—

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.

The post So There’s That, Days 34/35: Gunther first appeared on Typing Monkeys.

—

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.

The post So There’s That, Day 33: Embrace the Awkward first appeared on Typing Monkeys.

—

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.

The post So There’s That, Day 32: Guitars… or Cocaine first appeared on Typing Monkeys.

—

One would have thought I’d have come out to everyone at work by now. I mean, I’ve only been talking about it ad nauseam for three weeks, right? 25 up, 25 down. Well, one would have been wrong.

One more to go. And for some reason, this one’s a toughie.

She’s young, she’s smart and she’s from Philadelphia. Easy peasy, right?

Nope.

Before I came out to the world, the two of us were in the office, and she noticed the hairbands on my wrist.

“What’s up with that?” she asked with an arched eyebrow.

And instead of standing my ground. Instead of using it as an opportunity to explain that I’m transgender (hear me roar!), I blinked. We’re not talking a blink of epic proportions. I mean, it wasn’t exactly Khrushchev and Kennedy. But it would likely hold its own against most non-Cold-War-related blinks.

Let me set the stage. A little aft-shadowing, if you will. The evening prior, I told myself, promised myself that if anyone asked about my hair ties, my colorful, non-manly hair ties, I would tell them, 1) I like them and, 2) I’m transgender.

So when she asked, I fixedly stared at the ground and repeated, “I like them.” And then blinked. Such a promising start, such an ignoble finish.

She gave me a look twinged with disapproval and dismissed me with, “Whatever.”

Fast forward to today. She’s been out of the office for a few weeks. Hit by a car. Whatever. It’s not like she’s dead, right? Suck it up, girl. I got hit by a car a few years back and you don’t hear me whinging on about it, do you?

Yeah, we Philadelphians really are the City of Brotherly Love. Case in point: any injury during a football game in Philadelphia, no matter how bad, we’d holler, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. DRAG ‘EM OFF THE FIELD!!!” And that was for our players.

Cut back to present. Again.

I’m more confident this time. No chance of blinking. Not this cat. I don’t even know the meaning of the word. Okay, I do know the meaning of the word, but I’m determined this time around, no 21-year-old is gonna take me down. Nope. Not today. Not happening.

Oh, did I forget to mention I got schooled by a 21 year old? Yeah, sucks to be me.

Anyway, with the office empty except for the two of us, I plunge into my much delayed tale, beginning with stuttering and followed by… well, you know the drill. I’m more nervous than usual as I wait for her reaction, perhaps because she’s the one person in the office who doesn’t hide her true feelings behind decorum or political correctness.

But she breaks into a smile and says, “Cool.”

Cool.

I return the smile and admit to my aforementioned nervousness, relating her previous response. With a laugh, she says, “Yeah, that sounds like me,” but admits if not for her experiences at Emerson College (“I saw a lot of crazy shit there!”), she probably would not have responded as well as she did. So if anyone from Emerson College is reading, I think I have your new slogan.

With that out of the way, I gleefully leap into questions about sports bras (she’s goes to the gym A LOT) and scarves (she has a closet full). Not regular scarves, mind you, but those infinity scarves that look so chic in that devil-may-care way, but are in actuality so carefully positioned to look perfectly casual… like so!

My day ends with two more coming outs (no slowing me down!). The first with a former colleague (not AOL), the latter with a girl I almost started dating over the summer. Both are delightful reveals, the former refreshingly pedestrian as one of his best friends is transgender (old news). The latter so heartfelt with the reciprocal reveal of heretofore secret lesbian relationships. I’m just not sure if I should feel honored over being included in the sacred rite of secret-sharing or just be flattered that I might be getting hit on as a girl. Either way, it’s still a win.

Easy peasy, right?

The post So There’s That, Day 31: Easy Peasy first appeared on Typing Monkeys.

—

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. 

