US - Gender Identity and Phantom Genitalia... [2008-04-12 SFO Chronicle]

<http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2008/04/12/IN5S103FLF.DTL>

GENDER IDENTITY AND PHANTOM GENITALIA

Sandra Blakeslee

Saturday, April 12, 2008

Some people know, with absolute certainty, that they were born the wrong gender.

A girl sees that she has no phallus, yet she feels deeply, unambiguously male. A boy is equipped with a penis, yet he feels fundamentally, unarguably female.

Such discord often gets chalked up to the physical - prenatal hormone exposures, abnormal brain structures, gay genes. Or to the psychological - repressed homosexuality, absent dads, overbearing moms, parents who wanted a baby of the opposite sex.

But there is a new explanation: Some transgender men claim to possess phantom penises. From the time they were little girls, they say they had vivid sensations of a penis between their legs. Others develop such a phantom when they begin taking testosterone therapy.

Similarly, transgender women who are born male and later undergo sex reassignment surgery generally do not report having a phantom. They say that their penis was never part of their body image.

V.S. Ramachandran, a neurologist and psychologist at UC San Diego and a leading authority on phantom limb sensations, says it has long been known that some people who are born without arms have vivid phantom arms. They can swing them around, wave goodbye and make complicated gestures.

This suggests that an intact body image - the maps of the body laid down in the brain before and after birth - can develop without actual limbs. So-called mirror neurons that map the actions and intentions of others into one's own brain may help bring the phantoms to life, Ramachandran says.

But phantoms might also exist from the beginning of life. For transgender men and women, he says, the body image laid down prenatally could similarly differ from the external body anatomy.

A study describing this phenomenon appears in the January issue of the Journal of Consciousness Studies. But some are skeptical.

Simon LeVay, an expert on human sexuality, says that Ramachandran is comparing those who are extremely pleased with getting rid of their penis to others who are distressed and think about their penis all the time. "Emotions are left out," LeVay said. "I am not sure he has looked at the question of wishful thinking in detail."

Phantom limbs were first described as a medical condition after the Civil War. Amputees said then, as they do now, that they continue to experience bodily sensations as if the absent limb were still present. But without any scientific explanation, phantoms were chalked up to wishful thinking. But in the early 1990s, Ramachandran carried out experiments that demystified phantoms. They are not the stuff of human imagination. Rather they are a product of brain wiring.

When a limb is amputated, the area of the brain representing that limb is no longer activated by touch. But such areas do not become vacant lots. They get invaded by nerve fibers from adjacent brain areas that map intact body parts. When those parts - say the face or shoulder - are touched, sensations are felt in the missing limb.

Not long after this discovery, a few people wrote to Ramachandran to say that they experienced phantom penises after losing the organ in an accident or to disease. They even had phantom orgasms.

This got Ramachandran wondering whether the phantoms applied to transsexuality. To find out, he surveyed 20 male-to-female transsexual women and 29 female-to-male transsexual men.

The first finding was intriguing. Only 6 out of 20, or 30 percent, of the transsexual women who had had their penises removed reported feeling a phantom phallus. But 58 percent of "normal" men have such sensations after the surgery.

The second finding was surprising. A third to a half of "normal" women experience phantom breasts after a mastectomy, as opposed to only 3 out of the 29 transgender men. The third finding was downright astounding. Among the transsexual men, 18 out of 29, or 62 percent, said they had experienced a phantom penis long before their surgery.

In two cases, the phantom appeared shortly after the start of testosterone therapy. "If the phantom is a result of wishful thinking, why would a hormone be required to trigger it?" Ramachandran asks.

The findings imply that transsexuality should not be regarded as abnormal, Ramachandran says. No rigid barriers exist between the sexes. Rather, sexual identity exists along a biological continuum that involves an innate body plan and life experience.

"I expect a lot of criticism," Ramachandran says. "Those who study transsexuality tend to be territorial because they themselves have made so little progress. There is no literature that illuminates the underlying mechanisms, other than psychological mumbo jumbo. And then someone comes striding in and spends two weeks solving the riddle. It must be infuriating."

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Sandra Blakeslee is a Santa Fe, N.M., science writer who specializes in brain sciences. E-mail <insight@sfchronicle.com>.

This article appeared on page G - 9 of the San Francisco Chronicle

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© 2008 Hearst Communications Inc.

I have to admit when I first heard the story of the pregnant man I thought it was a hoax (being April 1st and all). I have slightly mixed feelings.... I'd like to think that the parents will have access to good counselling and support and that the resulting child will be able to be raised free from discrimination about his/her parents.... unfortunately I suspect that they will have to deal with a level of curiosity that is overwhelming. It'll be a rocky ride. Having 2 loving parents is more than plenty of kids get, maybe that is the most important thing.

US - Role reversal... [2008-04-14 DePaulia]

http://www.thedepaulia.com/story.asp?artid=2797&sectid=1

2008-04-14

Role reversal
The pregnancy of a transgendered man has blurred gender lines and called family dynamics into question for some

by Jacob Schumaker
Editor In Chief

For those who know someone expecting a newborn, it’s usually a time for congratulations and baby showers and crazy cravings. For Thomas Beatie, 34, and wife Nancy, this happily married couple’s pregnancy has a twist.

The media has been buzzing over the story of this Oregon couple who are preparing for their child together. While this normally would not draw attention, for this couple, the tables have turned. Instead of Nancy carrying their baby, the father, Thomas, is the one preparing to give birth to their first child. Now, many are wondering how this is possible.

Thomas underwent a female to male gender reassignment surgery and told the Advocate that since sterilization is not a requirement for the reassignment surgery, he chose to have chest reconstruction and testosterone therapy while keeping his reproductive rights. He told reporters that the desire to have a child is not something only a mother experiences. Instead, Thomas said, it’s a human desire.

According to CBS News, the pregnancy wasn’t supposed to garner the attention it has; however, since Thomas is showing now, people have started to notice.

When wife Nancy was faced with severe health problems nearly 20 years ago, she was forced to have a hysterectomy, leaving her unable to have a child. So after stabilizing their lives, the couple decided it was time to have children.

Thomas stopped his bimonthly testosterone injections and after four months, his body was able to regulate itself. Without any fertility drugs or other tactics to aid with the pregnancy, Thomas found himself pregnant after home insemination.

Thomas plans to give birth to their child vaginally and without an epidural sometime at the beginning of July. The due date is July 3, and they are expecting a healthy baby girl.

While some initially thought this story was an April Fool’s joke because he wouldn’t do interviews until April 1, Thomas found himself on "Oprah" and other high profile news shows openly talking about his pregnancy. On the "Oprah" show, he said, "Different is normal, and love makes a family. And that’s all that matters."

But I can’t help but wonder if having love in the family is all that will matter for the Beatie’s unborn child. While the couple said the pregnancy is a miracle, sterilization was not needed during Thomas’s reassignment surgery, which left the option of pregnancy open.

However, as the media jumped on this story, what will it mean when the Beaties increase from a family of two to a family of three? We all know that America has made movements towards accepting the LGBT community, but we are far from embracing any major shifts concerning acceptance.

While Thomas passes as a male, inside, he is still female. As a result, the totality of this situation doesn’t seem ideal. Having been part of several classes that have examined the transgendered community, my understanding has been that whether a male or female desires to undergo the gender reassignment surgery, they are seeking the completeness of the opposite gender—a desire to be the person they feel they are on the inside. Transgendered individuals seek to pass in society, and therefore, this situation calls into question the way a transgendered person wants to be viewed. I don’t think it is appropriate for Thomas to continue claiming that he is in fact a man when he has acknowledged his ability to have the baby and plans to have a vaginal birth.

