we'd discussed for our costumes.

The first party was one at Dawn's.  We brought Daughter, who was barely over a year old.  Dawn did my makeup, everyone had a good laugh (as well as fussing over the baby.)  Wife wanted to go home, so she drove herself to the party.  

I drove to the bookstore, where I wandered around a bit.  Elizabeth was upstairs working in music, so I went to see her.  No one recognized me except her.  They knew I was a crossdresser, but no idea who it was.  After taking pics with Elizabeth, I went downstairs and revealed my identity to the rest of the staff.  Gasps of disbelief and laughs.

With Elizabeth

After this, I went to the bar where we'd all meet.  Some people I didn't know, then my coworkers arrived.  We hung out and drank (I used the men's room.)  One guy was uncomfortable with me, so I made sure to pester him because I was an asshole.  

On the way home, (I shouldn't have been driving... I'd pay the price eventually) I looked down at myself... down at the fake breasts pushing out my sweater... and thought about how right I felt.  I thought about how, for the first time in decades, I didn't feel anger or Pain.  I was at Peace.

I knew that I was in trouble.  

One of "More pictures"

I got back home, where everyone was asleep (It was after 2 AM.)  I quietly took more pictures, then removed my girl things, probably forever.  I washed my face, and... damn nails wouldn't come off.  It would take a lot of time the next day to dissolve them off.

The rest I KNOW I wrote about more than once.  Find that HERE.

In any case, all these years later, here I sit typing in State College.  My roomie/bestie Linda is in the other room recovering from an illness.  Soon, I'll start making dinner.  Thursday is Halloween.  Maybe I'll go out.  Maybe not.  I doubt it.  No fun going alone.

In any case, Happy Halloween or Blessed Samhain.

Be well.

Bonfires

 Halloween time.  Harvest.  The leaves are turning color as they die and wither.

This weekend was travel and experience.  Friday night, I drove five hours to southern Delaware.  Ended up in a crappy hotel in Lewes, and went to Buffalo Wild Wings for dinner and to watch a bit of Game one of the World Series (go Phils!).  My older brother (OB) joined me at my invitation for a bit.  We were polite to each other.

We were both in southern Delaware for related reasons.  Saturday, right around noon, both of us, my Wife and Daughter, and OB's wife (and hyperactive dog) met at my Dad's place.  The Penn State-Ohio State game was coming on, but that's not why we were there.  We'd come together to scatter the majority of Mum's ashes over the water of Indian River Bay, thus fulfilling part of her post-mortem wishes.  

Dad wanted to save some of the ashes, so I took a sandwich bag, and, with his help, scooped some of the ashes into it.  With its seal, this would keep them from spilling.  We then put the bag into one of mum's favorite little chests (she kept so many), and I inserted the small metal ID cremation tag to the side of it.  Then, we all went outside to the end of the pier.  There was a slight breeze.  I carried the bag with mum's ashes, and when he was ready, dad took the bag, said a few words, and spread the ashes over the water.  I took some time to reflect as the wind and water carried the ashes away.  

Back inside, Dad, Wife, Daughter and I sat and watched some of the Penn State game while dad's dog tried to chew off my foot.  Dad had two tv's going- one in the kitchen, where he normally sits, and the big one in the living room.  That TV, despite being cable, kept showing lines and signs of interference.  Dad said he didn't know why.

I do.  Mum was there with us.  it was a rare moment when both her kids (or her granddaughter) were in the house, and so she wanted to be there.  At one point, I went into the kitchen and that small tv started doing the same thing.  I spoke quietly to her, letting her know that I knew she was there, and that I missed her.

Dad found another of mum's jewelry boxes in a closet- the one I remember from when I was a kid.  My sister in law, Daughter, and I looked through it.  From it, I took a clan hat pin.  I'll come back to that.

Eventually, it was time to go.  I dropped Wife and Daughter back at her car (they drove down separately, and we met in Lewes), and started my long journey back to State College.  It was midafternoon, and I listened to Penn State lose on the radio, then to other music as I drove north then northwest as the sun set.  

