Communication skills

Amanda and I had another girls day out last Thursday.  At the end of the day she sent me home with a couple of books of hers, Helen Boyd’s “My Husband Betty” and “She’s Not The Man I Married.”  I’m part way into MHB now, and of course it’s as good as I had heard.  One point Helen makes early in the book is that cross dressers are no different from other men in that they often lack communication skills.  I think I’m the worst person I know in this area.

Unrelated, on the Tiffany Club mailing list this morning was a post by Michael calling for recognition of friends who had dropped out of visibility because of health reasons, and he offered Francis as an example of someone who shouldn’t be forgotten.

So the two incidents together put me in my place.  I’m dying of cancer too.  I might like attention too.  Just one little problem:  I’ve rejected all of my friends by ignoring them and being uncommunicative.  I can hardly expect public attention when I reject private and personal attention.  I can hardly expect to have friends after treating them so badly.

I happened to be invisible on Yahoo Messenger at the moment.  I don’t usually hang out invisible there, but I’d started it up earlier thinking I might chat with Amanda.  I saw Rita come on line and messaged her.  We chatted for a bit and I gave her a very brief update on my situation.  She knew a lawyer that might help me.  That made me think of Deedee.  If I’m using friends to help me find a lawyer, Deedee should be first.  I emailed Deedee.  I’m also not sure I should be staying in Massachusetts.  If Massachusetts is aggressive enough, they would track me down and arrest me.  Providence is a possibility.  I could stay out of state mostly, and take the train in as needed–without showing ID.  I emailed Jean then.  A short email, just to say hello.  I didn’t mention fears of arrest and so on.

There.  I contacted three friends.  Granted, with ulterior motives in each case, and not out of selfless friendship.  But still, it’s a start.

A night out dancing

Deedee loves me dearly and I’ve been conspicuously ignoring her for the last several months, mostly because my legal problems bothered her so much we couldn’t seem to have polite conversation. She had seen all my recent photos online though, had been leaving me comments on Flickr, and so it was time to see her again and catch up on things. She told how Club 33 was her new favorite house music hangout on Thursday nights and invited me to meet her there at 11:00 pm, when it opened.

At Stacy and Jessica’s in the evening, Stacy was still out, I needed to fix myself some dinner, change, and go. I got out a pan and started digging around to pick what to make. Jessica called out from the bedroom, “Oh, are you going to force me to eat something?” Meaning, of course, “thank god someone has appeared to feed me!” I cooked enough quinoa for the two of us then. The problem was deciding how to flavor it. She has no opinion of course. I stressed over how I could make it as appetizing as possible for myself with my near total loss of taste by now from the radiation treatments. I put in a mix of stuff. I won’t list ingredients here except to say that I think it all might have been ok except for the curry powder. I was eating first and I warned Jessica that it just might possibly be the worst thing I’ve tasted in my entire life…but that I couldn’t say for sure because I really couldn’t taste it at all. Jessica was inclined to believe me without tasting it but finally got up the courage to try a spoonful. She said it wasn’t the best. I dumped the rest of it in the garbage and finished getting ready to go out. My tummy hurt. I popped a couple of Tums.

Out the door around 10:30 then, in my beaded jeans, gold sandal heels, green scoop top under a burgundy blouse. Deedee loves fashion and style and watches and critiques everything. It’s amusing to me that she always thinks my sense of style is perfect. I dress myself in the thrift store finds (the jeans) clearance items ($6 shoes) and crappy hand-me-downs (tops) that I have.

One more stop though before the train downtown. Knowing that with my normal appetite and sense of taste, I would have wanted more to eat, I picked up a ham and cheese sandwich and a Mountain Dew at the convenience store. Surprise, the ham and cheese tasted exactly like my quinoa. I choked it down anyway.

