Middle of Nowwhere

A year ago today,  I ran the New York Marathon. I hope it doesn’t sound like I’m bragging, as I was just one of 48,000 participants who traversed the 26.2 miles from Staten Island, to Brooklyn and Queens, then Manhattan and the Bronx.  More than 2 million

spectators lined the route, cheering all of us to the finish line in Central Park. In the end, after four hours, I finished, and felt horrible. It took me more than two hours longer than both the female and male winners.  I did finish a little ahead of Pamela Anderson, but didn’t see her on the course. She was on the Ellen show later in the week talking about her experience. She looked good with short hair.  We’re the same age, if you were wondering.  

Four years ago I ran the Las Vegas Marathon. It was my first one. The race was in December, and the weather was nearly perfect.  I had been to Vegas the previous summer on a cross-country road trip and stopped to see a college friend.  Yes, it was hot, very hot, 110 degrees in the shade. She was a rock-climbing make up artist from New Hampshire.  Having seen my recent collection of drawings and paintings featuring Barbie dolls, she thought one of her clients would love them.  I was a little overwhelmed when she mentioned it was Pamela Anderson.  Nothing came of it, but I thought it was really cool that she mentioned me to her.

I haven’t run as much this year. I got a new job and I’ve been sick.  After a heart procedure sidelined my training this summer, reoccurring upper respiratory infections this fall, along with allergies have stirred my asthma, making it almost impossible to sleep; no less run.  But, I’m stubborn and stupid. So last Sunday, 358 days since I ran the New York Marathon, and with idyllic weather for late October, my short walk turned into a jog.  About a mile from my house I had to stop. I was coughing, wheezing, and couldn’t get a full breathe of air in my swollen lungs.  Those of you, who have asthma, COPD, or some other breathing issue, know what I’m taking about. It was like breathing underwater, and despite an ongoing fantasy, I’m not a mermaid.

I took a few puffs from my rescue inhaler, turned around and began to walk home. That didn’t go very well either. After a quarter mile or so, I had to stop again. I sat on wooden rail next to a park, waiting for my breathing to return to “normal”.   After about twenty minutes, I started feeling a little better and walked some more. An hour after leaving my house, I made it home, a small victory.  It’s funny, I’ve run nearly 5,000 miles over the past five years, sometimes they’re easy and sometimes they almost kill you.

This morning, after being on Prednisone all week, and my lungs improving, I was tempted to lace up my Sauconys, but opted instead for my hiking boots. The wind was howling, and the rain was mixing with snow.  It is November after all.  After a half mile down my road I turned east onto a new trail that runs alongside the Batson River and eventually meets up with a brackish section of
Tyler Brook. You see, my castle, (which is actually a ranch built in 1968), is nestled next to hundreds of acres of conservation land and sits just a few miles from the ocean. I know; I’m spoiled.  The wet leafy walk passed through a forest of birch, oak, beech, and pine, crossing streams and stones covered with lichen and large granite boulders left behind from the Laurentide Ice Sheet 35,000 years ago.   

 
After about an hour and a half, I thought I had become trapped in some maze or endless loop in the woods.  I had lost all sense of direction, and everything began to look the same, like the backgrounds in cartoons.   I couldn’t be lost; I was less than mile from my house.  About ten years ago, I took an orienteering class in the woods of Western Maine. The course was an overview of how to use a compass in the woods. As we introduced ourselves, we let the group know why we were taking the course.  One person mentioned they didn’t want to die alone in the woods.  I thought of that as I passed a pleasant looking plush green and yellow bed of moss and newly fallen leaves. 

I had lost sight of the blue blazes that had guided my morning walk, so I turned back and retraced my steps.  I must have drifted off the trail somewhere.  You know, the road less traveled and all…that’s me. I eventually saw the unnatural flash of color affixed to the trunk of a birch, and returned to the loop trail I had wandered off from. With my fingers and cheeks wet and cold, I found the trail-head and walked home, content.  I hadn’t seen or heard another human the whole time.  Maybe I'll watch this year's race on TV, and possibly an episode of Baywatch.

I Don’t Go to Church Anymore

This afternoon, Comet C/2013 A1, better know by its thoroughbred sounding name, Siding Spring, raced past our neighbor, the red planet Mars, at 35 miles per second, hurtling towards the sun.

Traveling from a place called the Oort Cloud, which is a swarm of icy objects believed to be debris left over from the birth of our solar system 4.5 billion years ago, this space traveler will eventually turn away from the brightest star in the sky and it’s gravitational pull, returning to whence it came, a million of years ago.

Before I sat down to watch the simulcast (yes, I’m an space geek), I took a long walk in the woods behind my house.  You see; I don’t go church anymore.  Instead I spend time in nature.  I’m usually running along country roads, snowshoeing across fields, swimming in the ocean, or walking in the woods, all with the same destination, home.



This time of year in Maine the woods are spectacular.  Lemon yellow birch leaves explode alongside the amber leaves of beech trees like fireworks on the 4^th of July.   The earthly scent of decaying wet sugar maple leaves and needles from the towering white pine decomposing under each step reminded me that winter is not too far off, but the warmish humid air rustling through the stubborn oak leaves, hushed my concerns.  Like Frederick the Mouse from one of my favorite childhood books, I told myself, I can stack wood another day.

