First Dressing

Another new bit of my book.  I'm writing interludes about my transition as "in between semester" bits.  So meta!

            Back in the seventies, kids were left alone all the time.  “Just be home when the street lights come on” was the common time limit.  Still, being left for a weekend at thirteen?  That showed trust…

Interlude II: First dressing

Saturday, October 6, 1979.  Pope Firmly Depends [sic] Church Restriction On Contraception

Wow!  I couldn't believe my parents agreed to the idea!  They and John went to the house in Delaware that dad was fixing up for the weekend… and I got to stay behind ALONE.  John was on the football team, but they had an off weekend with no game.  As dad also had off that weekend, off they went. 

Interlude II: First dressing

Saturday, October 6, 1979.  Pope Firmly Depends [sic] Church Restriction On Contraception

Wow! I couldn't believe my parents agreed to the idea!  They and John went to the house in Delaware that dad was fixing up for the weekend… and I got to stay behind ALONE. John was on the football team, but they had an off weekend with no game, As dad also had off that weekend, off they went.

My jobs were threefold:

One- deliver papers for John's Evening Phoenix paper route. In addition to my own.

Two- take care of the dog

Three- Make sure the house doesn't burn down.

The third one sounds like a joke, but it wasn't.  During the previous summer (1978), there were a series of arson fires in a house across the street. The fifth killed four people: Father, mother, and two sons, the youngest of whom was John's age. The one daughter was convicted of murder.  

In any case, I was ready for this weekend.

Sears Catalogue 1979.  I had this outfit (note the clogs!)

Once the previous spring, while the rest of the family were a way visiting relatives, I tentatively tried on one of my mom's dresses.  By then, I was able to articulate my dark secret: inside I was a girl.  That made me a freak. I also had to make sure I never, ever, let anyone guess that truth.  Learned that the hard way when I was four.

In any case, I tried on one of mom's dresses.  It was way too big on me.  I felt so guilty.  What was I doing?  Stupid, STUPID FREAK!  She would figure out I did this.  How would I explain it?  I was going to be caught!  Add to that the whole idea of me being in a dress to begin with…   After some guilty and desperate thought, I figured I would feel less guilty if the clothes I tried were my own.

So, using the paper route money, I ordered some things from the Sears and JCPenney catalogs:  A dress that should fit my short, tiny frame, a skirt, blouse, and (Horrors!) a bra!  As I was always home from school before anyone else came home, it was easy to intercept any packages in the mail.   Then it was just a matter of waiting for an opportunity.  Hiding the clothes was easy: my bedroom was in the attic and was also the family storeroom. I hid everything among the boxes and things.  No one ever found them.

So, this weekend, I was going to try on this... this… gay freak girly stuff.   And I did!  I used bunched up tube socks to fill the bra cups. (Eventually, I’d use water balloons.)  The clothes pretty much fit.  Lucky me.  And what’s with the buttons being backwards?  Anyway, I borrowed a wig that Mom never wore anymore and looked in the mirror.     

Oh God! I looked TERRIBLE!  Like a boy in a dress!  But past the guilt and shame, I felt… What was this feeling?  Years later, I figured it out.

I felt Right.  At Peace.

Yes, I looked awkward and ugly, but I felt that I finally was seeing myself.  Who I should have been all along.

 

Over time, my presentation improved.  As the girls in school were changing- blossoming, I was left behind. But for these short, blessed times, I could pretend I wasn't.  I could be the girl I was inside.  I knew eventually I would hit puberty (I was thirteen), and it would change me into something… I didn't want to be.

I just had to be very careful in these times.  If I were caught...  I didn’t even want to think about it.

But for those fleeting moments, I had peace. 

 

 

I never dared dream that the girl in the mirror would someday become a woman.

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.

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.

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.

To Run or...?

