TWO DOWN NONE TO GO

IMG_2949I knew there was a problem the moment it happened. First snowfall of the winter and the first winter without Jake’s young, brawny arms living with us. Sue was crystal clear: stay inside and she’d dig everything out.

I waited until she geared up, went downstairs and began digging before I dressed and followed. Sue started yelling as soon as she saw me, but I pretended not to hear. No way I was gonna let her do the porch, stairs, walks, and cars by herself.

I knew enough to protect my right shoulder from any heavy lifting given my surgeon’s warnings that the last operation was a “one and done” deal. But I was too dumb to protect my left shoulder from overcompensating.

By the time I was back upstairs my left was throbbing and I should have let her shovel alone because a steady diet of Advil reduced the pain, but never took it away.

You might think one dumb was enough. Not me. Why stick with one when there’s more on the table? Rather than going to my doctor as soon as I realized the hurt wasn’t about to vanish, I decided to just live with it until just before Sue and I went to Mexico in the spring. Then I paid a call to my doc and received a cortisone shot to be as pain-free as possible during the trip. I also really harbored a belief that the shot would clear up the problem once and for all.

Well, at least it worked for the trip but not the “once and for all.”

Still, I hesitated making another doctor’s appointment upon our return. My gut knew another doctor visit meant another operation.

I finally went and my “gut” came true. But what surprised me was the surgeon’s announcement that the surgery had to be done the following week. I had dreamed of delaying it for a year—or, at least until after November so I could introduce myself to my newly born twin granddaughters without looking like a monster movie poster. And be able to somewhat comfortably hold them.

Wasn’t happening. He made it absolutely clear that that any delay would cost too much range of motion in my arm.

Suddenly the operation became a no brainer.

"Stone walls do not a prison make"

“Stone walls do not a prison make.”

Nevertheless this “no brainer” filled my head with dread. I remembered all too well being stuck in a recliner, unable to get out on my own, for months and months. Remembered all the times I had to call Jake in the middle of the night to help me out so I could use the john. And this time there’d be no Jake to call.

Nor was it going to be six months. Turns out there’s a new way to do shoulder surgeries and while the recovery pain is the same, the recovery time has been greatly reduced. This recovery period was just gonna be around six weeks, but the pain will be much better than my other arm when all is healed. Which Jake reminds me of every time I start feeling sorry for myself.

And no, he hasn’t moved back into the house. He used brain, not brawn. He Craiglisted to find and buy a motorized recliner that allows me to get in and out by myself. It really has made this recovery a whole lot more tolerable.

Truth is, this is really just a 1st World problem. People throughout the globe live without doctors, painkillers, operations, and limbs.

Which, in some ways has made sitting in the house more difficult. Every morning coffee is filled with newspaper horror stories. Makes me sick while I sit around waiting to use my arm. And man, after reading the papers I really want to hit something.

But that’s a price you pay when living in the belly of the beast. The contradiction of a life comfortably lived—shoulder pain or not—while most of the world exists in squalor.

Only these days I’m much less focused on my own life contradictions and much more concerned about the lives of all the kids and twins. What goes around, comes around is never far from my mind. Fact is, we can’t be bogarting most of the world’s resources and imagine this can last forever. There will be a price.

So I mostly focus on my return to writing, try to be a decent partner, friend, and father. Which I’m sure, like the shoulder I fucked up, I’ll mess up more than once. Nonetheless, I’ll keep trying.

The world will take us where it wants despite our meat-headed grandiosity.

IMG_2958In any event, it’s good to be back writing Just sayin’ and once the meds actually wear off I hope to fill the columns with more outrage, reviews, hopes and Interviews with the Dead. In other words facts, fiction, and guest posts. In other words, I’m back.

I also want to thank Kent Ballard for the last column. I found it moving, thought provoking, and deeply personal. What I call “writing from the heart.” Thanks, friend.