I was on the train already when I realized I’d never gotten around to checking on a map exactly where I was going. I’d walked by this club before but didn’t remember exactly where that was. Pretty sure it right there by Back Bay Station, but not absolutely sure. I wanted to be sure. At Downtown Crossing, there were maps pasted to the wall. Three of them! All with city street names labeled. I studied them, all of them, with my glasses on and up close with my glasses off. The street I was looking for wasn’t on any of the maps. Only in Boston. What’s a tgirl to do but continue on without direction? I took the train to Back Bay Station hopeful that my street would magically appear on a map there, or that I would just recognize where I was when I got there. Yes! The street was on the map there, and yes, the map showed it was just as I remembered, right out the door and to the left. Out the door, to the left. The streets were all wrong. I’d gone out the opposite side of the station. No worries, walk around the block until you find it. It must be here. Around the block, past the door I should have exited, look up, and there’s a neon sign saying “33.” So, like 15 minutes wasted altogether trying to avoid getting lost.

Deedee had actually said ten after eleven and had said to wait for her outside because she could get me in. I was there at 11:25. No sign of Deedee outside. Not much sign of many people at all really. It was early and the crowd hadn’t arrived. The bouncer waved me in, had no interest in looking at ID or talking to me. The same from the hostess at the door. I wanted to explain that I was looking for someone but nobody cared. It was time to just get some bodies in the door.

It took a couple of minutes then before my eyes adjusted to the room light and I spotted Deedee’s pink cap at the end of the bar. Predictably, the first topic of conversation was clothes. She loved mine, told about hers, and briefed me on what to expect to see on other women there that night. I drank Red Bull while I told her all about my medical situation, while we avoid the legal topics, while we talked a bit about trans life. She asked about Jessica and Stacy. We talked about Sisters of Boston. We people watched. People were really piling in about then and the hip hop partying was about to get started on that floor. That was our cue to retreat downstairs where our house party would be. Down the neon lit stairway, I felt the tempo of the music jump up noticeably from hip hop to house and I felt more at home. Downstairs was cozy. Almost a tiny place to be called a dance club. Fine to be called a dance party though. Maria appeared and greeted us. The featured DJ, Deka, appeared and talked with Deedee and we got introduced. And well, we talked more, listened to great music, and danced a bit. Oh, and got hit on. Deedee always points out that she gets hit on by women and i get hit on by men. Not so sure it’s that simple, but I did have to disappoint one rather tactless meathead.

We made eye contact while I was waiting to order another Red Bull and he came and stood by me but didn’t talk. He pressed against me, grabbed my butt. No hello. First words out of his mouth were, “What do you do?” I laughed. “You mean, like, what I do for work?” “Yeah.” “I’m an astronomer.” “I’m a banker.” “Cool. Money is probably nicer than stars, huh?” The words didn’t register and we had trouble restarting the conversation. Not long after, his next try was “lets’ go to my place.” Oh my god! I thought. Is this guy really nothing but his penis? I politely declined. We danced a bit. I felt foolish as always, not knowing how to dance with a man. He seemed happy to ignore that. Later he looked at me and his face went serious. “You never used to be a man, did you?”

W. T. F.

My answer, given with a smile, didn’t register. He asked again. My answer still didn’t register, but he was apparently happy with whatever thought was in his head. He tried to kiss me. Um, sorry, creep. Yes, I am Sonia who has behaved badly in dance clubs in the past, but sorry, you’re like crudest guy I’ve seen in a long time, even if you are young and cute and claim to be a banker. I turned away. He grabbed my arm. That was it for me. I walked over to Deedee for support as he stared in disbelief at my rejection.

It was just 1:00 then, and honestly, the DJ was just getting into his really good stuff and I thought it was time for people to start getting into it and dancing more. I hadn’t even finished my second Red Bull. And Deedee says, “It’s late, I’m ready to go when you finish that.” Pout! I slurped it down but wouldn’t let her leave without dragging her out on the dance floor again for one more dance. She was happy to oblige and I felt like it completed the evening. It went fast, but we did everything we wanted to do and it was almost like old times. A short drive to Stacy’s place then, and we said goodnight.

