Burning

Interlude III: Burning

Tuesday, August 2, 1983.  Reagan Strongly Defends Policies On Minority And Women's Rights

I'd had enough.  I was done being a freak.  Goddamn it- I was a MAN (on the edge of seventeen!), and it was time I started acting like one!

Puberty finally kicked in about a year before, but I was still much shorter than my peers.  And still looked like I was twelve, which meant getting a date was all but impossible.  I used to go to dances with a friend named Cheryl, but I screwed that up a year before as well.  She'll probably never speak to me again.

Senior picture: July 1983

I was tired of being bullied by neighborhood kids, by my brother, by everyone.  So, I started studying martial arts in a dojo run by one of my mom's co-workers.  Beat the shit out of one of my bullies, and word got out.  His having a cast on his arm from a compound fracture was a good deterrent.

I would model myself after the men I saw in comics, but also after my dad and show no emotion, but Anger.  Endure no insult.  Defend.  Punish.

It was early afternoon when I started a fire in the backyard burn barrel using all my girl stuff: all the clothes, a wig I bought at Halloween in ’81, a little kindling wood, and lots of lighter fluid.  I put the makeup and shoes in a trash bag, and deposited it in the dumpster at Burger King, where I worked.  My family were all away in Delaware for the week, so no one would disturb me.

The hot, sticky sun beat down, as it had all summer.   As I watched and sweated, the flames rose to the music of my Sears boom box.

Since you've gone, I've been lost without a trace

I dream at night, I can only see your face.

 In the shade of the oak tree, our German Shepherd Sabre lay resting, indifferent.  He was an old dog at this point, and tired.  As the smoke and flames consumed my shame, I felt lost- Like I was burning a part of me I'd never get back.  I felt like a heavy veil descended over me.  Suffocating.  Drowning out all emotions.

Sabre.  1982

A week later, Sabre died suddenly of brain cancer.  

He'd been my confidante: the only one who I could talk to about all this.  I felt like he understood.  Or at least, didn’t judge.

Now, I had no one.

I spiraled into a depression that even my co-workers and few friends noticed. It's never left me, even after decades of denial and therapy.

No one could ever know.  After all…

Men don't share stupid feelings. 

 

 

 

 

            I saved Sabre’s dog tag and put it on my keyring.  It’s still there.

A month later, I started my senior year.  Priority one was applying to colleges.  Drexel University was my primary goal, but I also applied to Penn State, as well as Temple’s Tyler school of Art. 

Then in January ‘84, I met this girl from St. Pius high school at a school dance.  Her name (in my book) was Julianne.  A girlfriend would cure me of that… foolishness. 

Right?

Story of Four

I've told this story so many times giving talks, but I've never written it down.   So here it is.

This story begins in June 1970 on a beautiful morning.  I was across the street playing with the neighbor's daughter, I’ll call her April.  She was my age: four years old.

It should be noted that even then I knew I was different.  I knew that I was called a boy, but I knew I wasn’t one.  That said, I didn't really know what a girl was either.  I just kind of knew our parts were different, also that I kept being told by my father that I was going to be raised as a man. I didn’t know what I was- so I must be a freak.

Freak at four

In any case, I was across the street with April, playing house when I was called back to our house by my older brother.  After looking both ways and crossing the street, I went into the house and found my father in the living room.  My mum and brother were nowhere to be seen.

Dad was sitting on a stool, his belt in his hand. I knew what that meant.  Every kid back then knew what that meant. I was told to come over and drop my shorts, which I obediently did.  He bent me over his knee and proceeded to give me the beating of my life.  

I can see it now, over fifty years later, as if it were still happening- feel the frustration and confusion.  

The whole time, he was saying "I'm not raising no fairies, I'm raising MEN!  You don't play with girls.  Girls are good for two things, and one of them is cleaning the house.  You're a MAN, and you will play with the boys.  Boys are better than girls!" 

