What started as a lark following a conversation with Jadeane from the Galactic Starcruiser Reservation Team whilst trying to secure a third passage aboard the Halcyon has since blossomed into a fun little narrative of Jyn Syko’s escapades prior to boarding the Starcruiser, and eventually will chronicle her canonical adventures throughout the Halcyon’s 275th Anniversary Celebration, and perhaps beyond. Please enjoy (and like!) Jyn Syko’s Insta-Episodes I through V!
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Oh! And don’t forget to check out my new Galactic Starcruiser Pride T-shirt!
What started as a lark has since blossomed into a fun little narrative of Jyn Syko’s escapades prior to boarding the Galactic Starcruiser, and eventually will chronicle her canonical adventures throughout the Halcyon’s 275th anniversary celebration and beyond. Please enjoy (and like!) Jyn Syko’s Insta-Episodes VI through X!
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As follow up to my previous Galactic Starcruiser posts, I decided to to a roundup of my past posts, Facebook ramblings, and newly launched Red Bubble store. Enjoy! Jen/Jyn (jen@typingmonkeys.com)
Jen/Jyn Syko Galactic Starcruiser Sent Thank-You Emails
- Galactic Starcruiser Fam: Thank You!
- Praise, Love and Tears for the Galactic Starcruiser Reservation Team
Jen/Jyn Galactic Starcruiser Facebook Ramblings
- 08 September (post 1st voyage quickie post)
- 09 September (post 1st voyage in shock post)
- 12 September (post unexpected second voyage in shock post)
- 13 September (CSL photos in the house from 1st voyage post)
- 16 September (post decompression but still in awe post)
- 22 September (hey more photos post)
- 06 October (post road trip to Orlando, Starcruiser farewell, and HotH party)
- 07 October (more hijinks from Batuu and HotH party)
- 09 October (how it started vs. how it’s going)
NEW! Jyn Syko Mini Red Bubble Store
Praise, Thanks and Tears for the Galactic Starcruiser Reservation Team
Below is the email I wrote to the amazing Galactic Starcruiser Reservation Team after it became clear I was not going to get one last cruise aboard the Halcyon. I fear these amazing individuals, who I spent so much time chatting with, never received this missive, so if you happen to know any of them, please do forward this along. They are the unsung heroes of the Galactic Starcruiser experience, especially for all of us who called non-stop in the final few weeks hoping to snag a cabin after that mythical cancellation that sadly never happened. Ta’bu e tay!
Dear Galactic Starcruiser Reservation Team,
I write this from my hotel room in Disney Pop Century after the final voyage of the Galactic Starcruiser has departed. As background, I chose to drive down from New York City to Orlando this past weekend on the off chance I might secure passage with some kind soul who already had a cabin, or score my own by calling the Galactic Starcruiser line just as someone canceled.
Now when I booked my first voyage for September 6, I went through a friend of mine who is a Disney Travel Agent, so she could get the commission. As a result I was unaware of just how amazing the reservation team is. My second voyage on September 10 was very last minute. I happened to be in the right place at the right time on the day someone nabbed a cabin. Again, limited contact with your wonderful team.
After my second voyage, I was determined to have one last trip aboard the Halcyon and commenced calling as frequently as possible to make this a reality. And call frequently I did! To my surprise, the reservations team grew from strangers, to friends, to family. In a span of two and a half weeks, I discovered this amazing team, who had to tell hundreds of callers that there was no availability every single day, was not only friendly, upbeat, and sympathetic in the face of dire odds, but encouraging and empathetic because they knew first-hand how extraordinary and emotional the experience was.
We commiserated over our shared experiences, laughed about our common obsessions, and got misty eyed over the poignant moments aboard the Halcyon. I shared personal details with people I had never met, because they are that personable, that caring, and amazing human beings.
As the final voyages drew to a close, I found myself calling from my hotel room, first to find passage, then to talk with these extraordinary people one more time, and finally to share the sadness that their jobs at Galactic Starcruiser, the best jobs many of them had ever had, were coming to close.
This is the best team of people I’ve ever interacted with as a consumer, day in and day out. These are, well words fail me, that’s how brilliant they are, and I find myself literally unable to call tonight because I fear I will break down in tears on the phone, an unintelligible sobbing mess in response to any of them merely answering the phone. All the feels.
Allow me to share individual praise to so many folks who I felt like I went on a voyage with for the past two and a half weeks:
- Pierre, who is one of the loveliest people I have ever chatted with.
- Mayette, who was kind enough to direct me to a dinner location at Hollywood Studios during a driving rainstorm when I kept losing my way.
- Jadeane, who encouraged me to start an Instagram for my character — in character — as seen here: https://www.instagram.com/jynsyko/
- Marnie, who shares my love of Mustangs!
- Tony, who is the only person I have ever met who knows more about X-Men comics than I do!
- Grant, who was equally kind enough to redirect me back to my hotel room when I turned the wrong way multiple times coming off the Skyliner.
- Rupert, who taught me to grasp how the booking and reservation system worked for the Starcruiser.
- Netta, who kept encouraging us when we were ready to give — nothing yet!
- Nell, who was always a joy to talk to and brightened my spirits after every call.
- Kevin, who kept me laughing when I felt like giving up.
- Myles, who was always so lovely and supportive and caring during all our calls.
- Austin, who was always such a sweetheart!
- Wanda, who always laughed at my jokes!
- Samantha Nicole, who always took the briefest of pauses before saying her name!
- And Ardis, who I didn’t realize I did go on voyage with, on 9/10!
There are so many amazing folks I’ve spoken with, it all blurs together, so forgive me getting the above details wrong or for leaving anyone out!
Seriously, this is an amazing team. And it breaks my heart that their time together is coming to a close. Believe me when I say I don’t usually write such long, emotional emails. But the Galactic Starcruiser teams have received two of those in short order — and I haven’t even started my love letter to the imagineers who conceived of this masterclass in immersive experience.
Much love to everyone and may the stars light your way!
Jen DiGiacomo/Jyn Syko
If you arrived via Jyn Syko’s QR code, welcome! I would love to connect with as many of you as possible (Jyn’s Instagram; Jen’s Facebook | Instagram)! Below is the e-mail I sent to the galacticstarcruiserteam@disneyworld.com as heartfelt thanks to everyone involved in bringing life to the Halcyon. And thank YOU for being a part of an experience that has meant so much to me. Ta’bu e tay!
Dear Galactic Starcruiser Family,
Now that I’ve had some time to decompress following two September voyages aboard the Galactic Starcruiser in quick succession, I’ve finally been able to process why the experience has had such a profound effect on me, why I was so close to full body sobs on so many occasions, not only aboard the Halcyon, but afterwards whilst explaining my adventures to friends or merely replaying events in my head for the trillionth time (an unfortunate hazard of ADHD).
