Trans Books that Changed My Life

One of the people in my support group started this topic.  Most of the people chimed in quickly, but I held off.  Frankly I was too busy to write anything, but also because I wanted to narrow my field.

Most people chose the same books:  She's Not There, My Husband Betty, Whipping Girl, Wrapped in Blue...

I chose a couple of those, but not all.  My reasons are my own.

What follows is what I sent to the group, lightly edited for people's anonymity and to keep certain things private.

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I've given this a LOT of thought.  As a former English teacher (and current book store drone) I obviously read many many books.  But changed my life?  Well, some of them, weren't GD related when you first think about them.

She's Not There by Jennifer Finney Boylan

This book needs no introduction as most of you have read it.  Jenny states in Stuck in the Middle With You that she realizes that her transition was very unusual, as everything broke her way.  It was one of the first books I read on the topic BY a transwoman.  And still one of the best.  I have had the pleasure of discussing this book with JFB, and reviewing it in this blog.  I've sold MANY copies of this book at the bookstore by recommending it.

Wrapped in Blue by Donna Rose

Another early TG read.  Donna's story is so inspirational.  She endured horrific pain, and came through it stronger.  I met Donna some years ago (she is my "big sister" Mel's "big sister") and many times since.  I am proud to call her friend.  Her conversational, candid writing style is a great influence on my blog.  She is still one of my heroines.  

On The Road by Jack Kerouac

Not a TG book by any stretch of the imagination.  But it was the first "non-traditional" book I read.  It opened my mind to the possibilities of the written word- of the sentence as music.  And, most importantly, that life is about the Journey.  We are all on this journey, with its unexpected twists and turns.  And the journey will continue long after I am gone for so many.  But I will try to make that road easier for others.  Another point I took from this book is that it's OK to be different.  And I was different...

Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Dr. Hunter S. Thompson

Another non-TG book, and another non-traditional book.  This book is the single biggest influence on my writing style, and in many ways, my way of looking at things.  Sometimes one must see the absurd and call it for what it is.  Take risks.  Write honestly- even if you have to use metaphor to cushion the blow of the Truth, but always write that Truth.  No matter what the consequences to oneself.  It took me many years to accept my Truth after hiding it for so long.  I'd forgotten that one key lesson.  Always be honest with yourself.

Trans sister Radio by Chris Bohjalian

A TG book by a major cisgender author.  I was planning my transition when I was recommended this book.  It's a bit dated, but the truth it contains is still valid:  not everyone accepts us... but we must accept ourselves.  

I am Not Myself these Days by Josh Kilmer Purcell

A memoir about an advertising executive by day and drag queen by night.  I read this before that fateful Halloween 2008 when I rediscovered myself, but the cracks were beginning to show.  I was ashamed to be seen reading the book, because I felt someone would guess my secret.  In this book, I discovered an underground world so vastly different than my own, populated by strange and wonderful people who were living far more genuinely than I was.  At the end of the book, there are crossdressing tips that I followed when getting ready for Halloween 2008.  I have met JKP several times, and we periodically message each other on Facialbook.  He offers constructive criticism of my writing.  He was another example of living one's life openly and truthfully.  I've sold MANY copies of this book at the bookstore by recommending it.

You may have noticed a common thread in these books.  That's the point I think.  In the end, despite all the pain, I am living honestly.  Books can teach us a great many things, as long as our mind is open to hearing what they say, and learning.

Be Well

Discussions

I've been on vacation from work the past week.  During that time, I've done some travelling.  I've been to Richmond, Washington DC... and took lots of pictures!  And I WILL write about these in due time.  But I need to write about this first.

My last blog entry was brutal.  It was brutal to write; brutal to read.  I sent the link to my parents and my sister in law, as I knew they'd hear about it, so I wanted them to hear it from me.

I received a Facialbook message from my sister-in-law (brother's wife) and we initiated a nice dialogue.

That Tuesday, I had my daughter for the afternoon.  I was driving her through the town where I grew up when my mum called me.  I pulled the car over to the curb, and answered the phone.

Mum was quite angry.  Words were exchanged.

Now, I'd already planned to go down to southern Delaware to see them, and hopefully to talk.  Now that need to talk had grown.  That night I sent my mum a letter via email.  I will not reveal the contents, as it was private, but I will say that it was, in the end, asking for a dialogue.

Wednesday, mum called again.  We made arraignments for my visit.

Thursday morning, I drove down to Delaware.  I wasn't looking forward to this visit.  On the way down, I decided that I'd stop for lunch down in Fenwick Island: one of my favorite places, Harpoon Hannahs.  While there, I also had some drinks.  Liquid courage.  My mum finally called and asked where I was, and I headed over to my parent's place.  On the way, I stopped at one of those beach stores that was advertising a sale on summer dresses.  And I bought one.  I would wear it the next day.

I was greeted like they always did.  Hugs.  Smiles.  Mum made dinner- steak.  I walked out onto the pier, where it was windy and a little cooler.  Mum then insisted that we go grocery shopping.  I agreed, thinking that this would be where we would talk.  She generously bought Linda and I a lot of groceries, but we didn't talk about anything substantive.  We also stopped at a liquor store and picked up wine: a German white for her and a New Zealand Sauvignon blanc for me.

We went back to the house, opened her wine, and sat in the living room.  My father, as he always does, went to bed early.

That's when mum started to speak.

I have been asked not to discuss the details of the conversations I had with my parents, and rightly so.  They were private.  I will say this though:

We both had denials, posturing, threats: blunt and veiled, feints, bluffs made and called, lecturing... but finally we got down to it being two wounded people sharing their hearts with each other.  I cried.
By one AM we had finished both bottles of wine.  I was very tired.  I knew my father would speak to me in the morning.

And I had an idea of what he would say.

How would I react?  What would I say?