You can’t depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus. ~ Mark Twain

LAST CALL

As some of you already know, I’ve signed with Polis Books which will first repackage and reissue STILL AMONG THE LIVING, TWO WAY TOLL, and NO SAVING GRACE, then launch my 4th Matt Jacob novel, TIES THAT BLIND. I’m excited about working with Jason Pinter, founder and driving force behind this new Internet publishing house. TIES will be delivered to Jason by February 1st who, I’m pleased to say, will be its editor. The hope is that together we can cut through the Internet’s noise and bring the entire four book collection to a new generation of readers.

The only regret I had in making this commitment was the loss of Michael Paul Smith‘s current book covers. As part of my agreement, all current Matt Jacob novels (including the PDF version) will be withdrawn from sale within the next few weeks and remain so until Polis reissues them. So, if you love Michael’s covers, now is the time to buy these editions. They are available through my website, http://zacharykleinonline.com/matt-jacob-ebooks/, Amazon, Barnes & Nobles, and Smashwords, which provides the ability to download the series to other platforms including Apple devices.

The other goodbye or, at least so long, has to do with my Just sayin’ weekly column. This will be my last post until I get my feet on the ground working with Polis Books and Jason. I’m hopeful to return at some point in January but can’t promise. So, for those of you who’ve taken the time to read it, I want to thank you dearly. It’s been because of your support that Just sayin’ has been running since January 2011.

Of course, when I return I hope you come back with me. I can’t express the pleasure I’ve had speaking to you throughout these years.

I am interested in language because it wounds or seduces me. Roland Barthes

PLEASE DIG DEEPER: AN INTERVIEW WITH ALLISON WOOLBERT

Allison

Allison Woolbert is the initiator of the Transgender Violence Tracking Project which I wrote about in last week’s column. For even more details about the project please visit: http://www.transviolencetracker.com/. Although she will never receive a dime for her efforts, Allison has tirelessly worked to inform people about the transgender community and getting this incredibly important project off the ground. She was kind enough to spend another couple of hours with me on the phone for this interview.

Q. Have you received any responses from last week’s column?

Allison: Well, the article spread to many different websites and I received a number of supportive comments on the TVTP‘s Facebook page. Shockingly, I also received numerous requests for pictures of mutilated bodies and immolation victims. It had never crossed my mind that there were people who actually had a fetish for viewing dead members of our transgender community. I also received a personal threat on my life which scared the hell out of me. I banned the picture request people and FB did remove the member who sent the death threat.

Q. During our last conversation you mentioned that a transgender person is murdered about every three days.

Allison: That’s from information that we receive and really only includes reported murders. We actually think the rate is higher. This is why the TVTP is so important. We need accurate factual data in order to get basic protection.

Q. Was this your first encounter with threats?

Allison: I’ve been out now for five years and when I first came out as an affirmed woman I always felt frightened and did have a couple of threatening incidents. I remember one where a group of people in a car tried to run me into a “Jersey barrier” on the side of the highway. Still, this recent murder threat just so people might see my dead body really shook me up—despite all my knowledge about the hatred toward transgender people.

Q. No longer just statistics, huh?

Allison: Right, though there have been a number of murders and suicides that have blown me away. A boy in England, who was not allowed to wear make-up to school to be who she really was despite trying a number of times, finally hanged herself on the same day as my son’s birthday who was also the same exact age. It’s a suicide I’ll never forget. Another boy went to school in the US wearing lipstick and a fellow student just shot him to death. This is another reason why TVTP is so important. We need to know the facts about how many of our children are being murdered and beaten.

Q. You’ve been talking about kids. At what age did you first have an inkling about the war within yourself?

Allison: I remember when I was seven, waking up at night and going to my window and praying, “Please god, please god turn me into who I really am. My family were extremely devout Christians and I believed in miracles so I kept praying and waiting.

Q. Even at the age of seven you knew you were a girl.

Allison: What had solidified by then was that something was wrong. That I didn’t belong in this boy’s body. It really wasn’t me.