As twilight and gloaming set in, I was in the farmlands of north Delaware, southern Pennsylvania, and Amish country.  I noticed that often the countryside was cloudy- hazy- smoky.  Then I saw them.  Bonfires.  Here and there in the fields, bonfires were springing up, small and large.  People were preparing for their Halloween parties.  After all, with Halloween being Monday, the parties would be Saturday night (assuming that the local covens wouldn't have their Samhain fires easily seen from the highway.)   

I thought of the fun the idea of the parties implied, and the menace that the Halloween bonfires originally were intended to ward off.  The idea of people partying and dancing in costumes as the bonfire warded off the chill and the evil spirits.  The magic of fellowship and spirits liquid and ethereal.  What spells and connections would be forged as strangers like myself sped by in the night?  

Fires leave ashes and memories, and may be scattered on wind and water.  Or forgotten as love.

I arrived back at State College around 8, long after the night settled.  Many RVs were still in the tailgating areas, and yes, small fires burned in the night.  My back hurt from the drive as I settled on the couch with the pin I took and my old tam.  I bought the tam back in 1990 at some Scottish games.  It's the colors of my clan: MacIntosh.  I rarely wear it today, but keep it on the hat stand in case I want to.  I attached mum's pin to it, so now it's a proper tam.

In any case, Happy Halloween and Blessed Samhain.  May it be safe, and your bonfire keep you warm.

White Out and Sundry

This past weekend was Homecoming at Penn State, and, unlike last year, Homecoming was the "White Out" game.  That means a LOT of people, a night game, and a definite electricity all week on campus.  Homecoming week is usually special, but adding White Out makes it more.  Add to that the beautiful weather and the trees reaching peak colors... one couldn't ask for anything more.

I didn't have tickets (I couldn't afford them), but I knew that my fraternity was having an alumni tailgate.  Last year I couldn't find it, and felt deceived.  This year, should I bother even trying?  I could stay at the apartment and do nothing (aside from the Halloween decoration project I was working on.  I wrote about that HERE.)  

I've wallowing in self pity, Imposter syndrome, and self-hate for weeks (years?) and not doing anything.  Immobilized.  So I started working on old projects and such to try to do ANYTHING.  So, I decided to shower, shave (first time for either since Tuesday), get out the fucking door, and go to the tailgate, where people probably wouldn't care if I showed up anyway.  However, I brought a bucket of Fireball shot bottles, so at least I would feel like I contributed SOMETHING.  The house supplied a buffet.

So it was that I boarded a bus to campus, so I didn't have to walk the whole way.  I still ended up walking a couple of miles that day, but not two plus miles each way.  I hoped to get lots of pictures, and I did.  I walked through the rich folks tailgating area next to the stadium, wondering at the huge spreads and elaborate RVs.  While searching for the Alumni RV, I encountered the people I met last year (but didn't write about), and they remembered me!  That felt good.  I found the fraternity tailgate easily enough- it was mostly people from the late 70s and early 80, but one from my time, as well as several undergrads.  It was mellow-ish.  One of the recent grads misgendered me so I returned the favor by calling him "Pledge", which he didn't like, but he got the hint after a couple of times.

I ended up doing seven of those fireball shots with various people and drank 3 beers (plus food and water), so I was feeling fairly good as I left the tailgate.  The sun was setting, and the crowd was flowing toward the stadium as I walked the opposite way toward the bus stop, taking more photos.  On the bus ride back, a college girl was passed out cold on the seat across from me.  I knew she was alive as I saw her breathing.  In any case, as we approached one of the apartments near mine, she woke with a start, and exited at the stop.  

After arriving back at the lair, I had a little more to eat and a LOT of water.  Linda and I watched the game, ate pizza, and flipped to the Phillies game during time outs and the half.  The Phillies won, and would win the pennant the next night, so they're going to the World Series.

Monday night was a strange night here on campus.  One of the MAGA student groups invited the founder of the Proud Boys and another fascist to come speak (recruit), so there was a large student protest.  (I was ready to attend, but fell asleep attempting to read PhD stuff and missed it.) In any case, the Proud Boys body slammed a woman, then fired pepper spray at students and police.  After that, the event was cancelled.  Gee, Proud boys becoming violent/  Who woulda thunk it?  Eyeroll.  Still, the fascists got their money and publicity, and blamed antifa for the violence.  (Hint: antifa wasn't there.)  