I was then sent to my room for Eternity- which is what the rest of the day felt like back then.

So, what that beating taught me was that I was different, that this was bad, and that I would have to hide this difference for the rest of my life if I wanted to avoid punishment.

Oh how right I was!

 

Hall Street from the air, 1969.  My home was just a shade above dead center

Decades later, when I came out as transgender to my parents, I asked my dad if he remembered this incident.  He didn’t- and why should he?  To him, it was just another day and one of his kids needing punishment.

He was performing the role of father as he knew it- as it was shown to him by his father, and probably all the men in the family going back through time to Germany and beyond.  As most other fathers of the time did.

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.  

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

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.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What Tom Said

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness."  (Jefferson, Thomas, Declaration of Independence, 1776)

MAGA wants to, based solely upon my identity, deprive me of my life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness- preferably in that order.  If they can't kill transgender women, they'll jail us.  If they can't jail us, they'll make our lives miserable.  

 Last Monday

It's Snorton's transnecropolitics writ large.  We have value to MAGA for two things: money makers and as "the enemy."  Fascism requires an enemy to "rescue" the people from.  With MAGA, it's brown people and it's transgender women.  Also, the Enemy is necessary for fundraising.  "Look at these horrible things!  Only WE can save you- if you send money!" 

Will transgender women still be the primary target after (not if) they overturn Obergefell v. Hodges?  

"Life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness

We fought for these ideals we shouldn't settle for less"

(Miranda, Lin-Manuel, Cabinet Meeting #1, Hamilton, 2015)

Later in that same referenced paragraph, Jefferson writes "That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it..." (ibid.)

The current regime doesn't care about poll results or opinions.  They care about power and money- the more the better.  They also don't care about protests- except for target practice.  

So, what can be done?  Unless the military remembers their oath and disobeys unlawful orders (or removes the problem from office), I don't know.  

Thomas Paine wrote "The cause of America is in a great measure the cause of all mankind" (Common Sense, 1776).

As this country falls into Russia influenced fascism, what can the world do?  No democracy is safe.  None.  Anywhere.

What a time to be alive.  

March of Questions

The cold rain falls here in State College, flutily trying to cleanse the Earth.  Evil has gripped the US.  It was on full display the other night during a televised speech to Congress.

Rainy days always make me reflective.  Perhaps rain are the tears of God or the dead.  Perhaps they are a metaphor for renewal and life, as water evaporates, rise, condenses, falls back to Earth just to eventually evaporate again.  

Wow.  Corny metaphors... and I'm not even drunk.

In any case, In the past week, people asked me questions that really gave me pause.  I figure writing them down would help me think through and process my answers.  You lucky people.

Recent pic

The first was asked  to me by a co-worker the other day, then by a therapy student last night:  What would healing look like for you?

This first came up during a discussion about Justice.  My coworker (who is against carceral state) believes that punishment doesn't help the victim at all.  My counter-point was "so the perpetrator just commits a crime, and gets away with it?"  Their point was that these are two separate issues- that society cares more about punishment than restoring the victim.  The coworker was once the victim of a hideous crime (I'm not at liberty to say what) while living in Hong Kong, and said that the first thing the authorities there did was to help them recover from the crime.  (yes, the perp was caught and punished.)  Hence the question. 

My answer: Wow.  I really have no idea. I've lost so much and have the scars to prove it. Move to a different house with Wife and daughter and live as a family again?  (and drag Linda along as well.)  The issue here is that if someone comforts me (like says "I'm proud of you), I don't believe them.  It bounces off my armor and doesn't get through (just like compliments.)  I've thought of this for a couple of days... am I beyond healing?  I mean- there's no way to have my years restored to me.  Apologies, while helpful, don't restore.  The "plate is still broken" so to speak.  

Of course, I could just let go of the past, and all the Pain.  But that Pain defines me- drives me.  

