For Mike

I sat on my sofa Easter night, watching a movie with my roomie/bestie Linda.  I also zipped through Facialbook, when I saw it.

My dear friend F.M. (Mike) Yates had passed.  

I was stunned.  I am still stunned.  I eventually learned that he'd died a few days earlier- of what I still don't know.  Now I'm writing about a true polymath- a renaissance man whose mutant power was being a friend to all, and I still can't believe he's gone.

Mike

I met Mike in 1989.  He worked at Comics and More in the King of Prussia mall.  I worked at TGI Fridays in the same mall.  On breaks, I'd occasionally go over to the comic store to see what was new.  He'd always engage me, finding out what I liked and making recommendations.  

One day, he told me there was a graphic novel I NEEDED to see.  He brought me a copy of  Sandman: Dolls House.  I never heard of this title.  The only Sandman comics I knew of were the golden age guy with the gasmask and the Kirby one from the 70s (who, I'd learn, makes an appearance in this book.)  I was dubious.  As I worked for tips, I had to be careful with my money (like I don't today?)  He insisted, and showed me a panel of the book.

I said "So?"

He said "that's Death- literally that's Death, saying "supercalifragilisticexpialidocious."

I bought the book, which was my introduction to the works of one of my now favorite authors, Neil Gaiman.  So, it's all Mike's fault that I spent maybe over a thousand on Gaiman's work.  

Of course, there was more to Mike than comics.  He produced videos, acted, made music, and his mashed potatoes were a food group unto themself.  Whenever I saw him, I knew that I'd be laughing to tears from his sharp wit.  Eventually, I started work in the hobby games industry, doing sales.  I made sure that wherever Mike worked was in my retailer list.  He eventually moved over to Showcase Comics in Bryn Mawr, so I did to (as far as comic purchases).  There I discovered a new group of friends for a shining moment, until I moved to Baltimore.  

Being hours away meant I didn't see him as often, but we'd often talk on the phone, especially if I needed a particularly thorny comics, TV, or movie trivia question answered.  I only stumped him once- and I was so proud that I did!  (I think it was a question about Benita Bizzare's henchmen in the Bugaloos: Woofer and Tweeter.)  

Mike was among the first to contact me after I sent my announcement video to dear friends.  He supported me completely- always.  He never misgendered me, nor messed up my name.  He was a true ally.

I am still stunned by the loss.  I don't know why he passed.  He had medical issues, so I guess that may be why.  In any case, the world is that much dimmer and less interesting with him gone.  I still can't find the words.  He was truly one of a kind.  I know he and Hugh are together again playing games and talking science fiction.

Sleep well, Mike.  May the four winds blow you safely home.  

Traniversary Ten: a Decade in the Open

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

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

Left Photo credit: Cassandra Storm

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just another day.

Be well.

Keystone Conference 2024 and the Broken Bra

As I write this, it's Sunday, March 24, 2024.  Today, hundreds of people like me are leaving the Hilton Harrisburg and returning to their daily routines.  For up to four days, they reveled in the company of people just like them: transgender people both out and closeted.  Dozens of people attended for the first time.  How many took those brave first steps out the that hotel room and into the elevator to the convention floor?  believe me- that takes a LOT of courage.  it's an admission of who you are inside, and a determination to share that inner self with others, like minded.  One can never find a more supportive place to take those first steps.  I remember my first Keystone and the clusterfuck of my first steps out of the room.  I wrote about that here.  

I attended for Saturday only, less than last year.  Last year was a disaster, as I felt sick, depressed, and isolated.  I left before the gala dinner, and was back at my apartment before the attendees sat down for that.  

And so it was that I woke up at 6 am, showered, shaved, and pulled out the dusty makeup box.  I can't remember the last time I dolled up.  My lipliner pencils were dried up.  My roomie/bestie woke up around 6:45, so I could stop trying to be quiet.  I decided to wear a slightly fancy purple dress so I'd be overdressed for the day and underdressed for the night.  I also brought a darker shade of lipstick with me for evening wear.