Of course many are criticizing the Beaties, but others are embracing this situation. FTM International is an organization that is in 18 countries and has been assisting the female-to-male community for 22 years. According to the Advocate, the president of the organization, Rabbi Levi Alter said, "We support stable, loving families as the best environment to raise children and support reproductive rights as human rights. Everyone has the right to be fully included, fully equal, fully visible, and fully empowered."

Surely Alter is right in believing that everyone has the right to be included, and while this is not the first case of a female-to-male transgendered person having a child, it is the first to gain this much attention. Lewis Turner, vice president of the U.K. trans group Press for Change and a female-to-male transgender, said that studies have shown that children of transgendered parents don’t face any problems because of their parents, according to the Advocate.

However, I think the bigger issue that people are trying to deal with is the fact that Thomas decided to have reassignment surgery because he always felt he was a male. Now, he is pregnant, which is a female role. As a result, we are left with a female who has simply had a chest reduction and is trying to claim that this pregnancy is a miracle when in fact, the only unique aspect of this situation is that Thomas appears to be a male on the outside, but is female on the inside, which is a direct contradiction to the main reason people seek gender reassignment surgery.

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Jacob Schumaker is a senior communication student. His opinions are his own and do not necessarily reflect those of The DePaulia.

--

© 2001-2008 DePaul University

US - Eaton Corp. helped M2F gender variant IT specialist Audrey Hopkins (f.k.a. Dave Hopkins) blend back into the workplace... [2008-04-14 Crain's Detroit Business]

http://crainsdetroit.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20080414/SUB/804140308/1068

Diversity

April 14, 2008
   
Eaton Corp. helped transgender employee

By Maureen McDonald

Audrey Hopkins, 47, became the first transgender individual hired into Eaton Corp.'s 100-member information-technology group in October 2005.

Her name and capabilities were already known to her boss and many staff members who had worked with her in her former identity as Dave Hopkins, a 20-year consultant and troubleshooter for advanced computer manufacturing systems.

Today Hopkins, senior IT specialist, reports finding mostly receptive managers and employees in auto plants across America where her skills in software design and business systems are sought after.

Equal access to employment is a policy supported in spirit and statements, according to Jim Parks, an Eaton spokesperson who affirmed a company policy of empathy and cooperation for race, creed, gender and gender identity in the workplace so long as behavior doesn't intrude on productivity.

“My boss needed my skill set,” Hopkins said. She disclosed her status in a gender reassignment process, begun in 2004. “He looked me right in the eye and said he wouldn't disclose my public identity or jeopardize my right to earn a living.”

Eaton Corp. had $12.4 billion in 2006 sales. Its headquarters is in Cleveland, and its Detroit area offices are in Southfield and Ann Arbor.

Together Hopkins and her boss wrote down the names of all the individuals she worked with as a male. The boss had conversations with these employees, insisting upon empathy and cooperation. (Hopkins asked that her boss's name be left out of this story.)

“The company doesn't pry into people's personal matters. They have respect for certain circumstances as long as it doesn't interfere with productivity,” Hopkins said.

She made adjustments too. She used unisex restrooms to avoid any controversy as she worked through several surgeries to alter her appearance and gender. She is one of an estimated 50,000 to 70,000 transgender individuals in America today.

Sean Kosofsky, director of policy for the Triangle Foundation in Detroit, said at least 300 lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender organizations have come out in support of HR 2015, the Employment Nondiscrimination Act that would include gender expression and identity in its job protection provisions. The measure should come up for a vote by Congress in fall.

Meanwhile, Hopkins has coped with the everyday pressures of being the pioneer in a brave new workplace. At first, she lunched alone as groups of men sat in one direction and groups of women in another. As a former high school football player and rabid University of Michigan sports fan, she longed for the camaraderie of Monday water cooler talk. Slowly, she made new friends and blended back in. “I'm at the top of my game professionally,” Hopkins said with a smile.

Natalie Brundred, an executive coach for Business Edge International in Bloomfield Hills, offers advice to workplace pioneers such as Hopkins. “My job is not to pay attention to how I'm the same or different. My job is to pay attention to what I'm building, what I'm creating for myself and my company,” she said. “When you focus on that, everything takes care of itself.”

--

© 2008 Crain Communications Inc.

US - Three black people talk about life from a gender variant perspective... [2008-04-14 Seattle Times]

http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/jerrylarge/2004347040_jdl14.html

Monday, April 14, 2008

How we see each other

By Jerry Large
Seattle Times staff columnist

Seems like everyone belongs to a group with a cause.

And whether they recognize it or not, many causes share a common desire to be accepted.If they'd start by accepting each other, we might get somewhere.

I thought about that Thursday, when I had the chance to hear three people talk about life from a transgender perspective. The three transgender, black people were on a panel put on by the Central District Forum for Arts and Ideas.

What they had to say was more interesting than their physical details.

The panel was the forum's second discussion of gender identity in the African-American community.

One of the panelists, Dean Jackson, a Seattle native who does organizing work on gender issues in communities of color, said he once thought changing genders was something only white people did.

He learned otherwise, and has made his own transition from woman to man. Along the way, he discovered that "it wasn't so much that my body didn't fit." It was more that he didn't fit into a binary system of gender classification.

Why should people have to choose blue or red, when they might feel purple or violet?

Another panelist, Vanessa Grandberry, said the physical change dominated her early experience.

At the end of the day, "I was so tired from posing, making sure my hands were held the right way. ... "

She wouldn't go out without proper makeup and a wig, but that changed.

Now, "if someone says 'sir,' I go with that." she said. "However you see me has nothing to do with how I see myself."

But it's how others see transgender people that can hurt. Grandberry's own mother rejected her when she came out.

The quest for transgender acceptance transcends individual encounters. And it's about more than gender. It's about whether we all can recognize that there is more than one way of being an OK person. That gender, race, class, weight, etc., shouldn't be all we see of anyone.

The third panelist, Imani Henry, an activist from New York, said, "I identify as a social-justice activist who happens to be a trans person."

Progressive movements are full of people who are gay, lesbian or transgender, he said. His message: Working toward a more just society should trump anyone's particular identity.

That's not always easy.

Grandberry said that if she goes to a mostly white support group in Seattle, "It's all right for me to talk about my trans issues, but don't bring up race."

There are challenges with other black people, who sometimes practice the military's "don't ask, don't tell" policy.

Americans are hooked on either-or's: black or white, right or wrong. But approaching each person as an individual requires more thinking than most people want to do.

Of course, none of us wants to be the one being pigeonholed.

Seems like a good reason to argue less and cooperate more.

We'd all benefit from nurturing a culture in which we put more latitude — and less judgment — into how we see each other.

-

Jerry Large's column appears Monday and Thursday. Reach him at 206-464-3346 or jlarge@seattletimes.com.

--

© 2008 The Seattle Times Company

US - Dear Abby is her own woman... [2008-04-14 SFO Chronicle]

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2008/04/14/DDN81043HF.DTL

Dear Abby is her own woman

Peter Hartlaub
Chronicle Pop Culture Critic

Monday, April 14, 2008

For the typical young teen growing up in the Baby Boom generation, earning an allowance might involve some weed pulling, dish scrubbing or maybe detailing the family's sedan. But when your mother was Dear Abby creator Pauline Phillips, chores became a lot more interesting.

