Month: May 2016

We still have separate bathrooms for boys and girls…That statement highlights a rural school’s marquee as I head to a country general store.

Strangely, or maybe not, my first thought: What a bad sentence. It doesn’t convey what I know is intended. If I didn’t

know what’s going on regarding trans folks choosing the bathroom that fits their identity, instead of their birth certificate, I’d be thinking, yeah, most places do have both male and female bathrooms. So what’s new? Is that really something that needs to be advertised in huge letters in front of your school? Doesn’t this facility have something better to announce? Like: Academic Excellence Valued Here! Or, Girl Basketball Champs 2016! Or even, Pancake Fund Raiser Friday night.

But I know what they’re getting at with their either bad or likely coded sentence. It irritates me on two levels: First—and I’m not proud of this, as a writer I get disturbed when sentences don’t accurately express the intended meaning—especially when I’m guilty of it.  Secondly, and what’s more important, I got a snapshot of the kind of education those children are receiving in that school, both in their English classes and in the formation of their attitudes.

My stomach hurts.

I motor on through the gently rolling and bursting green wooded paradise. I love this land–it usually relaxes me, though not today. I also love rural general stores. They carry at least one  of everything. If not everything, something else that could substitute, in a pinch, for what is needed. I’m doing spring repairs at our cabin, and I’m in search of wood glue. I find it and head for the cash register. In front of me is a man, I’d gauge in his early fifties, normal looking—whatever that means—talking to the store clerk. I don’t really hear her comments, but he’s going on, agitated about bathrooms. I figure the schoolyard sign has got folks talking—probably not about bad sentences. As I get closer and tune in to what he’s saying, I hear him preaching about who should be using which bathroom, and who should NOT, and the good old days when…I get his drift.

I think about a good friend of mine. She has a grandson in grade school who’s trans and all the problems that child and the parents are facing, and will face, as s/he grows up. Attitudes stick in hard-dry clay, for generations, especially out here in rural land. I stand there, horrified, with what feels like a rock in my stomach, hoping there aren’t any trans kids in this area. Wishful thinking.

The guy gets done with his purchase and turns and sees me behind him. I’m in my working jeans, T-shirt, and very short hair. He looks me up and down and says, like I had been part of the conversation: “And, if you want to pee in the girls bathroom, you’d better grow out your hair.

I say, “Around here, I’d rather use the woods.”

He looks at me like I’m from another world…I guess I am.

(To learn about my secret life, scroll down to: “My Dirty Little Secret.”)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For some, it’s bumper sticker messages, for me, it’s T-shirts with wisdom. Bumper stickers are a pain if you change your mind—they’re sticky and hard to get off. Even worse, you might cause an accident by distracting another driver who should be stepping on his brakes—like the guy behind you. Then there are the bumper edicts that challenge my civility–communiqués that I’d likely slap on the back of my vehicle would have that effect on way too many peeps…

Okay, the truth is squirming out of me: The reason I changed from car stickers to T-shirts was that—back in the day, mid-nineties—I wore my convictions on my bumper. The back fender directive that converted me to T-shirts was: We’re Here, We’re Queer, Get Used To It—we barely made it out of Georgia alive.

But a T, that’s another thing. If you change your mind or happen to be driving through Georgia and get out to pee and fill your tank, you merely throw on a cover-up or change your shirt. It’s that easy.

The Internet is my temptress. Like my wife, it knows my weaknesses. It keeps tossing up beautifully colored Ts with blurbs that reflect my convictions, delighting me, causing me to drool and pull out my credit card. And, like most addicts, I feel guilty in the morning when the UPS truck shows up (yes, I overnight them) with a soft package and my name on it—especially if my wife is home.

I write this as my way of confession, standing up and admitting my addiction, exposing my dirty little secret, all in hopes it will bring some control to my life.

As I sit here, making my confession public, my heart starts to thump. I see the USP truck out the window, driving slowly…

Will it stop here?