As my readers know, I follow politics closely.  I have to, as it seems that so few are paying attention.  For example, as I've posted here, on TG Forum, and on facialbook:

The GOP made clear its plans "Eradication" (see Project 2025, also CPAC march 2023), Trump said "On day one, I will sign a new executive order to cut federal funding for any school pushing critical race theory, transgender insanity, and other inappropriate racial, sexual, or political content onto the lives of our children" (TPUSA speech, June 15, 2024)  

Anti- trans bills skyrocketed from 143 in 2021 (18 passed) to 600 (87 passed) in 2023. In 2024, there have already been 625 bills (47 passed) and we’re only 1/2 through the year. (https://translegislation.com/)...

A careful reading of Project 2025 states intent: 

Project 2025 wants to label our very existence as ‘pornographic’ and threatening to children, which to them is punishable by execution.

“Pornography, manifested today in the omnipresent propagation of transgender ideology and sexualization of children, for instance, is not a political Gordian knot inextricably binding up disparate claims about free speech, property rights, sexual liberation, and child welfare. It has no claim to First Amendment protection. Its purveyors are child predators and misogynistic exploiters of women. Their product is as addictive as any illicit drug and as psychologically destructive as any crime.  Pornography should be outlawed. The people who produce and distribute it should be imprisoned. Educators and public librarians who purvey it should be classed as registered sex offenders [emphasis mine]. And telecommunications and technology firms that facilitate its spread should be shuttered.” (Project 2025, p.5)

 “[The next conservative Administration] should also pursue the death penalty for applicable crimes—particularly heinous crimes involving violence and sexual abuse of children [emphasis mine]—until Congress says otherwise through legislation. [footnote referenced]”. (p. 554).

Oh, what does the footnote say? “This could require seeking the Supreme Court to overrule Kennedy v. Louisiana, 554 U.S. 407 (2008), in applicable cases, but the department should place a priority on doing so.” (p. 576)

554 U.S. 407 reads “Sentencing a defendant to death for any crime other than homicide or crimes against the state is unconstitutional per se under the Eighth Amendment.” (“Kennedy v. Louisiana, 554 U.S. 407 (2008)”)

So... Eradication.  45 is currently leading in polls thanks to an "assassination attempt."  (Sorry- I'm not buying it- I believe it was staged.)  If he wins, the US becomes a dictatorship.  The GQP has already declared its plans (see above.)  

Would I be "safe" in a college town?  Would my door be kicked in at 2 am some night?  Or will Linda or me be pulled over and arrested for being ourselves?  I really don't know.  After all Penn State is a tiny Blue dot in an ocean of Red.  Once one leaves State College, Cult flags, signs, bumper stickers, hats, and tattoos are very common.  

So... should I leave?

With my cousins in Glasgow, Scotland, 2018.

I've explored fleeing to the UK.  I'm eligible for dual citizenship, as my mum and her side of the family are/were British subjects.  There are many hoops to jump through, but it's do-able.  Or I could ask for Political Asylum.  Is the UK ideal?  No- it has its problems, especially with TERFs.  But the UK hasn't said people like me are sex offenders to be "eradicated."

And, should I leave, how long would it be before I see Wife and Daughter again?  I've already missed so much of Daughter's life- fleeing means I'd miss years more.  Wife and Daughter are my life.  

Then there's the issue of Linda.  If she's to come with me (as I hope she would) she will need her passport, which takes time.  That's IF she wants to come along.  As she's not full time, she might be safe.  Might.  

My studies?  I could do that anywhere- including overseas if necessary.  For example, I could/would mov back to SEPa (to be closer to Wife and Daughter) if I thought I had a prayer of finding a job back there.  But, as experience has shown me, I don't- so I haven't.  Besides, Linda and I both HATE moving.  (Going overseas would entail leaving almost everything behind.)

Then there's another issue.  I read a LOT of books about the Maquis and the French Resistance in WW2.  Some of them fled France, only to return later as Allied operatives, trained by British and US intelligence (Jedburghs is one of the names of this program.)  Let's face it- I'm too old and broken for military training, and being obviously transgender means I don't blend in.  So, if I leave, it's for the duration.

