Men of the Skull Chapter 66: Toga '87

Every fraternity at PSU had a "signature" party in my time.  For example: Beta Sig had Regatta, Fiji had the "Islander", and Delta Sig hosted the DG anchor splash, where people chugged goldfish.  Skull had Toga.  It wasn't the most original idea, but the way it was executed is what made it special.

The few times I see brothers from my time, the stories almost always go back to Toga, and each year they get more legendary, exaggerated, and distant.  Parties like Toga (and the Islander and a few others) could never happen today.  Everybody records everything and there's so much money to be made in litigation, etc.  The fact that it can't happen is not a bad thing.  As I re-read this chapter, I was struck by the privileged misogyny of it all: how casually some of the brothers regarded women.  Not all- some.  But the problem was that they were typical guys of the times.  They wanted to revel in their youth and enjoy themselves- we were all still kids playing grown up.  Most of us had no idea of the consequences of our actions, and we didn't really care.  All I wanted to do was be a part of it.  I was complicit.  

There are many stories that the brothers of my time don't want told publically as we age, and they usually involve Toga.  I occasionally will soften something in the book or remove something by request, yet part of me wonders: why should I?  Why should I when 90% of the brothers treated me like dirt?  My answer is always the same: because they are my brothers.  

Toga was about letting loose.  It was about proving manhood to each other- outdrink, outfight, outlast.  Dates were a secondary thought to many- and the women tended to hang with each other anyway, watching either in drunken amusement or horror at the antics- and each year, we kept trying to outdo the year before.  

Reading it now, the tone shocks me.  This was one of the first chapters I wrote for the PSU part of the book.  I sense the anger and frustration in my words.  I attended three Togas as a student (87-89) and three as an alumnae (90-92.)  I didn't attend Toga 93 because that's the weekend I married my Wife.  Also, I no longer wished to attend parties where I was at best tolerated, not wanted.

Now, living here in State College, I visit the house occasionally.  The current brothers have no idea that I was a transfer- now I'm avoided because I'm transgender.  Same old song with a few new lines, really.  

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Chapter 66:  Toga ‘87

Saturday, April 25, 1987 Dollar plunges to record low, driving stocks down, interest up

            All I’d heard was all year was about one event- one party that dwarfed all others.  Reputations, nicknames, and legends were made all on that one day.  Skulls spoke of it like little kids talked about Christmas:  TOGA.

            In case you’re from Mars, or Amish, or just returned from a deep space mission, I’ll explain this.  A Toga party is simply a party in which everyone dresses in togas (usually bed sheets.)  A toga is a thing that was supposedly worn in ancient Rome.  Therefore a Toga party has a Roman theme to it, including the orgy (hopefully.)  Shit- you ever see “Animal House?”  There’s a whole fucking toga party right in the middle.  And if you haven’t seen it, why are reading this?

Toga '88: the chariot approaches

            Skull Toga was the biggest party of the year- the one where we pulled out all the stops.  Toga was always the Saturday before the last week of classes: the end of Greek Week.  As this was Skull’s biggest event, sorority girls would kill, die, spread, or do lesbian scenes to be invited.  Of course the girls from the sorority doing Greek Week with us were in prime position for invitations. 

            It went without saying: a brother bringing a date was going to fuck her.  Sex was the Price of Admission.

            Greek Week flew by with the necessary participation.  We were doing it with Pi Phi and they were much more into it than us.  Oh we won our share of events, but overall the brothers didn’t give a damn.  Was it that the brothers thought they were above all that rah-rah shit?  Or were they saving their energy?

            Friday morning the pledges were at the house early.  When I arrived for lunch, they already had half the house spotless.  This was also an “all hands on deck” thing.  If a brother didn’t have a class he was expected to help.  After all, the alumni were coming.  Most pitched in.  Most.

           

 Early Toga '91, before noon.  Selfie.

            Friday night was “Pre-Toga.”  Fancy name, isn’t it?  This was a private party for brothers, alumni, and girlfriends.  (No mere “date” rated an invite to this as a date was just a fuck and nothing more.)  The bar was top shelf- just like Homecoming.  

            Of course I brought Virginia.  She wore a sleeveless pink top with a long, tight, black skirt.  I wore the dark blue, purple, and black shirt that Julianne gave me and tan pants. 

            Just like Homecoming, the alums tended to stay with others from their time.  The current brothers were all getting wasted, some of them announcing that that they would drink all night and through the next day.  Whatever.

            I saw only two pledges and they were outside on the covered part of the porch watching a pig roast on a very large contraption.  The pig (which they named “Tri Delt”) would be ready around noon the next day.

            I drank Absolut screwdrivers.  Virginia drank keg beer from the usual plastic cups.  We stayed close, stealing caresses and kisses when we could.  You see, I intended to fuck her somewhere in the house that night.  Where I wasn’t sure yet- probably in one of the girl’s bathrooms or the Quag or maybe on a couch in the attic.  It was Toga- I wanted to get laid in the house.

            Maple staggered over to me, well maybe staggered is a little harsh.  He was listing hard to starboard as he drank directly from a full pitcher of beer.

            “Hey Lancer!” he said, and then burped.  “You’re in the house this fall.  Congratulations.”  He shook my hand, spilling beer from his pitcher.

            Huh?

            The news took a second to sink in as I shook his hand.

            “Th-thanks!”

            “Room picks are next Friday after senior dinner.  Suit and tie.  Be here...”  BURP!  “…by six.  Drink!”

            He handed me the pitcher.  I handed my screwdriver to a smiling Virginia and drank a little.

            “Chug motherfucker!” he shouted.

            I drank as much as I could then handed him back the pitcher.

            He nodded and said “Remember: six o’clock” and staggered away.

            Virginia gave me back my drink and a kiss.  “I told you those assholes would let you in!” she said smiling.

            I smiled and we toasted.

 

The "Horse " Toga '90.  But they're not standing.

            The night danced forward.  I figured I’d finish my drink then take Virginia to some quiet place and get noisy.  Double D walked over to us, holding a big bottle of Absolut vodka. 

            “Hey Lancer!  Bet I can out-chug ya!” he said, thrusting the bottle into my hands. 

            Hell, even I knew that this was serious misuse of good vodka, but he was offering so…

            I drank some.  He drank more.  We both grimaced.  Double D shook his head like a dog shaking off the rain.

            Virginia smiled and asked “Can I try too?” in a voice dripping with ‘feminine vulnerability.’  She slightly widened her eyes and straightened her shoulders, which pushed out her breasts.

            I smiled.  She knew exactly how to get what she wanted from a guy.