Jeanne Phillips clearly remembers her first allowance conversation with her mother, when she was 14 and the family lived in Hillsborough. The advice column that had started in The San Francisco Chronicle in the mid-1950s was still growing in popularity.

"I went to my mom with my hand out for money and she said, 'What are you going to do for it?' " Phillips remembers. "We didn't need anyone to clear the table or dust. There was already somebody doing that. She said, 'I have an idea. I get lots of mail from teenagers. Why don't I select some for you and you can answer them? And if they're good, I'll sign them, and if they're not, you can do them over.' That's how I started."

From the beginning, it was clear that the knack for dispensing advice runs in the family. Jeanne Phillips had been co-writing Dear Abby for more than a decade before she publicly took over in 2002, when it became known that her mother was suffering from Alzheimer's disease. While some readers may have expected the quality to suffer, the younger Phillips brought her own style to the column, and it's as popular as ever - receiving more than 10,000 e-mails and letters per week.

Phillips is guarded about the inner workings of the Dear Abby operation. During an hourlong interview over breakfast Friday at a diner near her San Francisco hotel - Phillips was in town to give a speech to the Jewish Community Federation - she politely managed to deflect any answer that could allow someone to even estimate her age.

But in person, she's anything but pretentious. At a time when even the smallest celebrity won't meet a reporter without a pair of public relations people, Phillips just tells the reporter to drop by her hotel. A photographer is already taking pictures when she answers the door with a bright "Welcome to the party!" Dressed in a flattering black Adidas track suit jacket and leggings - and wearing black heels for the short walk to breakfast - she hasn't adopted the dress-and-pearls look that her mother projected in the picture accompanying her column.


"I better be me"

Jeanne Phillips spent years ghostwriting a Dear Abby radio show and helping with her mother's columns, which remained in Pauline Phillips' voice even when her daughter helped. But after taking over as Dear Abby, Jeanne Phillips says the only practical move was to be herself, even if it meant a change in the column's tone.

"For a long time, as she became progressively sicker, I was writing it, and she was editing me when she could. And she was a very fine editor, so perhaps that smoothed the transition," says Phillips. "But I had to wake up one day and realize that if I was going to do this job, and do it right, then I better be me. My style and her style are different. My mother's style was softer. If I have a talent, it's getting to the root of the problem quickly."

That style was apparent as recently as Friday, when "Dilemma in Dallas" wrote in about a friend who faked his own obituary. "Your 'friend' has a cruel sense of humor, and if you are wise, you'll distance yourself from him," she wrote, adding a P.S.: "If someone did that to me, I'd pretend he was dead."

It's blunt and it's fun to read, but probably not what Pauline Phillips would have said. Jeanne Phillips also does many things in the column exactly the way her mother did, recommending therapy and promoting groups such as Alcoholics Anonymous.

Perhaps her latest high-profile stance has been the support of gay marriage. While Pauline Phillips brought attention to Parents and Friends of Lesbians and Gays in the 1980s, when she referred a distraught parent to PFLAG, Jeanne Phillips has made tolerance of gays, lesbian and transgender readers a frequent topic. Still, she was surprised when she was honored by PFLAG last year, and her open support of gay marriage in an interview made national news.

"All of a sudden, there was this firestorm of publicity, 'Dear Abby believes in gay marriage,' " Phillips says. "I said to people, if you read my column with any form of understanding, you would understand that this is no surprise."


"So lucky"

Phillips says she spends most of her day reading, often calling letter writers who have urgent problems. She writes her column later in the afternoon and spends her evenings cooking or going out to dinner with her husband, who works in commercial real estate. She was married once before in the 1970s, divorced and vowed to stay single, but fell in love and wed her second husband in 2002.

"If it's been a tough day, I'll have a nice stiff drink with him, and then we sit back and giggle," she says. "I'm so lucky to have such a great man in my life. We have some wonderful times together."

Phillips says they often steal away to San Francisco for a stress-free weekend, and she has fond memories of the Bay Area. Phillips attended grade school in Hillsborough, went to Burlingame High School for two years and transferred to Crystal Springs School for Girls for her junior year before the family moved to Minnesota.

Jeanne Phillips says her mother had applied in the 1950s to write an advice column for the San Mateo Times but was laughed out of the room. Shortly after that, though, she was championed by Chronicle editor Stanleigh Arnold, who would later have a hand in launching Gary Larson's Far Side to a national audience. (Pauline Phillips is the twin sister of the late Esther Pauline Friedman Lederer, who wrote Ann Landers. The sisters were estranged for part of their adult lives, but reportedly reconciled before Lederer's death in 2002.)

"After she had licked her wounds for a couple of weeks, she decided to give it one more try and stopped by The Chronicle," Phillips says. "(Arnold) had the presence of mind to say, 'Lady, if you think you can do better than the columnist that we're publishing, I'll give you some of her columns. Cross out the answers and bring them back in a week.' "

Phillips says her mother went to her father's office a couple of blocks away, "bumped the secretary from her typewriter and pounded out the answers in a couple of hours." By the time she drove home, her mother had a job. Her first column ran in The Chronicle on Jan. 9, 1956.


"Here ... but not here"

Phillips has told that story before, but she enjoys talking about her mother, and says she appreciates both her parents' positive influence. Pauline Phillips currently lives with Jeanne's father, under constant care, in Minnesota.

"I miss my mother. We were very close," Phillips says. "She has Alzheimer's, and she's here, but she's not here. That's rough."

When she took over the column in 2002, Phillips says she didn't have a hard time writing in her own voice. But emotionally, it was a difficult transition. She says readers have been supportive, and she's tried to bring them into the column more, frequently running their criticisms of her advice.

"My turning the column over to the readers is very deliberate," she says. "Not only because they might disagree, which is fair. But also because people share their own life experiences. I learn more from my readers than they do from me."

Phillips points out that the great majority of people who write in are between the ages of 18 and 49, and she sees new technologies as a way to bring them into the fold even more. Whether it's satellite radio or just more exposure on the Internet, she hopes that Dear Abby can expand to other media.

"My column is supposed to be a dialogue, it's not a monologue. I don't pretend to have all the answers," Phillips says. "I want people to feel like they have ownership of that column. Some editors didn't seem to understand that. But, boy, the readers still do."


Dear Abby moments

1918: Esther "Eppie" Pauline Friedman is born 17 minutes ahead of her twin, Pauline Esther Friedman, on July 4.

1955: Eppie wins a contest and takes over the Ann Landers column.

1956: Pauline starts the Dear Abby column at The San Francisco Chronicle. She writes under the name Abigail Van Buren.

1987: Pauline's daughter Jeanne Phillips, who had worked on Dear Abby since she was a teen, begins co-writing the column.

2002: Pauline retires, and Jeanne takes over Dear Abby. According to Andrews McMeel Universal, she's the most widely read columnist in the world, with a daily readership of more than 110 million.

-

E-mail Peter Hartlaub at phartlaub@sfchronicle.com.

--
© 2008 Hearst Communications Inc.

US - Books - "Raised By Wolves" Biber-Gal Melanie Anne Phillips... [1992-01-18 HeartCorps]

http://heartcorps.com/melanie/diary/diary024.htm

Raised By Wolves

Book Three: Across The Great Divide

From Journeys and Transitions
by Melanie Anne Phillips

--

Chapter 24

Closure

Monday, January 6th, 1992 - 9:15pm

So, here I am, sitting on the train, shooting into the dark at 90 miles an hour.