I’d planned to sleep at Stacy’s that night, and told her ahead of time. I knew I might be coming home late, new I was very short on sleep to begin with, and thought it might be nice not to wake up with the arrival of the cleaning crew at the office at 6:00 am like most days. This was my first time to sleep over since my tracheostomy, and it was a good night to sleep over because Stacy had the night off and we could sleep together. Sleep we did. Never mind all the caffeine I’d had, I was pooped and had no trouble closing my eyes and drifting off.

One last night with Sisters of Boston

Ok, so a quick check in my journal reveals that September 11 was the last time I appeared at Sisters of Boston. It’s an interesting numerological coincidence then, that it turned out to be the 11th of April, seven months later, when I reappeared. The first two of those seven months were spent with me simply burned out on making the two hour trek to the meeting location. The last five months I had other problems. All this time, I’d missed it. I’d missed meeting so many new girls, missed the fun of seeing their giddy excitement, missed the fun of going out dancing. So I was all ready to return. I just needed the courts to set me free. They did so Friday afternoon and I was in my groove again.

Home from work, I decided to go to Sisters dressed just in work clothes, but with a little makeup, with which I so rarely grace my coworkers these days. Knowing there would be dancing later, I packed a miniskirt and a barrette, and was out the door at 6pm. The Red Line and Orange Line were both miraculously waiting for me to step onto without breaking my stride and I got to Wellington in 40 minutes, with 20 minutes still to spare before the 7pm bus to Woburn. 40 more minutes later, it dropped me a block from the hotel where Sisters meets, and I walked in the door actually being the first Sister to arrive for the evening.

I was amused that as a supposed leader within this group, I had to stop at the hostess stand and explain that I was looking for Sisters of Boston, that it was my first time there, and so on. With a bit of nervousness (that I ignored at the moment) she said I could have a seat at the bar. “Do you serve food at the bar?” “Oh yes, of course.” “Wonderful” I looked happy to have things settled. She relaxed and smiled. At the bar, the two girls next to me looked so darned familiar! I hate it when that happens! I didn’t ask though. I got no look of recognition from them, so I just let it go. I ordered a rum and coke and pizza and sat and did my usual bar thing. Sometimes I would look up at the TVs, but really I didn’t care to watch whatever was there. Really, right in front of me was just mirror, rather than a TV. The mirror showed how meager my prospects were of blending at this place. Now, my sense was that it didn’t have anything to do with me being trans. Rather, I was very obviously a Cambridge-ite, far from Cambridge. Black hair, black cat eye glasses…

Omg! I hadn’t written yet about my new glasses. In a night of drunken confusion at the indescribably cluttered home where I live, my last pair of contacts got thrown out with the dishwater somehow. I was blind and forced to return to the optician and get new glasses. I got these really great (and really expensive ) cat eye frames that are very femmie, and also a little something like geek, punk, or retro, I don’t know what.

Where was I? Yes, hair, glasses, and hot pink and black layered tops. *sigh* So I exchanged polite smiles with people around me, listened obviously to stories told in voices loud enough to advertise that they were fair game for anyone who cared to listen, and that was about it. It was cool. It reminded me somewhat of the time that I waited alone for Danielle once at a TGIF. In both cases, it was obviously the local, after work crowd where lots of people knew each other. Don’t be an ass, and you’re welcome too no problems. Come again another time, learn the bartender’s name, chat a few people up, come again, and you’re a regular–no matter how you dress. Acceptance isn’t automatic in the ‘burbs, but it can be earned.