After a stop for gas, I hit the rainy, foggy road.  Ninetyish minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot at the Hilton.  I ended up near the top of the garage, as the place was packed.  After taking a quick selfie, I started to walk toward to the elevator.  I heard a metallic *ping*and a sudden... sagging feeling.  Something goes wrong for me at every Keystone, and this time it was early.  I was wearing a front clasp bra from VS that had served me well for a long time.  Well, it decided that this moment was the best time to give up the ghost.  The clasp split in half and was hanging on for dear life.  Wonderful.

Broken

A few minutes later, I was in the lobby, where I saw friends.  We chatted briefly, then I encountered my dear friend Jenny North from the Washington DC area.  She writes wonderful short stories and runs some TG comic websites (as in she chronicles appearances of transgender themes in comics).  As a cosplayer, she always carries safety pins with her.  She gave me two, and, after we found a table for lunch, I went to the restroom to attempt to pin the bra shut.  I failed spectacularly and really stuck my finger with a pin while simultaneously causing the clasp to give up its futile attempt to hold on.  

I went back to the table where we'd been joined by the Legendary Amanda Richards (sans makeup, as a nap went on too long.) Also there was my friend Jamie, who I hadn't seen in years.  She's always a delight.  

In front of the huge banquet room was a picture of my dear friend Jen Jensen (JJ.) During lunch, she was given a very moving eulogy.  I miss her.  Not having her at Keystone left a void.  

After lunch, I went to the dealer's room, hoping beyond hope that one of the vendors sold bras.  There I saw my dear friend and mentor Jone.  We spoke briefly, then I noticed that there was a dealer of *ahem* lacy unmentionables.  She had a bralette, but she had my size, and some support is better than none, so I spent $45 I couldn't spare.  It fit, but the girls were still quite bouncy.  Oh well.  I ended up bringing the dead bra back to the apartment where I could show Linda then give it a proper burial in the trash can.  

Sirena, Amanda, and me at the bar

I lurked around a bit, going upstairs to a Vanity Club open social, where my dear friend Sharon bought me a drink.  After leaving that, I then found a seat at the bar with Amanda Richards, who wanted to watch the Iowa women's basketball game.  Amanda owed me a few drinks from betting on Iowa football against my Nittany Lions.  She bought me two, then my dear friend Sirena appeared and bought me one.  That would be my last alcoholic drink, as I knew I had to drive home 6 hours later.  (Iowa won over Holy Cross 91-65.)  

I lurked around again, meeting people and chatting with friends.  Soon, people began appearing in beautiful gowns for the gala dinner.  And, as expected, I was underdressed.  I found a table with Jenny, Jamie, Amanda, and Jenny again.  Unlike lunch, the table filled quickly.  The dinner speaker was Gabi Tuft, a former professional wrestler who transitioned.  Her talk was compelling, but I had to get going. I hugged my friends goodbye, returned to my car and drove through the long winding night road to State College, arriving back at 11 PM- very tired.

Gabi Tuft speaking

I've written before (somewhere) that I no longer need Keystone like I used to.  That doesn't mean I don't enjoy it.  I felt wonderful being surrounded by people like me: transgender, from whom I didn't have to worry about being judged or misgendered.  I loved seeing dear friends and meeting new people.  I feel pretty isolated at PSU.  I have Linda here, and some friends, but no one with the history I have with my friends at Keystone.  I've never missed a Keystone conference (this was the 14th) and I hope to keep that streak alive.  

And tomorrow?  Tomorrow, I mark ten years since coming out.  But that's another story.

 

Be well. 

UPDATE:  A few days later, Covid knocked me on my butt, caught at Keystone.  It wasn't as bad as the first time, as I'd been vaccinated and got the drug to help with it, but still sucked.  

Sophie Selfie: my Keystone Conference look

March and Keystone Coming

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

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

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

Not that my opinion matters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me at the first Keystone: 2009

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

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

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

That's all.

Be well. 