Chris and I arrived at the station at 7:30, fully an hour before the train was scheduled to leave. I had not stopped for dinner, so we berthed at the Union Station Cafe. After the brief but satisfying repast, we joined the queue assembled before Gate "E".

I had intentionally worn comfortable and non-suggestive clothing so as to avoid male attentions on the trip up. It didn't seem to be working. Of course the lack of any real competition surely had its effect, as I have discovered that male interest is a sliding scale, based upon what's available.

Finally, the gate opened and Chris, followed by myself, trudged along with the other intrepid travelers and made our way down the endless tunnel leading from the Grand arches of Union Station to the boarding platform.

Our train was waiting: the Southwest Chief - a slick, streamlined, snake harkening back to the woolly days of yesteryear by its antiquated name. I had never been on a train before, so this trip whose destination will thrust me into unexplored territory began with an untried experience as well.

The connotative images of trains famous and renowned layered over the more moderate denotative function of this modern relative. Orient Express, Trans Siberian Railway, Von Ryan's Express: the lore of the great Iron Horse reared up in majestic posturing, sharing with me a taste of the sweet savor of diesel fuel I had always wondered at from afar. Railroad buffs don't cherish their steeds from watching them run, but from riding on their graceful, yet muscular backs.

Suddenly a thought struck me: This train was a "loc" "emotive" for me - a process toward a place that had as much meaning in the journey as the destination. Just as the very nature of this simple Amtrack vehicle was stepped in spill-over from others of its ilk, so too would I soon become an icon of every loving mother and jaded hooker who ever touched on man.

So, in the darkness, here I sit - images of engines driving hard upon my mind. A tiny light in front pin-pricks at the great black beast until it has run its season and retires, spent, in favor of the day.

**************************

Tuesday, January 7th, 1992 - 10:00 am

The night was passed in spurts of sleep; interrupted alternately by turbulence of passage and vivid waking dreams. Often I would be jolted conscious to an eerie perception of shifting shadows and slumbering shapes. Each glimpse melded into my semi-sentient musings, incorporating train stuff in the fabric of my wistful weavings.

The soft pulsing of the engine spoke of gentle sensual thrusts. The rocking of the carriage moved me in its slow embrace. My mind turned to thoughts of actually being a woman, joining with a man. The hesitations of a life being told implicitly that such was wrong, replaced with the urgings of society now to partake in full. Suddenly, the outside world turned topsey turvey - wrong is right and up is down. All the forbidden fruit is offered on the "blue plate special".

My very being was staggered by the sudden decompression. Tentatively at first, I loosened my grip on the "givens" I had never dared to question. The waters were warm and inviting. For just a moment a fingerhold on one world and a toe hold in the other. And then, the leap of faith: I let go.

Suddenly I was plunged beneath the surface, turned 'round in the soft power of a swirling vortex until I lost all sense of the surface. I held my breath until my lungs burst, spewing out the last remains of an old atmosphere and taking in the first gasping gulp of a new.

I knew what it is to be female - to be a woman, both in relationships and interrelationships. My whole perspective shifted, and that definitive change in self-image I had anticipated for so long began to occur.

*************************

Tuesday, January 7, 1992 - 4:25 pm

All day I have hovered between waking and sleeping. At times I am quite alert, racing forward to grab a snack or taking a quick constitutional in the frozen air of Albuquerque - the only major stop of the journey. Other times I drift away, nestled deep in my seat, hypnotized by the passing scenery and endless swaying of the train.

My emotions gently shift and blend as I review my whole life in connotative order, then expand the ripple to include the future. No decisions sought here - its past that time. The point is familiarity with my own feelings so that every thing has been properly labeled and tacked in its place.

We just pulled into Las Vegas, New Mexico - a small town on the route, and our last stop before Colorado. Snow has drifted and disappeared from the ground all day as we traversed many altitudes an ranges. Currently, the skies are clear, more clear in fact than any time so far in our journey.

When we arrive in Trinidad three hours hence, it will be dark. There will be no feelings attached to this town until tomorrow morning.

We have begun to move again, slowly picking up speed on the way to my destiny, for truly it is that. And destinies can be good or bad. Only time will tell if all this effort leaves me joyous or regretful. And no time can tell if it is a better decision than others I chose not to make.

We've picked up steam and are slicing ever quicker through the high prairie, even quicker in the waning sun to the seat of my future.

***************************

Tuesday, January 7th, 1992 - 6:00 pm

My brain is signaling "601... 601: which is the computer code for "out of processing space". The size of the change about to occur in my life is so big that my mind runs out of room before it can determine all the ramifications. So, it gives up, dumps the program, clears memory and starts over again from a different point of attack. But, before a few minutes have passed, it has to give up on that approach as well. Its been like that all day, and its driving me crazy.

The actual desire to have surgery is not in question here, but rather what it will mean to my life. All my ponderings of the past few years have stopped short at that point. "The crystal ball grows cloudy", the fortune teller says, and draws the curtains on the show.

Its not that I can't see the future - not really. No, its that I cannot accept what I am seeing. l The sense rebel, as the glimpse afforded holds no meaning in all past experience.

Me, leaving Mary and living with a man? Me, truly a woman in mind and body? Me, mind changed so far in composition that my memories fail to identify the speaker as myself?

I am changed. I am a new person. The consciousness that was Dave is as dead as if he'd fallen from a plane. Only his motivation remains, but, godammit, those are changing too! The whole of me is mutating into some unknown alien form. The question no longer is what do I want, but who am I now? But its all too late to change. The only part of this thinking being that remains the same is the resolve to finish what it started.

*************************

Wednesday, January 8th, 1992 - 9:50 am

I just sat down in one of those overstuffed atrocious green vinyl waiting-room chairs that were all the rage in the 50s. Moments ago I concluded my appointment with Marie, Doctor Biber's secretary. As soon as Dr. Biber is available, I'll be called in for my examination. Until then, I have time to write.

4:10 pm

Oops! Dr. Biber called me in so I had to stop there and continue now:

I awoke this morning before the wakeup call and lay beneath the covers emotionally neutral, trying to see how I felt. Before I could sense my mental lean, the phone rang with my 6:30 wake-up. I threw off the covers and literally jumped out of bed in the attempt to stir something up physically since my mind seemed impervious to getting in gear. It worked. Just the simple action of getting the adrenaline running started the mental motor as well.

Before anything else I called Mary as I had not done so the night we arrived. I had misjudged the time difference and woke her at 5:45 am. Nonetheless, she was warm and cheerful. Having already decided to go through with the surgery, I asked Mary if she felt it was the right thing to do, hoping to have good feelings accompany my decision. She told me that I was happier, calmer and more together over the last couple of years, and if she wasn't happy she wouldn't be there. Just like my dad at his last visit, she told me, "Yes, its right for you." What a woman!

I spoke with both the kids who seem completely unaffected by the whole thing.

Next step was to take my shower and get dressed. Odd, but I just realized that I didn't even pay any attention to that space between my legs. I was so forward thinking as to what I needed to do today that I zipped through the shower almost unconsciously. Getting dressed was quick and carefree as I had laid out things last night before bed. I put on my make-up, pleased that I had done electrolysis last weekend, as even two days without shaving had shown no visible stubble.