Unlike so many others in attendance, I was not a Star Wars fanatic when I boarded. Sure I saw the first film countless times when it came out, counted the seconds until the Holiday Special aired on CBS, collected the card sets for the first two films, even saw the Return of the Jedi at the very first showing. But ultimately, I found the franchise to be, IMHO, fatally flawed in how the force worked so disproportionately, first in young Anakin, then in Rey. Truth be told, I only really loved three or four of the films (IV, V, Rogue One and maybe Solo). But I always returned. Sharing it with my kids, collecting cool tchotkes, hunting down first-run versions of the original trilogy. The Mandalorian absolutely recaptured my interest (“I want to see the baby”), and I always knew I would eventually make it aboard the Galactic Starcruiser.
When news broke that the Halcyon would be sent to dry dock, I enlisted a dear friend and Disney travel agent extraordinaire (Andrea Mayo) to book my journey. 14 hours on hold, she finally got me a cabin, and I was thrilled to gift her a Halcyon lightsaber and shield as thank you. Countless friends declined the opportunity to join me primarily due to the recent laws in Florida, including my youngest who is gender fluid. Even when I offered free passage, the well remained dry. Two fellow Doctor Who fans finally took me up on my offer, Abie Eke and Christina Nicholls, and away we went, gathering at Galaxy’s Edge to fashion lightsabers at Savi’s Workshop the night before.
The trip itself was unforgettable. One truly experienced the feeling of being elsewhere after taking a shuttle to the Starcruiser. I even opted to buy a few things in the gift shop lest they sell out since we were so far from resupplying in port. The cast members, all of them, were amazing. I mean, spectacularly amazing. Engaging, funny, so good at making sure everyone felt included. This was a top-notch experience — the best immersive adventure I have ever been a part of — and this is from someone who has written and run two LARPS — and been a part of, I don’t know, more than 20 LARPS, and other similar escapades.
I would be remiss to not shout out our photographer who was brilliant and quickly gave us all nicknames that matched our personalities to a T. I was, of course, Troublemaker, Trouble and Boss. The Sublight Lounge folks were brilliant, too — as were all the blue-clad cast members.
As day two drew to a close, there was a moment in the late dinner that took my breath away. Lt. Croy was speaking to Captain Keevan and said something to the effect that she was a very good captain, for a Pantoran. The entire audience gasped at that one line. My friend Abie who is black and myself who is transgender looked at each other, held hands and in that moment, I could no longer roleplay indifference to those supporting the First Order. This was no longer simply an immersive game, this was a parable, an analogy of what so many of us are facing in the real world, right outside of Disneyworld.
As the narrative of our journey came to a close, and others chatted about this and that, I looked for those with red-rimmed eyes to commiserate with. I found quite a few and we tried desperately not to lose it in front of everyone. A woman in a wheelchair who was incorporated into the storyline for the first time in her life — to hide a piece of luggage from the stormtroopers. Introverts finding themselves suddenly part of a community. So many of us so moved by all of this, hugging and trying not to ramble on with the cast about how transformative and emotional this experience really was. This emotion and this community formed over 40 some hours was a joy to behold. I do not exaggerate when I say we have online support groups — and every journey a private Facebook group to stay connected.
But it wasn’t until the next day, and a second journey, that everything crystallized. Why I love Star Wars so much. Why I am desperate to talk my way on board the Halcyon one more time. Why I am about to embark on a rewatch of everything Star Wars in chronological order. Because ultimately, Star Wars has a heart at the center of its narrative. A heart that isn’t so much about good over evil, but about hope. A New Hope, if you will, in the darkest of times, an allegory of *our* times, not merely a long time ago and far, far away, but today, much, much closer to home.
Please thank everyone on my behalf. I was the scoundrel known as Jyn on both voyages and every single cast member aboard made this an unforgettable and deeply emotional journey. Lenka Mok was… wow. We cried together after both voyages. And both Riathe Koles were absolute highlights. I include a few photos to show just how emotional it really was, for all of us. I even got a hug from Chewie! And not photographed was my wonderful interaction with Rey on the 9/6 voyage that moved me so much I find myself envisaging *her* as the humble, inspirational representation of the Resistance.
I’m still hoping for one more cruise to make sure I can spend time with all the cast members one more time and truly appreciate every second on board. Regardless of the outcome, I will be in Batuu for the final day trip on 9/29 — and the party on Saturday night. Please let everyone I would love one last hug if they are in attendance.
Jennifer DiGiacomo aka Jyn
Jyn Instagram; Jen’s Facebook | Instagram
Jen’s Brilliant Idea #27: Revisit past escapades as blog posts for my (depending on when you read this) newly revamped personal website, a.k.a. Posts of Jen Past!
I co-wrote my second short film, Death and Reproduction, with comedian Rob Maher (the lead actor in my first short, The P.O.B. Conspiracy) for the 2006 72 Film Fest in beautiful scenic Frederick, Maryland. Steve Gibson was our director, whilst Todd Moore, Valerie Moore, Karen Palting and Allison Levitt rounded out the cast. The best thing? We won the Grand Jury Award for Best Short.
You can watch the award-winning, five-minute short below. Did I mention it won not only for Best Short, but also for Best Acting? Oh wait, I just did. I think there may have been some voting irregularities for Best Writing. C’est la vie!
The best part is that you can’t detect one iota of my panic (or stuttering for that matter) in the the Frederick News-Post article by Linda Basilicato chronicling our adventures, as republished below sans permission (and as PDF, also without permission).
N.B.: I should note this film was shot eight years before I transitioned (hence the dodgy pronouns), when I was known by my then nickname “DiG” (hence the obligatory pronunciation guide).
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Inside a house on Fourth Street in downtown Frederick a crazy jealous woman pulls a gun on her boyfriend as he kneels to propose. She has to pull the trigger again and again and again.
“No, don’t look at him. You can’t look at him. You’re too upset to look at him,” the director tells her.
Her boyfriend kneels again and again too.
He does it concerned, he does it playful, he does it fearful, he does it with guilt.
It takes an hour and a half to film what will be a one-minute scene.
Similar scenarios played out all over Frederick last weekend as 21 film crews worked quickly to produce a five-minute film short for the 72 Film Fest’s 72-hour narrative challenge. At the Thursday night launch party, teams randomly selected a sealed manila envelope containing a theme. Teams then had until 9 p.m. Sunday to turn in their tapes.
Team Open Bar drew “Death and Reproduction,” and after a brief pause began tossing out ideas. Before long they were headed for a downtown bar.
It was Guinness all around except for one Heineken and the ideas seemed already to be deteriorating: lesbians and catfights, zombie babies, cows mating.
Some of the crew members are more experienced than others. They’ve worked together over the years on various film and TV projects, but this is their first contest, and their first deadline-driven film.
Everyone is a bit manic. Everyone has ideas.