In any case, I've been sick as a dog the past few days.  Sleeping a lot.  It's not covid (I did a test.)  So I've continued to be useless.  Go figure.

Be well.

Spookiness Season

We've all made it to October, people.  The hated month of September (at least it is for me) is over, and now autumn rots into place.  Here in the mountains, the leaves are changing, and the air is crisp. (For how long, remains to be seen.)  It's harvest time, or, as I prefer, the season of Death.  

And Halloween.

Yes, my few long time readers know how much I LOVE Halloween.  It used to be the only time I could be myself with no consequences.  Before my "re-discovery" in 2008, Halloween was the time when I could be anything else in the world except my hated asshole self.  Also- parties!  Seeing what my friends, co-workers, whatever, concocted as their alter-ego for the night always made the party special.  Back in college, the annual Halloween party was a huge affair (how could it not be with a fraternity called Skull?) with a combine party with SAE, Chi-O, and Tri Delt.  SAE was another top house, while Chi-O and Tri Delt were top sororities.  It's funny- of the four houses that comprised those parties, only mine remains active at PSU.  The other three have been kicked off.  In any case, the Halloween party was one of the few times in school that I actually stood a chance of hooking up, as I dressed in a tuxedo shirt, bow tie, and Vampire cape.  I looked pretty sharp, I do say so myself!

Halloween 1988.  Chi O pledge.  No idea who she was.

For a few years in a row, I helped organize and decorate for a party at my friend/co-worker/savior Cat's place.  I did my best to make the parties memorable, from making Halloween themed CDs (not played too loud- they were never dance parties) to décor to themed foods.  Of course, the help from others always made it more special.  These parties were mostly for my book store peeps, but I expanded the guest list to others I knew (and that others knew.)  Several times after 2008, I thought about inviting friends from my transgender life, but I decided that would be dangerous- especially since I attended a few of these parties in dresses! (Like THIS ONE) (And THIS one).  And that's not counting the huge annual Henri David Ball on Halloween night!

Henri David '09

One of the non-book store people who attended was Michelle.  I met Michelle in the early 90s, when I worked for Chessex Game Distributors.  She ran (if not by title, then definitely by function) Total Confusion, a game convention in Massachusetts, along with her then husband.  She was the person who handled vendors, and I was there selling Chessex dice and such.  We hit it off and have been friends since.  In any case, she is a talented chef, especially with lasagna (but not bacon), and she helped make incredible food and added her delightful personality to the mix.  Also, she has a thick Bahstin accent, for which I tease her endlessly.  By sheer coincidence (yeah right), I'm typing this on her birthday, October 10.  Happy birthday, Michelle!  Hope it's wikid fun!

Halloween at Cat's 2010

So now I'm back at PSU, and have been for a few years.  Last year, I attended Rocky Horror Picture Show at the State Theater with Linda.  I dressed up a little for that.  This year, I won't be attending, as the showing is over the weekend before Halloween.

That weekend, I'll be heading south to Delaware, where my dad, Older Brother, his wife, and my Wife and daughter will scatter my Mums ashes over the water, as she wished.  Two- thirds of them anyway.  One third of them are in my apartment, awaiting either shipment or to be carried over to Scotland, where they will be spread in a memorial garden with her parents and sister.  My overall plan was to do that scattering today.  You see, October 10 is also my Mum's birthday- she would've been 83 had she not died in January.  I wanted so much to have her home for her birthday, but I failed her.  Shipping ashes to the UK is expensive, as it must be done by courier.  It's actually cheaper to fly over with Mum's ashes in my lap!  Money is always tight, so it didn't happen.  I'll keep saving, and doing my best to get her there.  

In any case, it's October.  The Veil between worlds is thinning.  Soon the dead will silently skulk around us.  Maybe even break dancing, who knows?

Be well!

A Party Long Ago

I've recently been thinking about a party I attended- the first (of two) parties I was ever invited to during my k-12 years.  This one occurred when I was in seventh grade, so late fall 1978.  Ugh, was it really 43 years ago?