Q. You told me a story about putting on a dress and make-up, proudly showing your folks and your mom went ballistic.

Allison: She dragged me back into the bathroom, tore the clothes off and really hurt my face scrubbing the make-up away. It was pretty painful physically and psychologically.

Q. This was at age seven?

Allison: Actually earlier. Maybe five or six. I was always seeking my womanhood. I used to steal my grandmother’s girdle, take clothes from clotheslines, hide my sister’s dress and wig under my mattress. I couldn’t put any reasons to these things; I had to do it even though I felt horrible and guilty.

By the time I was around ten, I kind of accepted my behavior. I had women’s clothes in my tree fort, under my mattress, any place where I could hide them.

Q. Of course all this had to be secret.

Allison: Absolutely! I had to stay hidden in the closet or face violent reactions from my family. There was no choice. In my family, this was evil. Also, remember, at that time there was no language to explain what was happening with me. Transexual wasn’t a word most people even knew—much less understood as a medical issue. What I was, was simply wrong. In those days I was perceived as a gay effeminate boy and gay was a sin. I didn’t even know what I was because I knew I wasn’t gay since I was attracted to girls—though in fact—it turns out that I’m bisexual.

But back then, if I wore women’s clothes I experienced a feeling of normalcy and actually relaxed. Then when I took them off it was “Oh my god, I’ve sinned.” In some ways it was a self-perpetuating punishment.

Q. Elementary school must have been tough.

Allison: Oh yes. I had ADHD, plus I was effeminate. I was regularly paddled in the principal’s office or in front of my class. You see, I grew up in a copper mining community that had very concrete gender roles. Women could be secretaries but never work in the mine. So you can imagine how I was seen.

Q.  I’d guess things grew even worse as you moved through junior high and high school.

Allison: Yes, they did. I can’t put an exact time frame on it anymore, but I remember being stuffed into lockers—no small thing since I was already at least six feet tall. I was pushed, shoved, and beaten up. During high school there was one kid who basically smacked me around every day. Throwing basketballs at the back of my head or breaking my glasses. Essentially I was seen as gay. But I couldn’t fight back because my family kept preaching that fighting was evil and a sin.

Q. You’ve taught me the difference between “sexual orientation” and being a transgender person so you were attracted to girls/women.

Allison: Sure, sure. I’m bisexual so I’ve been attracted to both men and women my whole life. For me there’s no disparity between my sexual attractions and my sexual identity.

Q. During all of those school years was there anyone you could talk to about all this?

Allison: About my sexual identity? Not a single one. I was over twenty before I had that discussion. See, I was caught in a corner. I didn’t know what I was. Gay? Straight, but effeminate? In my own mind I just thought I was a freak.

My mother was unrelenting, overbearing and continually insisted the cure for me was to attend a strict Christian college to be “saved.” During second semester I met a woman and married her ten days later, dropped out of school, and a year later had a child. But when I first got married I began to cross-dress in the house. She thought it was kinda kinky and willing to have fun with it. Of course, at that point in my life I never went outside in women’s clothes or makeup. It was sex play, which was very different than my real issue.

Despite her semi-acceptance of my cross-dressing and our having a child, the marriage was a disaster. I spent a year being unable to keep a job and scrambled from one to another adding to the misery.

Q. Was that when you enlisted?

Allison: Yes, I went into the Air Force. Someone suggested it was a way to at least have a solid job.

Q. You were how old?

Allison: I was 19 ½. I’d just had my little boy. Actually, the military was okay for me. It enabled me to get my feet on the ground and find my way out of adolescence. I thought I’d be traveling, but after training I ended up back home in Tucson for my entire tour of duty.