            Double D smiled and handed her the bottle.  As I said, this was one of the big bottles: better than a foot high, maybe four inches in diameter, of red label hundred proof hard core goodness.  Maybe a third of the bottle was left.

            Virginia smiled wider and thanked Double D.  She then lifted the bottle to her lips and chugged.  And chugged.

            And chugged!

Finished the bottle!  The whole fucking bottle!

            Did she puke?  Did she wince?  Nope.  Just wiped her mouth with the back of her left hand as she handed the empty bottle to Double D with her right.  Double D and I looked at each other, wide eyed, then at Virginia- a fragile looking girl- who looked at us.

            “What?” she asked.

            I started to laugh as Double D stumbled away with his now empty bottle.

            “Think he’ll ever… offer me a drink again?”  Virginia asked.  Sounded like it was finally hitting her.

            “No, I can’t s-say that he…he will.”  Whoa!  Tongue not working.

            We stayed a little while longer.  Finished my drink.  By then Virginia had finished two more beers and was staggering and she was getting belligerent.  Time to go!  Fuck her here tomorrow!

 

Me: Toga, '90

            The next day was typical State College: cloudy and cold.  The high grey and white sky suggested rain, but not seriously.  I woke up around ten.  I didn’t feel too badly.  Gravity was a little heavy but that was all.

            Virginia went home the night before.  She’d show up at Toga at noon.  All the dates were arriving at noon.  In fact, no dates were ALLOWED before noon.  I guessed this was so everything would be set up before they arrived.

            I showered, ate a little breakfast and called Virginia.  Judy answered.

            “She’s really sick” Judy said.

            “Virginia hung over?”  I was shocked.

            “Yes.  She won’t be able to go to Toga with you today.”  Judy’s tone was flat- emotionless.  I was getting used to hearing it that way.  For a moment, I thought about inviting her.  She’d look awesome in a Toga.  She may enjoy it.  Maybe even have a few drinks and loosen up and…

            Stop!  That’s dangerous thinking.  Fucking a roommate got me into enough trouble already.

            But you’re still fucking her.  Every day and night.  So it turned out ok didn’t it?

Yes it did, and I don’t want to screw it up.

            But it’s Judy!

Yes.  Yes it is.  I’ll invite her as friends.  No- Virginia wouldn’t understand.  And why am I trying to fucking justify it?

Because it’s Judy.

           

            “Ok” I said into the phone.  “I’ll stop by later.”

“She’ll be here but I won’t.  Richard and I have plans,” Judy said.

Tying a toga is easy if you know how.  Unfortunately I didn’t know how.  I figured out something using my unwashed bed sheet, five safety pins, and a string.  I wore sneakers, the toga and that was all.  I’d been told by many people that no one wears anything under their togas!

I walked up Beaver Avenue past lots of traffic.  It was Blue/White as well that day.  (Blue/White is where they divide the football team into two squads: Blue and White, and they scrimmage.  A lot of alumni came back for it.  Since Phi Psi died, Blue/White has become the spring homecoming.)  A lot of people shouted comments at me.  I expected it- I’d shout things too!

“Nice dress!”

“TOGA!”

“Want a date babe?”

I arrived at the Bone at eleven.  The pledges had been busy.  First, the wooden hurricane fences surrounded the property, keeping the unwashed plebian hoards out.  In the front yard to the right of the path as I headed up toward the house was a log held maybe four feet off the ground by specially made supports.  Old mattresses covered the ground under and around it, as did some muddy pillows.  So there we had drunk guys standing on a log beating the shit out of each other with pillows until one fell off.  Welcome to Toga!

 

On the left side of the top of the stone steps a tall pole made from broomsticks taped together rose from the bushes.  Atop this pole was a roll of toilet paper.  Really.

The real work happened inside.  Almost every stick of furniture on the first floor was gone (upstairs in the hallways and in the basement if you must know.)  The walls all over the first floor, except for windows and fireplaces, were covered floor to ceiling with brown paper, like the stuff grocery bags are made of.  Brothers wrote all kinds of insults all over the paper with markers that were scattered all over the floor.  I looked around a bit and found some directed at me.  “Lance- no one likes you!  Go away!”  “Lance!  GTFO! (Get the Fuck Out!)”  and that sort of thing.  Apparently this was a brother’s chance to cut loose on another brother without fear of reprisal (aside from other’s could write about him!)

The dining room was empty except for the old mattresses all over the floor. 

In the club room a large painting of a classical Greek/ Roman village hung over the back windows.  It was maybe twenty feet long and maybe five feet wide.  God only knows how old it was.  In the middle of the empty Club room was a stand holding a large brass fountain, the top of which was taller than me.  Bubbling a shooting from the fountain was a red liquid with ice and fruit in the bowl below.  This fountain contained French 75s: a powerful drink with vodka, champagne and other nastiness.  Sure we had beer, but Toga meant French 75s.

Surrounding everything: the abuse walls, the windows, the stairs, everywhere, was layered with Laurel Vines.  The pledges gathered them the night before at a state park not too far away.

This was Toga- half the Hood was Drunk, high, or both already (still?)  The only thing missing was the dates.  They were being gathered. 

Toga '88.  That's the painting and fountain in the pic.  

One of the brothers drove a truck with a rented flatbed trailer, like the type used to pull the homecoming float.  He went around the dorms to pick up the sorority girls (apartment girls had to walk) at various pick up points.  (I always wondered what the waiting girls talked about…)  Someone put a rail around it to keep people from falling out and labeled it with a large sign “SKULL TOGA PIG CART.”  Yeah, I know- and the girls got aboard anyway.  Such was the power of Toga.

Me?  I drank and watched.  Watched as more brothers beat the shit out of each other on the log.  King was especially good at it.  Some of the brothers dragged a small plastic kiddie pool onto the front lawn, filled it, and sat in the pool drinking.  Many brothers lost their footing and toppled off the porch into the bushes, laughing.  The pig continued roasting on the side porch, but the brothers were circling (especially the stoners.)  What’s a little disease between brothers anyway?  And over it all, the Grateful Dead blasting from the ubiquitous window speakers.

Sugar Magnolia blossoms booming Head’s all empty and I don’t care.

Drivers honked their horns as they drove by.  Toga-ed alumni arrived from nearby hotels.  Flounder fell hard on his back from the log after King clocked him hard in the head with a pillow.

Then a cheer from the assembled brothers- the Pig Cart arrived!  It pulled in front of the steps where the squealing girls bounced off the trailer and up the steps.  They took much more care in tying their togas- more to cover.  All of them wore crisp clean white sheets.  For that matter, so did most of the brothers.  The pledges “borrowed” sheets from a nearby hotel’s laundry room.  We returned them on Monday- really!  Muddy and abused, but we did return them!  The girls’ arrival marked the unofficial beginning of Toga.  The official beginning?