One of my favorite movies is Akira Kurosawa’s Rashomon, a fascinating Japanese film about a crime that takes place in feudal Japan told from four different perspectives. But unlike American films that would slowly reveal more layers of the onion, filling in more details upon each retelling, this film ends with the realization that, perhaps, there is no such thing as ultimate truth.

At least that’s way I see it.

HA! See what I did there? <sigh>

In any event, I asked the gentleman who wrote me that amazing email (yeah, the gay stutterer) to share his version of our interactions, from learning the news from his boss to our evening of drinking and bonding over a few too many beers.

Herein lies his tale…

Unlike most of the people DiG has written about, I found out secondhand. I didn’t get the big spiel or the dramatic drumroll, and I shouldn’t have. We were colleagues whose duties didn’t overlap that much, and it made sense that I’d find out via my boss, who was much closer to him.

I remember my boss coming back to the office with DiG after they’d just had coffee together. We exchanged a nice “haven’t seen you in awhile” handshake before DiG took off and my boss wasted no time and sending me a “So…” instant message. “DiG says he has two things he needs to tell me”, he writes. I have zero clue where this is going, but I’m intrigued, because if my boss is telling me this quickly then it must be good. He writes that the first thing DiG tells him is he’s a stutterer and that he always has been. My heart sinks a little bit as my boss details DiG’s stories of living with, hiding, sometimes overcoming, and sometimes not overcoming your stutter. These are MY stories. Stories I don’t really share, but stories I know others have. It’s hard to describe stuttering to another person when it’s the type you can hide. It’s hard to point out the way you use the endings of certain words to bounce your way into the beginnings of other words, the way you avoid certain combinations altogether, or the way you pause, pretending to think, when you know what you want to say, you’re just waiting until your mouth allows you to say it. My boss talks about wondering what the hell the second secret is the whole time DiG is telling his stutter stories, but all I can think is fuck the second secret, I’m busy reading you quote things DiG just said to you that I’ve only ever said to myself. 

He drops bomb two. Transgender. I could tell my boss was waiting for the “WHAT!?!?!” reply, but I think I just gave him a “huh… had no idea.” He tells me that DiG is doing his “coming out” tour, that he just told his kids a week or so ago, and that he has long fingernails which had until then gone unnoticed by my boss. I start drifting during all this because my one and only thought now is: I need to send him an email.

Some backstory. I’ve stuttered all my life. Still do. But like most I’ve become so familiar with my stutter that I know a million tricks to hide it. Every once in awhile the tricks fail me, and I have an embarrassing moment that sends me into a momentary spiral, but for the most part everyone who finds out tells me, “I never knew you stuttered.” I’m also gay. Realized when I was 12, immediately accepted, never beat myself up about it, but like my stutter, decided to hide it. I grew up in an environment that wasn’t into having an openly gay kid in their census, to say the least. The hiding it lasted 13 years, which is longer than a lot of people, but also shorter than a lot of people. 

I thought, well shit, not only does it sound like we’ve lived with the same type of stutter (something you rarely get to talk about it with someone who knows exactly what you’re describing), but I also know what it’s like to live most of your life with an LGBT secret. I know what it is to hide, every day. I know what it is to fear being uncovered, every day. I know what it is to imagine the end of various relationships you’ve put a lot of work into, because you think your secret, and your decision to keep it a secret, will be seen as awful or a betrayal by the other person. 

So I emailed him. I didn’t and don’t pretend that I know all of his struggles. Being transgender is a much different ballgame of acceptance than being gay. The answers he gives his loved ones are more complex than the ones I give mine. But I know how hard it was for me at times doing it all on my own. It was my decision to do it one-by-one, without a friend in my back pocket who didn’t care what or who I was, and I know now how much I would’ve liked having that. He was surprised by my story, and took me up on my offer to get a drink and be his open-minded sounding board for a few hours.