For tonight though, I was just waiting for friends. My pizza had just arrived when, watching in the bar mirror, I recognized Caroline walk in. She had no chance of recognizing the back of my head, but after getting settled in the bar area herself, getting something cold to drink, and unwinding a bit, she finally read me as trans and walked over to confirm her suspicions. Still not recognizing me, she guessed I must be the new girl expected to visit from Maine that night. “Hello, are you Paula?” “No,” I said, smiling ear to ear and standing up. At this point, I think words failed her as her eyes were telling her something she thought impossible. “Caroline!” I said, and gave her a big hug. We talked excitedly for a few minutes, and that kind of set the tone for the whole night. I got to see old friends Jackie, Deedee, Sally, LiLLi, Kristen, Steffanie, Mike, Jean, and of course Ashley. I got to meet this new Paula from Maine, and also Corrine, Holly, Madison, and Mitzzy, some of whom I knew of and had been dying to meet. Blame it on the soybeans, but when Jean walked in, I was so overcome with emotion that I started crying and couldn’t stop without going to the restroom.

I’ll save my restroom rant for a separate post and mention that we went from Tony Pilla’s to Pearl, for the lesbian dance club experience that apparently the girls are addicted to now. Riding in Deedee’s car on the way over, I peeled off my pink and black tops and replaced only the black one, pulled my hair back neatly with the large barrette, replaced my ankle-length denim skirt with a mini with outdoorsy-inspired details, and took off my goofy striped toe socks. I’d gone from geek girl to urban club girl in a few minutes. Deedee hardly batted an eye. She’d seen my Sisters Friday routine many times before.

At Pearl, sadly, I didn’t recognize anyone I knew (other than Sisters, of course.) I’d been away too long Dancing was fun though, as usual. I felt very out of practice and awkward on the floor, and I couldn’t dance for more than one or two songs at a time with my breathing problems, but that was no problem with this group. I especially liked dancing with Madison, who, very high on gender euphoria, smiles ear to ear the whole time. Nn, also at Pearl, a girl named Sarah (I think) visiting from Germany(!) caught up with us. I had fun dancing with her as well. Gosh, so young and pretty, and having such a hard time understanding anything I said!

I danced until 1:30, then left the group to go catch up with Deedee at RISE. On the way I stopped for food at 7 Eleven and had much of it to finish yet when I arrived at RISE. I stood on the street and people watched. A group of four guys and one girl was also hanging out on the sidewalk outside RISE. One started in my direction and the others grabbed him and pulled him back, saying things like “uh uh, just let it go.” We all watched with amusement as some people went inside to find out what the place was all about came scurrying right back out. Done with my dinner, I walked around the corner to drop my trash in a bin, walked right through the middle of group outside the door, and disappeared inside. “Hi, I’ve been away for a while…” “You certainly have!” the doorman said. “…and my membership has long expired…” I started to explain. He already had a guest ticket in his hand. “Oh thank you!” I exclaimed, and scampered up the stairs, imagining puzzlement of the group outside that I didn’t come back out. Inside, I did find Deedee before long. Also saw Mandy, but as Deedee explained, most other faces I would have known from last year had moved on and were gone from RISE. The group from outside showed up before long. The guy that had started toward me on the sidewalk watched me dance and the expression on his face said “huh, I guess you do belong.” Deedee and I danced, talked, and were both tired relatively early. I think we left about 4:00.

Sure was good to be back.

Vanity Club

Yes, Deedee, I want in. No, no, not yet. I’m a street urchin at the moment. But I do think I have enough vanity in me. Give me a little time. I’ll get there.

Like, in spite of the sheriff’s hardware locked around my ankle, I wore skirts to work three out of five days this week. Today I was in jeans, but designer jeans, and a brilliant fuchsia blouse under my new black hair. Lisa had already commented on a couple of my outfits this week. Today, knowing that I still didn’t have access to most of my clothes, she asked “where are you getting these clothes?” It’s true that my outfits this week relied heavily on clothes borrowed from Stacy, but today as it turned out, I was able to look down at myself and say, “actually, these are all mine.” I was proud of myself, happy with my look.

