Me, the Pope, Two Guys Named Benedict and the late Alan Turing

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Sometimes I hate the fact that I have a Google setting to alert me whenever someone has written about me. It is both a blessing and a curse.

I received yet another alert today, the first in months. I’m writing this to help me deal with the effects of that alert. While lessened, these kinds of things still cause me great distress, even at this late date. Fortunately, I’m a lot stronger now than I once was.

I will not provide you a link and ask you to not bother googling it yourself, because I don’t want this blogpost to become a conduit to give my critics page views. Suffice to say: a priest overseas wrote something about one of the bravest men of the last century, Alan Turing, whose life is the subject of a new film starring actor Benedict Cumberbatch (I loved him in “Star Trek Into Darkness”), This priest drew comparisons to Turing’s cruel prosecution for being gay, and the ordeal of my seizure, amnesia and subsequent involuntary detransition, to express his opposition to a gender identity bill in his native land. That country is pictured below, if you care to guess.

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Far be it from me to ever consider myself worthy of comparison to the hero who ended WWII, with his Enigma code-breaking machine and his brilliant mind. This priest did rightly condemn the mistreatment of Turing and others like him… then, a few words later, to make all trans folks look like lunatics and to make his point, he invoked both Pope Emeritus Benedict, Pope Francis… and the New York Post. In fact, he quoted liberally from that seedy tabloid’s fabricated account of my experiences.

Last time I checked, being trans in America now and being gay in post-war Europe are not at all similar. And even if you’re not an American you ought to know better than to quote The New York Post.

It seems “The Don Ennis Controversy” as the Huffington Post once labeled it, is an albatross that will stalk me long after I am dead. And the truth is, it really isn’t anyone’s business. I am not a public figure, and never was.

All that matters now is that I am me, and I am just one of many trans folk whose transitions were not smooth (even though mine admittedly started out better than I could have ever dreamed).

The really awful part of my transition was that it occurred under a spotlight, which I did not seek nor do not want to ever repeat. I didn’t ask to be famous, infamous or notorious. I hesitated even writing about it for fear some bozo will say “look! She’s seeking attention again!”

No, I’m complaining that my rights to my privacy are being violated, again.

Why can’t they just leave me alone? Seriously, I think I may need to vanish to make that happen.

Siri, Google: “abracadabra.”

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Remember Them, Not Me

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Today you may notice a lot of stories online and in the media about transgender people, like me.

That’s because today is TDoR: The Transgender Day of Remembrance, a day dedicated to honoring the lives of those we lost because of violence, ignorance, hatred and because living was just too hard.

Their names, and their faces, are HERE.

Look at them. Scroll through. There are so many from all around the world.

Among the general population, the average rate of attempted suicide or serious consideration of suicide is estimated to be about 2-to-3%.

But for transgender people, researchers say it’s 41%. No, not 4.1%. Forty-one.

This year I became one of the 41%, and I can thank my friends and my kids that my name will not be among those read tonight. My eight year journey is finally on the right track, and heading in the right direction… although, to be fair, this train of mine could afford to shed some of the extra baggage that’s accumulated over time. Still, these are better days for me.

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Not so much for others. In the last few months, transwomen of color have been killed at an alarming rate; one group estimates a transgender woman is murdered every 32 hours somewhere on our planet.

My children and I will stand up tonight at the Metropolitan Community Church of Hartford, and light candles in remembrance, and join others around the world in a call for an end to the hate. Find a gathering near you HERE.

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Rejection Dejection

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I found this online and found it to be helpful in processing my thoughts about a recent rejection:

“Viewing rejection as “you’re not good enough” will cause you to try to change in order to become “good enough” for that person or circumstance.

Seeing rejection as “it’s not right for you, but another person happened to recognize it first,” frees you to find something or someone who is right for you instead.

At the heart of this shift in thinking are four very important things:

1. LOVE yourself.

2. ACCEPT yourself.

3. DO YOUR BEST!

4. Have CONFIDENCE in the first three!

– Doe Zantamata

Click HERE for more insight and information.

The Journey of Our Lifetime

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Thirty years ago, I was a junior in college and I rented a car from the airport in Oakland, and after visiting San Francisco, I headed north. No destination in particular, I had no idea where I was going, and yet I didn’t feel lost at all.

I was out west for Columbus Day weekend, taking advantage of a still incredible bargain $99 flight on People Express — the airline where you paid after you boarded and the flight was already en route. It’s no wonder they went out of business.

I had no plans other than to enjoy myself and see what I could see. My drive north led me, inexplicably, to Point Reyes National Seashore, and its historic lighthouse.

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These pictures posted here are from the internet; I don’t have any pictures from that part of my trip, because I wasn’t there to take any. I just wanted to experience this place, and create memories for myself that have stood the test of time… and amnesia. When I reached Point Reyes near sunset, I knew I had traveled where I was supposed to be: my new, all-time and still-forever favorite place on Planet Earth.