Karen Palting, of no fixed address, (she recently moved back to the area from L.A.) is the producer and task master. She asks everyone to take five minutes to privately brainstorm.
The chatter doesn’t stop, but everyone puts ideas to paper except for the director, Steve Gibson, of Frederick. He sees things visually, he says. It’s one of his images that provides the spark for the team’s narrative, and he will make the final edits.
On this first night, Steve is the quietest. After tossing out some action sequences, he lets the others fight over the story details, reminding them only about the limited amount of time. “I have a coffin idea, but we don’t have a coffin,” he said.
Scriptwriter Joel DiGiacomo — “DiG,” pronounced Dij — of Gaithersburg reinforces Steve: “Put ideas into a format we can use. We don’t want robots or spaceships,” he says.
By midnight the team has created a rough narrative around a man, a sperm bank, a gun and a crazy jealous girlfriend.
Actor Todd Moore of Virginia challenges the scriptwriters, DiG and Rob Maher, a Virginia-based comedian, to fill in his character and back story. DiG isn’t interested. He tells Todd he can worry about those details himself if he needs to; it’s not going in the script.
DiG seems apprehensive about the many versions of the story going around the table. Steve assures him he’s open to filming different versions, saying simply and more than once, “Write what you think will work.”
The next day while the writers work on the script, the rest of the team scouts for sites in and around Frederick. The grooming room at Two Paws Up is chosen to be the inside of the fertility clinic, Colonial Jewelers will be the jewelry shop, and City Hall will become the outside of the Sperm bank.
Scouting out the inside of the “clinic” Karen immediately starts planning the scene, asking repeatedly, “Will it work?”
Steve snaps, “Give me a second.” He looks at the grooming room from various angles. She tries to confirm a time for shooting an outdoor scene.
“Four, five, six?”
“Shh,” he says.
By Friday afternoon locations and actors are in place. The team has lost an actress they had picked up at the Launch Party — was it Mary Anne, Marie, Maribel? No one can remember. Karen, who was going to be the nurse, will now play the sexy neighbor. Todd and Rob think this is a good idea: Karen is busty, “What woman wouldn’t be jealous?”
They recruit Allison Levitt from Two Paws Up to be the nurse at the sperm bank.
“The things I do for my customers,” she says.
At lunch Karen wants to know if Todd should shave.
Steve, not quite losing patience, speaks slowly, clearly enunciating each word: “Before I shoot I need the script.”
“But don’t you have a vision?” Karen asks. “
No. I need a script. We may need this look, where, why I don’t know.”
Karen tells him to go have a cigarette.
Through Allison they get a contact for a gun. Steve leaves a message: Something like: “Hi my name is Steve, I met you in Allison’s backyard… I’m wondering if you have an — obviously unloaded — handgun I could borrow for a film I’m making.”
They get the script. Todd doesn’t like it.
“It’s not funny,” he says.
Steve takes a look while stopped at a red light. “I’m going to change it, and that will be it. It won’t be going back to the writers.”
They get the OK on the gun, but on late Friday afternoon they still don’t have specimen cups for the sperm bank. Karen has that scene penned in for 6 p.m.
On Saturday morning lead actress Valery Linn joins the group. She’s just returned from an audition in New York.
Todd wakes up at 6 a.m. to rework the script.
Steve wakes up a few hours later to a manic Todd: “I’ve got it all figured out. It’s brilliant.” But Steve just groans and says it won’t work.
Unlike Todd, Valery asks permission to change a line, even a word: “Can I say ‘what’s going on’ instead of ‘what’s new?”
Steve is open to suggestions, maybe because he knows he will do the final editing. He sometimes has them stick with the script, and sometimes tells them to improvise. For one scene he simply says “do it … more broad”
“What does that mean, more broad?” a frustrated Todd asks. “I don’t know. We’re almost out of tape. Surprise me, replies Steve.
Valery runs with it. Todd follows. It’s clearly the best take, the most natural.
“And cut. And that is the one I am going to use,” Steve says.
The volume in the room increases. There is an excited release. It’s obvious that the last cut really worked. The script for a moment became live.
The room empties out a little and Todd says shyly to Karen, “I actually made Steve smile.”
“I know. Can you believe it,” she says.
Todd has been struggling with his character since the ideas for the script were pitched. He wants to know his character’s motivation. He fiddles with the script any chance he gets. He wants it to make sense.
Steve reminds the actors of the limited time and resources, urging them to simplify. You don’t need a whole scene for what you can tell with an eyebrow raise, he says.
Valery struggles with how quickly her character goes crazy. She doesn’t want to understand it though, she simply wants to convey it. She spends her downtime with her head in her hands, pulling at her hair and making crazy faces, perhaps conjuring up memories of jilted love past. She complains that she just doesn’t feel it yet.
“And, action.”
She opens her eyes, enters the scene, catches her boyfriend hugging the buxom neighbor. She is no longer seeing Karen and Todd, but Dave and Samantha, the characters in the film. In the exchange, in the action, she finds her character, finds her craziness.
She is suddenly Laura.
The writers breathe life into the director, the director breathes life into the actors, the actors breathe life into the script.
“Writers are on the bottom of the food chain,” is how DiG explains it.
He and Rob wrote the story and handed it over to Steve. You start the script here, end it there and let everyone improvise, he says. “If a few lines survive, that’s cool.”
If they had more time to shoot, the writers would probably negotiate more, he says. “The danger here would be to write a script that is unusable given the time limitations.”
To produce the five-minute film, Steve will weed through almost two hours of tape.
He doesn’t mind leaving scenes on the cutting room floor. “I’ve been doing it long enough that I know how long it’s going to take… I’m open, I’ll film it, but I know if I’m not going to use it.”
Then it’s the audience’s turn, DiG says. “The movie plays, and you watch and you wait.
“Do they respond, do they get it? Or is there just dead silence?”
In 2016, I worked on a then-passion project, Possible Girls, a website about possibilities, dedicated to women and trans women, geeks and nerds, and fangirls of all ages and all backgrounds. This is an article I wrote for the intended launch.
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I’d like to say I’m a square peg in a round hole, but I’ve come to realize that I’m more of a triangle in the world of circles and squares.
I see the world differently than most; I always have, with my opinions frequently being characterized as coming from “out of left field.” Not that I’m complaining; I just try to see the world from different viewpoints, through different eyes, and synthesize that into my own unique perspective.
Certainly I see the good and the bad, but I try to focus on the good, on the positive. What we have in common, instead of what separates us. I try to see what the future can be, the possibilities in life. Like all people, I have my doubts from time to time, but that doubt, that little voice of what can go wrong, is what tends to prevent us from doing amazing things. And while I might not do amazing things, that won’t stop me from making the attempt.
But first, let me talk a little bit about that troublesome triangle.