For Jennell

 Jennell Jaquays passed away early on Wednesday, January 10.  She was 67.  She was recovering from Guillain-Barré syndrome.  From the GoFundMe:

“On Sunday evening on October 15th, she fell ill and with[in] 36 hours she was barely alive and hooked up to a respirator. After numerous X-rays, cat scans and blood work finding nothing, they determined she is suffering from a neurological disease. She is responding to the blood treatments and has started regaining motion in her hands and feet, she is looking at a minimum of 2 weeks (more like 4) in the hospital and six to twelve months of rehabilitation.” (https://www.gofundme.com/f/jennell-jaquays-has-a-long-road-back?utm_campaign=p_cp+share-sheet&utm_content=facebook_cta_variant&utm_medium=social&utm_source=facebook)

 

Jennell was a legend in both the Role Playing Game world and in the computer gaming world.  As such, many different website, blogs, and sub stacks have posted wonderful tributes and histories of her. Even the New York Times published a tribute!

 

I won’t repeat all those things.  Yes, they are matters of Fact.  But Jennell was my friend as well as being a legend.  I want to write about that- the Jennell I knew.  One facet of an incredible person.  I know whatever I write won’t capture how I feel or who it is that we’ve all lost.  I’ll try though.

 

Self portrait via New York Times (link above in text)

I first encountered Jennell’s work years before either of us transitioned.  In 1993, I was working as a freelance editor for TSR, the company that created and published Dungeons and Dragons.  My assignment was to edit an adventure module called Swamplight by Jean Rabe.  I did general editing, including checking illustrations, etc.  One piece I was sent was the cover, which was by someone named Paul Jaquays, whom I knew by reputation only.  I knew they’d written some epic adventures for other companies as well as art for TSR. 

 

Decades later, I heard about someone in the gaming industry who’d transitioned.  I was building up toward that myself, so I messaged her on Facialbook, and she was kind enough to reply.  She let me ask her a lot of questions, and eventually we became friends.  We bonded over our common gaming interests and our time working for the gaming industry (which, for me, was in the past.)  We shared tips for painting miniatures and sent each other goofy memes.  I was honored that she asked me to dome editing work for her, including writing a piece for her new Central Casting book, which will be published posthumously.

 

When she fell ill, everyone who knew her was concerned, and were willing to do whatever we could to help.  Her wife, Rebecca (a computer legend herself), set up a GoFundMe to defray the huge medical expenses.  Jennell seemed to be slowly recovering, then… she didn’t.

 

Like so many, I was stunned.  I’m still numb.  I can’t imagine what her wife is enduring now.  As per her wishes, Jennell will be cremated wearing her Viking helmet and outfit.  If nothing else, this tells you all you need to know about her.

 

Jennell was a true polymath- a genius in so many ways.  She was a beautiful soul, and her life touched so many others that she never even met.  I will treasure our friendship, and miss her dearly. 

 

Sleep well, Jennell.  May the four winds blow you safely home.

 

 

Simple Spiderman from the Past

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

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

The Spiderman cut-out

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Be well.

Treating Myself

 It was another life: A lifetime ago.  

It was April 1987.  I was twenty.

My parents drove up to State College on a Thursday to my apartment in Beaver Hill to pick up my things.  The school year was over, but I had one final left, the next day.  The next week, a subletter- the girlfriend of a fraternity brother, would move in.  My roomie, Marc, moved out the previous day.  I would never see nor speak to him again.  That's life.

Fortunately, it was a furnished apartment, so there was nothing huge to move.  They left a pillow for me.  As my mom left, my dad lingered behind.  He gave me a twenty dollar bill and said "go out and have some fun tonight."  Never mind that I had a final the next day, and was too young to get into the bars.  Also, all the people who meant the world to me had already gone home.  

I spent a part of the cloudy sullen afternoon cleaning.  I didn't want the new tenant to think we were slobs!  (We were.)  Then, in mid afternoon, I decided something.  I had $20 in my pocket, and I wanted to treat myself.  I walked several blocks downtown to South Fraser St, to a store then called Book Swap.  In addition to used books, they were also State College's comic book store.  I'd visit there occasionally, just to look and occasionally pick up a comic or two when I had money.  Well, recently, a collected edition of an amazing comic run was released.  I now had the money to buy it.  As I walked to the store, it started raining- first a fine mist which eventually become a light spring drizzle- the kind that leaves that slightly musty smell.  