I woke up at 8.  Showered, shaved, put on my makeup, and put on the dress I bought the day before.  I liked the way it looked on me.  I knew my cousin Brenda was coming at 9 to take me for breakfast.  I went downstairs to the kitchen, where my dad was sitting.  He had never seen me in a dress, and looked at me for a heartbeat.  I don't know where mum was.

Me, in the new dress.  Pic by Linda after I returned home

He started to talk.  And I listened.  And countered.  Then Brenda walked in.  We went to the diner up the road and shared a nice breakfast.  She told me things about the family that I didn't know.  We had a wonderful time.  And so, Brenda became the first of my cousins to meet Sophie.  Hopefully not the last!

Brenda dropped me off.  Dad asked me to join him on the pier, and we continued.  Just as before, I will not write what we discussed.  Dad was solemn and quiet, as he spoke.  He sounded tired.  And like the night before, in the end, it was two people hurting... suffering the pain of old wounds... two hearts finally understanding each other.  Both of us, in our own way, dropped our defenses, and allowed the other in.

I will mention one thing he said.  Because it needs saying.  He apologized for the way he raised me, and for any pain that he caused.  He did this before, back in 1999, when it looked like he wouldn't survive his cancer.  Back then, I threw it back in his face.  I was angry.  Vengeful.

Not this time.

You see, my dad is a proud man.  He always has been.  He was a soldier.  Everything he has, he earned.  He all but completely rebuilt the house where he now lives.  He has worked so hard.  And now, here he was, in the twilight of his years, quietly apologizing.  That... that must've hurt.

I wanted to cry.  I wanted to hug him.  I wanted so much... but all I could do was stand there...  and accept his apology.

He said his piece, I said mine... we talked.  And the relationship we had walking out onto the pier was not the same as it now is, back from the pier.

Within ten minutes, I was on the road for Pennsylvania.  I stopped at a new Wawa on the way to get gas and sodas (gas was only $2.24/gallon, compared to the $2.67 we pay up here.)  A man opened the door for me as I left Wawa, his eyes lingering on my breasts.  I smiled and thanked him.  And went to my car.

There are some things that bear mentioning before I continue.

Before transition, I was an asshole.  Total asshole.  And that was by design.  I was angry at the world and mostly at myself.  I hated being me.  I was an empty, rotted shell, and I tried to fill that shell with alcohol.  I caused a lot of pain in my life, through my words and actions.

I like to think I'm a lot better now, but I'm still not an easy person to live with.  Ask Zoey.  Ask Linda.  Ask my Wife.  I can be a total bitch.  But now I'm not trying to be.  And I try to NOT be one.

And my parents knew that.  They knew I was angry, but they didn't know why.  And now they do.  I got into trouble a lot, and as I have written, many times it was something I didn't start.  But I am far from blameless.  Like many children, I deserved punishment from time to time.  If I've ever given the impression otherwise, I'm sorry.

One of the things I tried to explain to the both of them was how it felt growing up with such a terrible secret.  But I really couldn't make them understand.  How could they?  I guess it's a lot like a combat veteran trying to talk to someone who has not known war.  The only people who really understand are those who have been there.  And so it is with being trans.  We are the only ones who understand that pain- who know what it's like to wake up...

Every

Single

Day

wanting, needing, desperately needing... to be someone different from who they were born.  The agony of the morning.  Waking up to being male when you know that you are not.  Hiding from everyone, especially yourself.  That pain which is all consuming... and Deadly.

How do you explain that to someone who has absolutely no common point of reference?

And this is what I tried to convey to my parents.  They are trying to understand.  They really are.

My family has never been perfect.  No family is.  Everyone carries scars from their childhood, and sometimes we pass those scars down to the next generation, adding to their fresh scars.

I told my parents that I had a lot of growing up to do.  And that I've finally started to do it.  Now, growing up no longer means being a Man, which I am not.  Growing up means becoming the Woman I've always been.  I have a long way to go.

My parents are older.  And this past week, I have put them through a lot.  And for that I apologized.

But it opened the way to a dialogue- talking- which we never did before.  It truly is a new beginning for us.  There are no more secrets.  We all said our pieces.  We opened our hearts.

I love my parents.  And they love their daughter.  I sort of understood that when they accepted me back a year ago.  But I know it so much more now.  I think now I see us as a family, where I never really did before.  I took a big risk in opening my heart, as did they.  There was so much at stake.  And now I wonder what could have been.  But they don't.  No- they both said the same thing to me.  That the past is over.  We can't change it, so don't dwell on it.  Make your peace with it, and move on.

After a life time of Pain, maybe I've finally made that peace.

I sat in the Wawa parking lot, strapped into my car.  And I cried.

I cried.

Not because I was upset.  I'd cried enough of those tears in the past two days.

These were tears of Joy.

Thank you for listening to me Mum and Dad.  I love you both.

Childhood Memories: A Cousin's Question

Mum, you're not going to like this post much.  Just saying...

Like many people, I use Facialbook to occasionally communicate with family.

In my case, some of my family are very far away.  As my mum is from Scotland, fully half my family is there.  For many years, we didn't keep in touch.  However, thanks to Facialbook, I was reunited with my cousin Anne and her delightful family, and through her, to my Uncle John.  I wrote about this a couple of years ago.  Find that entry HERE.

My father is one of six children, of German/Polish descent.  My grandmother was Polish.  Dad is pretty much in the middle of the group, age wise.  The youngest of their generation died of cancer a few years back.  None of their fore-bearers lived extremely long lives (my paternal grandmother died in her 50's of cirrhosis; my paternal grandfather in his 70's of cancer) and that whole generation are already longer lived than their parents.