Without the experiences that caused the Pain (and other experiences) that make me who I am, for good or for ill.  That Pain gave me my drive and passion for justice.  Would justice on those who hurt me long ago bring me healing?  Not now.  Justice must be swift to be helpful.  That said, there are some graves that it would me great pleasure to, ahem, defecate upon.  

This is a question I need to really consider.  A lot.  

I thought of the second the other night while watching Casablanca.  That's a movie about many things, with regret being a major theme.  I thought about the losses I've endured- the many regrets I've piled up in my life.  Then I asked myself: Is it worse to regret something you did or something you did not do?

I posted the question on facialbook and received some good answers.

My answer: Something I did NOT do.  It's the hell of "what if."  When I regret something I did, I at least tried and found an outcome.  For example: I transitioned, and the following happened: blah blah.  I maintain that those results are better than wondering where my life would've been had not transitioned, but still wanted to.  If that makes sense.  (I already know what the alternative to transition would've been: death.)  

The third question was asked to me at a presentation I frequently do here at PSU: it's a brief LGBTQ 101, followed by the stories of the presenters, then a Q&A.  Usually the audience are undergrads, as we (me and the other presenters) are invited to speak to classes by the professors.  An F2M person (they told me) asked me the following:  What is your favorite part of being a woman?

In my eleven years of presenting about transgender issues, no one has EVER asked me that.  A question I get frequently is "What do you miss about being a man?"  (I usually steal Jennifer Finney Boylan's answer to that: "Pockets.")  Yet never the opposite.  The student said they couldn't imagine wanting any part of being female.  I get it- that's dysphoria.  

The answer I eventually gave was the 'permission' to feel and express emotions.  Guys really aren't allowed to do that lest they be accused of being "gay."  (Masculinity is a rigid, narrow course.)  Now, if I wish, I can cry, laugh, express all the emotions I wish.  After all, there's no 'restrictions' on women for expressing emotions.  Also, the estrogen allows me to feel more emotions.  There are emotions I experience that I can't even name.  (Did I install an emotion chip?)

In any case, all three are questions I need to keep considering.  If nothing else, to take my mind off the hell on earth that MAGA has made the world.

Be well.

February So Far

 I'm still here.  My existence is in itself an act of protest (or something like that.  Laverne Cox said it.)  I still haven't been sent to a camp somewhere.  Yet.  I'm still here, in spite of my Scottish cousin's repeated appeals.

Here we are on week 3 of the descent into fascism.  People far more informed than me have already written about all that's happening, especially to transgender people.  Here are some links:

Timothy Snyder (noted expert on fascism) on how the government is being dismantled.

Jessica Weingarten on calling out the Trump tax.

Heather Cox Richardson om Musk's government takeover.

Erin Reed who keeps her eye on transgender issues.

Melissa Ryan on multiple topics.  At the bottom of this one is an interesting news item, which I reproduce here:

"Declassified CIA Guide to Sabotaging Fascism Is Suddenly Viral (404 Media)

I read this guide when it first went viral in 2017 (and probably linked to it at some point). Amused that it’s going viral again, I assume it's being passed around at least in part by civil servants determined to hold the line."  

People who know me know I have a passion for history- in particular the history of resistance against the Nazis in WWII.  The headline above is inaccurate- when this guide was published in January 1944, the CIA did not exist.  This book was published by the Office of Strategic Services (OSS), whose brief was "coordination for the gathering of intelligence" (from the above linked article.)Yes, it eventually became the CIA, but it wasn't at that time.  

Nit picking, I know.

Since the beginning of the semester, I've put an effort into my appearance at work.  I've pretty much gotten my makeup speed back by keeping it simple.  That said, this morning I was enraged by my getting cover-up into my hair.  A lot of it.  After a lot of other small things that had gone wrong, that was the one that put me over.  I wanted to tear the room apart, rip out my hair, wipe off all my makeup, and just disappear.  Those who knew me before my transition knew I had a violent, hair-trigger temper.  Transition really helped calm that storm, as has decades of therapy.  However, since November, I find my patience is getting ever thinner.  I want to isolate myself from everything ("turtle" as I call it.)  Of course, not being able to afford a therapist (finding one that takes my insurance is hard) hasn't helped either.  Nor has medical bills piling up by four figures almost daily (my insurance really sucks.)  