At 12:15, the pledges disappeared.  The Deltas (kitchen bros, remember?) took over serving the hopefully now-finished roast pig.  LPC took over security at the steps back and sides.  Where were the pledges?

  At 12:30, Detour shouted “Chariot!”  Turning the corner from S. Pugh Street was a chariot done in black and gold and pulled by pledges!  (It was our chariot race entry from Greek Week- how convenient!)  Riding the chariot was the pledge captain, Windex, completely nude with words and designs scrawled all over him in black marker, drunk out of his mind, and holding aloft a flaming torch made of, what else:  a pole and a roll of blazing toilet paper.  His pledge brothers pulled him down the street and stopped in front of the steps to the cheers of the Hood and the assembled people on Beaver Avenue and assorted apartment balconies.  Torch in hand, he ran up the steps and lit the toilet paper torch that waited at the top!  Cameras clicked, brothers shouted, and toilet paper burned as he held the torch high over his head.

Toga had officially begun!

The whole house became a whirl of drunken activity.  Dancing, chugging, flirting, pissing, here we go falling backwards into the bushes.  I tried the pillow fight log and Veal knocked me halfway to Beaver Avenue!  It didn’t hurt- French 75s are a great anesthetic. 

            Went inside to take a leak.  Up to the second floor where I was greeted by the familiar pot smell, but stronger.  It seemed to come from everywhere.  I half expected to see clouds whisping out from under doors.

Goodbye Mama and Papa!  Goodbye Jack and Jill!  The grass ain’t greener, the wine ain’t sweeter either side of the hill.

           After an hour or day or something I was out front again when Beef and a few other brothers stumbled out the front door.  They all had headbands made of torn white sheet decorated with a large red spot and some black characters- their attempt at Japanese I guess.  Drawn all over their bodies with red magic marker were more attempts at Oriental lettering.

            They were the “Samurai:” a little club they put together that added members each Toga.  Actually, I think it only existed at Toga.  They liked it- it’d been happening at least five years at that point.  So why?  Well, it was a chance to “initiate” someone by getting them incredibly drunk and high.  That was it as far as I know- I wasn’t Samurai.  Just another way to exclude others I guess. 

            Anyway, the Samurai were silent, grunted only to each other and drank a hell of a lot.  Real positive fucking additions to the party.

New Samurai: Toga '90 (I think)

            Nine-mile Skid on a ten-mile ride.  Hot as a pistol but cool inside.

            Toga churned on through the cold afternoon.  I was hit several times by thrown pig parts.  Brothers passed out from the porch into the bushes that other brothers had been pissing in all day.  Of course, having people lying in these bushes didn’t stop other brothers from continuing the public urination.  Probably encouraged it.

            A huge crash!  Dairy knocked over the entire fucking French 75 fountain!  He was coated in red liquid and alcohol soaked fruit.  Some people laughed, some cursed- I mean the fountain was rented after all.

            The chant began quickly “Swirley!  Swirley!”  and continued louder.  “SWIRLEY!  SWIRLEY!”  Dairy laid on the floor trying to wring the drink from his toga into his mouth.  He knew he fucked up and he was prepared to pay the price. 

Saint, Veal, and Flounder carried him off to the girls head below the stairs for his well earned swirley.  A few other guys fixed the fountain.  Within minutes it was refilled with fresh bubbly red goodness. 

I don’t know, maybe it was the roses.  All I know, I could not leave her there.

Back out on the lawn, two girls sat in the kiddie pool having a splash fight.  People on the Penn Tower balconies cheered and passing cars beeped their horns.  The girls were wearing their togas correctly- nothing beneath. 

People were beginning to pass out all over the place, especially on the mattresses in the dining room.  This meant that there were now dateless girls…  It was a great day to be a Skull.

Unless you didn’t have the guts to talk to the now dateless girls.  Or if your girlfriend was at her apartment with a hangover.

There I was at the best party I’d ever seen- the event of the year, the gathering that defined us as a house… and I was bored.

Yup.  Bored.

Party’s no fun if no one is really talking to you.  So, figuring I’d leave soon, I finished my drink and grabbed two more.  Chugged down one as I watched two Samurai play tug of war with either end a of laughing girl’s toga.  Headed up the Brotherhood steps, avoiding two red puddles of puke, to the bathroom so I could take a leak.  Saint was in the shower, water running, banging some chick from behind.  Her cries gave me a hard on making it difficult to piss.

But piss I did, and when I finished I had a nasty drunk idea.  See, it bears repeating that the plumbing at the Bone was old and that flushing a toilet meant a sudden rush of scalding hot water in the shower.  And that motherfucker had done nothing but get on my shit since I met him.  Still with me?  Right- I quietly washed my hands and took the two steps to the door (the urinal is right next to the door.)  Opened the door, flushed the john and got the hell out.  As I plunked down the Pledge steps I could hear them.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGHH!!! MOTHER FUCKIN SONUVABITCH!!!”

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Men of the Skull Chapter 65: Routine

 Some songs bring back wonderful memories.  This chapter is one of those memories.  It's also a slice of what a fraternity party was like at that time- in that house.  At the time, I felt truly happy: I was young, at Penn State, and dancing with whom I had strong, if conflicted, feelings.  The floor was sticky, and the house smelled like stale beer- but for that moment, it was heaven.  

Things were looking up for me.  When I think back on my time at PSU, this is one of the happiest memories.

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

Chapter 2.65:  Routine

Saturday, April 18, 1987 Sixers and fans salute Dr.J

Midnight and I left Dave’s dorm room.  I walked downhill on the straight path through campus: past the new bio building that was under construction, past the HUB, and following as it tailed left by Atherton Hall toward the Saloon on College Avenue.  Crossed College and up Hiester St to Beaver Hill.  There I changed my shirt to something a little nicer and splashed water in my face.  Then I went out, up Beaver Ave to Locust Lane, past Cedarbrook, DU and Acacia.  Drunken couples, knots and groups were already staggering around from place to place, party to party: talking too loud and pissing in any available bushes.  I crossed East Foster Ave, passed Phi Psi and arrived at Crow House. 

As always, the line was very short.  The Crow pledges were getting to know me by sight by then, so they just waved me in.  I tossed my coat onto the pile behind the DJ area, and headed left through the living room.  One of the lil sisters called out a hello, so I smiled and waved.  Down the wooden stairs to the basement, down the hall a few yards, and left into the party room.  It was crowded, but not packed.  I waved at a couple other smiling lil sisters as I dodged my way to the bar. 