You see, I am transgender. In world of gender binaries, I found myself wanting the world of one, whilst firmly planted in the other. It took me a lifetime to see that. I denied who I was; I hid who I was, always fearing someone would find out my deepest, darkest secret. For the longest time I thought there was something wrong me. Profoundly wrong with me. That I was broken. That I was a freak.
But one day, about two years ago, I saw my life in a way that I could not unsee. If you’ve ever seen All That Jazz, I had a moment of clarity. Like the final stage of Dr. Kübler-Ross’s five stages of death and dying, I finally accepted who I am. Like Davis Newman, the stand-up comedian, I stood in my living room, looked at the ceiling and shouted, “I accept!”
The catalyst? Realizing that this is who I’ve been since I was eight years old. In an epiphanic moment, I realized this wasn’t a phase or a bad habit I was going to quit some day. It was, it is, who I am. And that led me on a journey that I could not deny, I could not hide, not any longer.
To be honest, those first few months were the scariest of my life. Sure I accepted who I am, but would others? Would they think I’m broken, a freak? But to my surprise when I came out in what I like to dub my coming out tour, a majority of my friends embraced my decision, showing more support and love than I ever thought possible. And let me tell you, that’s an amazing feeling. After a lifetime of shame over who I was, the hiding, the secrets, the fear, I finally got to be me.
And while I had taken the first step, the road ahead was still not an easy one. And I don’t just mean the stares, the whispers, the outright contempt a trans woman can periodically experience out in the world. But staying true to myself. To maintain the authenticity of who I am. Not to become a caricature of a woman, not to adopt a persona, but to allow what I had kept locked away inside of me for so long to grow naturally, authentically.
It’s been almost two years since I said the words, “I accept,” and I’ve never been happier. It taught me that sometimes the hardest decisions are the ones we need to make. And while I do know what road I’m on, I don’t know exactly where it will lead or which exit I might take. But let me tell you, I’ve passed a lot more exits than I ever thought possible. Sometimes the journey is more important than the destination, as long as you enjoy the ride.
Many of my friends have called me brave. I don’t think that’s the right word. I think I finally stopped being a coward. Finally stopped being afraid.
All in all, being a triangle ain’t so bad.
In 2016, I worked on a then-passion project, Possible Girls, a website about possibilities, dedicated to women and trans women, geeks and nerds, and fangirls of all ages and all backgrounds. This is an article I wrote for the intended launch.
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I am obsessed with Doctor Who.
There I said it.
To put it mildly, I’ve seen every single episode of Doctor Who in chronological order. For the initiated, that’s over 825 episodes, spanning more than 50 years, and includes 97 lost episodes, 97 lost episodes that have been faithfully recreated by fans using the original audio, tele-snaps, found footage and, if I’m not mistaken, a bit of string.
So when I say I’m obsessed with Doctor Who, that might be a bit of an understatement.
I was first introduced to the good Doctor back in 1973. I was fortunate enough to grow up in Philadelphia, meaning I was privy to one of the first airings of Doctor Who in the United States. So unlike most of my contemporaries who first encountered “that guy with a scarf”, my first Doctor was the sartorially resplendent Jon Pertwee (or Jan Pertwee as the Philadelphia Inquirer so joyously announced) But more than just the Doctor, I was introduced to the brilliant Roger Delgado as the Master, the delightful Katy Manning as Jo Grant, and the legendary Nicholas Courtney as the Brigadier (“Five rounds rapid!”). But it was Jo Grant who struck me at a young age. At first a clumsy companion berated by the Doctor, she eventually blossomed into the hero of The Daemons, literally saving the Doctor’s life (spoilers!). A heroic woman in the ’70s. How cool was that?
The 10th anniversary special, The Three Doctors, however, was what turned my passing enjoyment into a lifelong obsession. It was in that serial where I learned that TWO other actors had played the eponymous role before my beloved Jan Pertwee, courtesy of something called regeneration. At that moment, a sacred quest was placed in front of me. A bucket list item for my future self. To watch every episode of Doctor Who in chronological order. A quixotic quest to be sure for I was oblivious that the BBC had lost, at that point, over 150 episodes of the series, wiped, erased and junked due to shortsighted bureaucratic policies.
Back in those halcyon days, I assumed Doctor Who was simply a rollicking good British adventure series. But looking back, I realize there were deeper currents at work.
While now I am openly transgender, back then I hid my inner desires, fueled by my shame over my inner self. I was supposed to be a boy, struggling with wanting to be a girl, even at the tender age of eight. But the Doctor, he reveled in his differentness. He was a hero. And better yet, as a Time Lord, he regenerated. New body, new personality, but still the same person. How I yearned to experience my own regeneration, hoping my new body would match the person I was inside.
And as the show has grown, so have I. Its message of inclusion inspires me, it’s embracing of possibilities clearly strikes a chord. And for me, and I understand not everyone agrees, but for me, the Steven Moffat era has been one mind-blowing epiphany after another.
Matt Smith as the Eleventh Doctor was a revelation. Eleventh Hour, especially. The hyperactivity. The mind working faster than his mouth. The utter insanity. My kids stared at the television screen in astonishment. A madman with a box. That was me. Of course the intervening years make it more likely that I am a madwoman with a box, but that phrasing, I fear, be dragons.
And then there was Impossible Girl. Oswin Oswald in the far future, Clara Oswin Oswald in the Victorian past, and finally Clara Oswald in the present, someone who shouldn’t exist, but does. These episodes aired while I was accepting who I was, who I am, when my transition became inevitable. And a life I thought impossible since age eight, was now reality. I was Impossible Girl, a concept, I joyfully embraced.
Not only has the series featured a transgender actor, but it also proved that gender is not what defines us. Take the wonderful villain Missy who proved that Time Lords can regenerate into Time Ladies. Yup, my favorite villain from the 1970s has now become my favorite villain of the 21st century. The Master has become the Mistress, and I finally regenerated into the person I am today. Still me, but different. And to mix fandoms, 20% cooler.
Doctor Who is about possibilities, all possibilities. And that message is one I not only embrace, but embody in mind, body, time and space.
In 2016, I worked on a then-passion project, Possible Girls, a website about possibilities, dedicated to women and trans women, geeks and nerds, and fangirls of all ages and all backgrounds. This is an article I wrote for the intended launch.
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Charles Foster Kane printed his declaration of principles on the front page of the New York Daily Inquirer. I don’t feel the need to be so dramatic, but I would like to share with you why I founded Possible Girls.
Like most things in life, we start with a story. And with secrets.
I grew up with two secrets. The first was that I stuttered. The second was that I was transgender. The stuttering I learned to hide, the gender dysphoria I simply denied. That was a box I never was going to open.
So speaking fluently and accepting who I was, living as who I was, that was impossible. Quite literally as impossible for me as living on the moon.