I know people who fled from middle eastern countries due to dictatorships- people who fought for the freedom of these countries.  Their choice was to come to the US, survive, and continue their work here in some manner.  

But I Love my country.  Like so many others, I would die for it. Is it better to stay and fight the fascists at my age, probably disappear into a camp or jail somewhere, or to flee, live, an agitate from abroad?   Where could I do the most to help transgender people who are like myself and people dear to me? 

I have several friends who have already made plans to relocate to Mexico, Canada, or even Australia.  Such a move (like to the UK) would cost money I don't have.  Heck, I'm far behind in my bills and we literally have one day of food left in the apartment with no money to get more.  How would I afford to emigrate- even, say, to Canada, which is only a four-hour drive away (to the Peace Bridge, anyway)?  

Another question is this: should the US become a fascist Christian Nationalist theocratic oligarchy (which is what Project 2025 documents,) how long would it be before the Constitution is restored?  45 can't live forever, that's true, but he has sons to whom he could pass power, or to hand-picked (and/or Putin appointed) sycophantic successors.  The last time the world faced such a dictatorship, it cost 6 years and a conservative estimate of 85 MILLION lives to dislodge- most of those deaths due to genocide- and that was BEFORE nuclear weapons threatened global annihilation.  And if 45 wins, the button triggering those weapons would be in the hands of a madman.  

So, dear reader, I ask: what would YOU do in my shoes?  Stay? Go? 

Be well.

Helping a Dad

I mention occasionally that I work for the campus LGBTQ Center here at Penn State.  PSU is still between Maymester and the start of Summer semester, so there are few students here, but the Center is still open.  One event that happens is New Student Orientation (NSO) which happens all summer.  During this time, groups of new students attend a two-day orientation here, along with their parents.  The students stay together in a couple of dorms, while the parents stay wherever.  

One of the activities for NSO is the Organizational Fair, where the students and parents see tables staffed by various organizations (orgs) and can get information and swag.  Of course, the Center is there, and we have the most colorful table and swag.  Go figure- lots of rainbows.  Like my fellow staff, I take my turns working at the table.  I see a mix of just parents, kids and parents, and just kids.  Sometimes I get the evil eye from grown-ups who steer their kids far around our table (so they don't "catch the gay" I guess), or adults alone who glare.  That's part of the fun.  I give them my sweetest smile.  

Last August's issue of Town and Gown

Sometimes I see a student walk by with parents, looking at the table but not stopping.  By now, I can tell which ones will be back without their parents- the ones who are closeted.  Occasionally a parent stops alone, anxiously asking questions about the Center and about the environment of PSU for LGBTQ students.  Fortunately, PSU has come a long way from my undergrad days in the 80s in many things, and one of them is with LGBTQ.  Penn State is ranked #2 in the country by Campus Pride for LGBTQ acceptance and policies.  It's still not perfect, but it's far better than many places. 

Ok, that's a long introduction to an encounter I had yesterday.  I was not working the table, but I was working.  A parent came into the Center- maybe about my age- said he works for the University, and that his stepdaughter will be attending PSU this fall, and she is transgender.  Dad wanted to know about transgender healthcare, acceptance, policies... the whole schmear.  

I showed him the pamphlets about those very topics, and while there answered all of his questions.  Where can she get hormones?  Are there therapists with Gender diverse experience?  What about doctors?  Is there a place she can get hair removal done?  And of course: will she be "safe" here?

The answers are all in the pamphlets, but I answered them one by one.  Yes, the University has a transgender health team which includes therapists.  Yes, she can get hormones here (after a screening), and they are covered by student insurance.  Hair removal services are available in town.  As far as safety- this generation is far more accepting than ours (he and mine) ever were- being transgender just isn't that big of a deal to most kids... to a point.  She'll be as safe as any woman is here at PSU assuming she is smart: never go to parties alone.  Always keep your drink with you.  Never go upstairs at a fraternity house unless you really KNOW the people you're going with.  All the precautions that co-eds must take because some guys can be predatory.  Is there anti- trans prejudice here?  Yes.  But it's far far better than many places.  And the Center can help when it happens.  We also have a mentorship program here at the Center of which I am a part, to help guide them through the obstacles that transition and school throw at people.