Most kids my age were starting puberty.  I watched as the girls began changing, and desperately wished I would change like them as well, but it was not to be.  In fact, even for guy adolescence, I was a late bloomer.  So, essentially, I was even more of a kid when I attended this party.  Remember that- it's important.  

7th Grade School Photo

Right, so I was in seventh grade, which back then was the first year of Junior High: a whole new environment.  Suddenly, I was thrown in with so many new kids from other elementary schools in the district.  Quickly, cliques and a social pecking order formed.  I was in an academic section, and, if not at the bottom of the popularity scale, I was next to last.  I kept to myself for the most part, as I didn't want to be picked on.  

One major social addition to school was school dances.  Many people my age know what they were like- boys gravitated to one side of the gym while the girls were on the other with little mingling (except for the really confident guys who were high on the social scale.)  They played the hits of the day over the loudspeakers.  Two songs I distinctly remember were Keep on loving you by REO Speedwagon and Sad Eyes by Robert John.  No one danced to the fast songs, as no one had figured out how yet, but slow songs saw people couple up to slow dance (at arm's length of course).  I think each grade had their own dances at this point, so there were no bigger kids there.  At least I don't remember any.  In any case, these dances were formal, which for me meant polyester jacket and tie from Sears.  That's not what I wanted to wear.  

Page from 1979 Sears Catalogue

At one of the early dances (October?), someone told me I should ask a certain girl to dance, as she thought I was cute.  Me?  So, I screwed on what little courage and asked her to dance.  I'll call her "Susan", but that wasn't her name.  Susan was in my section, so I saw her every day, but never knew she, or anybody, even knew I existed.  We danced, chatted about whatever, and shared the next dance as well.  

I don't remember the exact timeline, as I wasn't keeping a journal at that time, but it was around Halloween that I received an invitation to a party at the home/farm of a classmate in Limerick, which was extremely rural at the time.  I was absolutely shocked!  I learned that I received the invite because Susan liked me.  I didn't wear a costume- my mum made me wear a shirt and tie.  Hell, I didn't know what people my age wore to parties!  As a result, I was the only one there not in costume and the only one wearing a tie.  I remember Susan wearing a pale blue and white dress and the hostess wore a white sweater and dark slacks.  

Page from the 1979 Sears Catalogue

The party was on a farm.  I remember cows and an electric fence.  I remember both as I remember that someone dared me to touch the wire fence.  Zap!  The party itself was held in a small outbuilding: a large shed or something like it.  There were benches around three walls, and it was lit by candles.  There was some food, but I don't remember what.  It was very cold outside, and the shed was heated, but I forget how.  I remember the Cheshire smile crescent moon dancing through scattered clouds.

The hostess was one of the popular girls- I'll call her "Amy."  Amy was ahead of some of the other girls, puberty wise, as she had a shapely, feminine butt, yet small breasts like her peers.  Amy wanted to be a model and may have had the looks for it if she filled out right.  As it was '78, her mane of brunette hair was styled Farrah Fawcett style.  

For the beginning, everyone sat around talking about school and such- everyone else there previously went to Limerick elementary, so they knew each other.  Also, there were older kids there.  I knew a few people: the hostess, Susan, and a male classmate.  There were maybe 7 or 8 others aside from them. 

At one point, Amy started talking about pairing off "like this" and started making out with the guy next to her.  I was sitting next to Susan, and could sense her unease.  So, I excused myself to go to the restroom, which was in the main house.  When I returned, I was met outside the door by a classmate (I don't remember who,) who awkwardly told me that Susan "isn't that kind of girl" as I thought.  I replied that I wasn't that kind of guy, and we went in the door.

You see, I figured everyone else was where Amy was in her "maturity" and that I was the only one who was so far behind.  It wasn't true, really, but still, half the people in the room were passionately kissing while the other half sat around awkwardly.

An eternity later, my mum arrived to take me home from the party.  I couldn't leave fast enough- I felt so awkward.  

Looking back, I now wonder how Amy was sexualized at such an early age.  She'd obviously done this before, and, judging by the way the guy was groping her, was enjoying it.  I wonder if something horrific happened to her as a child.  Horrible thoughts, I know, but was her behavior normal, even for that time?  As I was (and am) socially backwards, I don't know.  