Right.  So all of my dad's siblings had multiple children: my cousins.  I saw a bit of them as I was growing- usually around holidays, but other times occasionally as my dad stayed close with them, and all lived relatively nearby.  I got along with pretty much all of my cousins to a degree.  There are some I haven't heard from in decades.  One example is a cousin who, the weekend before my wedding, wished to invite as a "plus one" some guy she met at a bar the night before.  As our wedding was small and on a tight budget, we said "no."  And she didn't come.  Aside from the courtesy invite to her wedding (which Wife and I attended), we haven't spoken since,  That's over twenty years.

Others are, as stated above, Facialbook friends, and our amount of communication varies.  Lately, one of my cousins and I have struck up a wonderful dialogue.  Brenda is older than me, and is the daughter of my Dad's older sister.  She has two sisters and a brother, all of whom are wonderful people.  (Note to any other relatives reading this- don't read anything into this as a slight against you if you're not mentioned.  This entry will be long enough, and do you REALLY want me to bring you up?)   She was among the first to send her support to me when I announced my transition (but far from the only one.)

Brenda and I share memories, and I answer her questions about being TG.  Recently, she brought up a memory that made me smile.

Some background.  My parents are now retired to southern Delaware on the north shore of Indian River Bay.  But before that, my grandfather had a house down there as well, and we would go down there occasionally for vacation.  Sometimes, my cousins would be there. as well.  I don't know the full history of that house, or why he chose that location, but my Aunt married a local down there as well, so there is a history.  In any case, around 1977 I think, my parents bought the house to which they would eventually retire, across the street from my grandfather's.  And Brenda's parents bought a house there as well.  My Uncle, the current family patriarch, bought a motel in Rehoboth Beach.

ANYWAY, I saw a LOT of Brenda and her family, as they were always down the shore.  When my would go, we'd go in my dad's pickup truck, with a cab on the back.  It was me, OB, and the 2 dogs riding in the back.  Despite the oak benches my dad built, it was a lonnnnng ride.  And when we'd take the 20 minute trip to the beach, my cousins would ride in the back with us.  Got all that?  Still there?  Is this thing on?  *tap tap*

So.  The following is re-posted unedited (except to redact a name and add links) with Brenda's permission.

Brenda: I'm listening to Cher n had a flashback of riding home from the beach on the back of a truck w/ u n [my older brother: OB]. We were singing a Cher song and he did not like her..... Do u remember that?

My reply:  Was the song Dark Lady?  :)

Brenda: Bwahahaha. Yes!!! Lol.

Oh wait. Cherokee nation....

It's was Cherokee nation... So proud to live...so proud to die. Eeeeeeee (high pitch squeal). Lol

Me:  that was by Paul Revere and the Raiders. I hated that song. [OB] would always use it as an excuse to beat up on me. He claimed he couldn't help himself as the music made him do it. (He said the same thing about the Joker by Steve Miller Band) And my parents smiled and let it happen.

Brenda: Do u have any good memories from growing up, Sophie?? I can't imagine growing up in an environment like that. It makes me sad for you

Me: That's a very good question. Most of my childhood I've blocked out. Many of the good memories I have I was either alone or with the dogs. Actually one of my favorite memories was one time when my parents were REALLY fighting, they sent me to live with your family. I remember it as a wonderful time. And I remember being stung by a bee. I think I was like 6 or 7 and it was summer.

The exchange continued.  A few posts later, I wrote:

Me: That was a good memory. I liked seeing most of my cousins. I always felt like an outsider though. Like they knew something I didn't because they all seemed so happy

Brenda: Interesting....we were happy cuz we were kids. Never had a care back then, really. In thinking about feeling like I was in the wrong body, that I'm not right, that's just a lot for anyone to comprehend. Let alone a child.

Me: At first it was a strange feeling of longing. As I got older I figured out the what of it but not the why. I knew if I said anything I'd be in deep trouble. You see boys are taught from birth that we are "superior" to girls. And my dad demanded we be "men" from a very early age. I really thought I was a freak - that I was the only one in the world like this. So I learned to avoid people and never let them see inside.

A couple of posts later...

Brenda: It really does explain a lot. Don't take this the wrong way when I say it but you always were kind of I don't know standoffish maybe. Your own insecurities I suppose....

Me: Standoffish is a polite way of putting it. Withdrawn. Introverted. Angry at the world- lashing out as a reaction to a pain I couldn't understand

Brenda: Heartbreaking really. You went through all of this for a reason. You can now help others. Let them know it's gonna b ok

So.  I thought more about it, and told her I'd like to bring this up in my blog.  She gave me permission to reprint what I did.  

GOOD childhood memories.  Wow.  As I said, I really blocked out a lot of my childhood.  What I remember was being terrified of my father, who was the disciplinarian of the family.  He was always angry at something, and that something was usually his kids.  

In his defense, he worked VERY hard to provide for his family.  He worked swing shift for Philadelphia Electric, and so he would often be asleep during the day... when his young children (during summer anyway) were the most active and noisy.  I learned my work ethic from him- bust your ass and do your best.  And he learned how to raise children from HIS father, who I am told was incredibly strict and physical with his children.

My other prominent childhood memory was that feeling that something was wrong with me.  At all times.  I was skinny and disliked in the neighborhood, so I was alone a lot.  And then when OB was around, well he liked to beat me up when he was bored.  I guess he took out his frustrations and anger on me.  But it was always me who got in trouble for it.  Kind of like the NFL- the person who retaliates gets the penalty.

OB meets his sister for the first time: Christmas 2014

One memory I have was early.  It was before my dad renovated the house so I had to be around 6 or 7.  My mum bought me a little stuffed cat which I picked out.  It was orange and rather feminine looking.  I called it Linda.  I remember I had it maybe a week when it suddenly disappeared.  I thought maybe I'd left it in a closet at the base of the stairs that my dad subsequently boarded up and plastered over.  But now I'm not so sure.  You see, Linda was my first attempt at manifesting my femininity as I understood it.  And for a boy to show ANY outward signs of femininity in the early 1970s... well that was absolutely a major issue.  I will never know, but I'd bet my parents disposed of that stuffed cat.