“Ah Love Rock And Roll, So Put another Dime in the Jukebox, Baybee!”  Joan screamed from the speakers around the room.  The usual ten or so people were behind the bar, including Virginia.

From April 17, 1987 Collegian

See, we had an agreement: early Saturday night was Friends time.  I’d hang out with Dave or my brothers or whatever (almost always over Dave’s) and she would see her friends wherever.  But midnight was the deadline- that’s when I’d head over to Crow, usually arriving around 12:30.

And Virginia would always be there, behind the bar, playing Flip a Cup. 

She handed me a beer and smiled.

“Did you have fun?” she asked.

“Yeah.  Walt had a case, so we played Ace Face.”

“Cool!”

“How about you?”  I asked.

“I went over to Mandy’s and we hung out with a couple of the sisters.  We had a few kamikazes and got here around 10:30.”

“Skull!  Drink!” came a shout from down the bar.  Rich Duke had his elbow pointed at me.  I took a big gulp and swallowed a burp.

Party room at AXP, taken decades later.  Back in the 80s, the bar went all the way across with no access from the front.

“Sorry dear” Virginia said, almost sincerely.

“Any rules?”  I asked.

“Standard and no cursing” she answered.

“Drink bitch!”  Rich pointed at Virginia with his elbow.  She did sign language for “fuck off” while four people at Rich’s end of the bar pointed elbows at him for cursing.  Virginia finished her beer, and refilled.

From April 17, 1987 Collegian

So we played.  An hour maybe, if that.  Virginia filled a pitcher and pointed toward the ceiling to indicate she wanted to go upstairs. 

I broke away from my side of the bar and squeezed through the nearly packed party room. 

“Don’t change for you.  Don’t change a thing… for me!”  INXS pleaded through the speakers.

As I wormed through the crowd, I saw Judy speaking to Michelle and I waved.  She waved back unenthusiastically and without smiling, so I didn’t stop.

“I found a love that I had lost.  It was gawn for too lon-onnnng!” crooned Michael Hutchence.

I met Virginia at the base of the stairs, a quick kiss, and we squeezed up the right side of the steps past the people coming down until we arrived at the first floor.  Left turn into the living room where we sat on a windowsill.  Virginia refilled my beer.  By then the pitcher was already half finished.

She smiled at me and raised her plastic cup to toast.  We touched cups and drank. 

Virginia was wearing a tight white turtleneck and the usual tight jeans.  The turtleneck really showcased her large breasts, and every guy passing took a good look, even though some of them tried to hide it.  She told a couple of them to “take a picture- it’d last longer.”

We sat and talked about nothing for a while.  I described the Ace Face game and she updated me with all the new Crow lil sister gossip.

My house was partying that night as well, but going there never crossed my mind.

We finished the pitcher and Virginia pulled me to my feet and toward the dance floor.  As we passed the stairs, we passed Judy who coldly watched us go by. 

“American Pie” was playing, and everyone was dancing and singing along.

“Bye, bye Miss American Pie.  Drove my Chevy to the levee but the levee was dry…”  Crow played this every party, and everyone always sang along.  Loudly.

From April 17, 1987 Collegian

Soon the song ended, and another began.  Synthesizer and drums: Prince’s “Take me with You.”  Several people were bouncing around to the beat, but Virginia put her arms around my head, pressed her breasts against my chest and her crotch to mine and we gyrated slowly.

She sang to me- her voice clear and her happy eyes dancing with mine. 

“I don’t care if we spend the night in your mansion.  I don’t care if we spend the night on the town.  All I want is to spend the night together.  All I want is to spend the night in your ahhhhrmmms!”

So we swayed and I wished the Moment, the Party, the Night would never ever end.

The room used as a dance floor back then.  The Crows were setting up for a formal when I took this (with their kind permission)

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Unserved in Saginaw Sullivans

 A few weeks ago, my roomie/bestie Linda Lewis and I drove to Saginaw, Michigan.  It was such a long drive, and we were exhausted when we arrived.  We went to the house where she'd grown up to meet her sister and pick up a few items that belonged to Linda from her youth.  You see, Linda's mother died in late January of Covid.  Her father, who also had covid but recovered, was moving to assisted living, and wouldn't be coming back to live in the house.

Linda is fairly stoic and guarded with her emotions, and I don't blame her.  She's been burned so many times.  We've roomed together over six years, and there are still many things she doesn't talk about with me.  I understand that, as that's her way.  Still, while we were there, she seemed more relaxed then I'd seen her in a long time.  I'm guessing that was because she was in a familiar, if painful, place with family.

I'd met her sister, brother-in-law, and niece previously, and they did their utmost to make me feel welcome.  They're wonderful people.  However, I couldn't help but feel like an intruder.  It didn't help that both of Linda's parents were heavy smokers for decades, and the place reeked of cigarettes.  

That's the background, but not the story.

Ummm...

We arrived on Friday, tired and hungry.  The roads were snow covered and full of potholes (so many that it felt like Pennsylvania!).  I asked her where she should eat, especially as I wanted a glass of wine.  Linda suggested Sullivans Food and Spirits.  This is not to be confused with the incredible chain Sullivan's Steakhouse around Philadelphia.  This place is completely different.

We arrived as heavy snow flurries fell from the night, and went inside, where a hostess seated us quickly and efficiently.  That much went right. She got us both water with lemon.  I learned that she was a new employee.  Well, she did her part right.  As for what happened next, I'll quote what I wrote on their facialbook page.

"waited 20 minutes after being seated for a server to acknowledge us.  ordered wine.  both glasses had lipstick stains.  Mgr was gossiping at other tables and never stopped by.

the server who finally picked up our table after the other flat out refused (was it because I'm transgender?) was very pleasant and efficient.

still, never going back."

I included a picture of my wine glass.  Note- I wasn't wearing any makeup.

Wine glass photo

Of course, there was more to the story.

After we were seated, we waited.  And waited.  A waitress worked on the tables on either side of our booth, including the table behind Linda, who arrived after we did.  The place was busy, but not THAT busy.  I noticed that the staff, especially the manager, had enough time to enjoy long conversations with the customers.

After a while, I asked Linda how long we'd been waiting.  She said "ten minutes." That's when I turned on my stopwatch- which is unfortunately becoming a habit in restaurants.

Screen shot of the timer after I stopped it.