But fast forward to today and I now have full fluency. So much so that no one can shut me up. Seriously. Don’t even try. And not only have I accepted that I’m transgender, but I’ve been living as a trans woman coming on two years, living that life that was so impossible not so long ago and waking up every morning with a lopsided grin, thankful for all the people in my life who have so openly and warmly accepted me for who I am.
Hence my nickname, Impossible Girl.
I share this because one night not long ago, I awoke not with a lopsided grin but with an inspiring thought. So achingly clear, I had to pace around my apartment in the middle of the night and ponder the possibilities, lest I lose the idea by morning. The next few hours I brainstormed as I do on my crêpe-papered A Beautiful Mind wall, and when the sun arose, I knew I had hit upon something.
Possible Girls.
A site dedicated to what is possible. For women and trans women. For geeks and nerds and fangirls of all ages, all backgrounds. About endless possibilities in life and in the worlds of fiction that bind so many of us together.
But it’s also about being relentlessly positive and finding the joy in life and in our obsessions. Viewing the glass half full and understanding that we are all unique and special and capable of amazing things. For as long as we believe in ourselves, nothing is impossible. Take it from someone who experienced that epiphany in a Dr.-Kübler-Rossian moment of clarity, seeing life in a way that simply could not be unseen.
TL:DR: A site about inspiring and, hopefully, empowering women and transwomen. Showing what is possible, one inspirational story at a time: women and trans women directors, writers, artists, doctors, scientists, teachers, and mentors. Together making a difference in the world, one girl at time. Because in the end, we are all possible girls.
A quixotic quest perhaps, but one most definitely worth pursuing.
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Quixotic was, perhaps, more accurate than I had intended, as this project got back-burnered due to lack of time, money and, well, life.
In 2015, I launched a blog for Margaritaville.com. As is my norm, I wrote the early mini-posts as examples of what their content approach and voice should be: light, fun and worthy of being shared from a barstool whilst sipping a margarita.
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The Caribbean is filled with a wonderful collection of unforgettable critters. Drunk monkeys in St. Kitts, potcake puppies in Turks & Caicos and swimming pigs in the Bahamas. Well, Barbados is no different, ‘cause they’ve got turtles. Sea turtles.
Barbados is home to a protected and growing population of beautiful hawksbill and leatherback turtles. And these turtles are surprisingly sociable, despite being real homebodies, too. They’re accustomed to their routines and love the humans who come to swim with them around the coral. In fact, local fishermen even feed and care for them and have been know to scrape barnacles off their backs! (Hey, we’d stick around for free spa treatments, too.)
Now if these turtle adventures give you goose bumps, the good news is that Barbados has built a thriving cottage industry around these endangered creatures. There are literally dozens of tours to choose from with unforgettable catamaran trips, including a delicious local lunch, rum punch (the real seller) and, of course, snorkeling with the friendly turtles. But unlike the pigs in the Bahamas, these cute creatures won’t try to jump into your boat. Nope, they’ll just steal your heart.
In 2015, I launched a blog for Margaritaville.com. As is my norm, I wrote the early mini-posts as examples of what their content approach and voice should be: light, fun and worthy of being shared from a barstool whilst sipping a margarita.
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Even on good days it’s hard to get reliable directions in the Caribbean. Take a left just past which palm tree, exactly? But therein lies the beauty. You’re in the Caribbean, literally an island paradise. Who needs directions? Barbados, the easternmost island in the Caribbean, is no different.
Ju Ju’s Beach Bar might just be worth the effort. Located near Holetown on the island’s west coast, this little idyllic bar and restaurant is right on the beach with a front-row seat for simply breathtaking sunsets.
The view isn’t the only thing worth making the trip for! Ju Ju’s boasts some of the best Barbadian fresh-cut fries (chips in the local parlance) and grilled fish — just consult their daily blackboard menu. But let’s face it, it’s hard to go wrong with grilled flying fish. Seriously, flying fish. So kick back on a lounger and take in the beach with a glass of their not-too-sweet rum punch. And before you do, consider bringing a snorkel and mask, and enjoying the nearby reef and swimming with turtles.
All in all, it’s hard to go wrong with Ju Ju’s Beach Bar, other than actually finding it. For those willing to take the trip, it’s tucked between the better-known Fairmont Pavilion and Lone Star Inn, behind a lime-green house with a “Dive Barbados” sign.
Yeah, we know those are some seriously questionable directions, but Juju’s is definitely worth the journey.
In 2015, I launched a blog for Margaritaville.com. As is my norm, I wrote the early mini-posts as examples of what their content approach and voice should be: light, fun and worthy of being shared from a barstool whilst sipping a margarita.
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“The island of never-ending summer.” Not a bad tagline for an island. Especially one that holds as many treasures as Martinique.
First sighted by Christopher Columbus in 1493, Martinique is 80°F all the time. The ocean also has visibility of up to 100 feet, and we can’t even imagine what we might see in the depths, especially in St. Pierre Bay, which offers some pretty stunning dives. Even more exciting, there are 12 shipwrecks (yes, 12) to explore beneath the waves. Divers who get as far as the Gabrielle, a three-masted ship, still surface with pieces of fine china! Souvenirs for the fam, of course.
Not a scuba diver? No problem! Even snorkelers can enjoy the shipwrecks — some lie as shallow as 30 feet, like the Raisinier. You’ll still see a crazy shipwreck and tons of colorful fish.
Shipwrecks aren’t the only attractions to make Martinique bucket-list worthy. Diamond Rock, three kilometers off the coast of Martinique, is legendary for being registered as the HMS Diamond Rock by the British Royal Navy. You read that right. In 1804, a volcanic island was officially commissioned during the Napoleonic wars as a “sloop of war,” a warship with a single gun deck carrying up to eighteen guns.
And let’s not forget what’s really important… Martinique has 14 beautiful beaches to choose from. So if shipwrecks and volcanic islands aren’t your ideal vacay, hit the beach of your choice and enjoy a Ti’ Punch, the national drink of Martinique.
What better treasure could you discover than that?
In 2015, I launched a blog for Margaritaville.com. As is my norm, I wrote the early mini-posts as examples of what their content approach and voice should be: light, fun and worthy of being shared from a barstool whilst sipping a margarita.
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It sounds like a story out of legend. And who knows, it might even be true.
We begin our tale in Germany, 1888, where Johann Hussong decides to immigrate to the United States. By the following year, a duly Americanized “John” Hussong is lured south of the border, the Mexican border, by the prospect of gold. Two more years pass, and John settles down Ensenada to tend to an injured friend at the only bar in town, Meiggs Bar.
Now this is where our tale becomes a legend. Literally two days after settling in, the owner of the bar attacks his wife with an ax. She skedaddles to California, and after a brief siesta in jail, Meiggs asks Hussong to tend the bar while he searches for his wife. Neither Meiggs nor his wife ever return.