Chris and I met at 8:00 for breakfast, then walked through the brisk morning air down Main Street to the First National Bank Building, home of Biber's office. The building itself was like most of Trinidad: Wild West frontier architecture dating back to the mid to late 1800s. We entered the ancient elevator on one side and got out on the other at the fourth floor.

I asked the receptionist for "Marie", Doctor Biber's secretary, and was directed 'round the corner to an office on the left. I walked into the open door, introduced myself and was asked to sit in the single straight-back chair in the corner. Chris was directed to the waiting room.

The office, like the building itself, smacks of its 1880s construction, apparent most in its small size and location at the end of a twisting convoluted hall. The furnishings must have been made in the fifties: the overstuffed green vinyl waiting room benches with silver steel tube arms - you know the kind.

Marie asked me to fill out several forms, checked the paperwork I had brought, and gave me some informative leaflets. We shared pleasant conversation amidst the Xeroxed sheets and then I returned to the waiting room to await Doctor Biber's call to come into his office. As you have read, I was called in by Doctor Biber almost immediately.

**************************

6:05 pm

Update! I am in my hospital room and the nurse just came in to warn me that she would be back in fifteen minutes to prep me for surgery, and that it was time to put on my gown. So I did that and now I'm writing this while wearing nothing but the delightful white gown with the blue polka dots, and my socks. As I understand it, prep consists of shaving all my pubic hair and painting me orange...

Well, back to my meeting with Biber... Nope! She's back! Time to get prepped... Yeah, team!!!

Gone again to get more supplies...

So, Biber calls me in. His office is about the same size as Marie's, cluttered and small. He sits me down and starts asking questions and taking notes on a lank piece of typing paper in longhand.

She's back!

*************************

7:47 pm

I am now completely hairless from the neck down. I had a pleasant conversation with the nurse while she shaved my genitals. I even received a phone call from a friend during the procedure. And I thought I would be bored! But wait! The entertainment scheduled for this evening wasn't over yet! For the Second Movement: THE ENEMA!!! (Part One: "Let's get to the bottom of this." Part Two: "You look a little flushed.")

***********************

8:57 pm

Okay, so I've had two phone calls from friends and I'm back to the tale.

So, Doctor Biber takes the notes. I show him some "before" pictures and he chuckles. I'm sent into the next room to strip for the physical exam. Incredibly, its even smaller than Biber's office! But it is a warm room (heated by the ancient radiator in the corner) and I get no goosebumps while standing there naked.

Biber enters and has me lay on the examining table. He pokes, prods, and stretches, then proclaims, "It's not the biggest in the West, but it will do." Anticipated depth four to five inches with another one to one and a half inches from stretching by dilation.

I'm left to dress, then sit again at Biber's desk while he outlines the schedule to come. He smiles, shakes my hand, and I'm off to pick up Chris from the waiting room. Chris and I walk back to the motel, arrange my things, then start on a journey of discovery. We follow Main Street to a side street that leads up the hill past some truly wonderful old buildings at the way to the top of the hill.

What a marvelous view of the city, nestled across the picture postcard valley - the white Rockies etching the horizon. Time is growing shorter, so we retreat from our perch and stroll the city until we find a small cafe and have lunch.

As we pay the cashier, I notice on the newsstand a pulp magazine touting "A baby for James Bond sex change beauty!"

Back at the motel, I call the cab company, knowing full well that by my destination, they know exactly why I am here.

Mount San Rafael Hospital is a tasteful, modern building, designed to blend into its natural setting. Inside I step into the Admissions Office and meet Roberta Marie, the administrator who handles all of Biber's patients. She takes my checks, accepts two credit cards to be protected in the safe, and takes me down to the lab. There, I have blood taken and leave a urine sample. I enjoy an interchange with the lab nurse about the many renditions of butterflies she has gracing the room.

Back to Roberta Marie's where I receive final information and am led to my room. I spend some time unpacking, then relax on the bed, watching TV (39 stations on cable!) and listening to the radio with my headset. Chris relaxes in an uncomfortable chair with the latest Stephen King novel he has been reading since Burbank.

Finally, I pull out my notebook and begin to write, which brings us to where this started.

It is now 9:57 pm. I'll be awakened in seven hours for surgery. The nurse has just left after providing a sleeping pill, which was washed down with water - a small treat to my dry moth since I am not to eat or drink after 8 pm.

Well, this is it. Right or wrong, for better or worse, forever from now on, the die is cast. I feel no fear nor anxiety. In fact, I feel nothing at all. Perhaps to avoid nervousness, my emotions have shut themselves down until after the fact.

What a strange feeling that after all the pain and yearning and drive I should be emotionally neutral on the eve of completion. But from here, it seems like such a small thing. A little tag of flesh that worlds revolve around.

My mind grows fuzzy already from the effects of the pill. I'll close for now. All is said, and soon all will be done.

**********************

Thursday, January 9th, 1992 - 4:44 am

The day I have waited all of my life for has arrived. I awoke at just past four after a solid night's sleep. Mused and pondered for a while with a smile on my face. Then took several minutes to engage in the "Obligatory Last Masturbation". That successfully completed, I decided to continue this log like a good little reporter. So, here I am, on the verge of the greatest change I ever expect to make.

So few things begin as a double dilemma - the first being between body and mind and the second between mind and mind. To resolve the negative potential, one must change both body AND mind. And so I have. I am no longer the person I was. Who I am has shifted and grown as I changed the state of my consciousness, even while maintaining my subconsciousness. What I am has been partially changed by hormones. My physical self is certainly not what it was.

But both of these are temporary, or at least changeable conditions. I could go back to the way I thought and I could go back to the physical self I was. That is about to change in a scant two hours. By the stroke of a knife, my body will be altered permanently. And by this certain knowledge, my subconscious is changed forever as well.

That is the nature of a leap of faith: to close off your options and burn your bridges behind you. To take a step from which there is no return. Throwing yourself into a future where the odds for success are fifty/fifty, and no guarantee seems more likely than another.

I cannot know the nature of the outcome. If I could, there would have been no dilemma in the first place. Just a problem to be resolved step by known step, where each advancement you make puts the next in sight. But dilemmas skip a step and you must leap into the fog on the assumption and hope that if there was something to stand on all the way here, there will be something to land on behind the mist.

So I take my leap this morning. It is 5:03 am. At any moment they will come for me, and I am ready, truly ready to go.

If there is a place to stand on in the mental sense, I'll be truly happy. if there's a place to stand on in the physical sense, I'll be alive. Either way, I am prepared. And either way, to my personal friends and relatives, and especially to my family, thank you all.

5:38 am

A final note:

Mary, Keith, and Mindi,

I love you all so very much. No one could ask for a more supportive and loving family than you. This has not just been my struggle, but yours as well. And I am truly aware of how much my choices forced you to deal with. Words cannot express the love and respect I have for you all.

I hope with great eagerness and anticipation to see you soon. But should something untoward happen, be at peace that I lived my life as I wanted to, and entered the operating room more full of joy and completion than I have ever experienced before.

So, I close, fulfilled already. Already enjoying my new life even before surgery. So know that should something happen, I'm already there. I cannot be deprived because I'm already there.

I am happy, I am at peace, I love you all.

David, and Daddy, and Melanie (Me)

**************************

NOTE: The following is taken from my handwritten journal. The letters are slurred and scrawled in such disarray that if I hadn't written the text myself, I'd never have been able to decipher it later.

Its done! I'm back in my room and doing well. I awoke during the end of surgery, so by the time I got to recovery, I was already quite alert.