After ten more minutes, I asked Linda how much longer she wanted to wait.  She said "one minute."  At this point, a waitress from across the room (call her B)  asked the person waiting on the tables around us (call her C) if we'd ordered.  C turned and looked at her, after glancing at me again, and said "I'm not waiting on THEM."  At this point, B pulled out her order book, and asked what we'd like to order.  I immediately turned off the stop watch.  We were 35 seconds from walking out. B was friendly and efficient.  We both ordered a glass of wine.  I ordered a steak.  Linda ordered Lake Perch, which is a local specialty that she hadn't had in a long time.  (Yellow Perch is native to Lake Michigan.)

The food arrived promptly.  My steak was fine (it's hard to screw up steak), but the fish was soggy and "disappointing."  We finished eating, and waited a while B came back to drop the check.  The manager had visited every table within my sight, usually sitting with them for long conversations, but never stopped by ours.  I wanted him to visit us, first to praise B's service, but also to complain about the wait and C's comment.  

I wrote a small comment on the check "B's service was the only good thing about this visit."  Yes, I tipped.  I always tip well.  As the manager hadn't visited, that night I left my comment on their facialbook page.  I didn't comment on Yelp.  

Later that night (9:17 pm) I received a message from Sullivans vs FB messenger, apologizing for the experience.  About an hour after that, I received a long message from the Manager on Duty (MOD) that night.  I will not quote it, as I don't have permission. It was long, rambling, and full of excuses- some of which were legit.  I understand him courting the regulars who wanted to talk.  To his credit, he again apologized, and offered me a free dinner if I decided to return.  He did not address my comment about the server refusing to serve us at all, which was the heart of the matter.

I did not reply.

Dear reader, this isn't the first time this happened to me in a restaurant as Sophie.  It happened a couple of times before transition, and many times since.  Once Linda and I were ignored in an Outback Steak House in King of Prussia and were fortunate enough to speak to the owner/manager.  We ate and drank for free that night.  Many times, I leave and don't bother saying anything, and never return.  It just isn't worth the pain and effort sometimes.  

Well, Sullivans, you are 478 miles from my apartment- almost an eight hour drive.  I don't think I'll take you up on that offer of a free meal.  I worked in the service industry for MANY years.  I know what good service looks like, and that wasn't it.  You had one chance to make an impression on me and blew it.  And worse- the Lake perch was soggy, after Linda so looked forward to it.

I would've liked to know why C didn't want to wait on us.  I assume it's because I'm visibly transgender.  Maybe I shouldn't assume it, but it follows the pattern, and I can't think of any other reason she refused to even acknowledge our presence.  

That night, I slept on an extremely uncomfortable couch, surrounded by dozens of dolls on shelves above me.  Creepy dolls.  I didn't sleep well that night, not the next when I slept on a different couch.  I don't know how Linda slept in the tiny room where she slept for years.  I was surrounded by creepy dolls, but she was surrounded by memories.  

"Join us... play with us..."

I'd rather be surrounded by the dolls.  

Be well.

Men of the Skull Chapter 64: Poled

I have conflicted thoughts about this.  First off, I know the practice of "poling" goes back decades in fraternities and other male organizations.  Poling is a fraternity tradition for when a brother gets engaged.  Now, I wonder if it's a punishment for forsaking the company of men (the brothers) for that of a woman (wife.)  I couldn't find any reference to where the tradition began. 

This practice makes me wonder why a brother would even get engaged during his college years.  The Hood had other traditions in a similar vein, like being swirlied on your birthday.  Brothers would keep their birthday a secret for that reason- even their 21st.  Yes, I was swirlied for my 20th and 21st birthday, but not for my 22nd due to a swirley" accident in Spring 1988 (my birthday is in September.)

I also know that other houses other than mine practiced this.  While we did it on the front yard tree, some houses (like Lambda Chi) used the pole of a basketball net, or did it inside.  Some houses, like ΔΣΘ, got into trouble for doing it in early1989, while ΧΦ didn't get punished for doing it in late 1989.

In any case, this happened.  Last I heard, the couple was still together.  So, she was/IS worth it.  

And yes, the statute of limitations is long past.

Chapter 64: Poled

Thursday, April 16, 1987 Shultz trip ends with optimism

I walked over to the Bone for dinner, tired from waking up, student teaching, and using my poor, abused brain.

The whole house was on the front lawn surrounding the large tree between us and Triangle.  They were shouting, cheering and hollering “Is she worth it?”  I walked up the steps and across the yard and saw Chumpy tied to the tree, stripped to his boxers and covered with all kinds of shit.  Eggs were broken in his hair, kitchen grease smeared all over him, I can’t even guess what else (and to this day I don’t want to know!)

Chumpy got engaged to Becky, the Zeta he met at Homecoming.  As a result, he was the recipient of a good old fashioned Poling!  Lots of houses did it, usually for engagements, but sometimes for royally fucking up.

Flounder stood to the side, supplying Chumpy with beer when he wanted it (or when the Hood demanded he chug) and a bottle of Jack for shots.

I stood near the back and hoped no one would grab me.

From the April 16, 1987 Collegian

The Hood pelted Chumpy with tomatoes, beer, all kinds of various projectiles.  Some guys yelled “What were you thinking?” but most chanted “Is she worth it?  Is she worth it?”  It was a lot of fun to watch, and I chanted along.  [To my shame now]  

After a while, Becky appeared wearing a nice top and a tan skirt.  She thought it was funny too.  Chumpy managed to babble “love you” then she leaned in as close as she could without getting shit on her and kissed him.  The kiss was the signal for it all to stop, and so it did.  A couple of pledges were directed to untie him as the Hood scattered in all directions, each fearing that Chumpy would tackle them.

As soon as he was untied, Chumpy grabbed Becky, gave her a big hug and kissed her.  They held each other for a while before Chumpy staggered off looking for vengeance and Becky went looking for a towel.

Previous Chapter

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First Chapter

Pillow Talk

I'm very sentimental; sometimes about weird things.  

Back in early 1991, I was an emotional wreck.  I was still recovering mentally from my first suicide attempt (November 1, 1990), and was lonely as hell.  I was seeking connection, feeling- anything (and the massive amounts of alcohol weren't doing the job!)  I was dating a girl I waited on at Fridays.  She was a student at Immaculata College, and was quite nice.

I decided one night that I wanted to buy a new pillow- one that was so big and soft that my head would sink into it to the point of being swallowed up.  This girl came along with me as we searched the King of Prussia mall.  As I knew nothing about pillows, she was very helpful.  Eventually I settled on one from JC Penny's.   The relationship didn't last long, but the pillow lasted.  