Work Sophie Selfie

I know: wah wah.  Cry me a river.

Still, I'm not in a camp somewhere.  I'm still employed.  I can still fight the fascist take-over (as we all should.)  I guess all of those are something.

Be well.

Solstice Scribblings

As I type this, the sun has set on the shortest day of the year.  This entry will be a mish mash of bits I've written over the past few months, some stuff I'm just typing in randomly, and whatever I feel like.  Call it a "clip show" if you will, but without Commander Riker.  

Bonus tribbles for anyone who gets that reference.

I dolled up last weekend.

Anyway, as I mentioned, today is the winter solstice, also known as Hibernal solstice, and, to my friends of the Goddess: Yule.  The Yule celebration is where we in the US get most of our Xmas traditions.  I think I wrote about that once.  Oh yeah- HERE it is!  As to those friends:

"Wishing you blessings this yuletide and every day. This Yule, may you and yours enjoy the blessings of the season and the joy of rebirth. As the light is reborn this winter solstice, may your heart lift with the joy of new beginnings and nature's blessings."

I forget where I dug that up, but I like it.  I didn't write it.  Cut and Paste is your friend.

I'd love to report incredible progress on my PhD but nope.  Still stalled.  Still my fault.  Same reasons, really.  Depression.  Imposter syndrome.  In an effort to kick my ass into gear, I decided to apply for a post doc kinda thing.  

The good news is that I had a class with Dr. Hil Malatino, who is in charge of this.  The bad news is that I also had a class with one of the other professors on the team during my first semester of my PhD studies, and, well, we didn't see eye-to eye.  In any case, I spent several days updating my CV, filled out the application (which included two essay questions of at least 500 words) and submitted it last night.  Do I have a prayer of getting it?  Doubtful- especially since I don't have my PhD yet.  But I COULD have it by August if I get my ass in gear.  So there's that.

As I showed above, I dolled up a few times this month.  I guess I just wanted to feel something.  Maybe it was because it felt so good dressing up for the reunion.  A big reason was that I've lost a lot of weight due to Ozempic and diet change (diabetes sucks), and I was going through my closet trying on things I stopped wearing because I was too fat.  I found several including my jeans!  Another reason I dolled up was because I kept practicing with false eyelashes.  Again and again.  Eventually, I was successful.  So, I dolled up to celebrate.

Look at what I did!

Another piece I fit into was my fave purple sweater.  

Bathroom selfie!

So that was a good thing since my last blog entry.  

Xmas is next week.  Wednesday in fact.  I won't see Wife or Daughter that day, but I may see them on Monday.  I hope so. 

What else is going on?  The usual end of semester money woes which mean trips to the food bank.  Added to that was the fact that my roomie/bestie Linda was sick for 5 weeks and out of work.  My income barely cuts it when both of us work, so that was crippling.  To distract myself from concentrating on that and spiraling deeper into my usual holiday depression, I decided to help a Vampire bride.  She was in a nasty car accident, which totaled her car.  As she ran her own driving business, this is devastating.  Add to that her injuries and broken glasses... it was a stake to her heart.  Like me, she is too proud to ask for help, so I started a GoFundMe for her.  

Hopefully this link works.

Oh, why am I calling her a Vampire bride?  Because we met when we were both in Dracula together at the Forge Theatre.    (Hmmm I thought I had a pic of all four brides, but I don't.)

Two of the four Brides rehearse getting Harker all "bloody."

She has it worse than me.

