Just Another Day

Overlooking the Mad River Valley from the porch of a home my family had rented for the second year in a row, I sat on a slightly uncomfortable metal chair stealing a few minutes of peace and quiet away from the commotion of young children playing electronic games indoors, oblivious to the green grass, blue skies, and spectacular views that awaited, just a few feet away.  How far could I see from the replica white farmhouse? It was perched on the side of a mountain, encircled by a mote of Hydrangeas and guarded by a solitary blue spruce, which also doubled as an apartment complex for numerous species of birds.  I was unsure, so I did a little research.  The distance to the horizon from an elevated position can be calculated by taking the square root of two times the radius of the earth plus the elevation.  If the elevation from the GPS in my sister’s gray Chevy Suburban that just past 200,000 miles on her trip to Vermont is accurate, the distance to the horizon, including my height, is approximately 105 miles, that’s not taking into consideration atmospheric refraction and other obstacles like trees and mountains.

Tale of Two Races

...it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us… 

My weekend started with a bang, well not actually an explosion, rather it was a pathetic electronic horn attached to a megaphone being used to start a 5k race on Friday evening. Standing alongside hundreds of other runners at the beginning of the 16^th annual library road race, I felt like an alien in my own town.  You’d think by now I’d get used to the stares and awkward glances, but I haven’t yet.  Two years ago this was the first race I competed in since starting my gender transition.  I’ve run many races over the past few years, but this one is close to home.

The Kids are alright part V

Sharply dressed in brand new white corduroys and a black polo shirt, I met up with several my neighborhood friends at the intersection of Newtonville Ave. and Harvard St. on a bright September morning. We were going walk together on our first day of junior high. I don’t remember getting a lot of new clothes as a child. I wore a lot of hand-me-downs from my four older brothers.  I even recall a series of elementary school class pictures where three of us are smiling like we were actually happy to have our pictures taken, wearing the same red dress shirt, passed down year after year.  There was also the occasional stolen item from my mother and sisters’ closets, worn in private or underneath.   Even though these new clothes were for boys, getting a new outfit was special, and the first day of school was indeed that.