The pillow followed me into marriage, in moves from apartment to apartment, to Baltimore, to our house, then back to Pennsylvania.  Wife would steal it when we went to bed for the night, as I would steal hers, which would end up in pillow fights.  My dog Nittany would sleep with her head on it during the day.  

And when I was thrown out, the pillow came with me, then from place to place as I bounced between apartments.  Many insomniatic nights were spent lying on that pillow, and many tears were spilled into it as my life fell apart.

Now I'm back in State College working on my PhD, and yes, the pillow is here with me.  Now, the pillow is quite flat and stained by the tears, blood, and drool of thirty years.  It pretty much is useless as a head support.  I decided to buy a new one.  I still know very little about pillows, but now there are so many types for the different ways people sleep.  

So now I have a new pillow.  Big deal, right?  Yet, the old one and I have been through a lot- it's like part of my soul soaked into it.  To others, it's a ratty old pillow, and yes, that's true.  To me, it's an old friend.  

Some day this week, I will take it out to the dumpster here at the apartment complex, and toss it in.  After all, it's already been replaced.  Would that it were so easy to dump all the Pain that I shared with it.  I'll dump it as I've been dumped by so many people before and especially after transition.  

Useless.

Here I am, waxing nostalgic about a pillow.  This is where my life has sunk to, not like my head which has yet to find a pillow that would swallow it whole.  

Asked about HRT

 In conversation with a closeted transwoman (Terri- I wrote about her on TG Forum HERE), she asked about how it felt when I started Hormone Replacement Therapy (HRT) back in December 2012.  (I wrote about that HERE.)  

She wrote "That must have been quite an experience starting hrt."  I replied "Anticlimactic.  I didn't notice changes but others did.  The first "felt" effect was pain in my pectoral areas."

I thought about it, and it's been a while since I wrote about this (HERE for example).  Like, many years.  I forgot how much of a "Holy Grail" HRT is for so many.  Funny what one takes for granted after a long time.  Of all things, HRT.

So, what was it like?  

As anyone can tell you, it's a slow process.  First, the drugs have to build up in your system, then they take effect.  Like a cisgender girl, the effect is then gradual.  I didn't just wake up one day with big boobs!  (That would've been hard to explain!)

The first thing I felt was a sense of calm as the testosterone weakened.  My anger flares weren't as constant.  I had a haircut for my trial in September, but was letting it grow out since.  I'm guessing the hormones were taking effect, as people said I looked different.  They asked me if I was losing weight (I was, but not much.)  I'm guessing the main reason for their comments were my skin "softening."

Early February 2013, I felt a, well, thickness under my nipples.  They began to hurt a little.  The pain would become a familiar one.  That was my breasts budding.  As they grew, it continued to hurt.  Not badly, but noticeable.  I started wearing t-shirts under the polo shirts I'd wear to work.  Soon, they wouldn't be enough either- the nipples were protruding.  No one said anything, but I noticed.  I invested in some pressure shirts people use for exercising.  

May 18, 2013: first time out without forms

Wearing a bra without forms was a watershed moment (wrote about it HERE).

As the date I chose grew closer, I learned that one pressure shirt wasn't doing the job any more- so I started wearing two.  Ugh. I also wore baggier shirts when at work to "cover" my breast development.  people didn't notice my skin softening.  I told people I was growing out my hair to donate it to "Locks of Love."

January 2021.  I think the HRT worked!

Now it's been eight years.  Having breasts is something I'm used to- but am still thrilled to have!  Some people say my face changed a little, but I don't see it.  In any case, it's been one hell of a ride!

Thoughts from a Class in January

 As is the norm, it seems, to this level of classes, the first class or two is all about learning about each other and what we know about the class topic coming in.

This is from a class on Globalization and Lifelong learning, which is a required course in my PhD program, but I would've taken anyway.  Most of the class come from other countries, and/or are people of color.  The professor grew up in Africa.  I will a learn a lot from this class, as they will have very different POV than mine.  To my knowledge, I'm the only transgender person in the class.  Maybe they can learn something from me?

The first week's reading concerns anti-colonial works of the 50s and 60s African independence movements.  I, who claim to love history, know so little of that topic.  I'm ashamed.

Pattee library, March 2020

In any case, the professor asked a few questions of us which we were to put into our "reading journals" and also share with the class if we wished.  What follows are my answers.

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

a) Take some time and think about the key theme/s and/or sub-themes of this course (feel free to consider the ones on #2) [globalisation and Lifelong Learning]. Do they trigger any emotions? Do they trigger any thoughts that are of value and/or at least of intellectual interest to you? 

Globalization- that which our country ignored for four years.  Yes, it triggers emotions.  Regret, anger, pain- how could “reasonable” people vote for this?  As long as racism exists, there can be no globalization.  Lots of other “isms” and “phobias” hold us back as well- sexism, ageism, homophobia, transphobia, elitism, and, in so many ways, capitalism.  Yet, none hold us back as much as racism- that belief that one group of humans is superior to another group due to skin color or national origin.  

Lifelong learning should be a given.  Learning never stops, whether one acknowledges it or not.  So many people think that when they end their formal education, they can just shut off their minds.  That is how we get the ills of the world- we refuse to learn.

b) Your point of departure: where are you, currently, in relation to your knowledge and interest about these (sub)themes? 

I am aware of my privilege as a person of northern European descent living in the US, and I know what it means to lose privilege.  I’m always ready to learn more about how I can help eliminate that privilege.  I think I’ll just be quiet and listen, because as a daughter of colonizers, I have a lot to learn.

c) Your destination: what would you like to hear others say about you, after taking this course, when you produce an academic/professional piece or even an initiative that touches on the issues surrounding these (sub)themes? 

I always assume the worse- the reasons are long and tedious.  I hope people would say “she tried to make the world a better place for all.”  I think they’ll say “she failed.”

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

That last bit, I didn't share.  They don't need to hear me whining.  

I'm humbled being in the presence of scholars from around the world.  I am in awe of them.  For almost all of them, English is not their native tongue, yet they are mastering the material in English.  I can barely understand and keep up with the work, and English is my native language!  They are all so much smarter than me.  In so many ways, they are far wiser as well.  They've experienced things and cultures that I never will.  

I think that's a good thing- that I understand how much I don't know.  

46

This morning the snow flurried down in the wind.  Eventually it stopped and the sun emerged.

Sleep has been elusive of late, and last night was no exception.  I was worried that something would happen to keep 45 in power.  I was worried that his insurrectionists would detonate a bomb or something to cause 45 to declare martial law.  

I settled on the couch around 11:30, in time to see the flags presented.  (Space force?  Seriously?)

Then, the inauguration.  A new president.  Our 4 year national nightmare is over.  I cried.