I assumed everyone my age was having sex by the eighth grade, and I had no clue how to attract a girl.  I didn't realize that, being a very rural school district, people "started" a little early, nor did I realize that a lot of their talk was simply bluster.  

Some changes occurred over the years

Now, all these years later, so much has changed.  I finally left my secret behind years ago, and finally experienced some of the changes I so wanted back when puberty was still in my future.  Of course, I still suffer the after-effects of decades of testosterone poisoning, and will never have feminine hips, etc, but I'm as close as I'll ever get to being the woman I should have been.  

So why think of all this now?  Why did this memory push forward after all this time?  Simple: I was 12 when I attended that party.  My classmates were 12-13.  

My daughter is now 13, and in seventh grade.

As I've been absent for most of her life (due to being thrown out all those years ago), I can only hope that she'll make the right decisions for her, and not succumb to peer pressure.  I know that I can't "bubble wrap" her to protect her from life and growing up.  

I think about my teen years, and some of the decisions I made.  As I was a social outcast, I didn't have to make a lot of the decisions that other kids had to make, like about drinking, drugs, and sex.  These weren't options for me until my later teens/ early twenties.  By then, I'd already had that desire to help others and the burning need for justice, so I saw things primarily in black and white.  There was right and wrong, and everything about my life was wrong.  Yes, I knew that shades of grey existed, but I didn't want to see them.  It was only in college that I saw that such right/wrong situations were rare, and that everything was grey: a continuum.  And it took me so many years later to realize that are very few binaries in the world, and gender is not black and white, male and female.  Yes, I am a woman, but I'm not like natal women.  I'm somewhere in the grey.  I can wish all I want that I had been born with a female body, but wishing won't make it so.

All I can do now is hope that my daughter is smart enough to learn from mistakes, and listen to what her mother and I can give her.  I hope that her life is so much better than mine (it already is, as she doesn't have to wake up each morning thinking about how she's in the wrong body) but I want so much more for her.  Above all, I want her to find the happiness in her teen years that I never did, and the happiness in life that I still can't find.  

As for what happened after that party, Susan and I never dated.  She quickly lost interest, and eventually so did I.  In fact, after seventh grade, we rarely spoke.  She, Amy, and I eventually graduated together.  The only other time I ever spoke to Amy was at graduation.  The memory is just a fragment, but a powerful one as it recalls who and where I was at that time.  My first party invite.. and last until my senior year... and in so many ways I disappeared; faded into the background.

I hope my daughter doesn't do the same.

Masks

A version of this was originally posted at TG Forum.  The genesis of this piece was a discussion I was having with a friend about the topic of living one's Truth, a fraction of which is told here.  
The irony is that everyone is complaining about wearing masks these days due to the pandemic.  I'd say many of them stopped wearing the mask of "caring about others" to let their inner narcissistic sociopath shine-  sort of like 45 supporters who let their inner racist show as well by supporting one.  But that's not what this piece is about.  This is about a different level of mask- one that one created to survive in a world that that not only don't they understand, but also would tear them down if they did.
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Believe it or not, I’m actually very shy.  I always have been.  Being bullied from a young age will do that.  I stayed as quiet as I could in class, and generally avoided people with whom I wasn’t close.  "You end up like a dog that's been beat too much" as Bruce wrote.

That started to change a little in high school when I was hired at Burger King.  Thanks to my dear departed friend Chuck, who extended his hand, I began to come out from behind the walls I built.  It helped that, at BK, I had to wear a silly uniform.  It was butt ugly- brown red and orange.  It was like I could be someone just a little different when wearing it, especially since, at first, I didn’t know most of the crew.

Picture, makeup, hair by Amanda Richards of True Colors

It was the same after I graduated college.  In late 1989, after leaving teaching, I was among the first hired for T.G.I. Fridays at King of Prussia mall.  There, I had to wear the red and white stripes, a hat, and “flair.”  Yes, OfficeSpace nailed that spot on. However, at that point, I figured that if were going to earn money at the job, I’d have to stand out.  So I adopted a “persona”- the happy, goofy, stupid hat wearing Lance.  Putting on the stripes was like putting on a clown suit- it allowed me to be someone else.  Even then, I referred to the uniform as “clown suit.”  I could play the fool and not care.  When not working, I was an absolutely miserable, drunken SOB.  It let a side of me come out that I (and those who I let in) knew: bad puns, goofy sense of humor, sometimes a bit too cutting. 