Walking quietly along the edge of a field, I heard an unfamiliar song in the wind, and then noticed two small birds fluttering from branch to branch. They reappeared every few seconds, singing a jumbled high pitch call that sounded like the chattering of children. No bigger than a lime, the two chased each other from bush to bush, and then I noticed a flash of red from the top of one of their tiny heads, but with the speed of a comet, the Ruby-crowned Kinglets vanished into thin air. 

Spread you Wings

I know, I know, the movie Mulan is racist, trans-phobic, fat-phobic, and more, but I couldn't resist. I watched the Disney classic for the first time this morning.  That's right, I've avoided this animated fantasy and many newer Disney films for years.  But this morning, as I was recovering on my couch from a near perfect long run, I gave in.

And despite all that is wrong with this engaging, and at times silly film, the message is clear. Women and girls are smart, passionate, strong, and yes, defiant in the face of history, culture, and society that doesn't value us for what we're capable of.  A recent example of this is Nobel Peace Prize winner, Malala Yousafzai, who at age 15, was shot in the face for believing girls should be educated. Malala is a fighter and she survived. But she is a benevolent leader, using words, books, and pencils as weapons against oppression, not violence and hate. 

So on this National Coming Out Day, I wonder, as friend questioned earlier today, what's the purpose of such an occassion?  For me, it seems like I've been coming out my whole life, but there were times when I was pushed back in, or chose that closet for safety, for the privilege of gender, for the security of a job, and for the comfort of a relationship. Being a transgender woman, is a unique experience, not only because I've have lived a life in two genders, so to speak,  but because when I leave the protection of my house, I'm outing myself. I know I'm seen as transgender, or something worse, but I'm okay with that.  It's taken a life time to get that point, but I think it gives me special powers, being able to confront people's expectations of gender just by being me, just by buying milk at the grocery store.  But I'm human too, and as I listened to the character Mulan sing about the disconnect between how she feels on the inside versus what she sees in her reflection, I know that there will be many more tears, but hope just as many smiles, as my journey continues.  

What's on next, Lion King?

Fading Sun

It’s hot for September, but in those tiny blue shorts she gave me goose bumps.  My hand brushed her leg and her skin felt like the faded white sand made soft after millions of years of rocks and sea life crashing and decomposing together. Lying next to each other on beach towels we laughed in envy as we watched a small group of teenage girls teaching each other how to shake their ass out of sight from their parents. Hungry afternoon clouds quickly swallowed the sun, so we packed up our gear and zip closed my colorful striped cooler. I never had those youthful experiences as a girl.

Awaken the next morning to the chirps, cries, and buzz of birds, squirrels, and cicada; I realized I’m closer to fifty than she is to thirty. I try to convince myself that’s okay, but the fleeting weight of time crushes me like waves crashing onto the rocky coast. She didn’t stay the night. It’s not as though I expected her to, but I had dreamed of being held by her long arms, arms that flap like a seagull when she dances. Arms that make me smile.  

Heading to refill my glass of water, I recognized I drank too much, and hoped to find my friend asleep on the brown leather couch in the living room.  My feet stick to the kitchen floor splashed with fruit juice, vodka and white wine from the night before.  Through squinted eyes I noticed her abandoned half empty glass sitting on the edge of a stack of fashion magazines I barely look at any more, leaving a dark condensation ring on the surface.  All the lights were left on and the TV screen was brilliant blue, like the bachelor buttons cut from my garden and placed in a glass vase, bending towards the adjacent window and the rising late summer sun. The message “No Signal!” bounced across the electronic surface like a ball from a video game when I was young. 

See you Tomorrow

I just want to call my friend, and ask her if she really visited me in the hospital last week, or was it just dream, a hallucination from the medication I was on as a team of cardiac specialists inserted catheters into four veins through my stubbly groin to reach my heart without cutting open my chest and splitting my ribs apart. The reason I wondered, was because I became unconscious partially through the procedure and don’t remember waking up.  In fact I kinda like the idea of it all being a dream. It would be a nice dream for a change.  

Home

Three years ago, at age 44, I decided to embrace my identity as a Transgender Woman.  My transition began during the long winter of 2011, and day-by-day I've stumbled my way into the person I am today. During this emotional process I've shed many layers from my previous identity that had accumulated over time. It was like I had been wearing a suit of medieval armor, heavy and cumbersome, all my life.  And while I feel free these days, I know I’m more vulnerable and susceptible to the world around me. 

We Used to Have Nicknames

Under a remarkably brilliant blue sky, I drove from Raleigh to Pinehurst, in an off-white Fiat that I had just rented from a young and uncomfortably happy Enterprise employee.  I was on my way to visit my parents who were enjoying an early spring at their condo in North Carolina.  I felt slightly nervous and a little sad as I was about to spend three days with them at a very conservative golf resort for the first time openly as a transgender woman, and teary-eyed, as I recalled one of my first visits to the Tar Heel State in 1992, with my then girl friend, future partner, and now ex. 

While I was apprehensive about the visit, I desperately needed some of my mom’s nurturing optimism and my dad’s predictability.  It hadn’t occurred to me when planning this trip that what I really needed was to get away.  Not just get away from my job and commitments, but also to get away from the sadness I was feeling.  My ex partner and I had separated nearly four years ago, and were divorced in two years later after being married for seventeen, yet we continued to live together until last month.  So after twenty-two years, we were no longer roommates.