They checked me out for a while, then sent me back here. I'm still pretty groggy, so I'll take a quick nap for a while.

But the important thing is: I FEEL GREAT!!!

**********************

I've been a woman for about nine hours. Strangely, I don't feel much difference! I guess that shows how successful I had been in thinking of myself as a woman before surgery. The pain is not nearly as bad as I had been told to expect. The injection from surgery completely wore off two hours ago and I still don't need a pain killer. I suppose I should have one to help me sleep, but the overall is that it is only like a bad bruise. I'll fill in more details tomorrow, but today I am very tired and keep drifting in and out.

***************************

Friday, January 10th, 1992 - 11:12 am

My second day as a woman. I guess all I can say is that for the first time in my life I feel normal. No fireworks, no marching bands, just plain normal. I am balanced, the internal conflict is gone. I find that I see myself as a woman now, no longer transsexual or male.

Testosterone is just about out of my system now, and I am completely estrogen based. That DOES feel different.

***************************

4:00 pm

Look at me! I'm just who I want to be! I've spent most of the time drifting in and out. Until now, I had not felt motivated to write. During the day, the pain has gotten significantly milder. Once or twice, however, I reached a little too far and quickly and felt the mule kick me right between the legs. Fortunately, the nurses were all set with painkiller injections: the gift of the gods.

As I lay here, the reality of it all is slowly solidifying in my mind.

**************************

Monday, January 13, 1992 - 7:25 am

Finally my strength is back. This is the first day I have really felt up to snuff since surgery. Saturday and Sunday were pretty much write offs (no pun intended) Even though my pain receded slowly but continuously, I had forgotten that the bowels shut down after surgery for up to four days. The overall effect was for one kind of discomfort to segue into another. This left me getting motivated to become more mobile only to find myself unable to move. Just rolling over on my side to get a pain killer shot was a major exertion requiring an hour of recuperation. I had no idea at the time just how weak I was.

The entire staff here has been amazing. In all my experiences with hospitals during the years preceding my grand parents deaths, I have never encountered such kind and caring people. The lady in charge of the kitchen came by in between meals to see if...

8:45 am

The last entry was interrupted by the most emotionally positive experiences of my life: The "Biber Button" was removed. named for its resemblance to a navel, the Biber Button is a round wad of brown surgical gauze that is positioned two thirds of the way from the navel to the vagina as an anchor to a wire that pulls the abdomen down into a more female curve.

Through the last few days, my tentative gropings were always interrupted by the protrusion of the button, feeling much like a dried penis stub. So the thrill I had of seeing my new form was incomplete. But just moments ago, the nurse informed me that today was "wire day" and bent over me to snip the last link to my male past.

A tiny little snip, then, "take a deep breath," a sudden tug, the sensation of something being pulled out of my insides - over almost before it was felt. I looked down and my physical womanhood finally lay before me. My God! All these years and all this way. The years of dreaming, hoping, hurting, all behind me now. Reality has shifted; the past is the dream. The future is territory unknown.

****************************

Sometime in the a.m.

I called in some voice mail to be played at the company meeting later in the day. I said,

"Hi all! You've heard of Postcards From the Edge? Well this is a postcard from OVER the edge. Of course, the question of the hour is: Was the surgery a success? YES!!!! It looks like I was born this way. Biber is a miracle worker. (Only my hairdresser knows for sure!)

"Actually, it was a pretty heavy surgery. It takes a lot out of you (so to speak). However, I'm bouncing back fast and can hardly wait to get back and show everybody my scar.

"Seriously though, I want to thank everyone for their support. When I was looking forward to this it was just one step at a time. But now that I look backward, I realize the magnitude of what I've accomplished and wonder how I did it. In truth, you can't do it by yourself. You need the support of those around you.

"Thank you all for your acceptance and friendship, and I'm looking forward to seeing you all back at work next week."

6:55 pm

My roommate just ordered a pizza. I realize I have not yet even mentioned my roommate. Looking quickly back over my journal here I realize how fragmented it is, due to my post-surgical fatigue, which rears up once again as I write these words. So, tomorrow I shall fill in what gaps I can during my last day in bed before taking my first step as a woman.

************************

Tuesday, January 14, 1992 - 3:07 pm

I just met Cathy, a sister transsexual who is scheduled for surgery tomorrow morning. She's younger, prettier, gentler, and sounds better than me, dammit! What a cruel twist of fate! Just kidding, just kidding... sort of!

Actually, she's very sweet and has obviously chosen the right course for her personality. Cathy is here with her sister, who looks very much like her. Dorothy, the anesthesiologist, introduced them to Steph (my roommate) and myself and left us alone to talk to them about our experiences. They just left to organize their things and will be back later with fresh questions.

Now to fill in some gaps.

Picking up just before surgery, immediately after the last pre-surgery entry:

Dorothy came in and started my IV. Another nurse gave me a pre-surgical injection. Chris shot some 8mm video for posterity, and then, in the midst of all the commotion, they came to take me away.

In ordered frenzy, the team liberated my bed, rolled me out of the room and down the corridor. I looked up to see the stereotypical movie angle of the patient's POV of ceiling lights flashing by. I returned my gaze forward and saw the operating room doors loom up. Chris stepped ahead into view (I believe to make sure I didn't want to change my mind at the last moment.)

I knew this was my final chance to bail out: the last opportunity to remain male. I smiled groggily at Chris, raised my hand in the "thumbs up" sign and said, "See you on the other side." The doors swung closed behind me.

The gurney was wheeled along side the operating table, and I was asked to raise myself up and over onto the surgical slab. I was told to roll onto my left side and pull my knees to my chest, my shaved genitals coldly exposed.

My last feeling was the satisfied certainty that nothing could stop this now. I was really going to be a woman.

Awareness ceased.

*************************

The next sensation I had was a gentle tugging feeling - like when you are sound asleep and someone is trying to waken you without frightening you. My mind was very cloudy as it rose out of the depths, but eventually I recalled who and where I was AND what was going on. As my senses returned, I realized that the tugging was something they were doing between my legs: I had come out of the anesthesia while the surgery was still going on!

My first reaction was to tell them, so I could be put under again. But I have always been somewhat nervous about anesthetic and figured that as long as it didn't hurt I'd rather not take that chance twice. So, I didn't move and didn't talk and let them tug away.

I don't know exactly how long it was that I remained motionless, as my time sense was not very functional at the moment. But it didn't feel very long before the tugging stopped and then gently wheeled me away to the recovery room.

(When I brought this information up to the anesthesiologist, she was convinced at first that I had only imagined it. However, when I described the feelings and mentioned that I had heard people talking - though I did not recall the words - she agreed I must have come out of it early. In fact (she confirmed) at that point, the actual surgery was completed and they were stuffing in yards of surgical gauze called "packing" to keep my vagina open while it healed.)

*****************************

Once in the recovery room, I woke up quickly, which somewhat surprised the surgical assistant who was there to monitor me. He was a really kind young guy - something of the athletic type, blondish, muscular, that I had met on the way into surgery when the team introduced themselves to me. I told him about waking up during the end of the procedure and he merely commented that it was very odd indeed.

Once that was off my mind, a stray thought lodged in my mind. I looked up at him and mused to myself, "You're a man, and I'm not."

********************************

I drifted in and out of sleep as they checked on me from time to time, but eventually was awakened for the short gurney journey down the halls back to my room. And this is where my earlier account resumes.