Let's see.  A good memory.  Well, when I was 5, in the summer between kindergarten and first grades, my mum took my brother and I to Scotland.  My parents had been fighting a lot, but I'm not really sure if that's why we went.  In any case, I remember the time in Scotland as being a very good one.  That's, to date, the only time I've seen most of my Scots family, including my late grandparents.  I've seen pictures of that time- faded Kodak prints of a child wearing a Phillies jacket at Edinburgh Castle come to mind.  My parents have all those pictures.  When we returned, we found that my dad had been busy fixing up the house, and had built a dog pen for our German Shepherd: Sheba.

Another good memory.  I don't remember which birthday it was... maybe 6 or 7.  My mum was taking OB and I to the King of Prussia mall to get me birthday gifts.  The sun was setting- it was after school, and we were passing Cromby Station, where my dad worked.  On the radio was Chicago's Saturday in the Park.  I remember feeling at peace.  For whatever reason, that small sliver has stayed with me.

I remember when I was, I don't know, maybe 10, my parents let me take a friend to the shore with us.  I've written about him in this blog before:  DrD.  We goofed around as kids will, and tortured OB, as for a change it was two on one, and he couldn't beat us both up.  I remember one night in particular, when my parents friends were over along with some of my aunts and uncles.  The adults were playing pinochle and getting drunk, while OB, DrD, and I all tried to sleep in a nearby bedroom.  The adults were loud, and none of could sleep, so we started quietly making fun of them.

As stated above, most of my good childhood memories were solitary, or with the dogs.  But as far as my favorite childhood memory that involved family.,. the one that makes me tear up a little to this day...

It was Christmas morning.  I was maybe 8 or so.  My brother and I were still young enough to be in PJs.  OB was sitting next to a wall, unwrapping a gift.  My parents did their best to provide us with as good a Christmas as possible as far as gifts go, and I appreciated that to the best a child could.  Anyway, OB REALLY liked what he received. (I have no idea what it was now.)  He was so happy.  I remember his smile, his laughter, the flash in his eyes.  I remember even then thinking that seeing him happy (when he wasn't beating on me- he always smiled when he did that) was such a rare thing.  And it made me happy.

Despite all that has happened between OB and I over the years... all the thrashings and pain, anger, and later the Silence... that day is how I like to remember him.  A Child... a Happy child on Christmas.  I saw that happiness in my daughter's eyes back when I was allowed to be there on Christmas morning.  My God, I miss that.

I so miss that.

Being trans... and the fallout... hurts so much sometimes.

I try not to think about my childhood.  I prefer to think of things over which I had SOME control.  I think of where my life is headed.  And I wonder how my situation affects my Daughter's childhood.  As I stated at the top, I know my mum reads this blog, and she will definitely have words with me about this entry.  But the thing is- these are my memories I retain of my childhood.  I can't help that.  There are flashes and images of other things- impressions really.  But most of my childhood... blocked out.  Pain.  Violence.

My brother still rarely smiles.

This makes me acutely aware of how I treat my daughter.  What will SHE remember?  I want her to have as many good memories as possible, especially given the circumstances in which she currently lives.  Maybe, someday, I'll see her again on a Christmas morning; see her happy and smiling.  I'm missing too much of these magic years in her life.  As my father missed mine, but for a different reason.

I hope she never has to look back on her childhood and say "I blocked it all out."  I pray to God she won't.

.Daughter.  Christmas morning 2013.  The Last Christmas we shared.

So Brenda, I hope that answers your question a bit better.

This entry certainly went places I didn't expect.  I've been crying the past half an hour as I typed it.

May all your memories be happy ones, dear readers.

Job Opportunity

I just received the following phone call within the hour.  So what I write here is verbatim, except with edits to preserve their identity.


RING RING

Me:  Hello?

Them:  May I speak to Lance please?

M:  Who may I say is calling?  [note: I guess my femme voice has improved]

T: XYZ with PDQ Technical recruiting.

M:  (without shifting voice) This was.

T:  Ok hello!  I came across your resume on Monster.com.  Are you still in the market for a full time position?

M: I am working full time.  Why?  What's the position?

T:  It's a contract to hire Instructional Design position.  Would you be interested in the details?

M:  I'm not really interested in contract work.  I have a full time job with benefits.

T:  Well, this one is almost sure to be full time in a year.  Would you like some information?

M:  Maybe.  But first, you need to know that my name is no longer Lance.  It's now Sophie.  I'm transgender.  Will that be an issue?

T:  [pause of a heartbeat or two]  I'll get back to you. Thanks for your time.  *click*

Professional? (makeup and photo: Amanda Richards of True Colors)

Clown Car Debate

So tonight is the GOP clown car debate, Parts 1 and 2.  Yes, there is a kids table for those who didn't make the cut.

There are 17 "major" candidates running for the spot.  Think of that.  17.  And the one polling highest?  Trump.

Seriously?

It's not that the number is so big.  It's that they are carbon copies of each other.  And as the rhetoric becomes more radical, they try to out-stupid each other.

I mean seriously:  they ALL have the same major positions.  And most of those positions are out of touch with the majority of the American people.

And what will we learn tonight?  Well, Fox News will be throwing them softballs for sure.  They're not in the business of making republicans intentionally look bad (especially when the GOP does that all by itself.)  Maybe we'll learn someone's favorite tree.  Or what they like least about the president (aside from his skin color.)

I didn't make this up- an actual GOP meme

Some people will make this debate into a bingo game, or a drinking game, and that's fine.  But this is a supposedly MAJOR political party holding a supposedly important debate about the future of our country... and frankly I don't know how anyone can take this event (or especially the candidates) seriously.

It scares me that the GOP has reached this low.  Eisenhower and Lincoln are on a rotisserie in their graves...

What Did it Mean to Me?