Deedee asked a couple of months ago if I was interested in VC. I kind of hedged a little, saying that I might be, but that I wanted to earn my membership by building my reputation with existing members. Ah, so…I know that hasn’t been happening lately. But never mind my temporary circumstances. Here then is the list of VC members with which I’ve at least had some sort of contact, even if I haven’t actually met them in person.

• 091 Jamie
• 117 Espy
• 361 Jennifer
• 454 Alice
• 459 Amber
• 472 Katie
• 477 Gail
• 486 Joanie
• 488 Ashley
• 489 Karen

Picture at top right is me last winter.

Below left, spring.

Below right, casual, just this fall.

Dressing with Rachel

Lisa bought me lunch today but was horrified when I told her that I had been recording all of these little gifts that people had been giving me. Hmm. I shouldn’t confess such things. I should just do them and have people think that I am amazingly thoughtful and gracious of gifts. Dinner tonight came from a reception here at work. I had ignored the invitation but then Muazzez came by as she was leaving for the day and said I should go downstairs because the food was really good. It was. Hors d’oeuvres, little plates, filled up three times, a glass of Merlot. My tummy is happy.

(Writing more, a week later, December 11, I’m grumpy. I’ll explain in the December 11 post.)

There was no time to rest after the nice dinner–Rachel was coming over, as planned, and we were going to Natick. Part of the plan was that she needed a place to dress. I had her come to my office and we got ready together in the nice bathroom here where I’ve been showering. It was really fun getting ready with her, because we worked side by side, putting our faces on, and just talking the whole time. Then, here I was for the second week in a row at Natick! I’m sure everyone was relieved to see me in makeup once again. Deedee showed up and was happy to see me after so long. Lucy, my ride home, was there. Michelle was there! I like her, and I hadn’t seen her in ages. The five of us (no, six! Johanna was in the pictures too) ended up taking some pictures, which was nice since Natick pictures are rare, and especially nice because Sonia pictures have gotten rare lately.

Defying the heteronormative memeplex

Tuesday, November 6. [A week had passed in pain. Continued explanation of the neck pain, and a note that this was the first day the pain had lessened enough to let me sleep.]

Excitement for the last week was Jessica and Stacy visiting, getting a card from Al and Kuan-Chung, getting to shave, and finding out that I might get out next week, at 23 days rather than at 35. They told the story of tracking me down in jail. The whole sequence of events wasn’t completely clear to me, but they mentioned talking to Al, Deedee, and Daphne. They promised to return on Thursday eventing, which would be really nice.

I learned from Stacy that the captain on duty had strongly advised them against visiting dressed as women for future visits. I think his justification was to avoid embarrassing me. Then after they left, the captain gave me a similar warning. He fumbled for words, kind of searching for diplomatic way of expressing things, finally saying that he didn’t want there to be “problems” for me. Ugh, wish I could write more now but my neck is cramping again.

Here’s what I wrote in a letter to Stacy:

About coming to visit male mode, I feel pretty strongly that you shouldn’t. Coming male mode would be marginalizing yourselves. It wouldn’t be just a concession to any individuals here at the jail, but would be a concession to the heteronormative memeplex that would deny us first class citizenship. I’d be disappointed to see you male mode. And you know, I told you that I went to court male mode, but absolutely the only reason was to not complicate matters by forcing the judge to wonder if it was a bizarre stunt intended to manipulate or distract from the legal issues. As soon as it was over, I really wished I was en femme just so everyone would have seen the person I really am, and so I could have seen how they would deal with me at the jail. Also, while I dressed male mode to face the judge, I’ve come to the courthouse on other days as Sonia and had no problems whatsoever working with any of the court workers. I showed them my drab ID and they didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

It’s not surprising though, that the officer you talked to tried to discourage you from coming as yourselves. My perception, after observing a number of the correction officers over ten days now, is that as a group, they are far more homophobic than the general population. Jokes about gays are told they way fifth grade school boys would tell them, with giggles about the taboo. Jokes, really almost all comments, about women are viciously misogynistic. I don’t get this same feeling from the inmates. Their attitudes about women and gays seem to to be pretty close to those of the general population–the population you as a transwoman deal with every day.