 I’ll let him recount our sit-down (see previous post), but I do remember how obvious his high was. When you start coming out, and realize how effortless it really is once you get going, you talk your ass off. Something you would never talk about becomes the thing you can’t stop talking about, because you feed off hearing yourself actually say these things to another person. I told him how proud I was, but to also be prepared for the end of the process; the moment where now you just have to live your life as an openly transgender person, and that it will take time to figure out what that even means. I told him there’s no rush and that we all figure it out at own pace. And I told him that if at any point during or after he needed to talk that he’s got at least one person who will listen to him work out his thoughts. My response might come with the occasional stutter, but never with any judgment.

Okay, so maybe not Rashomon, but it’s still pretty awesome. And so is he.

The post So There’s That, Day 30: NYC Comraderie, Rashomon Style first appeared on Typing Monkeys.

—

With two weeks left at my full-time gig in New York, I continue to pack my schedule with coffees, lunches, dinners and drinks with everyone I still haven’t come out to in town.

By now, it’s a mixture of networking, getting back in touch with old friends and lining up a support structure of people who will hopefully have my back in case this whole transgendery thing blows up in my face. Because let’s face it, next year I’m walking that transgender tightrope without a societal safety net, and it would be kinda groovy to know who I can turn to if the heavy winds start to blow. ‘Cause, you know, I’ll be on a tightrope.

Anyway… my first stop of the day is with another AOL friend. This time it’s lunch at a swanky Time-Warner restaurant, not my usual lunch fare. While I’m most definitely a foodie, I’m usually a bit more… casual. To put my tastes in context, I’m obsessed with Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, Unique Eats, and Good Eats, watching on near perpetual loop thanks to my TIVO. So yeah, transgender foodie. Not the best combination for someone trying to shake those final ten “guy” pounds at age 48. So yeah, thanks, God.

Back at lunch, we play the catch up game… divorces, kids, new jobs. Only I get to embellish my story with stuttering and transitioning. Try and top that! Drop the mic and walk away. Just walk away.

An oddly awesome byproduct of coming out to women (let’s just call it a feature) is that I get to compliment them on things that I was hesitant to comment upon in the past for fear that I would be perceived as that creepy guy hitting on them… creepily.

So let me just state for the record, she has the greatest medium short hair ever. And let me tell you, it is so cool once women realize that I’m serious about this, that I’m on hormones, that I’m really doing it, because there is an ease evident on their faces that leads to joyful conversations (at least for me) on hair, makeup (or lack thereof), and storing heels at the office. Topics I’ve never been able to talk about. It’s like being allowed past the rope at a hip nightclub for the first time and then being lead to the VIP room. At least, that’s what I imagine it’d be like having never really been hip enough to understand the the appeal of roped nightclubs. Diners, Drive-ins and Dives and all that, remember?

It is a delightful lunch that wraps up in her swanky office at Time Warner Center with promise of a renewed friendship.

Fast forwarding to after work, I walk to my weekly therapy and get to recount, in detail, my recent experiences, specifically my stress-filled weekend. It is with genuine delight that I discover that she agrees with me on things like mint juleps, transgender proofs and gender spectrum boxes.

My favorite part?

My Therapist: That must have been awful having to defend yourself to a close friend. How long did that go on?

Me (nonchalantly): Two hours.

My Therapist (incredulous): Two hours!?!?!?

Me (nonchalantly): Yeah, but he means well.

Of course, I am the one telling the story, so take that exchange and this whole blog for that matter with an enormous pillar of salt.

But in an odd way, my confrontational conversation on Sunday ended up being a good thing. I didn’t back down. I didn’t feel pangs of shame. I stood my ground and defended my current journey. And that, ladies and gentleman, feels pretty good for someone who, two months ago, couldn’t accept himself. Or is that herself? (Pronoun trouble!)

After therapy I grab drinks with the guy who wrote me the incredibly supportive email. You know, the gay stutterer. Okay, I know that’s incredibly inappropriate, but it is kinda funny. Right? Right?