The bookstore where I work has been doing "Pop Culture" month all of July.  Each Thursday has been a "throwback Thursday" with each Thursday being a different decade, starting with the 1950's. We are encouraged to wear period clothes.  I had nothing for the 1950's, so I just wore standard stuff.

For the 60's, I had plenty.  I wore a tie dyed shirt that a bought a block from Haight-Ashbury in San Francisco along with one of my peasant skirts.

Picture cropped as I don't have permission to show everyone in it

For the next week, 1970's, I wore the closest approximation that I had to a disco dress.  No one took pictures.  I guess it wasn't that memorable.  Halfway through the shift, I realized that this was not the first time I'd worn this dress to the bookstore- I'd done it years before, but as Monique.

"Monique" in the bookstore break room

I was SO ready for the 1980's.  I was born in the 1966, so my high school and University years were the 1980's.  I borrowed a Jams painters cap (with tails) from Wife.  It was from 1984, and was all the rage back then.

Yes, this was stylish once

I went to Party City for tights, earrings and scrunchies (which I wore on my wrist instead of my hair, and wore a bright blue sleeveless top I had along with a short mini skirt.  I was totally gnarly!

So during each week, we played music from the appropriate decade.  I brought in CDs for the 60's, 70's, and of course the 80's,  (I have a LOT of 80's CDs.)  One of my coworkers is in her early 20's and asked me an interesting question.  You see, she loves 80's music and stuff, and said she wishes she were born earlier so she could've experienced it all first hand.  I replied she would then be as old as I am, at which she laughed.  She then asked me "What was it like growing up in the 80's?"

What was it like growing up in the 80's?

Wow.  I know that everyone of my generation will have a different answer to this colored by what happened in their own lives then and since.  For example, I was quite politically active back then (and now) and that colors my perceptions.  I spoke to one of the managers at the bookstore who is also roughly of my generation.  She is African American, and we discussed how different our experiences were back then.  Radically different.  As I imagine they are for today's youth from different backgrounds and ethnicity.

SO... what were the 80s like for me.  Well, when they began, I was 13 and when they ended I was 23... a significant time for growth and change.  For me, there were a few distinct phases I can classify.  Of course they all blended together as time does, but well, here it is.


Early 1980s.  ~1980-~84  This is the time that everyone thinks about when they think about the 80s.  This time was the time of the "New Romantics:"  Duran Duran, Adam Ant, Ultravox, Human League, etc.  At this time, MTV had youth culture by the nose and were kicking us in the ass... even in small towns like mine.  This was the era of deregulation and the "Yuppie."  The beginning of truly conspicuous consumption.

Newsweek article on Yuppies

In 1982, I got my first "real" job, and my parents started leaving me alone in the house when they went away.  It was an era of new-found independence for me... and I loved it.  This is when I started crossdressing.  I knew I was different.  And I was SO ashamed of what I was doing.  I felt even worse when I bought clothes through the Sears catalog with my Burger King money.  I did the whole buy/purge thing several times.  You see, back then TG people were considered perverts, freaks, or worse.  I had a secret, so I withdrew from people rather than risk them discovering that secret.  Oh I had a few friends, and this is where being extremely unpopular helped.  (My unpopularity was not due to my withdrawal; I'd been unpopular since I was old enough to interact with other kids.)

It was a time of upheaval.  Nuclear Armageddon was a push button away, and we all knew it.  It added an "edge" to everything that, really, doesn't exist now.  Mine was the last generation to grow up with the fear of the Soviet Union blowing us to atoms.  It made everything seem, I don't know, more "live for today as tomorrow we may all be dead."

This is also when I trained to become an EMT.  I really wanted to help people.  And it seemed like a way to meet girls.  I couldn't get a date if I hung $100 bills around my neck.  Let's face it, I was a "late bloomer" and girls wanted guys who were, well, manly.  This was the era of Schwarzenegger and Stallone after all!

Rambo

It was here that my political beliefs began to gel.  I was quite young when the whole Nixon/Watergate thing happened, and I saw what harm one person could do to a country.  And I saw all the conspicuous consumption and deregulation while the poor got poorer... and Reagan was doing things like cutting funds to and closing homes for the mentally challenged (a BIG one was just outside of my town, and all the residents who had no families came to my town or the neighboring one, where many got hit by cars.)  I began writing letters to my congressmen and senators, asking "why is **** happening when ****?" I never received any replies.  (Note- back then we had both parties represented in our area.)

I remember mostly the summers then, and how hot they were.  Winters were always a bleak time for me, so I guess I blocked them out.  I did a LOT of walking in the summer, just to think... and to be NOT dressing.  I especially did a lot of walking after my bike was stolen in 1983.

My first major depression hit in the summer of 1983.  Everyone else had such a bright future ahead (so it seemed) while I, well, how could a freak have a future?  And that's when the family dog Sabre died.  I really loved that dog.  I used to talk to him all the time as he accompanied me on walks.  He was my only confidant about my crossdressing.  And he died.  Soon after, my depression really took hold and I began spiraling out of control, ending with my being fired from my job.  (I was later re-hired.)  I met a girl in early 1984, and we dated for two years, but I didn't know how to handle that.  I also graduated High School in 1984.  By then, I had decided to stop crossdressing and to prove myself a man.  After all, only freaks crossdressed.  That's when I started martial arts.

Yes, this was a real movie.

Mid 80s: 1984-7:  In Summer of 1984, there was a major cultural shift... and as often happens, the music was among the causes.  In June 1984, Bruce Springsteen released Born in the USA.  And wow, suddenly EVERYONE was patriotic, and wearing Levis.  the early 80s scene of androgeny and all that were dead... killed by Bruce's homespun music.  And Reagan was running for re-election, so he did his best to co-opt this spirit.  Movies that were all "rah rah America" were all the rage: Red Dawn, Rambo: First Blood Part II, Rocky IV, and of course, Top Gun.