So, I told him all of this.  Me- a transgender woman wearing a tank top and peasant skirt, a parent of a daughter, and a Penn State alumna, answered all of his questions again and again.  I walked him through the pamphlets.  

Last week

When I finished, you'd think I gave him front row seats to see his favorite band.  He was happy- no, Joyful- and so many of his fears were assuaged.  She will be coming to NSO later this summer, and she will stop by the Center.  I think the answers he sought were more for him than her.  Him- a concerned supportive parent.  A loving parent who wants the best for his child.  

The whole encounter lasted maybe twenty minutes, and when it ended, he went on his way, beaming.  I went back to the desk and told my (undergrad) coworkers about the encounter.  But I didn't tell them everything.

I didn't tell them how the encounter made me feel.  I really feel that I made a difference yesterday in the people's lives.  I felt like I DID something.  Usually I feel utterly worthless, and that I'm just a waste of oxygen... but not yesterday.  I did something.  I felt... good.  Worthwhile.  That's a rare feeling for me.

Last night, I spoke to Wife on the phone and told her that story.  After, I told my roomie/bestie Linda.  She asked why I didn't tell her the story earlier in the evening (it was around 10).  I replied that it wasn't that big of a deal, and I didn't think she'd be interested.  She disagreed.  Linda said that these are the stories she WANTS to hear.  These are the stories I should post on facialbook or here in the blog.  Stories of something good.

So, there you have it, dear readers.  A happy story for a change.  Thank Linda.

Be well.

Traniversary Ten: a Decade in the Open

Ten years ago today, March 25, 2014, (well really around 11 PM the night before), I declared to the world that I am Sophie.  I began living my Truth.  I was 47 years old.  I'd previously told close friends either face to face or via a YouTube video I made.  

The results?  I lost 90% of my friends (many of whom vowed to support me then vanished); never received another job offer for Instructional design (my masters degree); my marriage (which was really tossed when I was thrown out months before); and, for a time, I was disowned by my family. Happily, that is no longer the case.  After I lost my bookstore job, I couldn't find another job at all, despite sending out ten resumes a day for years.  Literally.  Even Burger King wouldn't hire me, and I had experience working there!

Left Photo credit: Cassandra Storm

In any case that first day, I spent at the Keystone Conference.  There, among the most supportive group of people a transgender woman could find, I took my first steps as a full time female.  The following Monday (March 31) is when my journey really hit reality: my first day at work as Sophie. (I wrote about that HERE.)  That's when I began to experience the misgendering, the Hate, and the worst that rich customers could throw at me, including having a local church crusade against me.  They would come in and stand 20 feet in front of me as I was behind the registers, and just stare at me.  If chased away by me or management, they'd send someone else.  This usually happened on Sundays.

However, I had support.  My friends and coworkers threw me a party on my one year anniversary as Sophie (so that's nine years ago.)  I'd never felt as loved or appreciated before or since.  My transgender friends honored me by showing up and mingling with bookstore friends, as well as people who've known me much longer.  

I must admit that this last decade has been brutal.  I dwell on all I've lost, especially my separation from Wife and Daughter.  The Darkness has almost taken me more than once.  Here at PSU, I've spent weeks when I wasn't in class or work laying down and just staring at the ceiling, wondering why I should continue to live.  It's a question I continue to ask every single morning and when I lay in bed at night.  The answer is obvious.  As Lisa used to say "one bad day..."

Fast forward to now.  I've been back at Penn State for five years studying about why cisgender people hate TG people so much that they pass laws banning us from public, vow to "eradicate" us, call us groomers and pedophiles, drive us to suicide, and murder us.  (RIP Nex.)  My roomie/bestie is here with me.  I've made some friends and acquaintances, but for the most part I've been isolated from the transgender community.  There are no transgender events like there were back home like Angela's Laptop Lounge. That's why going to Keystone was such a joy this past weekend.  