Q. And it was the Air Force that initiated your computer expertise?

Allison: Yes, but it wasn’t what I wanted at the time. I really wanted a woman’s job. I aspired to be a secretary—though I knew the male twist would mean becoming a clerk. I took a typing test but they told me they were going to make me a statistical analyst and computer programmer—despite my incredible struggles with both algebra and geometry. But during the four years I was in the Air Force I worked hard at it, learned to love it, and that’s how my career evolved to where I’ve become quite good at all things computer. Otherwise I’d never initiate the TVTP. My transgender community means too much to me.

Q. Four years, huh? You’ve described yourself as effeminate. How did you deal with that in the military?

Allison: With mixed emotions. On one hand I was married with a small child and trying to suppress my real identity. Also, the Air Force demands specific postures for standing, sitting, everything really. So it actually helped in presenting as male. At the same time it was extraordinarily painful to keep who I really was in check. I just wasn’t who I was trying so hard to be. You can’t see gender identity but you can see gender expression. How you stand, haircuts, hold your hands. Most of the bias comes as a reaction to expression. For example, a masculine butch woman catches bias because of her gender expression.

Q. What happened after you left the military?

Allison: By the time I left I knew I wanted to devote my life to computer programming and analysis and got supervisory work as such. But after 6½ years my first marriage ended in a divorce. I then remarried and that marriage lasted for 6 years as well, though for half that time we were separated.

In the beginning of the marriage I began thinking about actually transitioning and before the separation my wife actually urged me to go public with my cross-dressing. But after our separation I stopped, buried who I really was, and started dating yet again. I still had my mother’s voice in my head telling me I’d meet a religious Christian woman and become “normal.”

Then I met a good woman who seemed to believe in me. Plus I was older and had better repression tools, telling myself I don’t have to be what I really was. I loved her and during our thirteen years together had two children. When I again began to accept my transsexuality, she thought it was simply a phase and told me to get over it and keep the money coming. I think she believed my transexualism was something I was using to escape the kids. Nothing was farther from the truth. Despite ongoing problems with some of my children, I love them all dearly.

Q. At the point of this break-up, where were you at gender identity-wise?

Allison: At that time I’d really begun transitioning, using black market hormones, even though I was still resisting. I had two psychologists who finally identified that I had PTSD from my upbringing and marriages, that I was a transsexual, and if I didn’t deal with that I was going to die. Kill myself.

At forty five years of age I finally accepted my transsexuality despite having a tremendous amount of anxiety. I had fully transitioned by October 2008 and never turned back. Everything I knew, everyone I knew—including my two older children were gone. I was living fully as a woman though I never thought I could get my surgery because of the cost. Truthfully, there was limited relief at that point in time. For six months I worked through the trauma of living a new life. I did have a coming out party where I wore a beautiful purple gown and, for the first time, there were people celebrating who I was. But it was extremely difficult after living as I had. Terribly painful, despite the deep internal knowledge that I finally was who I was meant to be.

Q. So when did things begin to settle down?

Allison: Soon, I hope. (laughter)

Q. When did the surgery occur?

Allison: I discovered my insurance would cover the cost, but I had to pay upfront. So my friends did fundraising and I took out enough loans to be able to pay. I had my surgery in 2010.Truth is, it’s just been this last year that I’ve felt completely comfortable with who I am physiologically. It really does time for the body and mind’s neurotransmitters to align.

(At this point Allison and I talked about some of the fissures between the LGB community and the T. Rather than include it in this interview I’m posting her open letter, which has been published in a number of places, to her LGB sisters and brothers on my web site’s Happenings pagehttp://zacharykleinonline.com/happenings/

Q. So what do you perceive as the highest political priority for the transgender community?

Allison: Jobs and safety. If you don’t have a job, you can’t get health insurance, you end up on government assistance, and frequently become homeless. As a transgender person it’s difficult to get into a shelter, and often end up assaulted. Not a pretty picture.