In 1984, I started college... at Drexel University in Philadelphia.  The dorms were in one of the poorest parts of town.  I saw urban decay and hopelessness first hand.  I joined a fraternity so to prove my manhood to myself (and because the guys were really great.)  For many reasons, I decided that engineering (which I took to placate my father) wasn't for me.  I decided to serve humanity- as a teacher.  And I transferred to Penn State in 1986.

Penn State HUB lawn, May 1987.  Most of this has been since built over

The later Reagan years were a time of upheaval.  Iran Contra came to light, and many of Reagan's advisers and staff were going to jail for almost every crime under the sun.  America's confidence was falling apart.  And the music?  All corporate stuff- this was the rise of the "classic rock" format that still dominates radio today to a point.  New bands couldn't get airplay, so went underground.  Eventually, many would emerge in the early 1990s.  I became VERY politically active at PSU, attending anti-Reagan rallies, anti-apartheid events, speaking my mind and generally agitating.

We didn't have internet, and cell phones were for the rich.  Research meant going to the library.  I had the ONLY personal computer in the fraternity house at PSU (my Macintosh.)  People still wrote letters.  Long distance calls were uncommon as they were expensive... especially at a pay phone.  In fact, most dorm rooms didn't have phones- there was a "hall" pay phone where everyone took turns.

I've written a whole book on my time at Penn State.  I drank a LOT- in fact I found I had an amazing capacity for it.  It was a way I was better than other guys.  Never mind that my grades suffered a bit.  That's also when I started getting into fights.  Big Mouth, no social skills, plus alcohol... fights.  I thought I'd beaten the whole TG thing, but it was there, stirring in the back of my head, slowly driving me insane.  I transferred to the Penn State chapter of my fraternity, and they knew I was different.  Most of them never let me forget it.  And the worst thing was: they were right.

I loved my time at PSU despite all that.  Really.  It was at PSU that I learned Purpose.  I learned limits, and how low I could sink... or so I thought.  I found myself in adult relationships with adult problems.  And know what?  I loved it.  I was truly on my own.

Late 80's:  1987-1989: Somewhere around 1987, things shifted again. The music became tougher.  It was the time of Guns and Roses.  Hair bands.  Rap became the music of the Street.  Things just seemed more... bleak.  The stock market crashed in October of '87 and the world was in a post-Reagan hangover.  Hell, even Springsteen's new album was full of unsettling songs about things falling apart, especially his marriage. What I remember most from those days were the hot summer of 1988, when I stayed up at school (to take some classes I missed and because I couldn't stand being home with my brother.) But I remember that time most as wintry, bleak, and cold.  After all, I was at a school in the mountains.

Gloomy day at the Fraternity House, Spring 1987

I did my student teaching in Spring of 1989, and graduated at the end of that semester.  And moved back to my parent's house.  By then I was heavily depressed; as a relationship went seriously bad, I was away from a place that I loved, and I was back in Spring City.  This was the era of George HW Bush... and HIGH unemployment.  After a couple of false starts in various schools and odd jobs, I ended the decade waiting tables at TGI Fridays.

My "flair" from my Fridays days... yes I still have this.

The depression was deepening as the 1980's closed.  I was beginning to get suicidal.  My suicide attempt would occur in October of 1990.  That rage of bottled up feelings, of my secret, of drinking, and my inability to hold onto a relationship or find a "real" job had me convinced that I had no future.  The Darkness had me...

So.

What did the 80's mean to me?

It was my time to "grow up."  The child grew into the man she didn't want to be.  America in many ways changed radically as it tried to redefine itself after the mess of Watergate and the Iranian Hostage Crisis and the OPEC embargo.  And we, as the young adults of the time, led a lot of that change, at least culturally.  We were labelled as Generation X, and we were picking up the pieces of the world that the boomers were screwing up... and we arguably would screw it up worse.


The 80's were a time of unspeakable pain as I forced myself to deny my true gender.  There were some good times, to be sure... VERY good times.  But the pain increased exponentially until finally I attempted suicide.  And after that I was a hate filled shell which I filled with alcohol.  It was only through the love of my Wife that I lived to re-discover myself in 2008.  And I thanked her by transitioning.

All the pain, all the Wagnerian drama, the depressions, the Loves...  I wouldn't trade it for the world.    It was my life.  I grew up in MY time... and as such am a product of it.  I am a Child of the 80's.  And as my generation gets older we come to grips with what that means.  Many of us are raising or have raised children whom we hope will inherit this world, as we did from our parents.

The generation before us had the 60's and all the meant.  The music- the culture- the pain.  We had the 80's.  Our children have Now.

And in many ways, I am still a child.  I will never stop learning.  And in many ways, will never grow up.  I'm starting my life over... now as the Woman I was born to be.  I have a daughter.

For the first time in my life, I'm excited about the Future.  And for me, that journey truly began over thirty years ago.

In the 80's.

Flowers in the Wheatfield

This was originally posted on TG Forum.  It didn't get many hits there (half my usual)  so I'm seeing how it does here.


I really like how this came out.

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Yesterday, (July 10) I traveled to the Gettysburg Battlefield with my roomie, Linda Lewis.  For those of you who don’t know history, Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, was the site of the bloodiest battle of the US Civil War.  It was here that over 50,000 people died in a struggle to determine whether or not the USA would continue to enslave others, or if all Americans had equal rights under the law.  In many ways, this battle continues today.

Artillery on Culp's Hill

This was only Linda’s second time there, while I have been there dozens of times, usually alone.  I could write a book on the many reasons I return there again and again.  Is it the deep history of this place?  The fact that so many died here fighting for an idea… an idea that still powers our nation today?  Do I go to see the beautiful countryside?  All these and more.  When I lived in Baltimore, I was only a little over an hour away from the battlefield.  It was a short trip for a great time. 