So it's been ten years: a decade.  Yes, I have changed.  I've learned what Hell is like, that Hope Lies, and that things can ALWAYS be worse.  I also learned how much small gestures of kindness can mean the world to a person (like me.)  I have learned a lot about anti-transgender hate, to the point that I am now considered an expert in the field (PhD ABD does that.)  Reading about all this hate really puts things in perspective and does damage to my soul- how could it not?  In any case, I've made it to ten years.

So, how will I mark this occasion?  Well, money is tight, and rent is due soon.  And bills, so many bills.  That means I probably won't go out, or if I do, it will be only for a drink across the street (I live across from a restaurant.)  I'll probably toast the day with some Glenmorangie.  No party this year.  No feast of friends.  Alive she cried. 

Just another day.

Be well.

March and Keystone Coming

I haven't written anything here in a bit.  All the usual reasons: depression, depression, and laziness.  Depression includes a huge smack in the face near Christmas, which I wrote about HERE.  This weekend (I'm writing this on Sunday) I've seen a lot of reminders on social media that we are approaching the anniversary of covid- four years ago all of our lives changed here in the US.  There is a definite divide between pre-covid and post covid (not that we're post covid.  It's still killing people, but not at the rate it was before.)  I'd guess those deaths continue to be among the elderly, those with compromised immune systems, and anti-vaxxers.  (I wrote my TG Forum column on this topic; highlighting 45's inaction in the face of mass death.  That comes out on 3/11/2024.) 

It's true that the pandemic, in addition to killing hundreds of thousands of Americans and globally, showed us the depth of 45's incompetence and genuine lack of morals.  A human being would do everything in their power to stop the pandemic.  He essentially let the states fight over the limited number of respirators available (giving preference to the states he won, of course.) 

As of this writing, 1,183,143 Americans have died of covid (Source: CDC).  Globally, the number is 7,004, 680.  That's 17% of all US deaths here in the US.  Yet we're only 4.3% of the world's population.  I fault that horrific difference squarely on the shoulders of 45 and the GQP.  

Not that my opinion matters.

In any case, the 14th annual Keystone Conference is March 20-24 in Harrisburg, PA.  I'll be there on Saturday, if only to keep my streak of never having missed a Keystone going.  Last year I left early as I was so depressed I couldn't stand to be around people.  I knew I was a "wet blanket" and didn't want to bring anyone else down.  I drove back to State College through a driving rain.  I didn't attend the gala (I donated my dinner to someone else.)  

Keystone 2023 with Gina (L) and Samantha (R)

Keystone is now one of the premier social TG conferences in America, taking its place with First Event and Fantasia Fair.  (I'm sure there are other big ones I don't know about.)  I remember the first one- there were so few of us, and it was my first year after re-discovering myself.  Several days of being Sophie?  Absolutely!  I planned for it all year.  Outfits, gown, hotel room, makeovers... I lived for it.  And I celebrated it by being drunk through most of it, unless I was presenting, of course.  I'm not presenting this year.  I didn't present last year.  No one cares about what I have to say anyway.

Keystone coverage usually covered multiple blog entries full of stories and photos.  Before the first one, I wrote: 

"I don't know if I'll fit in. There I said it. I don't know that I will look good enough, act correctly, etc, to fit into the group. I mean, I'm still new at this. I know that sisters welcome each other with open arms and hearts but I'm STILL a wreck.

Adding to this, I'm lying to my wife, work, and everyone to come here. No one knows that I'm driving to Harrisburg to be a woman for a couple of days. No one but me and my sisters."