We know that homeless people are assaulted more than others. Which means that transgender people are, as I’ve said before, disproportionally the victims of violence. But our knowing this does nothing for our protection, which is why the TVTP is so important. My community needs the power to present verified data in a way that doesn’t raise more violence upon us, but rather protects us. We can slow down the victimization that happens to our community with actual facts and data. Right now, that information is virtually impossible to get. The core of the TVTP is to create statistical evidence that can’t be disputed.

TVTP has the potential to deliver a number of things. One, to provide information to specific cities about specific violence perpetrated upon our community in those cities. Two, validate information as factual. This will give our community the opportunity to take this information and present it to the appropriate authorities—police, congress, and courts—as indisputable facts and not conjecture. And to finally force prosecutors to utilize the hate crime laws for the transgender community.

Q. Is there anything you’d like to add to what I’ve asked? No doubt I missed something.

Allison: We’re not even counted in the census. The choice is “male” or “female.” The government doesn’t want to change this because if we are counted we’ll have political legitimacy. Something very few politicians want. Let’s face it, how hard would it be to add a T to an M and an F?

This concluded the interview with my newly discovered friend. I want to thank her for the amazing willingness to open her life story. I also want to plead with people who read this interview to pledge anything you possibly can to the project. (http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/1280267427/transgender-murder-violence-and-suicide-website) Even a dollar will help. We have a very limited amount of time to make this happen.

What we have here is an invisible oppression that creates poverty, unemployment, suicides and incredibly brutal murders—to say nothing of the internal pain and trauma of a transgender person who, in the eyes of the government, doesn’t exist—despite the recognition of the medical and psychiatric community that this is a medical condition. We need less than $1,800 dollars to be pledged in the next 22 days or TVTP is dead in the water. Dig deeper my friends, please dig deeper.

SLIPPING INTO DARKNESS

Nah, it’s not depression nor loss of electricity (which would really depress me). I’m simply taking a recess, a working vacation from my Just sayin’ posts until sometime in September.

As I mentioned last week, I’m in a serious revision push with TIES THAT BLIND. I want to strap myself in so the book has a chance to be online sometime this fall, which includes the revision, copy editing and reworking the format for each type of e-book published (including the PDF version).

I don’t expect to finish everything before I turn the Just sayin’ light back on, but I sure hope I’m close. So to those who might actually miss the posts and to those who have been following them, I’ll be baaack!

In the meantime, please enjoy the first chapter of each of my books, which can be found on my web site. And, of course, if you’re so inclined it’s easy to purchase them through my site as well. But thanks again for taking your time to read and comment on my columns. I can’t say enough about how much I’ve appreciated it.

See you in September.

“God is really only another artist. He invented the giraffe, the elephant and the cat. He has no real style, He just goes on trying other things.” Pablo Picasso

City of Light

(Thank you, Sherri Frank Mazzotta for stepping in while I practiced for my music recital. Greatly appreciated!!)

This is the “City of Light,” the “most romantic city in the world.” But we may never see any of it if we can’t get out of the airport. First, we have to figure out how to buy train tickets from the ticket machines. We’re tired and cranky from the overnight flight. Hungry. And just want to get to our hotel. This is how our vacation begins.

The lines for the machines are long, and the instructions written only in French. When it’s our turn to insert a credit card, the machine advises us to do two things, neither of which we can understand. There are no staff to assist; no strangers willing to interpret. We push buttons, move levers, but no tickets appear. With the crowd seething behind us, we finally move to a longer line—to buy tickets from an agent at a window.

“Let’s just take a taxi,” he says.

But I shake my head. “The traffic in Paris is horrible. It’ll take us twice as long.”

“I don’t care.”

I say, “No.”

He looks angry, and I pretend not to notice.

We buy our tickets, ride the train into downtown, and finally arrive at our hotel.

It’s a beautiful building on the Left Bank. Our room is on the top floor overlooking shops and cobblestone streets. I’m eager to shower, find food, and explore the city. I’d been here years ago in my 20s and was excited to be back. But he’s talking about a nap and taking our time and it’s all I can do not to scream.