I looked around the store a bit- I used to love book stores before I worked in one.  Still kind of do.

Anyway, I found the book I wanted.  Nowadays, this would be called a "graphic novel" but back then it was a trade paperback.  This one collected issues #227-231 of Daredevil.  As a story, it's called Born Again.  I read it in the original run, but wanted the collection.

Trade paperback cover

This arc marked the return of Frank Miller to Daredevil after a several year absence.  During that time, he'd remade comics with the publication of Batman: The Dark Knight Returns and Batman Year One.  In the latter, he teamed with artist David Mazzucchelli.  For Born Again, he'd do so again.  

Without going into detail, it's a story of Daredevil's life being destroyed, and his steps toward rebuilding that life.  It's a story of redemption full of Catholic symbolism and amazing subplots (including my favorite version of Captain America ever.)  I took it back to the apartment, but didn't read it.  I studied for that final.  Later that day, I walked downtown again, through a purposeful rain to get a slice of pizza.

The exam was 8 AM.  I don't remember how I did.  After I finished, I returned to the apartment, grabbed the pillow, put the few bits I still had with me into the pillow case and walked up Beaver Ave to the fraternity house.  There I gave my fraternity brother my key.  From there I walked across town to the bus station, and boarded the bus back to southeast PA.  On the way, I read the Daredevil comic twice.  It's arguably Frank Miller's best work on Daredevil.  

From Born Again by Miller and Mazzucchelli

The past few days have been eternal.  I hate the holidays.  On Monday, I received bad news.  I was up for a job as transgender trainer where I work- exactly: 

1. what I do for the place as a grad student and 
2. exactly what I do for my PhD. 

The people deciding are a couple of my supervisors, some of my coworkers, and an HR person. I didn't even make the second fucking round of interviews for some reason.  I washed out on a PHONE interview.  

Now I know that my coworkers don't think I can do the job- that they think I'm incompetent.  Incapable.  A loser only fit for menial tasks.  That the first interview was a mere courtesy, and I was never even fucking considered for the job.  "Give it an interview to shut it up."

I wrote a whole blog entry about it, then took it down.  I didn't want anyone sending police over for a "wellness check."  Maybe I'll post it again after it's all said and done.  

Anyway, I've been very depressed since.  I decided today I'd take a walk downtown for the exercise.  The day was cloudy, cold, and heavy.  I found myself in Comic Swap- the shop is still there, but changed its name.  Now, I have a version of the Born Again story in a hardcover omnibus, but the paperback copy went missing some time ago.  Maybe it's in one of the still unpacked boxes I sealed up when I was thrown out back in 2013.  Who knows.  In any case, I was now in Comic Swap, the same store as long ago.  I have little money, and bills that are overdue.  My PhD program is such that I'm strongly considering withdrawing.  

There on the shelf, among a section of Daredevil graphic novels, was Born Again.  After all these years, it's still in print (that's how good it is.)  I looked at it, spined along with the other titles, with my older eyes.  My entire life was different now.  Then, I was a kid with dreams and hopes.  I was on the cusp of summer and there was so much to look forward to.  Now, I'm an old, fat, transgender woman whose life self-destructed a decade before.  So many dead friends.  So much pain.  So little left.  So little that like a coward I ran back to Penn State in search of refuge in academia.  I don't recognize the thing in the mirror with hollow dead eyes and thin scraggly long hair.  Back then, I knew how to smile.  I can't remember how to smile now- except to fake it for pictures.  

I removed the book from the shelf.  It was a newer edition with extra material.  I flipped through the familiar pages and remembered.  I decided to treat myself.  I pulled out the credit card I use only for "emergencies" such as when I have no money and need food.  I bought the book.  The worker put it in a slim paper bag, just like a different person had done decades before.  I thanked them, wished them a happy holiday, and walked up the steps to Fraser street.  I turned onto College Ave and walked toward my car, parked a few blocks down the street.  One block further was a new pizza place- it replaced a series of pizza places.  When I was in undergrad, it was Brother's Pizza.  Back then, it's where I'd stop for a slice.

