Ghosts in the Machine

So.  I've been out and about, as countless trans-picture albums put it, for a number of months, since mid-September, really.  And I have precious little to show for it, at least in terms of that tgirl currency supreme, the photograph.  That's because I'm always by myself, there is never anybody out there with me.  I visit coffee shops, malls, thrift shops, malls (and, uh, malls) all without noticeable incident -- one or two odd looks, maybe, but nothing ugly.  But setting up a tripod or asking a stranger to take a picture are not exactly ways to blend in, so I never do.

Once in awhile, I see other ghosts in the machine, other lost t-folk flitting amongst the civilians, and I wonder if they're as lonely as me?  I remember one poor woman, in the Salvation Army store, who kept her eyes straight ahead, never looking at anyone, never drawing attention to herself, and I wanted to say "I've been where you are, my friend, I understand."  But I didn't . . . I was in drab, and being approached by a strange middle aged man with a knowing look isn't conducive to ones equilibrium.  Although perhaps she guessed, as I was perusing the women's shoe section at the time.

Why do we do these things to ourselves?  Why do we isolate ourselves from the only ones who understand?  Fear is the key . . . fear of rejection, of exposure, of ridicule.  Fear that if we are exposed, we will lose everything, all we think we love and cherish, gone in one frightening second of recognition.  As Frank Herbert wrote, "fear is the mind-killer."  It's also the soul-crusher and the spirit slayer.  I salute those who have overcome it, who have come out in the face of terrible condemnation and been their true selves, and hope someday to join them.

Thanksgiving Wishes

And so this is Thanksgiving (sorry, John).  And some of us are gathering around hearth and home, with friends and family, preparing to overeat outrageously, then diet frantically until Christmas, when the cycle begins all over again.

Some of us aren't so lucky: some of us are alone, and all the homey clichés presented on television and the web rub the wounds raw.  All the perfect families gathered around the perfect tables, all the ads reminding us that every gift begins with Zales ... they remember the way it was for them, and think about all they have given up to be themselves.

This is for them.  Happy Thanksgiving.  Never give up.