This is our vacation, after all, and we’re supposed to be having fun.

It’s late afternoon by the time we get outside again, and hotter than it should be in September. We’re still in a haze from jet lag, making our way through thick crowds of people. The sun seems too bright; the cars move too quickly on the narrow streets. We pass cafés and tabacs and creperies, but can’t decide where to eat. We’re timid; dizzy with hunger, but daunted by the chalkboard menus scribbled with words I’d never learned in high school French classes. When we finally choose a café and order food, it’s a relief. But the food is mediocre, unsatisfying, and I somehow feel defeated.

Afterwards, we take a cruise down the Seine on a bâteaux-mouches. Quietly, we study the monuments and museums along the quays of the winding green river. A woman approaches us with an armful of roses. She nods at the flowers, then at us, but my companion tells her “no.” She looks at me with pity.

We disembark from the boat but walk in the wrong direction. Turning a corner, we end up near a stone wall where a woman sits astride a man, kissing him passionately. I smile, it’s so quintessentially French; so perfectly clichéd. Still, I’m embarrassed. Envious. I think, this is what we’re supposed to be feeling in Paris, isn’t it? But I know that’s just a romantic fantasy; no more real than Doisneau’s famous photo of a couple kissing. As the sun sets, we head back to our room, too tired to do more. It’s only our first night, I think. We have time.

We sleep nearly nine hours and wake up feeling energized. We tour the Cathedral Notre Dame. Browse books in the stalls along the Seine. Walk through the Luxembourg Gardens. Our dinner that night is decadent, delicious. We leave the restaurant feeling woozy and relaxed. We’d had a good day.

We have other good days, too. But by mid-week, he realizes he’s getting sick. We can’t find a drugstore or anything even close to Nyquil. He gets grumbly. I feel annoyed that he’s sick, and then guilty for being annoyed.

Still, we head out to the Louvre with thousands of other people to stare at a surprisingly small Mona Lisa. We search for Jim Morrison’s grave in the Père Lachaise cemetery. Eat éclairs at a patisserie. We end each night early, heading back to our hotel to read in bed. Part of me is disappointed, because I’d hoped we’d be out at wine bars or the Moulin Rouge. Though I tell myself it’s because he’s not feeling well, I know it’s something more: Somehow, over the years, we’d lost our sense of adventure.

As the week goes on, things get worse. He doesn’t like the Metro, doesn’t feel safe on it, and wants to take taxis everywhere. This infuriates me more than it should.

We used to travel well together, and I don’t know when that changed; when this low-grade irritation began to buzz inside my head, inside my heart. Not just while we were on vacation, but most of the time. I’m not enjoying myself, I realize. And neither is he.

Our fury comes to a head at the Eiffel Tower, when I want to wait in line to see the view from up above, and he doesn’t.

“Can you wait down here?” I ask. “Or back at the hotel?” 

Instead, he begrudgingly gets in line with me. It’s humid. The line is long and moving slowly. I try to make jokes, to point out interesting things about the Tower, but he’s silent and miserable. It starts to rain, and we don’t have an umbrella.

“This sucks,” he says, “I don’t want to do this.”

“Go back to the hotel,” I say again. But he won’t.

We press into the elevator with what seems like hundreds of people, and it takes us to the first level of the Tower. It’s cloudy and difficult to see—though I’m no longer excited to see anything. Couples hold hands and wrap arms around each other. Kids smile as they peer out into the distance. There’s barely room to stand. I look at him, but he refuses to look back.

Afterwards, it takes an hour to return to our hotel. Now that it’s over he’s talking again, thinking about dinner. But I’m worn out; choked with unspoken anger. This is our vacation, after all, and we’re supposed to be having fun.

Days later, we head back to the States. I stare out the window as our plane lifts off, relieved but saddened by the undeniable truth that nothing lasts forever.

“Life is very short and what we have to do must be done in the now.”