I opened my car door and put the bag on the passenger seat.  I walked the extra block to the new pizza shop.  I'm treating myself.  I'm trying to drive away the holiday hate and the Darkness of my failure.  I ordered a slice of pepperoni and a drink.  Sat in a booth in the empty pizza shop alone, and ate it.  

After I finished, I returned to my car, and after another quick stop on campus, went back to the apartment.  My roomie/bestie Linda was at work, so I sat alone.  On the table sat the book chapter, one hundred pages long, that was assigned to me months before.  I simply couldn't pick it up and do my job- read the damn thing.  It's gotten to the point that I'm afraid of it.  

I sat on the couch, and the paper and I stared at each other.  The room was darkening- it was after 4, and it's winter.  Next to me on the couch was the paper bag containing the comic I'd read countless times.  My treat to myself.  I looked over at the Christmas tree, which I'd plugged in after returning.  

I removed the book from the bag, and read it again.  Anything to escape the wreck I've made of my life.  To escape the hellscape that elected officials are making for people like me.  In Born Again, the characters have Hope, and the good guys win in the end.  A life that was destroyed has been rebuilt but not restored.  Heroes exist.  

If only for an hour.

Be well.  Those who celebrate, please have a happy holiday season.  

UPDATE 4/24:  The copy I bought in 1987 which had gone missing has been found.  As expected, it was packed away in a box among other unrelated things.  So now I have two copies, both which have meaning.  Life is funny sometimes.

Sophie's 2023 TDOR Speech

 Sorry it's been a while.  Depression sucks.  In any case, on November 14, I gave the keynote speech at Penn State's Transgender Day of Remembrance.  It was on that day instead of the 20th because the students were on fall break the week of the 20th.  

This is what I wrote and delivered that night, pretty much word for word.

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Despite the fact that the news and policies and losses should’ve left us numb or calloused our souls to the Pain, I offer the following trigger warnings: murder, suicide, death, history, and Hope.  I also acknowledge my privilege as a person of white, western European colonizer ancestry, and that the land where I write this was once home to the Susquehannock people.   

Tonight, we solemnly gather to honor our dead.  We do this to remember not just those we will name tonight, but those whose names we will never know.  How many transgender people died and were then misgendered by the police, doctors, reporters, and families?  How many took their own lives never telling a soul about the pain that dysphoria inflicted upon their souls?  How many homeless transgender teens search dumpsters for scraps of food as cisgender teens order an extra shot of espresso in their grande cappuccino?

The poet Lee Mokobe wrote that “Oncoming traffic is embracing more transgender children than parents.”  Torry Peters wrote “If you are a trans girl who knows many other trans girls, you go to church a lot, because church is where they hold the funerals.”

Why?  Why is gender non-conformity a mortal sin, punishable by ostracism, pain, and death?  I ask for the 327 transgender and gender diverse people reported murdered worldwide.  95% of them were trans-feminine.  65% were people of color.  [Transrespect vs Transphobia Worldwide].  This is not new.  Joan of Arc was burned at the stake on May 30, 1431 for wearing men's clothing, which the Church referred to as "idolatry.”  The Inquisition decided that there was not enough evidence to have her convicted of witchcraft.   She was 19.

Bubba Copeland, the Republican mayor of Smiths Station, Alabama, pastor at Phenix City’s First Baptist Church, and father of three, shot himself in the head two weeks ago.  They’d previously led their town through the aftermath of a tornado that killed 23 people.   Despite this, a far-right website revealed that they were also Brittini Blaire Summerlin, a transgender woman who posted photos and transgender erotica online.  They begged the website not to do this, but, as always, the cruelty is the point, and they doxed Brittini anyway.  Brittini was buried last Thursday.

Dark days.  Transgender people face an onslaught of legislation like a biblical flood of hatred.  The purveyors cover up their hate with names like “Protect children’s innocence act” and Protecting Children from Experimentation Act”, and “Productivity over Pronouns act.”   We are called every name except child of God by far-right politicians who use us to scare people into donating.