Me at the first Keystone: 2009

Yes, things change.  I no longer care about fitting in, because I don't.  Full stop.  But my worries are typical for TG girls going to their first conference.  I was terrified to leave the hotel room.  I hear that each year from new girls.  Yes, it is terrifying to defy the male "normal" and say "I'm a woman."  It can even be fatal.  Just ask the family of Nex Benedict.  Will they ever get justice for their murder?  In Oklahoma, they won't.  

I go to Keystone to see old friends and perhaps meet new ones.  The thrill of several days of being Sophie is gone, since I've been full time for almost ten years.  (My tranniversary is March 25.  Ten years.  I can't believe I'm still here.)  Maybe I'll write something to mark the occasion.  Maybe I'll even go out.  Probably not in either case.  Well, maybe on the blog entry.  Ten years out is milestone that many don't live to reach.  March 25 falls on a Monday this year.  

In any case, I'm still here and still working on my PhD.  Doing the dissertation thing now, beginning my research.  If all goes well, I'll graduate in December.  More than likely it will be May.  My dad said he would be here to see me graduate.  No word on whether Wife or Daughter would attend.  

That's all.

Be well. 

Simple Spiderman from the Past

 I grew up in an old row house built in the 1870s I think.  My brother and I shared a room on the top floor, which had small windows and a small wooden closet, painted white.  It was very hot in the summer and freezing in the winter as we used a wood stove for heat, and it was on the first floor.  

Sometime when I was very young, my mum cut out a picture of Spiderman from a comic, and taped it to the closet wall, where it joined some other things long forgotten.  I figured I was around three at that time, so 1969. Somehow, that Spiderman lasted for a long time- the tape never failed, and it was never ripped down by anyone's temper or play.  

The Spiderman cut-out

In the early 90s, my brother moved out and I knew it was a matter of time until I did as well.  The room we'd shared as toddlers had become his and was now vacant.  Spiderman still waited, taped to the closet- the sole decorative survivor.  I decided to keep it.  I removed it as carefully as I could, losing only part of his leg, and put it in my scrapbook, where it remains.

The other day, I was searching through that scrapbook (for a color version of my high school graduation photo, if you must know), and saw Spiderman, still there decades after I put him in the book.  I looked at him.  Now, over time, I've become knowledgeable about comic books and comic book artists, but I wasn't sure who did the art.  I knew it wasn't Steve Ditko, as he had already left the book by then.  Could it be John Romita Sr?  Possibly, but it didn't look like his work.  In all these decades, I never knew who drew that Spiderman (or which Spiderman issue it came from.)  

Fortunately, these days there's the Internet.  I'm on a Facialbook group called Marvel Comics 1961 to 1989.  I figured that if ANYONE would be able to answer the conundrum of who drew that Spiderman, they would.  So, I took a photo of Spiderman in my scrapbook, cropped it, and posted it with my question.  

Wow- did they ever!  Within two hours, someone not only figured out the artists, but knew the issue and everything.  The artists were John Romita Sr. (pencils) and Mickey Demeo (Mike Esposito) (inks), though some people think that Esposito may have done some of the penciling too.  The picture was from Amazing Spider Man issue #83, page 19, third panel: published April 1, 1970.  When asked how he found it so fast, said Archivist wrote "I just scroll digital copies. We knew the time frame so I started at ASM 90 and went backwards."  (I'd name the guy, but as I don't have his permission, I won't.) 

Spiderman #83, page 19.  No challenge to copyright intended.

Spiderman #83, cover.  No challenge to copyright intended.

So, assuming the comic was recent when mum cut this out, I was three years old, and that picture is, as of this writing, 53 years old.   I don't remember anything about this story (go figure), but I was reading by this time.  I read the issue summary, and it rang no bells.  Maybe someday when I have spare money, I'll hunt down this back issue at a comic store local to wherever I am then.  You know, out of curiosity.

To this day, I don't remember why mum cut out this picture and hung it.  I liked Spiderman as did my brother, but he wasn't my favorite (that would be Superman.)  Maybe the issue was pretty beat up (by two toddlers) and mum was throwing it out, and to assuage my brother and I, she cut out the picture.  I don't know, and with mum gone these two years now, I can't ask her.  

