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.

—

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.