Penn State won its first playoff football game at Beaver Stadium today against SMU.  It was 25 deg F with a windchill of 10 deg, which I'm guessing was far too cold for those Texans.  Also, it was a "White Out" so it was LOUD.  I didn't score tickets in the student lottery, so I watched it from my couch.  Oh, here's a bit of trivia: at PSU we say "WE ARE PENN STATE!"  This started because of our last game against SMU in 1948.  

Oh, back in July I wrote a blog entry wondering what I would do if fascism won the election.  It did.  And they've already started clamping down of TG people.  In any case, I decided what I'm going to do.  I'm staying here.  There are a few reasons.  The first is that Linda doesn't have a passport, and I won't leave without her.  Second is that I simply don't have the money to leave.  Third is that if I left, I'd feel guilty for leaving.  I can't leave and let my transgender sisters fight on without me.  I've fought all my life (and have the scars to prove it), and I won't stop now.  Fascists need to be fought.  To do any less is to dishonor everyone who fought it last time- in the 40s.  

In any case, that's all I have.  Enjoy whatever holidays you observe.  Be well.

"Hear my Voice" Original Poem for Penn State TDOR 2024.

I wrote and read this for Penn State's Transgender Day of Remembrance- Nov 15, 2024.  The you tube video is my recording of it ( Listen HERE) .  In two places, I spelled sentences out phonetically to aid in my pronunciation.  (This is my reading copy)

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Hear My Voice

Sophie Kandler, TDOR 2024

 

TRIGGER WARNINGS: VIOLENCE, MURDER, SUICIDE 

 

Four hundred eleven killed worldwide in the past year.  Four hundred eleven names.   

Sixty-nine dead here in the US.  Not a record- 73 were killed in 2022. 

Sixty-nine names. Sixty-nine lives.  Sixty-nine stories.  Sixty-nine endings. 

 

My name is Righteous Torrence Hill, but my friends call me Chevy.   

I ran an Atlanta salon where black LGBTQ people could feel safe and be themselves.   

I was 35 in March when my freeloading cousin shot me in front of my home. 

He has yet to be found by the police. 

Hear my voice. 

 

I’m Kitty Monroe, a Latina transgender woman from Phoenix, Arizona.   

I was the sole caregiver for my infirm mother from Mexico, and now I’m gone.  

How? I was 43 when on New Years Day 2024, I was chased by a man and woman, and the man kept beating me on the back with a gun until I collapsed.   

He then got into his pickup truck and ran over me.  I was then accidentally hit by another car.   

Neither the couple nor the other driver, who fled the scene, have ever been identified.   

The police and press misgendered and dead named me.   

Escucha mi voz.  (EssKOOCHah me vohs.)   

Hear my voice.  

 

My name is Serenity Birdsong.   

I was 21 when I killed myself in the Middle Tennessee State University Library on October 28.  

 Friends said I had the ability to light up a room.     

I wrote a poem once that contained the lines: 

But all in all, that which I hope most 

Is to spend time with those I love before I’m a ghost. 

I had no close family- just chosen family. 

Not enough.  Not enough. 

Hear my voice. 

 

Call me Joan.  You may have heard of me.   

Back in 1431, I was burned at the stake three times until my body was ash.   

They wanted to charge me with 70 crimes, then 12, but the only one they could convict me on was crossdressing.   

While the church has since apologized and tried to make amends, I’m still just as dead. 

My ashes drifted away in the river.  I was only 19. 

Some things never change.  

Entends ma Voix (EEcoot ma vwah.)  Hear my voice. 

 

I have no name.   

Maybe I just disappeared into homelessness and died in a tenement, unidentified.   

Maybe I found more comfort stepping out into traffic than from my parents who rejected me. 

Maybe I was murdered, and my bones still molder in a shallow grave somewhere.  

Or maybe they found me, but the police didn’t bother to look for my killer.   

After all, what’s another dead prostitute anyway? 

Maybe I was found, but deadnamed and my truth never told.   

Not a name- just a statistic.   