Hussong runs this bar for a year and purchases the building across the street for his own place. John Hussong Bar. No ambiguity there. And that bar is still operating today at the same location.
And you know what? That’s not even the best part of the story.
Fast forward another 50 years to 1941, and another German, Margarita Henkel, the daughter of the German ambassador, visits the cantina. Bartender Don Carlos Orozco offers her a new concoction he’s been working on — equal parts tequila, lime, and a Mexican orange liqueur Controy (known as Naranja north of the border), served over ice in a salt-rimmed glass. The name of that drink? You guessed it. The Margarita.
Little has changed in that quaint cantina since 1941. Or 1891 for that matter. John Hussong Bar has become John Hussong’s Cantina. Maybe a little more neon. And a second location in Las Vegas. But aside from that, it essentially the same place Johann opened over a hundred years ago while in search of gold.
Is the legend true? Honestly, we don’t think it matters. Because we’re all pretty happy with the treasure that got left behind, the margarita.
In 2015, I launched a blog for Margaritaville.com. As is my norm, I wrote the early mini-posts as examples of what their content approach and voice should be: light, fun and worthy of being shared from a barstool whilst sipping a margarita.
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When we first heard about Potcake dogs, our first thought was puppies! Potcake puppies. And that led to an inevitable discussion of where we could find these adorable critters. Local toy store? Amazon exclusive? You get the drift.
But we were wrong. These canines are indigenous to Turks and Caicos, and the Bahamas. They get their amazing name from the Bahamian term for the congealed rice and peas mixture from the bottom of cooking pots that locals fed the island dogs. Hence Potcake dogs.
The history of this unique breed stems from the blend of dogs introduced to the islands. Start with the pups of the Arawak (who brought us the hammock — the Arawak, not the pups), throw in some tall-ship terriers, and a pinch of Loyalist Tory dogs (the dogs, not the Tories) from the American Revolution, and you get a sense of their heritage. With more breeds arriving since then, you’ll understand why some folks toss around the phrase “potcake dynamic.”
Despite the mixed breed, Potcake dogs are recognized as a dog breed in both Turks and Caicos, and the Bahamas, though the Bahamians prefer the term Royal Bahamian Potcake. If you ask us, Potcake dog is good enough for us.
Although their appearances vary, Potcake dogs generally have smooth coats, cocked ears, and long faces. And long faces won’t work on us. Even if they are adorable.
Sadly, overpopulation of these dogs has led to some heartbreaking conditions. Homeless Potcakes and, well, things we won’t talk about because they’ve already tugged on our heartstrings.
But there is good news on that front. In 2005, Turks and Caicos-based rescue organization Potcake Place became a registered charity. And after running out of families to adopt to on the local islands, volunteers started connecting with potential adopters through the Potcake Place website (www.potcakeplace.com) and Facebook page. Puppies are vaccinated and sent on airlifts free of charge to adopters.
There is no charge for the pups, but they do ask for and appreciate a donation that will help cover vaccines and allow them to bring more pups into care. Additionally, the airlines charge anywhere between $60 and $200 USD for the pup to travel in the cabin once a volunteer courier has been found to bring your Potcake pup to your local airport.
How cool is that? Looks like someone around here might be getting a Potcake puppy as an office dog. And those long faces have nothing to do with it.
If long puppy faces work on you, make sure to check out Potcake Place on the web and visit their Facebook page with more Potcake puppy cuteness than we can bear.
Now to see if there’s anything to that Potcake cat rumor…
In 2015, I launched a blog for Margaritaville.com. As is my norm, I wrote the early mini-posts as examples of what their content approach and voice should be: light, fun and worthy of being shared from a barstool whilst sipping a margarita.
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The Mojito. What drink better represents Havana? It has ties to Ernest Hemingway, Sir Francis Drake, and the Canary Islands. And like most good stories and classic drinks, the true origin of the mojito has been lost to the mists of time.
What we do know is that the Mojito has a rich history that binds it closely to Havana and a restaurant by the name of La Bodeguita del Medio. And it is there that Hemingway was rumored to be a regular, as evidenced by a framed note that reads, ”My mojito in La Bodeguita, My daiquiri in El Floridita. — Ernest Hemingway.”
Believe what you will, but make sure to try their recipe for the classic Cuban Mojito.
- 2 teaspoons sugar
- 1/2 lime (freshly squeezed)
- 2 sprigs of fresh mint
- 3 oz club soda
- 1 1/2 oz white rum (we recommend Margaritaville Silver Rum)
Pour the sugar into a tall mojito or collins glass, followed by the juice from a half a lime. Add two sprigs of mint, then 3 ounces of club soda and gently mash the mint into the lime juice, sugar and club soda with a muddler or the back of a long spoon. Add 1 1/2 ounces of white rum, four ice cubes ice, stir and serve.
Of course, the perfect mojito is a matter of personal taste, so feel free to experiment as frequently as you need to create your very own ultimate mojito recipe!
So There’s That: Adventures in Transgendering chronicled my transition in 2014. One hopes the gentle readers will forgive any awkward or anachronistic language within.
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N.B.: When I began transitioning, I was known by my nickname “DiG” — prior to learning my mom had chosen Jennifer as my name prior to my birth.
My Friday funk stretches into a stagnant Saturday. The lost momentum, the gawping neighbors, the perceived everydayness of my journey takes its toll after all the gender euphoria.
So I decide, screw it, I’ll give myself the whole of Saturday to enjoy a good mope, then track down my mojo on Sunday.
Alas and along the way, I get sideswiped by another series of unfortunate (email) events.
Let me explain… now that I’m in the midst of my month-long coming-out parade, I’m trying very hard to be less of a recluse. Over the past several years, weekends home without the kids meant I could dress how I chose, without judgment. The downside was the abject sacrifice of my social life. Well, now that I can openly dress how I choose AND invite people over whom I’ve come out to, my weekends, ostensibly, don’t need to be so solitary.
Pretty cool, right? My youngest clearly has boarded that train. Why not others?
So in the course of an email conversation with a friend who knows about my transition, I mentioned the possibility of watching Doctor Who together over the weekend, catching up on episodes he missed because of a local cable war that tragically removed this magnificent show from his television lineup. Who knows, I say, maybe I’ll even invite over a few mutual friends who also know of my current situation.
A pretense to stop being such a recluse. An excuse to hang out, right?
Wrong.
His response is to email my other friends under the subject line, “Fair Warning,” complaining that I’ve come up with another “crazy” scheme that will undoubtedly die a quiet death after two or three get togethers. So count him out.
How do I know this? Because he accidentally sent said email to me. A faux pas for the digital age.
I must admit I had to read the email about 10 times before finally putting two and two together. So how do you respond to something like that? I decide to go with a little self-deprecating humor…
I guess I deserve that. But I am trying to be less of a recluse. Turn over a new leaf. Blah, blah, blah. That said, it probably would die a quiet death after a few get togethers, curses!