Why?  I don’t understand.  I’ve studied this very question for the past four years and can quote the research, cite the sources, and discuss academic theories.  I am considered an expert on the topic.  But I am transgender.  I don’t know what it means to be cisgender.  Oh, I know what it means to pretend- I did that for 47 years.  How does it feel to not think about gender constantly.  How does it feel to not worry about your rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness disappearing during election day, or due to the death of a judge?   Perhaps I just don’t understand the cisgender mind.

However... however... dark as these days may be, there is hope.  As the Bard wrote “True hope is swift and flies with swallow’s wings.” [Richard III' (1591) act 5, sc. 2, l. 23].  How do I know? 

A friend of Bubba Copeland’s, who didn’t know about Brittini, wrote “I just want to ask you people who thought it humorous to publicly ridicule him, ‘Are you happy now?’ What crime did he commit? Some of you people make me sick. I hope you are really proud.”  In the deep red south, an ally is forged.  Allies.  Friends. 

And that is what we need to go on.  If healing from these losses is possible, it will be helped along by friends and allies.  Transgender people can be very resilient.  After all, we’ve survived through the centuries, on the fringes, shunned or hiding.  We have community, but to actually heal, we need outside help.  We need people to understand one basic fact above all others:  that we are human.  That’s all- acknowledge our basic humanity.  Let us live our lives without superfluous laws designed to inflict cruelty, and with the basic rights afforded to human beings.

Friends and allies can be hard to find, but we are finding them.  We find them in the person who says “enough is enough!”  or at least “I need to know more before I make a judgement.”  We find them in people who extend their hand and say “let me help.”  Most of all, we find them in YOU: this current generation.  The generation of today has known transgender people most of their lives.  They have transgender friends and relatives.  They see positive transgender representation in movies, tv, and in books.  For them, being transgender can be just another facet making up a person, not something to fear.  These friends and allies join their voices to ours, lend us their strength when we need it, and vote out transphobic politicians. 

You help us heal from the losses.  You give us the strength to go on when everything seems bleak.  You give us HOPE- the hope that some way, somehow, things will get better.  You give us the hope that someday we will be accepted in society- that being transgender will be seen as no big deal, just another variety of people.  That day may come, but only if we all want it, and work toward it together.  Every vote, every voice raised in protest, every gathering can be another step forward.  They can generate the hope someone needs to stay alive.  As Cicero wrote “While there is life, there is hope.”

Sleep well brothers and sisters.  May the four winds blow you safely home.  We will take the baton and continue in your name.

For Jenny

Last week was not a good one, for several reasons.  It was my birthday, for one.  However, the day before that, on the night of September 12, I received word that Jennifer Jensen died that morning.

"JJ" April 2010

I don't know if Jenny (JJ) was out to her family, so out of respect for her privacy, I must keep certain personal details vague.

I met JJ at my first Renaissance meeting/ Angela's Laptop Lounge in December 2008.  I was a mess- no makeup, rumpled outfit, bad shoes, and a cheap Halloween wig.  Despite my trollish appearance, Jenny was warm and welcoming, as were most of the people that night.

After the Renaissance meeting, everyone went over to Shangri-La for Angela's Laptop Lounge, the twice monthly transgender inclusive party.  At dinner, I sat next to JJ, and we talked.

I don't remember what we talked about, but she remembered me the next month and we talked some more.  I told her that I'd gotten a room at Motel 6 so I could change into/out of Sophie stuff, and she replied she did the same.  It made sense that we pool our resources, so for over a year, we split the cost of a motel room- usually the Motel 6.  After a month or two, we started having lunch before changing at a restaurant near the motel.  Jen Lehman soon joined us, and three of us became a small group.  For me, it was lunch, go get my makeup done by Amanda Richards, then meet them at the Renaissance meeting.  

Those first months of going out were frightening, but JJ was a calming influence.  She was that way for everyone.  I discovered that this was due to her high stress occupation during which she had to keep a cool head- a career she enjoyed since the 1970s until her recent retirement.  

Keystone 2010

Jenny wasn't "out" to her work colleagues (and again, possibly not to family), so secrecy was a must.  During our lunches we would ponder ways to keep our secrets hidden.  Eventually, I came out to my Wife, then to the world, and Jenny was so supportive.