I am a number cited by advocates and scholars.   

But once I lived, loved, and had dreams- like you.   

And like you, I am a story waiting to be told. 

 

Where’s your voice? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

58 and 11

As I write this, it's mid September.  Long time readers know that I hate September more than Green Day does.  I was thrown out from my family very late August (that counts), I last saw Lisa Empanada in September, and she died Sept 17.  Then there was the funeral. All of these events were in 2013: eleven years ago.  But there's another reason I hate September that repeats every year so far- my birthday, which this year fell on a Friday.  Friday the 13th.  Insert joke here.  Oh, in case you're interested, I was born on a Tuesday, not Friday, despite my bad luck.  

Friday, September 13, 2024

I'm now 58, a fact I don't hide.  So many don't get this far (Lisa was 52.)  I don't deserve to be this age.  I planned to exit quietly when I turned 50, and a few times before that (like when I was 24.) I absolutely wanted to drink myself to death before I was thirty.  

What have I accomplished this past year?

Absolutely nothing.  

I am still at the exact same point in my PhD studies now as I was at this time last year (I wrote about that here.)  In fact, with the exception of a presentation I did on LGBTQ history at Penn State, I haven't written anything aside from the occasional blog entry and a sparse amount in writing notebooks.  I've sat in front of my computer, staring at the IRB screen for hours, blankly.  I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, or hugging a pillow for dear life.  I no longer have hobbies.  My therapist no longer takes my insurance.  I spent Christmas night in the Emergency room in agony.  No more gall bladder.  Over $10,000 in medical debt.  A Group of coworkers turned me down for a job for which I was very qualified (and, when I re-applied after the job was re-posted, HR said I "wasn't qualified.")  Oh, and 45 has a very real chance of winning the election and implementing his fascistic "Project 2025" which will mean suffering and death for many, including people like me. (Yes, I've read the whole 900+ pages- and I urge you to do so as well.)

Ok, but as several people I know would say- let's look at the positive.  I received a fellowship which covered fall tuition.  That helped.  As a last resort, I started a GoFundMe for my debt which raised almost $5,000.  That didn't cover everything but combined with settling up payment plans, it made the medical debt almost manageable.  Using the fellowship, I was able to purchase student insurance that covers so much more than what I had previously- including dental, which means I can get long needed dental work.  I've lost over thirty pounds which put me back into pre-diabetic stage (and means I can fit in a few things again.)  I saw Wife and daughter this weekend, and we had a nice lunch.  

So it is, the positive and negative.  

I often wonder what Lisa would be like today, had she lived until now.  Would she be happy?  Would she be at peace?  What would she think of the world today, and the situation people like us face?  What  would she think of me now, and who I have become?  

Lisa and Ally (who posted this pic), undated.

Obviously, no one will ever know the answers.  Tuesday will mark eleven years since Lisa was found.  For nearly all that time, Lisa's earthly self has resided in various urns and small amounts of ash scattered at various locations.  Those who knew her can only guess, wonder, and endure.  

Eleven years.  Yes, time has assuaged some of pain.  Time does that- it's one of the few favors it allows.  There is still, and will always be, an empty part of my soul, and what is left of my heart.  That part was ripped away when she decided to die.  She died alone, as she planned, with none to stop her.  

This week, I remember Lisa, and also cope with age- something she never had to do.  

Be well.

Branches and Paths

The other day marked five years since returning to State College for my PhD.  I wrote about it HERE and HERE, if you care.  For five years, I've worked on my degree- filling my head with academic articles, books, experiences, losses.  For the past two though, I've been kinda stalled.  I'll come back to this.

I've written here and elsewhere that Penn State is my happy place, and, if I could not live with Wife and Daughter, I may as well be in my happy place.  I dragged Linda (roomie/bestie) with me, and I don't know if she's happy about that.  (I think not, really.) In any case, for the past five years, my life has revolved around academia.  Eventually, I found a series of jobs, both at Wegmans and, for the past three years, here at the LGBT Center (I mention that a bit HERE.)