Anyhoo… we meet at a Mexican restaurant/bar and over several beers bond like there’s no tomorrow. Over stuttering. Over hiding stuttering. The tricks of the trade, like turning your head to appear contemplative when in actuality you’re struggling with a troublesome word.

We then turn to nature of coming out to people, the fear, the shame, and then the joy of dealing with groovy people. He warns me, though, that the euphoria will wear off and then I’ll need to deal with life as a transgender individual.

It’s an amazing evening. While our circumstances are not the same, we share enough in common that I feel I met a comrade-in-arms. And a pretty cool one at that.

It’s strange. Here I thought I would lose everyone I knew when I came out, but instead I’m making new friends and strengthening bonds with old ones. And likely sipping Mint Juleps in my new Italian men’s clothes.

The post So There’s That, Day 30: NYC Comraderie first appeared on Typing Monkeys.

—

It’s Monday and I’m still mulling over my Maryland coming-out parties from the weekend.

New York City has been so supportive, so overwhelmingly happy for me the past three weeks — alas, I can’t say that this weekend felt anywhere near as supportive.

I mean, Saturday went well, but the “mint julep” quip fuels my fear that my friend’s vision of my girl mode is a little more Southern Belle than I’d like. It really shouldn’t bother me — how do I know I’m not projecting my fears onto his loyal support? And yet it still irks me on some primal level to think that people might believe that this is about frilly clothes and not about being who I am.

And truth to be told, I’m not into frilly. Lesbian chic is the term I toss about. I don’t even know if that means anything… but for me, and don’t forget I am a lesbian trapped in a man’s body, it’s jeans and boots and leggings and t-shirts and hoodies and turtleneck sweaters. And lots of black. In other words, like half the women walking around New York City. Which either means lesbian chic is the worst descriptor ever, or New York City is 25% lesbian.

Now Sunday… Sunday, Sunday, Sunday, Sunday, for those of you who remember Bosom Buddies. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the adversarial reaction, the push back. I know my therapist will tell me, “Give people time.” That they’ve known me as a guy for a long time and they just can’t make the shift immediately. Give them time.

I guess that’s one of the reasons I’ve been coming out to people in boy mode. It gives me time to explain what is going on without the visual taking all the air out of the room. I get to tell them. If I came out whilst in girl mode, I would be showing, not telling. And the air thing.

No, I think this is the right way to go. But still, I never expected to be told I’m not transgender in the process of coming out. I didn’t realize proofs and notarized membership cards were required.

The good news is that I’m not prone to dwell on things. Or beat a dead horse. Or not let things go. Nope, not this cat.

My non-dwelling-on, not-dead-horse-beating, letting-go thoughts are interrupted by my calendar reminding me that an old AOL coworker turned realtor is coming by to help me assess my house later in the day. Should I sell it? Rent it? What repairs are needed? What’s the market like? What’s the capital of Assyria?

Yeah, nothing like a subtle segue.

So let’s just cut to my old AOL coworker-turned-realtor friend arriving at my house a few hours later. The two of us haven’t seen each other in probably 10 years, and after a bit of small talk, she suggests we do a walk-through of my house. A walk-through that includes my non-closeted bedroom.

No, I explain, I’ve got some news to share before we can explore with impunity. So quickly I leap into stuttering, then… transgendered. Now after my experiences this weekend, I’m not sure how this is going to play out, but she breaks into a big grin and I know it’s going to be okay.

She is genuinely happy for me, and with my hair a little disheveled, she makes my day by telling me that I’m going to make one cute woman. She then frowns and begins to protest, “Not that I’m hitting on you!”

I can’t help but laugh because while her clothes don’t scream lesbian chic, she is married to one. Okay, that sounded better in my head, before writing it down. But you know what I mean.

I give her the grand tour of the house and when we get to my bedroom and closet therein, she smiles and says, I guess you have a thing for shoes! It’s a wonderful comment that would have given me defensive fits two months earlier, but now it is so welcome and soooooo true.