Did you know, they now put messages on sweat pants? This could be my first pair arriving. I need to catch the driver before he can ring the doorbell and wake my wife. She needs her sleep.

(To read about  who’s  following in my footsteps, scroll down to: “The Sleepover.”)

Fast asleep, my wife pops up, hacking. She’s aspirated her spit—she insists I call it, saliva. Whatever. I reach up out of my slumber to show my support by patting her back, even though I know that’s of no real help. Shows I care and that I’m not upset that she woke me up at 5:48 on a Sunday morning. Actually, being jerked out of a dream was a good thing: I couldn’t find my coat, then my keys, then where I parked my car—way too much like my waking life.

But then, the coughing brings in our seven-year-old granddaughter—a sleepover—into our room. She crawls in bed between us wearing her princess something-or-another nightgown. How she sleeps in that scratching tu-tu thing… Anyway, she lets me know she’s not a princess she’s a Siamese kitty, pretending to be a princess. And would I like to be the mommy Siamese cat? I’ve not had my coffee, which makes me less than the smartest grammy, causing me to say something really stupid, like, “I’m a white Persian cat.” I open one eye to see baby Siamese kitty’s one eyebrow hovering over me—raised. I’ve seen that eyebrow before; it’s my mother’s. That snaps me to, and I agree that I’m the mommy Siamese. I shush her because I see that her other grammy—the one that woke us up—is now back asleep. That grammy has sleeping problems, so I’m trying to be compassionate—at 5:57 a.m., without my coffee and a scratchy Siamese kitty in bed with me. The Kitty raises my mother’s eyebrow once again and says, “At this point, this is when my parents getup.” I swear, the tone of voice that comes with the eyebrow has made its way through the generations…Or she’s channeling my deceased mother.

“I’ll meet you out there,” I tell her, as I pull my arm out from the covers and gesture to the universe. The eyebrow leaves but–it seems–is back within seconds, hovering, flicking my face with her Siamese paw. I get up. Don’t want to wake up the alarm clock grammy, who seems not to notice what’s happening to me. I think, she’s faking it…but I’m not judging.

My granddaughter and I meet out by the TV. She wants to watch Netflix. We have Netflix but it takes two remotes and a skill set I don’t possess without two hours of coffee and staring aimlessly. I say, it’s Mickey Mouse Club or nothing—only one click on one remote. A big Siamese groan fills the room. But I deftly get to Mickey fast enough to make the kitty forget about Netflix. That’s when she asks for breakfast…It’s only 6: 17a.m. Who can be hungry!

The coffee pot was set to go, so I push the button and open the refrigerator and spot a container of yogurt and an orange. When I return to her and Mickey, she’s working on a book, well, actually it’s her second book this morning. She’s fast at work writing and illustrating her novels. One of the stories is about the four elements and what they do for us. Good grief! The second book is less intellectual, but entertaining—more her grammy’s style.

When she’s done with her books, she asks me to send them to the publisher for publication, which, in her world, means stapling them together. Then she preforms an author reading. (She’s come to mine, so she knows the gig.) So, now, she’s ask me to build a library for all her works, hopefully, she says, it will be done before she gets dressed–I don’t know why she wants to do this, perhaps the scratchy nightgown is getting to her.

She seems not to have noticed that I didn’t get her library done, didn’t even get it started. I’m sitting with my coffee, a stapler, and watching Mickey Mouse. She gets on the computer, deciding to go digital, and creates pictures, titles, hitting the print button and collates (yes, she says, collates—where does she get these words?) her pages reading her third book for publication. The morning whizz is eating, creating, and collating when the printer dies…Geez Us!

Now she’s ready for building her library…Damn it, where is her other Grammy…I think my compassion has it limits. It’s now 9:03. I get our two puppy Cavapoos–those are real dogs–and head for for the bedroom, in quest of the Sleeping Grammy.

(On a totally different subject, scroll down to: “My Tits Were Out to Ruin My life.”)