Since returning, I've taken a LOT of pictures (2,444 as of this second).  It's easy when one has access to a camera on the phone at all times.  I didn't have many photos from my undergrad days, and the ones I had were done with borrowed cameras.  Most of those were for the fraternity scrapbook, which, like the negatives, are lost.  I guess I'm making up for that a bit.  

One of the subjects I photograph often are the pathways here.  They honeycomb the campus like a spiderweb on LSD.  I can't stop thinking about the metaphor they represent.  The paths branch, going to different destinations, or just different paths to the same destination.  When I was in undergrad, I occasionally would take a longer route than necessary to reach my destination (when I wasn't running late.)  I didn't think twice about it, but in truth, each of these choices, conscious or unconscious, changed my life.  Had I taken a different way, say back to the fraternity house, who knows who I would've met?  What could've happened.  Perhaps I would've been hit by a car, or met the love of my life.    

And that's the metaphor of the Paths.  They represent the different paths a life could take- especially when one is younger, say, college age.  Who would I have become had I stayed at Drexel?  What if I got that job at National Records and never had to apply to Burger King, where I would meet the people who defined my Penn State experience for good and ill.  What if I decided "fuck those guys" when I received the cold reception at the fraternity and found a different group of people to hang with?  Who would I be today?

Would I even be alive?

It's a cliche to say that our choices, even the smallest ones, can change and define our lives.  Now in my late  fifties, so much of my life is set in stone.  I can't change my past.  I can't change who I am, or what I've done.  I have a daughter, and that's forever.  while some of the people I've met pass like shadows, others left deep marks and scars on my soul.  (What I hadn't gone to the Raven that night in January 2012, and met Lisa?)  

Nothing is permanent in life.  While I will always have a daughter, the nature of my relationship with her can/will change.  Life itself is temporary- a heartbeat in time.  Moments pass.

Which brings me back to that whole stalled thing.  I've been stuck in the same place in my path for two years.  Some of it has been deep depression.  Some of it has been fear- the fear of Failure, and yes, of the remote possibility of success.  But recently I think I figured out what my major malfunction is: I don't want it to end.  I don't want to leave PSU again.  Leaving in December '88 (and graduating in May '89), threw me into a very dark place.  I would've given ANYTHING to come back and be a student again- to return to that time.  

I was obsessed with it.  Hell, I even wrote a book about that time, trying to figure out what about that time could've caused such a depression when, really, most of the time I really didn't have a pleasant experience.  My brothers were cold to me, my girlfriend cheated, my grades were meh... Why did I want to go back?

But I am back.  I am such a different person now, and much older, which makes me outside the 'target audience.' But there's another big anchor... 

Here I'm employed.  I have a job.  I spent so long after the bookstore fired me on the unemployment line, sending hundreds of resumes and hearing nothing.  Rejection after rejection.  Here I have a job.  Yes, it's part time, but on some days I feel like I actually make a difference- my path intersects another person's.  That I'm actually worth something, if only for a moment.  

My path returned me here.  I fought to get my place, and I've managed to continue while others from my cohort... didn't.  I'm striving to reach the peak of the academic ladder.  I never in my wildest dreams expected my path to lead here.  Then again, I never expected my path to take me to transition.  I thought/hoped/prayed that my path would end before my thirtieth birthday.  And again on my fiftieth.

September 1986.  Pic by Chuck Fong

My road brought me here.  And, as before, I'm afraid to leave.  I'm afraid of failure.  I'm afraid of success.  I'm afraid of unemployment again.  So much for "rush[ing] in where angels fear to tread" (Alexander Pope, 1709.)  So I stare at the ceiling.  I walk around campus, following old paths I trod long ago.  Again.

Tolkien wrote in Fellowship of the Rings: “It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.”  

So true.

Be well.