I have very few fragments remaining from my early childhood.  In fact, I think this may be the last surviving trace.  But there it is- taped inside a scrapbook I filled (almost) decades ago.  Knowing a little more about it answers some questions, yes.  

I wish all questions could be answered so "easily."

Be well.

Dream of a House

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Deserted

 This entry will be short.

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

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

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

As you can imagine, I'm a mess.

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

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.

Tentative post: Bike on a Hill

One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.  One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.

In any case, I write about dreams often.  I even have a "dream journal" I keep next to my bed, so that if a particularly vivid dream hits, I can write it down before it fades from memory.  [Insert bit about dreams being portents and signs and such.]  Last night, a dream re-visited, however briefly, an incident from my childhood that, while I haven't forgotten it (and have a scar to remind me), I haven't thought about it in a long time.  

I learned to ride a two wheel bike fairly early in life- first or second grade.  My older brother (OB) taught me.  His bike had no training wheels, so he'd push me down a hill in a parking lot, and, at the base of the hill (where there was sediment gravel near a drain) is where I'd intentionally ditch the bike, as it was too big for my feet to touch the ground.  Crash!  Scrape!  Minor road rash.  "I wanna do it again!"  After a few trips down the hill, I'd mastered the necessary balance, and went into the house dirty, bloody, and happy.  Within a day or three, my dad (on a rare day off) removed the training wheels from my smaller bike, and off I went with my new found freedom!  

From an ad- the bike I had.

Maybe a year or two later, my parents got me a bigger kid's bike from K-Mart for my birthday.  That's the vehicle upon which this tale concerning Newton's Second Law of Motion takes place.  This bike, like all bikes of that type, had coaster brakes, which means if you pedal backwards, that would slam on the brakes, and you'd come to a quick-ish stop.  And if you did this as a skid, you'd look "BOSS!"  (Yeah, that was a thing in the 70s).  The weakness of coaster brakes was that the bike chain needed to be on to work.  Bike sprockets back then would bend if you crashed enough, which meant the chain could "pop" off.  An easy fix if one is stopped.  I think you can see where this is going.  

As I've written before, the street where I grew up was on a steep hill.  Hall street was about three blocks long.  West to east, the first block was flat, the second block was a steep-ish hill (and was closed after snow storms for sledding), and third block, upon which I lived, was far steeper with a slight bend to northeast.  At the bottom of my block was Main St, and across from that, the foundry and a driveway leading to the creek.  

 

In that order.

Current USGS Topographic Map

Using google maps and equations I looked up (hey- physics class was almost 40 years ago!), the second block descended at an angle of 350 degrees (slope -0.167) and my block was 338 deg, slope -0.4.  QED.

One summer's afternoon, I decided to walk my bike to the top of the hill and ride to Church Street (top of my part of the street) for a quick thrill.  After all, it was summer, I had a bike, and why not?  ZOOM!  SKIIIIIID!  Maybe do it again.  Hey!  Maybe if I practiced skidding enough, I'd do it cool enough that the older kids on the block would be impressed and pick on me less for being girly!  One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.

Still with me?

So up I went, uphill, barefoot, (shoes in the summer?  Oh please!) to the top of the hill.  Of course, I'd be pedaling as well down the hill to reach maximum speed so the skid would have maximum coolness!  And... they're off!  In my mind I was pursuing an enemy plane, and catching up for the kill!  Nearing the bottom by the police station, I decided to slow a bit before doing the spectacular skid, and...

The chain popped.  No brakes!

The trip

I zoomed through stop sign and intersection fast enough that I didn't want to ditch.  Preacher's yard?  No I'd hit the curb and wreck.  Now the steeper hill... no brakes!  Mounted the sidewalk using a driveway about half way down...Zoomed past my house doing 0.5 past light speed.  At this point, I had the brilliant idea of slowing by dragging my left foot on the pavement!  I forgot- no shoes!  Scrape!  Owwww!