On facialbook, my friend Melissa Anne Segbarth wrote "After 4 years of living in fear of the president of the United States.  I can breath again."  (Shared with her kind permission.)  That sums it up perfectly.  

Four years ago, when 45 was elected, I wrote that I didn't think I'd survive his term.  So many of us didn't.  So many transgender women died of violence- more than ever before.  So many took their own lives as well.  It seemed that every week, another friend of a friend would be mourned after suicide.  I can't blame them.

Taken the other day

For the first time in 4 years, I feel I don't have to constantly on guard and ready to leave at a moment's notice.  I'll keep my bug-out bag ready, but not next to the front door.

The evil didn't end- the cult leader may be dethroned, but the cult survives.  What's next for them?  More treason and insurrection?  That's my guess.

In any case, I was wrong- I'm still here and still alive.  Not that I want to be, but here I am.  I'm no longer in Phoenixville, and I'm now starting a new semester: part 2 of year 2 of my PhD.  

Today I can breathe a sigh of relief.  Tomorrow- back to work.

Men of the Skull Chapter 63: BSB

Pledging is a strange time.  The idea behind it is to create bonds within the pledge class and fraternity by having them endure shared hardships.  However, I believe that some people really enjoy the sadism that can be involved.  Of course, part of this was to show that one could "take it like a man."  

In my undergrad years, it seemed that each class had to endure just a little worse treatment.  Brothers would say "well, I had to take it, so..."  then add their own brand to whatever stunt was happening.

That said, sometimes the idea is a shared fun experience.  If kept under control, this can be a good thing.  We had "games" at Skull.  Of them all, this was the goofiest and arguably the most fun.  I say this having never been on the losing side of it.

Chapter 63:  BSB

Saturday, April 11, 1987  U.S. to raise spy issue in Soviet talks

            “You maggots fucking suck!”  Ernie shouted down from his perch on the landing.  The pledges were bunched up beneath him.  “We’ve never had such shitty pledges!  Something needs to be done!”

            “Games!”  “Games!”  The shouts rose from the brothers on the carpet behind the pledges.

            “Games!” 

                                    “GAMES!” 

            Then, the inevitable suggestions from the Hood:

            “CIRCLE JERK!”

                        “ELEPHANT WALK!”

                                                                                    “PARCHEESI”

                                                SPIT SWALLOW!”

            “RUMPLESTILSKIN!”

                                                            “SHEEP!”

                                                                                    “BAA-AA—AAAAA!”

                                    “B-S-B!”

            “B-S-B!”

            It gained a rhythm as the hood chanted.  “B-S-B!” “B-S-B!” “B-S-B!”

            “B-S-B!  HEY!  B-S-B! HEY! B-S-B!”

            Ernie held up his hands to stop the shouting.

            “B-S-B!” he shouted.  “And like all games at Skull House, there are a few rules!”

            “A FEW RULES!” the Hood shouts into the pledges ears.

            “First rule: No talking!”  Ernie shouted.

            “NO TALKING!”

            “Second rule!  Line up and each of you choose the brother you want to party with the most!”

Collegian April 13, 1987

They lined back up in order.  One by one, the pledges shouted the name of a brother.  The Hood would shout stuff like “Bad choice!  He’s the best at this!  “You’re fucked!”.  Then the pledges were sent running back up to the pledge closet as the brothers set up.

LPC took the lead in this as always.  The dining room lights were turned on.  We were using the 4 tables visible from the foyer.  All chairs were removed from the “inside” side of the tables except one at each.  Opposite that seat were two chairs for brothers.

The full name of the game was “Bourbon, Scotch, Beer” after the George Thorogood cover song.  It was a relay race- the pledges vs. the brothers they picked.

The first table in was the shot table- first a shot a bourbon.  Then the player would move to the second table, where they’d chug a can of beer.  They’d go back to the first table where they’d down a shot of scotch. Then they’d run back and tag the first person in line and it would be that person’s turn.  First team done wins. 

 

Collegian April 13, 1987

Now, as always, we knew what was coming, so during the pre-meeting all of us cracked open beers and drank about half.  These beers were on the hood’s table.  Each of the shot tables had two bottles of bourbon and scotch.  On the Hood table, one each was filled with iced tea.  In addition, as the pledges were upstairs, we shook the shit out of the cans on the pledge table.  While we set up, the selected brothers were upstairs getting “dressed.”  For some reason, this was a “costume” event

            After the brothers were ready, they told Ernie how they wanted to be introduced, and then waited at the top of the Brotherhood steps.  The lights in the Foyer, Club Room, and dining room were turned off.  The siren sounded, and the pledges scrambled down the back steps to their position lined up in front of the Hood, and counted off.  The Hood shouted for them to turn around and face the Iota, who instructed them to line up behind Brother Good, who stood at the entry to the club room.  They did so, and then all the lights came back on.  The pledges looked at the set up and their faces seemed to say “what in hell do we have to do this time?”

            Me?  I sat at the brothers’ beer table with Wags.  Best place to sneak a few drinks myself.  “Watch me the first few times so you get the hang of it” Wags said, smiling as we toasted beers we’d just opened.

            Ernie came down the stairs and stood in the middle of the foyer.

            “OK maggots!” he shouted.  “The name of the game is BSB!”

            “BSB! BSB! BSB!”  The Hood chanted until Ernie motioned for quiet.  The Hood stood to the sides of the foyer and dining room, leaving the playing field clear.

            Ernie explained the rules: shot, beer, shot, tag the next guy in line, first team finished wins.

            “As always, anyone who does not wish to participate may step away now.  No one will feel any less of you.”

            The pledges looked insulted, and stayed in line.

            “Are you ready to meet your opponents?”

            “Sir yes sir!”

            “First!” yelled Ernie, pointing to the stairs, “From the jungles of the New Guinea: CHIEF BEEF!”

            Beef hopped down the hood steps dressed like an island headhunter complete with headdress and spear, shouting some kind of made up gibberish, while the brothers cheered and chanted “Hood! Hood!  Hood!”  Beef took his place at the head of a line next to the pledges, who were laughing their asses off.

                                                                                 Collegian April 13, 1987

            “Next: master of the martial arts and ninja extraordinaire: Kung Fu Ninja!”

            Ninja trotted down the stairs, wearing his gi and black belt, bowed to Ernie, then to the pledges, and struck a kung fu pose.  He then got in line behind Beef, who high fived him.

            “From Ancient Rome: Doggus Maximus!”

            Dogger strolled regally down the stairs wearing a bedsheet as a toga. 

            “Hood!  Hood!  Hood!”