The tour complete, she makes her goodbyes, but not before promising a dinner get-together one night soon. A girls night out.

Who knows, maybe Maryland won’t be so unsupportive after all. And all I had to do was give it time.

The post So There’s That, Day 29: Subtle Segues first appeared on Typing Monkeys.

—

Another day, another coming out party.

But as this particular party could be construed by some as contentious, let me skip the usual personal details and simply say, another longtime friend from the area.

We now join our regularly scheduled post already in progress…

I nonchalantly ask if he’d care to head out to the backyard as I have some news to share. Okay, maybe not exactly nonchalantly, but it’s about as nonchalant as I can get under the circumstances.

We settle into the chairs on my back patio, or more accurately, he sits and I pace across the concrete slab that doubles as my back patio.

I can see the anticipation in his eyes. He’s got a secret girlfriend. He’s getting married. He’s won the lottery.

So I start with the easy part — I’m moving to New York City!

Awkward pause.

And… “Well that sucks. I’m never gonna get to see you anymore.”

Tap, tap, tap go my fingers against my folded arms. This is not off to an auspicious start.

I then slide into stuttering. Not actual stuttering, but the story of my stuttering.

Second awkward pause as he waits for the other shoe to drop.

Tap, tap, tap.

Deep sigh… and transgender.

Silence. Deafening silence. I’m not sure awkward pauses are allowed to last this long.

“Are you sure you’re transgender?”

Excuse me.

“Uh… yeah. Been thinking about it since I was eight years old. So… yes.”

“Are you sure it’s not a fetish?”

I know him well enough to understand that he means this in a clinical sense, not as a pejorative. But still…

I clear my throat, “Well, arousal has been part of this over the years, but not anymore. To be honest, I’m trying very hard not to put myself in a box. I’m trying to enjoy this journey of discovery and see where it leads.”

“Well, do you feel like a woman trapped in a man’s body?”

“Uh, not exactly…”

“Then you’re not transgender.”

Tap, tap, tap. This is not going as I expected.

We continue this game of box for literally the next two hours, moving from fetish to crossdresser to transvestite. He taught a class in gender studies in the 1980s, while I’ve been dealing with gender issues firsthand since the 1970s.

Let me edit the conversation down to some of his more memorable quotes, oddly evoking a majority of the stages of death and dying…

•  Denial: “Just because you like to shave your legs or grow your nails long doesn’t mean you’re transgender.”
•  Bargaining: “Why don’t you just wear stylish Italian men’s clothes?”
•  Depression: “I’m not going to be happy for you until you figure out your gender dysphoria. Until then, it’s your divorce all over again.”

He skips over Anger and finally moves on to what I can only call his version of Acceptance: “I don’t care what you wear. You’re still my friend.”

But it’s that laser focus on clothes and the unshakeable belief that I’m delusional that finally causes me snap. Since he’s not interested in Anger, I take up the mantle…

“Fine. You want me to talk about my body? Let’s talk about my body. Truth be told, I’ve never liked my body. I’ve never thought of myself as good looking. The only time I’ve ever liked it, been able to look at myself in the mirror is when it starts to look female. When I lose enough weight for my waist to narrow. When my chest can form cleavage. And you know what? Growing breasts doesn’t freak me out, okay? I actually like it. The concept of surgery? Doesn’t scare me. Is that what you want to hear from me?”

From his facial expression, I can tell this is making him uncomfortable.

Good. I think I made my point.

In an odd way, this is all good. I actively defended being transgender for several hours. I’m not sure I could have done that even three weeks ago. And I feel more certain than ever that I am on the right path. I may not know the destination or what box I’m in, but for now, the journey is pretty awesome.

Now about those clothes from Italy…

The post So There’s That, Day 28: What Box Can I Put You In? first appeared on Typing Monkeys.