Angle into the fire house parking lot, maybe ditch there?  No going too fast... oh shit!  I'll run straight out onto Main Street into traffic!  I'll be crushed!  

Lower hill.  The red X is where I put down my foot

By the time I reached Main street, I was easily doing warp 9.7.  Leaned into turning to the right, hoping not to flip and... into the street!  Fortunately, no cars were coming.  Main street was flattish, so the bike eventually slowed after a couple of blocks, and I put my feet down to stop and OUCH!  I left a bloody footprint from my left foot.  I ended up stopping next to a yard, hauled my bike onto the sidewalk and turned it over to fix the chain.  Then I lay on the grass, my left foot finally sending signals of intense pain.  

Don't cry- only babies cry... only girls cry...

I don't remember riding back to my house or dressing the wound (my mum probably did that with mercurochrome- the red-orange cure all that stung like crazy!)  In any case, this dressing made me don sneakers for at least a month to avoid infecting the injury, which of course happened anyway, and left me limping, which made me useless for what few games I'd be invited to join by the neighborhood kids.  One of the problems with having a blog so long is that I forget if I've written about this or that.  I don't like repeating myself.

Speaking of those kids- no one saw my epic death-defying stunt.  At all.  So obviously, it never happened.  If a bike crashes on the street and no one sees it...  OB knew I was hurt, knew it was bike related, and, being an older brother, made fun of me.  (As I would've had the positions been reversed.)  

In any case, said infection led eventually to a Planter's wart (how??) and in either case left the third visible scar on my body (after the Arrow-Chisel Affair and the Bat-rope Rusty Nail Episode.)

Right- so the Dream.  This dream was unusual in that I didn't have to be somewhere and by going, end up further from my destination.  Also, I wasn't being attacked by someone who I couldn't hurt.  Nor was I being abandoned by a loved one.  No, in this case, I was driving in "Spring City", the dream version of which is older, rotting, and hillier than reality.  I stopped at the intersection of Hall and Church Streets, facing south, when I saw my young self zoom by on the bike, barefoot and yowling like Slim Pickens riding the bomb at the end of Dr. Strangelove.  (I don't remember saying or yelling anything on my escapade.)  I knew that I had to cross the intersection in my car quickly, as that bike was on an endless loop, with each lap increasing speed until... I don't know... I actually get hit?  In the dream, I crossed the intersection, and in the rear view mirror, saw young me on the bike whip past again, face distorted like I was in a 10G dive.  Part of me wanted to stop, and, when I zipped by again, try to grab me from the bike and roll into the preacher's yard.  But- I (older me) was in a dress, and that wouldn't be lady-like, and what if the neighborhood kids saw me in a dress?  I'd get beaten up for sure and they'd tell my parents and...

I woke up.  

Went to the bathroom.  3 am.  Back to bed.  No more dreams for me tonight, thanks, I'm driving!

Looking back now- remembering how I felt careening out of control on that bike- I don't remember being really scared of being killed or maimed or such.  I was scared of getting in trouble for breaking the bike.

Some things never change.

FYI: Out of curiosity, I enlisted a Physics PhD candidate to help me figure out how fast I was going, and impact force had I hit a car on Main St.  By taking measurements on Google earth, and approximate heights from a topographic map, using my approximate weight at the time (plus bike), constant of friction from air and from bike tire on asphalt, he whipped out equations, calculations, and eventually determined that, depending upon certain factors such as how I was sitting on the bike for wind resistance, and tire pressure, by the time I reached Main street I was going somewhere between 40-60 mph, probably on the lower side of that range.  In a car, 35 mph is lethal upon impact, so (checks the numbers in Tefft, 2013), I had a 75-100% chance of serious injury, and a 50-90% chance of death... depending upon various factors.  So me not hitting something at the bottom of the hill was damn lucky.

Be well. 

Tefft, B. C. (2013). Impact speed and a pedestrian's risk of severe injury or death. Accident Analysis & Prevention, 50, 871-878.