            After a few minutes, all of the brothers playing were introduced and lined up next to the pledge that chose him.  The rules were explained to the pledges.  Ask permission to sit down, ask politely for the drink, permission to drink, permission to leave.  Of course, the brothers didn’t have to do any of that shit.  First team through their line wins.  Simple enough.

            I had put together a tape of the Thorogood song played over and over for forty five minutes (my contribution to the game).  One brother (LPC) stood at the top of the stairs, and another at the stereo closet across from the Alpha suite.  When Ernie shouted “music!”, the guy at the top of the steps would relay the order to the other guy to start the tape.  Same for “stop!” at the end of the race. 

            For the pledges, it sounded like this:

            “Are you ready pledges?!?!”

            “Sir yes sir!”

            “I said are you ready pledges?!?!?”

            “SIR YES SIR!!!”

            “Music!”

            The guitar riff started and faded in. 

            “GO!”

            As George started singing “Wanna tell ya a story… about the house-man blues” I watched Beef do an exaggerated bunny hop/ tribal dance to the first table.  As he sat down, his pledge opponent was still asking permission.  Beef leisurely sipped his iced tea as the pledge asked the brothers behind the pledge shot table “May I please have a shot?  Pretty please with sugar on top?”

            Beef did some kind of tribal spinning dance from the first table to the next, where he sat in front of me.  Wags handed Beef a half filled beer, and he put his feet up on the table while drinking it.  The pledge was just seeking permission to leave the shot table.

            The pledge ran to the next table, eventually was seated, and asked for a beer.

            “Do you really want it?”  Rich asked.

            “Sir yes sir!”

            Rich opened the well shaken beer so that it sprayed all over the pledge, to the delight of everyone watching.

            By this time, Beef finished his shot of “scotch” and hopped back to the line, tagging Ninja as he passed.

            The pledge finished his sudsy beer, secured permission to leave and ran to the shot table.

            And so it went until all the pledges completed the course.  The brothers won by quite some time, of course.  The assembled spectators chanted “Hood!  Hood!  Hood!” and Ernie called for the music to stop.  The whole first floor smelled badly of beer- worse than at a party.

            “Do you think you won that game?”  Ernie asked the pledges.

            “Sir yes sir!”

            “Did you enjoy that game?”

            “Sir yes sir!”

            “OK!  Let’s do it!  Music!”

            George picked up where he left off  “Well I ain’t seen my baby since I don’t know when. I’ve been drinkin’ bourbon whiskey, scotch, and gin…”

            “GO!”

            Beef tangoed to the first table with Ernie.

            This time, the pledges were actually allowed to be competitive.  And they pledges all puked after drinking the warm foamy beer.

            The Hood won again.  LPC cleaned up.  I turned to Wags as we both finished a beer.

            “What was the point of this game?”

            “Point?  Does any of it have a point?  It’s just fun.  That’s all.”  He smiled and offered me another half empty beer. 

 

Next Chapter

Last Chapter

First Chapter

Inspirations: Amanda Richards

I'm forcing myself to sit at the keyboard and write something (as opposed to my normal method of writing things out longhand first) so I'm not wallowing in the Darkness.  So I decided to write about someone who always makes me smile.  So this entry is about one of my Inspirations and dearest friends: Amanda Richards.

Amanda Richards

I met Amanda in January 2009, a mere 2 1/2 months after re-discovering myself.  I first heard of her through an internet search when looking for a transformation makeover.  I decided Bethlehem, PA was too close to home, and instead went to Femme Fever in New York for my first time.  A few weeks later, I attended my first Renaissance transgender meeting (wrote about that here) without makeup.  I determined that I wouldn't do that again, and sent an email to True Colors Makeup Artistry, domain of Amanda Richards.  So it was that on January 19, 2009, I drove 90 minutes to her studio.  I was nervous as hell.  (I wrote about that day here.)

I didn't know it then, but I was meeting someone who would be a pillar of support, a mentor, and an incredible friend.  

Amanda's name is well known within the transgender community.  She's been active for... a while, doing M2F makeovers in addition to her work doing weddings, proms, etc.  She's also an in-demand photographer, and a former president of Vanity Club.

She was very re-assuring and supportive, seeing that I was so nervous.  I was far from her first "first- timer."  I had a photography session, then went down to the January Renaissance meeting, wearing the wig she helped me choose.  

That trip to Bethlehem became part of my monthly routine on "Sophie night."  I'd get the motel room at Motel 6, drive up to True Colors for a makeover, then drive to the meeting then Angela's Laptop Lounge party.  After that, I'd go back to the motel room to thoroughly clean myself up before going home.  

I saw Amanda at the Keystone Conference almost every year as well.  She's a very guarded person by nature, but eventually over time she opened up.  I learned such things as that her fraternity voted her "Smart ass of the Year" five years in a row (yes, that includes her first year as an alumni.)  Also, she dressed a bit in college for a fraternity thing.  Years later, she learned while getting together with her brothers that they eventually discovered her femme side, and were cool with it.  

With Amanda at Keystone 2017

For years, I went to her for makeovers; asking questions and learning learning learning.  Eventually, I reached a point when I could do my makeup, but I still went up to see her.  After all, she was better at it than me, and I loved visiting my friend.  She always had great music playing, and we talked about music, sports (she attended a rival Big 10 school), and I often asked her for advice.  

Amanda has been one of my biggest cheerleaders, and I'm not alone.  She's mentored so many "new" transgender girls- almost everyone in my area knew her or knew of her.  People travelled literally thousands of miles for her services.

Early in 2020, I was mentoring a "new" girl here at PSU.  She'd never had a makeover, so of course I took her to Amanda.  Because I trust her.  And I missed talking with her.  

From the January 2009 photoshoot

True Colors is closed for now.  When we get past this pandemic, she'll re-open.  For now, she's taking a well deserved break.  

What Amanda did for me is what she did for an uncounted number of people like me- she helped us to find ourselves and to blossom.  She taught so many of us skills in makeup as well as gave us the courage to face the world as our true selves.  

The transgender community owes Amanda an unpayable debt.  She is an amazingly talented artist, and an incredible person.

After the first time she did my makeup, she told me to stand in front of a full length mirror.  She said to look at myself, and repeat to myself  "I am Sophie.  I am Sophie."  Her idea was to put me in the right mind for having pictures taken.  It calmed me. She took the pictures, then off I went to my first time out with a professional makeup job.  

She helped me so much in these eleven years I've known her.  I can never thank her enough, despite thanking her each time she worked on me.

Amanda is one of my dearest friends.  She is a mentor.  She is a Legend.  

And Amanda...

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.