Crash

The weekend after the aborted telescope run was spent in bed, in pain, stressing over this upcoming court date on Tuesday, and ignoring all calls and messages. In particular I’d been ignoring Daphne and Deedee for over a week now. I had confessed my legal problems to them and they were anxious for me to do something to deal with the problems. I had done nothing. I had nothing to tell them and I didn’t want to listen to them ask why and lecture me about doing something.

Tuesday morning came after yet another sleepless night. This would be my second court appearance since going full time last spring. The other court appearance had been my only day to dress male mode since. Since this case predates Sonia, since I’m still legally male, and since appearing en femme before a judge seemed an unnecessary distraction, I wanted to go male mode again. I really wanted to leave the house that way, but Al was piddling in the kitchen and there was no way around him. So, women’s ankle boots, women’s jeans, men’s button shirt, men’s sport coat, wig, and purse over my shoulder, and I popped out of my bedroom door, breezed by Al, tossing a “good morning” over my shoulder, and whisking out the front door without giving him a chance to answer. Somewhere along the way to the courthouse, I don’t remember where, I pulled off the wig, stowed it in a plastic bag in the purse, and transferred the purse from my shoulder to my hand.

The story of court is featureless and not worth telling. It ends with the judge saying “35 days.” I was going to jail.

Rachel, Rachel

Friday, October 5, drinking with Jessica. Saturday, MFA with Deedee, TCNE, home with Daphne. Monday morning, home on early train with Daphne. Monday afternoon, nap. Evening, Diesel with Al and Kuan-Chung, movie, work at office.

[Note added January 6, 2008: The day at the MFA with Deedee was memorable. I had seen that there was a special exhibit of shoes and with Deedee's special interest in shoes, I emailed her right away and we made these plans to go see the exhibit. It was a fun, spontaneous thing to do.]

Thursday, October 11, I went to Gender Crash and posted this to Sisters of Boston:

Hi Lisa

I was there last night. Gender crash happens once a month and I’ve been going to most of them. It is fun, there’s lots going on there. Some of the performances last night were moving, some were hilarious. All of them were thought provoking. I saw people I knew, I met new people, I ate cookies, and best of all, I won free tickets to a show next week! Write me if you want to know more.

Sonia Kiss,
Socialata mothius

(The nick name was given to me by Rachel, after I called myself a “social moth” once.) Lisa did encourage me to tell a little more. Here are excerpts from my next post:

… Last night there were three trans girls sitting together. One I have met a few times and I know her name, one I recognized from other events but hadn’t learned her name yet, and one I didn’t recognize. They were all about the same age (at least a decade younger than me) and sat together. I assumed they all new each other and were friends. At intermission, I had other people I needed to talk to and didn’t find time to do more than smile at them. On the subway ride home though, the one of the three that I hadn’t recognized was sitting across from me. I was sitting next to a chatty gay guy but after a while I excused myself to go meet this girl. In talking to her, I found out that she had just arrived in Boston, didn’t know anyone, didn’t know those other girls she sat with, and didn’t talk to them or anyone else. I was the only person that talked to her, and here, not until the train ride home! […] I gave her a card with my name, phone number, and email. I hope I hear from her.

[One more note added January 8th: I never did hear from this girl, but I remember her name was Rachel. Why didn't I comment on this interesting coincidence in my post? When she told me her name was Rachel, I said "Oh, I have a good friend named Rachel!" And I shared a little bit about "my" Rachel. "She spells her name 'e-l'," I added, "'R-a-c-h-e-l." She looked up at me with a little bit of...alarm, maybe? "So do I" she said softly, watching for my reaction. "Cool!" I chirped, wrinkling my nose with the serendipity.]