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.
—
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.
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.
—
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?
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.
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.