Me, Fridays, 1990.

I’ve always loved Halloween, because that one night a year, I could wear a mask and be whatever I wanted… to a point.  That was until Halloween 2008, when all the defenses crumbled.  My female self would no longer be denied.

“Sophie” was a mask.  One weekend a month, I could let a side of me emerge that I’d hidden a long time.  Was she different than him?  Yes, at first.  We had hard drinking in common, but aside from that, I felt… more at peace while dressed as a woman.  To “become” Sophie, I wore a corset, hip pads, breast forms (or the infamous breasts from the UK), a wig, and usually was made over by a professional- most often the incredible Amanda Richards.  If one could put Sophie in a room with Lance, and you didn’t know who I was, you couldn’t tell they were the same person.  My body language was more relaxed.  I could let go the tension.

At the Empire Conference as well as Beauty at the Beach, I did a stand-up comedy routine.  By that time, my training as a teacher prepared me for speaking to groups, but this was different- I was doing this as Sophie.  However, I did this as “costume” Sophie- wearing something ridiculous. 

I’ve done four plays since transition.  In three of them, I wore a costume and was able to play the fool.  Costume as a mask: permission to be someone else entirely.

I was discussing this very topic with someone who is still closeted.  She asked me how different Sophie is from Lance.  I thought, well there’s Sophie, the Truth; “Sophie” the crossdresser; then there was Lance.  Then it hit me “like I was shot... like I was shot with a diamond... a diamond bullet right through my forehead” that…

Lance was a costume- a Mask.

 Lance was, while me, still just a construct of what I thought everyone expected me to be- as a guy.  The people I loved, especially my Wife, saw who I really was behind that mask, but not… everything.  Not until March 2014, when I began living my Truth.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Phantom_of_the_Opera_(1925_film)

That’s when I discovered how few could accept the person under the mask.  Like the Phantom of the Opera, I scared people away.  The people I’ve met since then, who never knew Him, they have seen me as close to “raw” as possible.  There are parts of me that I’ll never let out; Same as everyone else. 

Truth is rarely pleasant, and most people prefer the lie- prefer the costume.  So do I, on Halloween.  I’m still learning about who I am.  53 years old, and in many ways still a child.  That’s the curse of mid-life transition, as well as the blessing.  I’ll never stop learning.

(If you know the quote I used, tip of the hat to you!)

Maid in Dracula

Has it really been two weeks since it ended? Has it really been two weeks since we broke the stage down and went to the cast party? Two whole weeks since I last trod the boards, cleaned up after Lucy, and was seduced by Dracula?  Two weeks since this group parted ways, never to be all together again?

For three weekends, I was in the play Dracula, held at the Forge Theater in Phoenixville. I played a small part- a minor role to be sure- of a Maid.   However, I was also stage crew moving things on and off the stage, and I also created a couple of the props.  Oh, and took a lot of pictures.

In Costume

This whole process began back in September, when I auditioned and got the role.  I was surprised to get it- delightfully surprised.  I remember talking to people at the rehearsal, and thinking that they were all so much better than me at this.   After all I'd only been in one play as Sophie: the Vagina Monologues in 2017. In that one, I wrote my own piece.

But I made it, and I was there from the read-through all the way through the production. During that time, my part changed as I tweaked my performance, and the director gave me some tweaks as well. I had to make some of this role my own. For example, at one part I hummed a song.  I had to research a song popular in 1897, which is when the play takes place.   The song I chose was The Band Played On. I'd heard it before done by orchestras and such, but never knew what it was. I found an old recording on YouTube, and memorized it. When I first did this song, I waltzed around the stage (as it is in waltz time.)  That was a bit much, so the director said no to that.

The director was Suki.  She had previously cast some friends of mine in other plays, and was known for casting gender variant people.   That said, I was the only transgender person in this play, which was fine.  I wonder how many of the cast had previously met a transgender person?  In a way, I was an ambassador.  As usual.