—

With New York City mostly clued into my transition, it’s time to turn my attention closer to home and begin the coming out process all over again.

But while New York City has been pretty open armed about this, I’m more than a little nervous about the Maryland/Virginia crowd on a few counts.

One, this region has known me for a long time. Well over 20 years. So I’ve had a long history with this circle of friends as a guy. And most definitely as a guy’s guy. A father. A husband. Football fanatic. So this gender revelation might take a little more time than I’d like to be filed, stamped, indexed and accepted.

Two, this circle tends to be a little more… well… judgey judge.

So with renewed apprehension, I invite my first Maryland/Virginia friend over for a night of college football, food and “the latest news.”

He and I have been extraordinarily close friends over the years, but because of… shall we say, a misunderstanding… our friendship is not nearly as close as it once was. We’re still friends, still speak amiably, but that bond of special friendship, that “Special Relationship” Neil Burnside speaks of in The Sandbaggers, is no longer there.

So you can imagine the raw mileage of pacing I achieve in the house before he arrives. I guess it’s a good thing I have hardwood floors ’cause there’d be a damn groove in the carpet by now.

He arrives a little before the start of the Notre Dame-Florida St. game, and I make some of my famous feta salsa as we settle in. I then tell him I have some news to share. But glancing at the TV, I realize I don’t have enough time to complete my story before kickoff.

“But… it’s going to have to wait until halftime.”

He shoots me a good-naturedly, are-you-serious look. I can’t help but laugh. “For the record,” I add, hoping to recover just a bit, “not gay, not dying of cancer. You can knock those two off the list.”

Cue awkward pause. <sigh> Yeah, definitely not my best moment.

The first half of the game comes to a close over an hour later with Notre Dame up 17-10, and I figure that between halftime and my TIVO, I got a good 45 minutes to get through my story.

Now let me be clear. He has been extraordinarily patient with me. If the shoe were on the other foot, I’d probably have shown my traditional patience… and told him, fuck the game, tell me what’s going on.

I lean into the deep breathing I mastered on my initial coming outs and explain first my move to New York, then the legacy of my stuttering, and the finally acceptance of being — tada! — transgender.

Much to my surprise, he takes it in stride, very much in stride and with a smile, tells me I seem happier than he’s seen me in ages. And he’s happy for me, adding, “If you don’t mind my saying, I’m proud of you.”

I don’t mind at all. It’s actually kinda cool. He smiles again and explains his fairly nonplussed reaction by relating that he grew up, almost literally, in the theater and saw all kinds of lifestyle and wardrobe choices. Lifestyle and wardrobe choices that were wholeheartedly accepted by the theater community.

We spend the next hour talking about my decision, my state of mind, my wardrobe choices and ignore the game that was the pretext for the evening, at least until Notre Dame gets majorly hosed by the refs at the end of the game.

But it is at this point that, in his effort to state emphatically that he doesn’t care how I dress, he says something that sets my hackles on end, or whatever it is that hackles do.

“I don’t care if you’re in the kitchen making mint juleps, you’re still my friend.”

And this is what goes through my mind…

Mint juleps? Seriously? As in the Kentucky Derby? Is that what he thinks this is about? That I waltz around the house in a Southern ball gown with an enormous slanted hat sipping mint freakin’ juleps?

I mean, I know he means well. I know he means really well, but this, for some reason, really freakin’ bothers me.

And heavens knows I’m not prone to overreacting.

Okay, for those of you not in the know, that is what we like to call sarcasm. To be honest, at times I think I’m living in a game of “What Are You Trying to Say?” fromWhose Line Is It Anyway? And if that is too obscure a reference, since obscure references are how I roll, I suggest you watch the short skit for yourself on YouTube here.

So yeah. It’s probably me.

That said, the evening ends pleasantly enough, if not triumphantly enough for the Fighting Irish, and we part closer friends than when we started tonight. But after he leaves, I park myself in a lawn chair in my backyard and stare at the stars.