Yesterday was gloriously sunny, and while humid, it wasn’t as bad as the previous days.  Climbing around the hills and rocks, I could only imagine what it was like for the soldiers, who did the same in similar weather, but wearing heavy wool uniforms and carrying all that weight of their gear.  The last time Linda and I were there, it was freezing cold and the high winds blew the snow from the fields into our faces.  This time, we concentrated on places that we hadn’t gone in our previous trip, but revisited some places.  We went to the Visitor’s Center, the “High Water mark,” climbed Big Round Top (easier without the ice, but still tough), and visited Culp’s Hill on the Union Right.  We also toured the Wheatfield and PeachOrchard.

The sun was setting.  Linda and I walked out across the Wheatfield to look at a marker in the middle.  Here, where we walked, 20, 444 men fought back and forth, and over six thousand were killed or wounded.  The ground was soaked in blood.  Now, it was a peaceful meadow guarded by stone monuments to those who had fought there. 

We were walking back to the car when something caught my attention.  Wildflowers.  Nothing out of place in a meadow, but here… here where so many died…

I thought about that.  And I took a picture of the flowers.  And I thought some more.  The flowers said so much about life. 

152 years ago, this field was covered by the bodies of those who had fought.  The ground was torn by shot and shell.  It would take years, but eventually it became a peaceful place again. 

Life can be cruel, as we all know.  Things happen to tear our lives apart.  Being trans does that on its own.  We suffer so many losses.  I lost my marriage.  I still mourn daily the loss of one of my dearest friends nearly two years ago.  These are still open wounds- wounds I know I will carry forever.  But... like this flower… perhaps someday in the scars of these wounds, something beautiful can arise.  It will take time, to be sure.  But time does heal.

The Flowers in the Wheatfield

These flowers are proof.  Families forgiving the man who slaughtered their relatives due only to hate is proof.  Maybe someday I can heal, and the ground that currently is injured will flower.

And maybe this is why I still go to places like Gettysburg: because the lessons they teach go beyond just history.  

Working for a Living

I had a pretty rotten day at work today.

There I said it.

As I've written before, I work at a bookstore.  Retail.  At least it's full time work with benefits, and I really like the people I work with.  That helps.

I've held many jobs in my life, as I've been working since I was 12.

I was texting recently with my dear friend, the gorgeous Olivia Loren, and we were discussing jobs we've held in our lifetimes.  We had one in common: we both delivered newspapers back in the day.  That was my first job; I delivered the Evening Phoenix in my home town of Spring City.

With Olivia at Keystone 2015

I didn't start this job voluntarily.  You see, my older brother had the paper route.  But he also went out for Football.  So all of the junior high football season, I had to deliver the papers on his route.  He would deliver one day only: Saturday.  That's when he did the weekly collection.  You see, back then, collection was done by knocking on the person's door and asking them to pay up.  Usually they did, and would give you a little something extra for the effort.  From the few times I worked a Saturday, I knew that the paper route cleared over $40 a week in tips, usually. That was good money for a kid back then.  And my brother did the collecting.  So he worked one day a week, and I did the rest.  And how much did I get?  $5 a week.  And I usually had to force it out of him.  Why only that amount?  That's the number my parents set.  So I did 5/6 of the work, and he got 7/8 of the money.

I didn't think that was fair.

Eventually I decided to get my own route.  And I ended up with the biggest Phoenix route in Spring City when the guy doing it before me gave it up.  It was three times the papers, but it was also three times the money.  And the following fall, I did my route AND my brother's... and still got only $5 for that.  Why didn't I refuse?  My parents were adamant that the papers MUST be delivered so I HAD to do it, as he needed to keep the job while playing football.

I held onto my route for a few years.  I remember delivering papers during the whole Three Mile Island disaster.  Gas was only 81 cents a gallon then.  I remember that clearly.  Candy bars were a quarter.

In 1982, I quit the paper route, and got my first "real" job.  Burger King opened in 1981 in our town, and every kid wanted to work there.  To us provincial small town types, this was a glamorous job!  I met many really great people there.  It took a while for me to be accepted, as I was very shy and introverted.  People thought I was weird.  But one of the "cool" guys took me under his wing: Chuck Tyson.  And we became good friends.  Chuck vouched for me, and I was in.  Chuck died in the mid-90s of lung cancer, despite having never smoked a day in his life.  I saw many of my BK friends at his funeral.  In fact, it was the last time I'd seen most of them.


By the summer of 1983, all the "in-crowd" guys from my grade worked at Burger King- and I trained them all.  I had a window in what the popular people were really like.  A few of them were genuinely nice people.  They included me in after work antics, like jumping the fence at the local swim club for midnight swims.  And when school started again (after I'd been fired and rehired for yelling at a manager), they acknowledged my existence in school as well.

By this point, I had started dressing.  And I used Burger King money to mail order things from the Sears catalog (remember those?).  I saved most of my money though- I knew I'd need it for college.

During this time I was also volunteering on the local Rescue Squad and Ambulance as an Emergency Medical technician.

I was fired from BK again after I graduated high school in 1984.  By then, I'd found a job working at a sewage plant, and even though I'd signed off work, they wanted me to come in for a shift while I was at the other job.  I couldn't do it, and they fired me.  I lasted a week at the sewage plant before the stench made me switch jobs, to a summer job at an old age home.  It didn't smell much better, but most of the residents were wonderful people.

I worked many jobs through my college years.  I even volunteered to be a human guinea pig for scientific research.  The most I made from one of those was $5000 in one day, for allowing them to test a portable defibrillator on me.  (This would eventually become the defibrillator you see at almost every store and mall: the AED.)  I used this money for textbooks and other college related expenses.  I also bartended a lot.