****************************

Wednesday, January 15, 1992 - 7:00 AM

It occurs to me that each of us is a pioneer. At the moment of our birth we awaken to find ourselves in territory unknown, without a map. It is our simple purpose to spend our lives looking for a way home, and in the end, we do.

Regarding the above paragraph.... I awoke at seven and opened the window drapes to see the frozen landscape before me. I began thinking about my daughter Mindi, someday at her wedding. I would be wearing a dress... No, I would wear a tux - I'm not proud! I still want to "give her away" as her father.

I thought about Keith - wanting to be his buddy, his dad; not to lose him to another male role model. I want to give him some understanding of life, some wisdom that will help make the journey easier, some hope to help him overcome the bad times.

I thought about Mary and what our future would hold together.

Then I wrote the thoughts above.

************************

7:22 PM

It has been an eventful day. Just after my last entry, they removed my catheter. Drawing the fluid from the balloon that had been inflated in my bladder to hold the catheter in place, the nurse then pulled the tube from my urethra. I was free!!!

After six days flat on my back in bed, I swung my legs over the edge of the bed and put my feet on the floor as a woman. To me, that was when I felt I had made it. I walked about four feet to the chair they had prepared for me and at my breakfast Sitting Up!

The next few hours were spent in short journeys around the room, followed by ever decreasing recuperation periods in bed. But I had a mission: I was charged with the sacred duty of learning how to pee like a woman. Problem is, muscles, nerves and the drainage duct itself have been moved. So the brain actually doesn't know how to do the job: what mental buttons to push. Which means, weak as you are, painful as it is, you sit and you push and you relax and you pray, and nothing happens.

For five hours I made painful trips to the restroom with negative results. Due to the almost unbearable pressure building in my bladder, I was temporarily catheterized to drain me back to zero. This was just a temporary reprieve, however, as if I was not able to go in another five hours, I would be recatheterized for one more day with the model I had endured the past week. No more mobility, not to mention the pain of having the catheter re-inserted, this time WITHOUT anesthetic!

And what if THAT didn't work? What if I had to go back to surgery? What if THAT didn't work?

At 3:30 pm, eight hours after the catheter was removed, I peed.

I was happy.

************************

Friday, January 17th, 1992

After my initial relief on Wednesday the remainder of the day was fraught with fear and pain. I was completely unmotivated to write, so I will catch up on those events now.

On Wednesday afternoon, I found that drinking water as regularly as I had been told led to restroom trips every twenty minutes or so. The first couple of times were increasingly easy, although still difficult and sore. But soon, the burning pain began to increase. And the surging flood of relief became a trickle. Soreness and pressure built up and troubled me throughout a listless night.

Thursday morning, I found myself constipated as well. The old fears of a surgical mistake welled within me. I complained to all who came to check, was given more laxatives, but remained bound. I kept remembering that I was due to have the "packing" that had been stuffed into my vagina removed the next day. It was my desperate hope that its removal would ease the pressure and allow all systems to function again.

Throughout the day and into the night I slept naught, jolted alert every twenty minutes by the burning pressure to relieve myself in excruciating pain. Finally, dawn was upon me, and ultimately, the moment of unpacking.

***************************

Early this morning.

Unpacking was supposed to occur at 7 am. I watched the clock like a convict on death row, waiting for a pardon from the governor. The hands reached seven, then seven-oh-five. I had to wait an extra 30 minutes for them to come in. That may not seem like much, but under the conditions it was awful.

When the nurse arrived, she undid my tampon from the "garter belt" and began to pull the gauze from my new vagina. It was not unlike the standard magician's trick where they pull yards and yards of scarves from their pocket. I felt like I was being unraveled. She kept pulling and pulling and more and more gauze came out - all in one long piece.

I had been warned that the smell of this procedure was perhaps the worst one could experience. Well, it wasn't THAT bad, but it wasn't pleasant.

FINALLY, the end of the gauze snake left me. For the first time, there was nothing attached, stuck in or connected that wouldn't be there for the rest of my life. And the best part was, all the pressure was gone.

Before I had a chance to consider all this, the nurse showed me how to dilate. In Doctor Biber's program, you are provided with two silicon rubber, lifelike dildos: a small pink one and a larger purple one. You cover it with a condom (to prevent germs), then squeeze a liberal supply of KY jelly onto the top. All this was shown to be by the nurse, and I commented that topped off like that, the dildo looked like a rich dessert!

The nurse observed while I inserted the dildo for the first time to make sure I had it right. No problem. Its strange, but the feeling of having something penis-shaped inside me seemed so natural - almost as if all the programming was always in my brain, just waiting for the body to get it together.

The big surprise was that as the dildo remained inside me, I began to feel aroused. What was this? I made a mental note to explore that sensation later, in more private conditions!

After dilation, I went to the restroom and was overjoyed to find that all systems were "go".

Shortly thereafter, I got a call from an ABC television crew that I had heard from the nurses was doing a story on Doctor Biber. They wanted to film me as I left the hospital and got on the train. Not being one to shy away from the spotlight, I agreed.

Doctor Biber came in to give me his post-op care instructions and a couple of warnings about VD, Aids, and various female infections to which I was now prone. I had my picture taken with him.

For the first time in eight days I was able to take a shower. What a wonderful feeling to have all that slime washed away! I got dressed, did my make-up, visited Cathy who had just had her surgery that morning and said my good-byes to the staff.

The ABC crew arrived and made their introductions. The Sister arrived who drives the post-ops to the station. The crew set up some shots while I loaded the trunk, then followed us out to the station.

It was a cold, cloudy day as I stood alone by the tracks waiting for the train (heavy handed phallic symbol) to carry me back to the real world. At least, that's the way it looked to the cameras, I imagine, with the kinds of shots they were setting up. But, the train was running late, and the crew (gentlemen and ladies all) had other set-ups to document, so they left me there at the station and went their way.

I sat in the old building - just another relic in a town built mostly during Gold Rush days - and made pleasant conversation with a family journeying to the city. Conversations happen easily in Trinidad, as a single girl, traveling alone, is instantly recognized as a product of the town's chief industry. Still, everyone I met during my stay (including this family) were open and friendly and warm.

Finally, the train arrived. We boarded, going to our separate accommodations. As per recommendations from gender pamphlets, I have taken a sleeper car for the trip home, allowing for privacy during dilation, which must be done every two hours for the first month or so after surgery.

I settled into my compartment, feelings very free, very complete, and very female. Just placing my bags, snacks, and cassette player in the various nooks and crannies of the small cubicle made me feel better - decorating my temporary home. I felt so cozy and secure: the struggle was finally over.

Once we got under way, I left my compartment and staggered down the swaying corridor to the restroom. Peeing on an Amtrack is an experience in itself, but doing it while getting the hang of the equipment is another story altogether! Still, I was pleased to find that the pressure was fully gone and the time between trips was increasing. On a rather gross note, perhaps the strangest feeling of all, was going "number one" and "number two" at the same time!

What better segue than that to talking about lunch. Meals were included in my ticket, which was a good thing since this surgery has depleted my financial reserves to the point that Mary and I have maxed out all our credit cards and refinance the house to pay for it AND I have less than $20 left to my name.

I sat down to the table with three other people: two a couple traveling on vacation, and the other a rather nice looking young man who was visiting relatives while on semester break from college. We all had a pleasant conversation. But the best part for me was sensing that the college man found me attractive and knowing it was okay. (A telling phrase, "okay"? Well, yes, not because I thought of men that way before, but because now I can without social disapproval.)