On Stage.  Photo by Dave Richman

We rehearsed for months.  It was a complex play with a lot of sound and lighting affects which I had nothing to do with, but I had to know when my cues were.  Fortunately, I didn't make too many mistakes... well, at least not with my lines.

I could tell so many stories about this experience! I told a couple of them in my TG Forum column a few weeks ago.  What I can say is that the experience was absolutely magical, and I wished it could never end.  But of course, all good things do come to an end, and our final performance was a matinee Sunday two weeks ago.

The matinee was sold out, just like all of our performances.  Yes, we sold out all eight of them, which is a very good record for January (especially for non-musical in that theater.) So I'm told.

Renfield's Chair, which I modified and hand painted.

Props I made/painted.  The words on the bottle mean "Good sh*t" in Mongolian

I met many wonderful people, some of whom had become dear friends.  I must admit that most of them intimidated me from the read through on through most of the production.  Some of them were very talented actors- Theater majors and such.   They had years and so many plays behind them on their resume, and all I had was one.  In particular one woman really intimidated me- one of the stars: Sandy.

Sandy is absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, and an amazing actress.   I was sure that she acted for a living, but as it turns out she doesn't.  I didn't speak much to her, then again I really didn't speak much to anyone, aside from making my usual bad jokes, you know, to cover my nervousness and insecurities, but almost everyone was so nice to me- even knowing I am transgender.   As it turns out, Sandy was as nice as she is beautiful.  I wish I could have spoken up a little earlier and gotten to know her better.

Again, almost all of the cast were extremely nice. The woman playing Mina, Safiyyah, was the youngest person in the cast, and she was so incredibly talented.  I wouldn't have guessed by the way she played that role that she wasn't a graduate of a theater program.  She isn't- in fact she still a college student and not a theater major.

Cast Photo 

They show featured to Dracula's and older version and a younger version both of them were theater veterans and both of them were absolutely fantastic. The younger one, Matt Lake, is also an author. He wrote Weird Pennsylvania.   Loren played the older Dracula, and he was full of fun tales of plays and jobs that he'd had pretty much all over the world, but especially the UK.  As Matt is from Birmingham in the UK, they had a lot to talk about.

Dracula's brides were the Vixens, and there were four of them.  I had to say that I think I became closest to two of those Vixens maybe because I saw myself in them.  Also because they chatted with me.  A third vixen, Lauren, was not only incredibly beautiful, but she was also a lawyer and a dancer.  Her Vixen danced ballet, and was absolutely incredible to watch.  I watched her a lot at practice, and I could not believe that anybody could be so flexible! I saw a video of her doing the piece on stage while wearing a long gown.  You see, I have never seen this play.  Not the completed version anyway.  No, I saw just what I could see through curtains as I waited to move things around, and some parts I couldn't see at all- like the Vixens.

Lauren during rehearsals

 As I said, the Vixens reminded me a lot of myself.  They all had incredible strength, which I wish I had.  I don't think they realize their own strength.  Two are authors; one writes Gothic horror, and she looks the part.  She's slim, pale, and beautiful.  If you were going to picture a Goth chick, you would picture her.   The other was more metal, and she rocked a corset!  She was extremely outgoing.  She also wrote a children's book.

 A couple of the cast members are gamers.  I've tried to set up a game, but it hasn't happened yet.  One is actually hypnotist!  Others do other jobs.  Most of them have found roles in other productions, and are already in rehearsal for those.

I auditioned for another role, but did not get it.  I think that, for me, the experience is over- at least for a while.

In a way, I'm still processing what it all meant to me.  I know that, for that time, I felt part of something- something fun.  A group of strangers became like a family to me (albeit dysfunctional and full of characters.)  I knew that I'd find Kristin on the stairs to the dressing room, reading a book.  Or that Joe "warmed up" wearing headphones and dancing.  That Alexis would be at the makeup table, and that Jay would always be late.  That everyone would be glued to their phones during down time while still laughing and gossiping.  Robyn would be obsessing over the baby mixture, and the beautiful Kimmie would need help with her corset.  There was a serene familiarity to it all.

And one thing I DO know... is that I miss it.

Be well.

Matt Lake as Dracula during rehearsals