After I graduated college, I was unemployed.  A couple of short jobs later (including one at a school), I was hired at TGI Fridays in King of Prussia, PA on September 14, 1989.  That was a very stressful job.  I met some truly amazing people there, and we as a group became close.  Foxhole mentality: us against the world.  I have worked many jobs since then, but when I have work nightmares they are almost always that I am back at Fridays, either waiting tables or bartending.  It could be truly miserable.  But I did meet Wife there, when I waited on her and her grandmother.

From there I did 13 years in the Hobby Game industry, first at a wholesale game distributor, then for Games Workshop (GW) in Baltimore.  My coworkers at GW became like family.  They came from all over the world, and all we had was each other.  It was also a high pressure job- sales with high targets.  But it had benefits as well- I was able to travel a lot, like to the UK.

GW eliminated my position, and I moved back to Pennsylvania with Wife, into her mother's house.  I was unemployed a few months, then in November 2003 I found work at the bookstore.  I've worked other jobs during my bookstore years as well, like at Vanguard and Penn State, and earned my Masters degree as well, but I've been at the store steadily all those years.

July 2015

So what does this have to do with being TG?  Nothing at all.  Except this: I've been in customer service all my life, and I've seen the worst people can dish out.  Or at least I think I have, but it seems that daily someone proves me wrong.  I think everyone should have to work a retail or food service job.  Not only does it teach hard work, but it teaches humility... and how to treat people.  I am regularly appalled by the way customers treat workers.  This has been the common thread through ALL my jobs.

I CHOSE my career path to serve others- through Education.  I didn't choose a path through Wall Street or some other well paying position.  No, I felt helping others was a higher calling.  My reward?  Having days like today.  Poverty.

If I could do it again, would I do it differently?  Probably not.  Steel is forged by fire, and I doubt I would have the thick skin necessary for transition without the daily thrashing I've taken through my working life.

I'm very lucky that my current employer has supported my transition.  Of all my other jobs through my life, the only other one that would have done that was Penn State.  All the others?  They would've found a way to get rid of me.  I have no doubt.

The times they ARE a changing, and maybe someday I'll get back into a position where I make a living wage (maybe even at the bookstore), and I will do so as my True self.  I've been told by many people that I'm so much easier to work with now.  I don't doubt it.  I'm at Peace.

And maybe, just maybe, that will translate into marketability...

Be Well.

Weekend Weirdness

We all lead unique lives.  I'll bet we all see our own share of strange things.  That said, I think that working retail sometimes exposes me to... more weirdness.  Here's examples from this weekend.

Saturday, July 4.  Independence Day.  I'm working my usual mid-shift at the registers. I was wearing a simple blue dress... nothing special.  Maybe ten minutes into my shift, up steps a couple.  Mid to late 60's.  He looks like he was weaned on a lemon, just incredibly sour and angry at the world.  She just looks tired- bone weary tired.  He steps up and places two books on the counter: a Bill O'Reilly title and the new racist screed by Ann Coulter.  I don't even blink.  I work for a book store, and being professional demands that anything that makes the register ring (as long as it's legal) is good.  So I was ringing up the sale, and he looks me up and down.

He looks me in the eye and says, with tons of contempt, "Are you a liberal?"

I gazed back at him with a puzzled look.  "I'm an American."

I handed him his receipt without another word exchanged.  I never knew what brought that on... but his wife gave me a look that said "I'm sorry."

Face of a Liberal

The next day, Sunday July 5, I worked the same mid-shift.  As I was punching in (we punch in at the Information station) I saw one of the managers helping a customer.  He was mid to late 40's, olive complexion, pudgy, wearing a teal polo shirt and white ball cap.  He was loudly announcing to her (and everyone else it seems) that he was from New Jersey.  He continued on, but I headed up to the registers where I was scheduled to work.  Maybe five minutes later, he comes to my register.  He had to order his book which was an "Images of America" book of some town in New Jersey.  He announced loudly to me that this book was about his home town and that his father was in one of the pictures.  Maybe.  He wasn't sure.  Ok.  I smiled and nodded and handed him his receipt, thanked him, and wished him a good day.

Fast forward maybe an hour.  I'm no longer working alone.  At the register to my left is a co-worker whom I will call Millie.  Millie is a pleasant woman who has a day job working at a local school.  The guy comes back into line, and she helps him as I was working with another customer. The transaction seems to be going smoothly enough when suddenly it gets surreal.

He announces loudly (I don't think he has any other volume) "You know what really turns my stomach?  What really makes me sick?  ESPN has this award show... the ESPYs... and there's this award called the Arthur Ashe Courage Award.  And know who they're giving it to?  Bruce Jenner.  For what?  That's just sickening!  They should strip him of his medals.  Just completely sickening!

My customer had left, so I looked at him and said "Her name is Caitlyn.  She's a woman now."

"She ain't no woman.  It's just sick.  They should just... I don't know the whole thing turns my stomach!"

I say again, quietly and evenly " She's a woman now.  Her name is Caitlyn"

"I don't care what it calls itself.  He's Bruce Jenner!"

"How is her life any of our business?" I ask with the same tone.

And off he went, muttering to himself.

Now, there was NOTHING at the registers to bring up Caitlyn Jenner... no pictures, no magazine covers, nothing!  Millie and I look at each other with the same look of amazement.  We ask each other what that was all about.  Millie said I conducted myself very well.  I said "The reason Caitlyn Jenner deserves a courage award is because she has to deal with people like THAT the rest of her life."

"Has that ever happened to you?" she asked.

"More than you'd think," I said.

She looked sad.  "I just don't get why people need to be so mean."

But it didn't end there.  No, maybe two hours later, he was back.  I had a line of maybe six or seven people, and he came the wrong way up the registers, looking at all the magazine racks as he did.  I was working with a customer when he stopped at the magazine rack next to my register, looked at me and scowled.  Then he left.  The customer I had in front of me looked at me with a questioning look.  I shrugged.

Just another weekend at the bookstore.