So as not to arouse suspicion, I had not brought to lunch my doughnut - the inflatable circular air pillow that keeps one's underside from touching the seat. Still, the soreness was not that bad, as long as I shifted my weight from one thigh to the other occasionally.

After lunch, it was time for dilation again. I locked the door to my compartment, got everything ready, and had the experience of a lifetime trying to keep everything in position in the tiny box of a room on a moving train! I peeked out the window while we were moving. There I was, "doin' it" in Albuquerque!

Quickly, my strength has returned, the soreness is almost gone, and my thoughts begin to turn forward toward seeing Mary and the kids again, and beyond.

**************************

Sunset

Here I am, once again sitting on a train, slipping down the golden rails at ninety miles an hour. I am on my way home. The sun looms large in the panoramic window of my sleeper compartment. Strange how this trip, bracketed by these two elegant surreal journey's seems to have passed in the twinkling of an eye.

***************************

Saturday, January 18th, 1992

So, here it is: the end of my journey - not just by train, but the entire train of events that describe my life for the last two and a half years.

This diary began on August 1st, 1989, the first day of my transition, and ends today on the last. For there is no more to change; no more patterns of thought, no more biochemical balances, no more physical characteristics. When shortly I step from this train, my journey will truly be complete.

Naturally, my thoughts turn to the future. But those musings are not the "what ifs" of someone wanting to be, but the "why nots" of someone who is. From the first day I recorded my thoughts, my feelings have been public domain. I strove to describe accurately and withhold nothing. But now, the usefulness of the sharing of my experiences is at an end. And ownership of my most intimate self returns to me. I shall not withdraw from sharing what has happened, but from here on will let others understand the meaning of my future life by my actions and through my deeds.

As we pull into the station, I think of Mary, Keith, and Mindi waiting to reunite with me as a family. It is not an end, but a beginning.

Thank you for joining me on this journey. May you find as much peace at the end of yours.

Melanie

January 18th, 1992

--

Copyright 2002 The Transgender Support Site

US -Transphobia runs deep... [2008-04-15 Daily Vanguard]

http://media.www.dailyvanguard.com/media/storage/paper941/news/2008/04/15/Opinion/Transphobia.Runs.Deep-3325261.shtml

Portland State University
Daily Vanguard

Tuesday, April 15, 2008

Opinion

Transphobia runs deep
What's so weird about a pregnant man? Maybe you guys should get out more

By: Jesse Thiessen

If one thing is evident from all the hoopla over Thomas Beatie, the transgender pregnant man from Bend, it's that transphobia is very much alive and tolerated, even in our progressive city that was called "a mecca for transsexuals" by Lori Sirotsky of the National Transgender Advocacy Coalition.

Beatie and his wife's situation (his wife is sterile, hence the decision for him to carry the child) has been dissected and judged every which way since the national LGBT magazine The Advocate published an account of their struggle, penned by Beatie himself. He later went on The Oprah Winfrey Show, where a seemingly-flustered Oprah tried to grapple with the issue at hand, probing him about the state of his genitals as well as asking the rather ignorant question: "Why not just be a lesbian?"

Oprah and company seem to mean well, but blatantly offensive statements are almost falling out of the mouths of some. Take Susan Nielsen, columnist for the Oregonian. The Sunday after the Oprah interview, she published a rather refreshing piece questioning her own knee-jerk intolerance towards Beatie's situation, making statements such as, "If you support gay rights but draw the line at pregnant men on Oprah, it's worth asking why."

She goes on to say, "I'm not ready for this story. But still, I can't stop thinking about Beatie's doctor and neighbors in Bend, who appeared on TV to express their support. They managed to wrap their minds around the idea of their expectant transgender neighbor. They shamed me into thinking twice." A thoughtful self-examination.

But Nielsen also uses "she" to describe Beatie throughout much of the column (a gaffe highly disrespectful to most transfolks). She refers to transgender as a "sexual orientation" (not true, gender identity and sexual orientation are completely different and one does not necessarily determine the other). And even has the audacity to begin her column with the statement, "It's hard to see the 'Pregnant Man From Oregon' as anything other than a freak. That's true no matter what you believe about sexual orientation and gender identity." First of all, what a degrading remark. Second of all, don't you dare implicate me in your own intolerance.

Most marked of all was the alternative weekly The Portland Mercury's publishing of Ann Romano's hateful blurb on Beatie in her gossip column "One Day at a Time," where she claimed "Beatie is only a 'man' in the loosest sense of the word," for the reasons that he still had his "va-jay-jay and reproductive organs."

To Romano's credit, she published a lengthy apology on the Mercury's Web site last Saturday, and editor Wm. Steven Humphrey wrote a similar apology to all those who had written to the weekly to complain, acknowledging his responsibility in letting the piece get published. But her original incendiary comments remain indicative of a society that's still attached to a rather archaic notion: What makes you a man or a woman is what's between your legs (or in Beatie's case, what's in your abdomen).

This was also evident in the Oprah interview, when she asked him what he was packing down there. In modern liberal society, some of us still can't quite get past the idea of bodies that don't fit within the gender binary. And when we're confronted with them, we have to know how they work. This is completely understandable (I admit I was pretty curious to hear about the state of Beatie's gonads) but it's also quite offensive. Would you ask a non-transperson about the size and shape of their genitals, even if you had reason to be curious? Of course not.

Yet transpeople encounter that question all the time, among other more invasive inquiries. And that goes back to the whole heart of the controversy surrounding Thomas Beatie and his wife: It's not anybody's business but theirs. It's not anybody's body but his. And it's not anybody's child but theirs. His lifestyle is not anybody's to condemn.

But wait, some people are crying, he took it upon himself to announce his pregnancy in a national magazine. He chose to go on Oprah. Didn't he sort of bring scrutiny upon himself? Don't you think maybe he's looking for all this attention?

Maybe. Maybe he's trying to set a precedent for transpeople. Maybe he's trying to stir up a shit storm. Maybe he was just bored (he does live in Bend, after all). Maybe he just thought his story was worth telling, and if the media attention he's getting is any indication, it obviously is.

It's also telling that even in the most liberal of areas, there remains a vast array of ignorance and prejudice against transgender people, a prejudice that is currently deadly. Over the last couple decades, an average of one transperson a month in the United States alone has been murdered due to transgender prejudice. That's something that doesn't get media attention.

If you think being transgender is "unnatural" or "goes against biology," don't forget that not too long ago that was the prevailing attitude towards homosexuality. If you are curious about what it means to be transgender, there is plenty of information out there and plenty of people willing to fill you in.

One of the better parts of the Oprah interview was a clip that showed Beatie and his wife going for an ultrasound. Beatie's eyes lit up at the picture of his child and he said in awe, "She's kicking! Is she punching or kicking? Oh my God …" and the sparkle and love in his face transcended any idea of gender.

Beatie's doctor has confirmed that the baby is healthy, and the pregnancy is progressing normally. By the time the child is due, the world's eye will likely have forgotten about Thomas Beatie, and his ovaries.

But hopefully it'll remember the next time a trans issue comes up, be it an anti-discrimination law, a gender-neutral bathroom or a deplorable act of violence. Hopefully the Susan Nielsens and Ann Romanos of the world will remember to use a little more tact. And hopefully the transphobic (the ranks of which are rather large) will be able to find more compassion and acceptance within themselves.

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© 2008 Daily Vanguard