After she retired, Jenny moved back to her home state, so I rarely saw her except at the Keystone Conference.  There she volunteered her time and expertise to the conference and her presence there will be sorely missed.  JJ helped run the Debutante program for new attendees in addition to originating and continuing to run the popular Friday night Bingo Spectacular.  She and Amanda Richards would wear outlandish costumes and gave away great prizes to winners and those who answered transgender trivia.  

JJ was an incredible person.  She gave of herself without thought of reward or seeking laurels.  She helped because she could, and because she wanted to.  She was an amazing person and an amazing friend.

May the four winds blow you safely home, Jenny.  I will miss you and try to live up to your example.

Has it been Ten?

I still write to Lisa Empanada.  Not as often as I used to, but I still do.  Yes, I know she won't read it, but it helps me sort my thoughts sometimes.

For those who don't know, I write about Lisa often, but THIS is as good a starting point as any.

I hate this time of year, as the anniversaries come one after the other.  Being thrown out, SEC, birthday, Lisa's suicide, funeral.  This year it's a bit rougher.

This year it's 10.

Ten years since I was thrown out.  Ten years since I last spoke to Lisa.  Ten years since she died, and everyone endured her funeral.  Is it even possible that ten years have passed?  I'm much older now than she ever lived to be.  (Yes that's grammar error.  Live with it.)

Why do I still write about her?  Why do I still talk about her?  Only a small group of people have even heard of Lisa Empanada these days, compared to when she died, when she was relatively well known.  After all, the transgender community has a high attrition rate, what with murders and suicides and such.  Why do I still have a small urn of her ashes displayed next to her picture and one of her wigs?  Isn't that creepy?  Is this an obsession?

In the end, after all this time, aside from her family, who really gives a flying f*ck about Lisa Empanada?

I do.

She was my dearest friend (aside from my Wife).  She's not the only dear friend I've lost in my life, God knows, and not even the only suicide, but she was the closest.  Lisa exists now only in yellowing pictures, pixels, and memories.  Her voice is only remembered by a few, as she rarely recorded it.  But I remember her.  And I don't want that memory to die.

Lisa's story should be one of happiness and triumph, and, to a certain point it is.  Her wife and children for the most part were supportive.  She volunteered her time and love to the transgender community, and was an amazing ambassador.  BUT...

Then she killed herself.  All that life, that love, that strength... gone.  Died in the back of a dirty painter's van.  Alone.  The way she wanted it.  Then, burned to ashes, again as she wanted it.  Some of the ashes were spread at certain places.  Some were given to close friends.  Most are inurned in her old bedroom.  The urn is purple: her favorite color.   

So, now she's been gone for a decade.

As I said above, in the past ten years, many of my friends died.  Some were quite close.  One was very recent.  I've written about a few of them in this blog.  I also lost many (almost all) of my old friends when I transitioned in 2014.  I'm used to losing people, especially as I get older.  When I leave a job, I want to keep in touch with people, but the ties that bind fade with time.  People that once were family to me are now echoes on the internet.  Maybe an occasional phone call.  "We must get together sometime."  I'm used to being isolated, as I had few friends growing up, and in reality, I'm really socially awkward.  Anyone who knows me knows that I'm prone to saying the wrong things or committing faux pas at alarming rates.  I never learned what it meant to be among people.  That's the price of a lonely childhood.

Taken the day before she died

However, that also means that I treasure the friends that I have, and especially the ones I keep.  They are all that keeps me alive.  They remind me that maybe my life ripples beyond what little I perceive.  My closest friends, well I hope they know what they mean to me.  Linda has been my roomie for almost ten years and hasn't run away screaming.  Ally has also been here for me for ten years.  Other friends stayed despite my transition, some of whom I've known most of my life.  That word "friend" is one I don't use lightly- but I mean it when I use it.

Why do I still write about Lisa Empanada?  Because she was dear to me.  She was my friend, and I WANT people to remember her.  I want her memory to survive as long as it can- far longer than she did in my life.

Lisa was special, and I loved her.  

I miss you, Lisa, and I always will.