Why can’t I shake the mint juleps comment? I mean, this went better than I could have imagined. Way better. He was more supportive than I had ever hoped. I should be enjoying yet another psychological high, but I’m not. I can’t stop dwelling on “mint juleps.”

Maybe it’s the self-loathing inherent in being writer, that part of me who endlessly ignores the good reviews and focuses only on the bad. Because to tell the truth, maybe those Kentucky Derby hats aren’t so bad.

The post So There’s That, Day 27: Mint Juleps first appeared on Typing Monkeys.

—

I’ll admit it. I have a list. A list of people I want to come out to personally before going “public” with this whole thing.

And when I say public, I mean allowing Google to spider this blog and referencing said spider-blog on Facebook for everyone to see.

Cat out of the bag. Toothpaste out of the tube. Beans spilt from wherever beans get spilt.

I feel like my friends, my family, my business friends have earned the right to get the details of my journey from my own lips. I mean, this is a pretty big change. And if I desire that my friends stand by me as I navigate these changes, walk down the street with me as people gawp, go to dinner with me while the rest of the restaurant stares, they deserve to know my deal.

The hardest part, though, is that I don’t completely know the deal myself. But my hope is that through these coming-out conversations, through this blog, we’ll all get a little closer to what is going on in my head and why I can’t seem to ignore this anymore.

So yesterday between Mr. No B.S. and the subsequent gobsmacking email, I ventured over to Brooklyn to share “my deal” with someone I’ve worked with for years. He runs a dev shop, has argued with me over project payments, due dates and scope creep, and mentored my kids. So yeah, I am proud to call him my friend.

We meet at Brooklyn Roasting Company, because one can never have enough coffee. We shake hands, make some small talk before I get into my spiel.

The stuttering portion of the program is more effective than it was with Mr. No B.S. and leads very nicely into my transgender reveal. His response though, is wholly unexpected.

He sighs deeply and tells me that he’s had a really shitty day. Nix that, a really shitty week. And this? This just made his day. And his week.

As he later writes me, “I walked away from our chat feeling inspired… it’s just so refreshing to hear someone be honest with where their head is. I’m so happy for you and can’t wait to celebrate where you are in your life.”

So, yeah, I think it went pretty well.

With that as the backdrop to my thinking, I realize I’m going to see one of my best friends from a long time ago and a galaxy far, far away at a party tonight. We worked together on an online reality series. He directed a short film or three that I wrote. And we’ve won a handful of awards together for various projects and such.

But life moves on and he relocated to central Pennsylvania, directed a few independent horror films, while I juggled my weekly DC-NYC-single-parent routine with some pretty cool consulting gigs in New York City.

So good friends, but several years and several zip codes removed.

We’re both supposed to be attending a trailer parter for a movie we’ve both been helping out on. It’s at Broom Factory up in Baltimore. I bring my two kids and schmooze my way through the Maryland filmmaker scene.

Well, okay, everyone else schmoozes and I hold court with the vegetable tray. I’m not really a party person — and while the people I know there are super nice and all, I realize I’ve come here on a mission. Corner my old friend and tell him what’s been going on with me.

The only problem is that he’s late. And when he finally does arrive, everyone at the party wants to talk with him. We get a few minutes of warm chitchat in, but this is a party for mingling, not personal revelations.

I sigh and weigh the situation. Wrong place, wrong time? Or am I making up an excuse to not tell him? We finally sneak out back for a cigarette.

Right place. Right time.

And… a lighting guy joins us belatedly, dazzling us with his epic tales of lighting TV shows and movies in and around New Orleans.

Moment lost.

I sigh and realize this is not going to happen tonight. Each reveal in its own time. Each time in its own place. And for me, his place remains firmly on my list. The time, well, only the future knows. And the Shadow. But he’s busy schmoozing with the lighting guy from New Orleans.

The post So There’s That, Day 26: On My List… first appeared on Typing Monkeys.