I imagine there was plenty of pin-dropping silence as he read my response and realized, to his horror, that he had sent this unvarnished “truth” to the wrong sendee.
Ten minutes pass, and I get lengthy response that explains in detail the validity of his claims, apologizes for his horrid mistake, further explains the reasons for his claims, and ends with a humorous semi-apology.
I appreciate the attempt, but the abject lack of an offer to get together in light of said faux pas, takes what little wind I had out of my sails.
So it might not come as a surprise that as Sunday morning rolls around, I’m still in the doldrums. Still in a funk. And still, most definitely, without my mojo.
Enough is enough. I decide it’s time for a pick-me-up, and that pick-me-up comes in the form of my old roommate and college friend, Gunther. Okay, it’s possible his name’s not really Gunther, but it’s getting harder and harder to not identify people in the blog without using proper names. I mean, when I start using names like Mr. No B.S. and the Gay Stutterer, you know I’m scrapping the bottom of the barrel. So since my old buddy and I were both big fans of Hepcats (don’t ask), I’m going with Gunther.
Gunther & DiG… the vaudeville comedy duo.
I drop him an email, he lives on the left coast, and I get a quick response that he’s watching the Eagles game. I laugh, because I am as well, and we promise to connect after the game ends, an inglorious loss to the Arizona Cardinals on a last-minute 75-yard touchdown pass.
On a slight tangent, you might be perplexed at how someone dealing with gender identity issues, in the male to female direction, is still such a sports fan. Well as my patron saint Eddie Izzard explains, many of us are simply male tomboys. And I like that concept a lot. A tomboy trapped in a man’s body. Perhaps not the best description after a couple drinks, but right now, it makes a helluva lot of sense to me.
Anyway, it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other face to face. San Diego Comic Con, a year previous. Work-related trips for both of us, with the added bonus of grabbing lunch away from the crowds and catching up a bit.
Despite the distance, we are still very close friends. Fraternity brothers, in the truest sense. Then college roommates in South Philadelphia and the awesomely named town of Bala Cynwyd.
We hung out though several circles of friends, dated through a few of them as well. But one day he called me up to “talk.” Now this was some time ago… probably the early ’90s, and lots of people were coming out as gay. Kind of trendy to be honest. And it was Gunther’s time to come out to me.
We went for a walk as he worked up his nerve. I kid with him now that it turned into a really long walk as it took him forever to say the words. I put two and two together about midway through and after he came out, I told him I was happy for him and appreciated him taking the time to share his news. I might have even shared my crossdressing secret with him. But that was his day, not mine.
Before you pat me on the shoulder for being so awesome back in the day, there is a possibility, a remote possibility, mind you, that I may have asked, shall we say, about giving and receiving. Subtle I am not.
Well now that the shoe is on the other foot, I promise myself to take less time getting to the point. A little less beating around the bush, if you will.
We hop on the phone and get the pleasantries out of the way, and I ask him if he remembers what I told him when he came out to me. He does, but I can tell he’s not 100% sure if he should go there. Like perhaps I’m going to talk about the restaurant we walked by and not the crossdressing portion of the conversation. I can almost hear the warning across the phone line, “Danger, Will Robinson, Danger.”
Fuck it. Once more unto the breach. I take a deep breath and tell him my news. But since I can’t see him, I can’t tell how he’s reacting. Me being me, I don’t give him an opportunity to get a word in edgewise until I’ve had my say, ending with, “Well, I think I came out to you faster than you came out to me!”
There a pause. A pause across the continent that could forebode ill or simply mean he needs some time to process. Fortunately it’s the latter. And the ease that is evident in his voice tells me it’s going to be okay.
We talk about coming out in general, the fear and then the euphoria. But throughout, he is happy for me, even asking if it really took him that long to come out. I cannot tell a lie. It did. But for my part, I apologize if I wasn’t more supportive, if my questions about intimate details were beyond the pale. But he waves me off, telling me I was more supportive than he had ever hoped for.
I finally admit that the reason I called, aside from coming out, is that I need a friend, a pick-me-up. I explain about the “Fair Warning” email and he tells me something that heals my fragile soul. And for the sake of accuracy, I must admit that while the heartfelt sentiment is Gunther’s, the clumsily paraphrased words are mine and not at all as eloquent as his.
“It’s what I’ve always admired about you. That you’ve always taken that risk. You’ve never been afraid to fail. ‘This is what I want to do, this is what I want to try, damn the torpedoes, full steam ahead.’ And I’d rather have a friend who tried ten things and failed at nine, then a friend who’s afraid to try anything at all.”
I cannot express how much those words mean to me, fragile soul or not. And as you can see, I am blessed with an amazing group of friends.
Who knew all I had to do was come out to them, to reveal who I really am to them, for me to realize just how lucky I truly am.
So There’s That: Adventures in Transgendering chronicled my transition in 2014. One hopes the gentle readers will forgive any awkward or anachronistic language within.
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If it’s Friday, I must be in Maryland.
I hope.
The result of traveling so much is that I sleep in several different zip codes on a regular basis. And because I can amuse myself to no end regardless of the situation, I invented a game to try and place where the hell I am every morning before I open my eyes.
Then open the eyes and… white ceiling and an unsuccessfully dislodged cobweb dangling Sword-of-Damocles-style over my head. In other words, I must be home. And home means a morning walk through the neighborhood.
This morning, I happen across a young Latino couple walking their dog. Very suburban, very sweet. Until I realize that the wife is gawping at me. Seriously, gawping. Mouth hung open, head swiveling as her eyes track me.
I look down to see how I’m dressed and all I can process are normal jeans, black high tops and a hoodie. Hair tied up as usual. Even my hands are in the pockets, the colorful hair ties unwittingly tucked under my sleeve.
WTF? Is there a slice of pizza stuck to my face?
I then turn to look at the husband and he gives me a knowing smile.
Seriously, WTF.
I give a head bob to the husband as guys do, and am on my way. But after about few minutes it dawns on me. This is the family that lives in the house directly behind me. As in line of sight behind me. An unobstructed view into my dining room and kitchen through my sliding glass back door.
In other words, they’ve been witness to me wearing skirts and leggings and what not with abandon the last few months. Why? Because I refuse to hide behind curtains now. Especially not in my own house when warming up day old coffee in the microwave.
The wife clearly has never experienced anything like this before in her life. Not this juicy. And especially not this close up. I stop in my tracks and start to laugh. I’m causing problems in the neighborhood. Not quite a revolutionary, more like a troublemaker, but close enough for one who embraces the awkward.
I return home in time for a transatlantic Skype session with a very, very, very energetic Australian woman I know from across the pond.
Yeah, nothing like an elegant segue. Embrace the awkward, right?
Perhaps a recap is in order. The Australian woman is, unsurprisingly, from Australia, but lives in the UK, and almost met me at the Monty Python Live reunion show over the summer. Okay, perhaps, that wasn’t as helpful as I had hoped it would be, but just roll with it.
Anyhoo, through an interesting chain of friends, we became acquainted online and now I’m helping her out with a cool narrative-fiction exercise app she successfully got funded on Kickstarter.
All good, right? Well, life tends to get complicated when I’m involved. Even moreso recently. The problem is that she started talking about adding photos of everyone who’s on her Advisory Board to the website. With bios. Bios that seem to use lots and lots of pronouns. Pronouns that scare the living shit out of me, not to mention the photos.
Pronoun trouble, right?
I realize it’s time to fill her in on what’s going on in my life so that my concerns might not seem so… well, as if they came from a raving lunatic. Because let’s face it, without context, requesting a bio sans pronouns is a little… demanding. No brown M&Ms, dammit!
Once on Skype, we talk about the app, talk about the narrative, talk about this, talk about that, before I finally break the ice. Now the trick here is that she doesn’t know me all that well, nor for all the long. So this doesn’t need to be a personal story, just a story. I dive into an abbreviated version of events, and while her head nods are all copacetic, there is no joy, there is no enthusiasm. Primarily because there’s no real history to our friendship. It’s like the fry cook at McDonald’s telling you about his pet weasel who recently passed away in a non-fry-related incident. The condolences are going to be lacking that personal touch.
Her resulting response is a pause, then, “Cool. Good for you.” Another pause. “So why did you wait so long to come out?” I don’t know what I was hoping for, but I mumble my response and get to the crux of my reveal. “So… not sure how I feel about posting a photo at present, and really not sure I want to use pronouns in my bio as I’m a little between genders at present.”
Again, all copacetic, but I can’t help but get the feeling that maybe she thinks I’m making a big deal out of something fairly minor. Who knows, maybe this is old hat for Aussies by way of London. The Brits did give Eddie Izzard his start, after all. The Aussies, they gave us Crocodile Dundee and Foster’s Beer, which is good enough for me.
We wrap the call on a decently positive note, but I still feel like I’ve lost momentum. A nagging feeling that I’m being observed in my own home, judged from not so afar, and wondering if I over shared across the pond.
Awkward, I can embrace. Revolutionary, I can embrace. But doubt, that eats at my soul.
So There’s That: Adventures in Transgendering chronicled my transition in 2014. One hopes the gentle readers will forgive any awkward or anachronistic language within.
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N.B.: When I began transitioning, I was known by my nickname “DiG” — prior to learning my mom had chosen Jennifer as my name prior to my birth.
With my regular Gotham gig coming to a close, I’ve managed to cut down my New York City coming-out list to one final person. Well, technically two, but one of those people moved to L.A. So, if you squint real hard, it’s really only one.
Not too shabby for three weeks worth of work.
The last name on the list is the business partner of the Brooklyn dev shop guy I came out to last Friday. No cool nickname, just the one who was “inspired” and “refreshed” by my journey. I seem to have that effect on people.
It’s kinda funny. If you know me, you’ll know that last comment was totally self-deprecating humor. If not, well, I guess I could come across as rather grandiose. But what can you do? Potato, potahto.
Anyway, the dev shop bloke from this week clearly knows I have “news,” but I’m guessing he isn’t exactly sure what that news is. Probably thinking, gay, but probably also surprised that I would consider that to be a “thing” in this day and age.
We meet at the Brooklyn Roasting Company near his office and after a bit of small talk (not gay, not dying of cancer), I jump into my now familiar tale. The only problem is that this time, I’m not getting much of a reaction.
I mean, this is old hat to me. I know how this thing works, right? But not today. It’s like I’m talking to a sphinx. No bad reaction, no good reaction. No reaction at all.
As a storyteller, I tend to craft the story to my audience. Toss in a little more profanity here, add some sexual escapades there, and that’s just for the toddlers.
But nothing’s working. In the past, I would gloss over my stuttering to get to the juicy bits. But this time, the juicy bits are cutting it.
I realize I’m babbling a bit and shift to how he’s probably noticed how long my long fingernails have been over the years.
Jackpot.
“Yeah, I always wondered about that, ” he says with a hint of a reaction. “I asked you once if you played guitar, and when you said you didn’t, I thought, well maybe it’s because you do cocaine, because, let’s face it, you are, at times, pretty hyper.”
Which is true. Very hyper. But it come naturally. Or with the help of my dear friend, Mr. Caffeine. Maybe not Robin Williams hyper, but certainly Matt Smith as the 11th Doctor hyper.
But I digress.
I can’t help but laugh in response, “Isn’t cocaine, just one long fingernail? Seriously, how much cocaine did you think I did.” Pause. “Can you imagine me on cocaine?”
We both break into laughter, because the thought of me strung out on cocaine is pretty scary thought.
The rest of the conversation is a lot more comfortable, as is our norm, but I get the vibe that he’s simply not as ebullient as usual. Not that he’s an ebullient person to begin with, but I think you get my drift.
We finally wrap our conversation (we both do, ostensibly, have jobs), and he tells me he’s happy for me. But again it’s a in a bit of a monotone, lacking in joy, lacking in enthusiasm. Something just doesn’t add up, and for the life of me, I just can’t put my finger on it, perhaps, because I don’t sense any negativity or pushback. Just a lack of emotion.
But, to each their own, right? Everyone responds how they respond. Chalk it up as a win and keep moving. That’s what you learn in therapy. Give people time.
I spend the rest of my time at work, and this being Thursday, I hop a train back to Maryland. But when I get home, I find a very pleasant surprise in my inbox…
Yo. I have a tendency to not visibly react much in the moment. This would help my poker game no doubt. I just wanted to say that I think it takes a lot of courage to push through all the shameful feelings and to open up and be honest when there’s a chance of rejection. I’m glad that you felt comfortable enough with me to go for it. I don’t have any idea of what journey you are on, but I think it’s incredibly important to be honest with yourself and to be honest with others about yourself. Having to hide a part of who you are seems like a near unbearable burden, and I can only imagine what it’s like to spend so long cringing. I’m really happy that you were able to overcome that and push through to the other side. There’s a lot more to it I’m sure, but I’m really happy for you and whatever this next chapter of “Dig-ness” becomes, I’m looking forward to seeing it all unfold.
I can’t help but smile, my eyes, perhaps, a little moist.
I feel so blessed. I had such fears coming into this, or perhaps, more accurately, coming out with this. Fears that I would lose every friend I ever had. And instead I find that these bonds of friendship strengthened at every turn.
While my therapist has exhorted me to give me people time, I think it’s time I add my own addendum. Give them time, for your friends will surprise and astound you. And in the process, lift you up to heights you didn’t know possible. Even if they are a sphinx who thinks you’re doing cocaine.