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It was 16 years before I returned to California. I took my college sweetheart, now my wife, and our first-born there, to share with them what I had discovered. It wasn’t sunset, and it didn’t make any impression on an 18-month-old baby, but my beloved understood how special this was to me, and that was all that mattered. Now 14 years have elapsed and so much has changed in my life, I have made a promise to myself that I will return sometime in 2015. It’s time.

Why is Point Reyes so special? I don’t know. I have always felt a close connection to water, since my earliest days. Bodies of water, the sounds of waves, the vastness of an ocean in particular, calms my soul. Pretty funny for a kid who grew up so scared of water that I wouldn’t take a bath unless I could sit on a folded towel in the tub and didn’t learn to swim in a pool until I was eight.

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When you climb down the steep stairs to the lighthouse, and venture to the side where it faces the Pacific Ocean, you feel something like the character Kate Winslet played in James Cameron’s “Titanic,” Rose DeWitt, as Jack Dawson (Leonardo DiCaprio) held her aloft at the stem of the mighty ship.

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You look to your left, and to your right, and all around you, all you see is the magnificent Pacific Ocean. It is as if you are, indeed, king or queen of the world. I have never witnessed such a view before or since.

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Every day has the potential to bring you new opportunities as well as obstacles, and that can lead to new perspectives and new feelings.

Even a new outlook. That happened to me recently. I’m still processing the experience and I remain a little tingly, in a good way.

I believe that when you’ve found a special place or a special person, seized an opportunity or overcome an obstacle, real or imagined, I think it is good to take time to consider how you got there, how you accomplished that feat, and what lessons you might draw for the next step on your journey.

That’s where my head has been at today.

And tonight, I am reminded to never miss the chance to tell someone: “I love you,” “I’m sorry, or “I hope you can forgive me,” thinking that it can wait until tomorrow.

The reminder came to me from my old, dormant “Don” Facebook account, where every once in awhile I find a reason to re-activate it for a short time, like just now. And almost always, I stumble upon something unexpected.

There, I happened to notice something I hadn’t seen before tonight: Darryl duPont, a dear friend of mine, posted a beautiful and heartwarming comment on a post about the passing of my pal, Rick Regan, earlier this year.

It stunned me because just a few days later, this friend, too, lost his life, and I failed to acknowledge his kindness. Darryl and I had other conversations, of course, and I know he knew of my fondness for him. This observation struck me as a reminder, there isn’t always time to say what needs to be said, right then and there.

So, covering my bases: I love you all, and for those to whom I owe my apologies, I ask forgiveness, and I am sorry.

Looking forward to another day and more adventures tomorrow and all the days to follow on this journey!

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Our Lifeboat

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I am a cast away.
I am lost and have been for some time now.
Once upon a time, i shared a rocking lifeboat with you.
And then came a day when you told me I needed to get out.
I did so, but felt as it I were tossed out, because you chose to sail on without me, feeling as though I must be lost to you forever, rather than keep your vow to stay by my side and help me through whatever came our way.
You told me you had had enough of sharing that space and need your own.
You said you’d added up the days of sitting by side and decided when it was time for me to go.
And so, I struggled, but I let you know, I’ve never let go.
You only hung on in the one place you would not admit there was still a chance I might find my way back aboard.
And even as I hung on, you encouraged me to let go.
You behaved as if me hanging on was holding you back.
And yet I hung on, clinging, refusing to let go.
And you refused to move even an inch toward me to bring me back in.
I wanted to spend the rest of our lives in our lifeboat.
Sail the high seas with our family until we could sail no more.
I’ve come as far as I can without your help.
I need you to move toward me to get me back aboard.
I cannot do it myself. It takes two.
I wanted nothing more than to forget the choppy sea.
And yet all you threw in my face was more of the same old water.
You doubted I could hang on, and said so.
You didn’t encourage me, and in fact discouraged me.
I let my passions be known, I did not let go of them, nor you.
And yet you refused to yield.
You never took stock of how far we had come together.
You only reminded me how far I had gone outside the lifeboat.
You said it changed me and refused to help me back inside.
Never admitting how much you had changed from someone who shared their seat to someone who saw only room for you and our kids.
You changed from someone who cared about all of us to someone who cared about all of us except for me.
Today I told you, there are other lifeboats out there. Maybe one of them is for me?
I reminded you, I want nothing else but to be beside you, but just like last night and yesterday and all the other yesterdays, you only see the hurt you feel and the old water between us and never consider what I need, just that you are not satisfied.
I thought, will you ever be?
Will you ever see that I have never let go? Despite how being in the water has changed me, right down to my fingers and toes, how the years of piled-up insults and recriminations and reminders of my shortcomings have hurt me, could you ever move just enough to help me back aboard? I know you are hurt, too, and I thought we could help each other heal those wounds.
But I wondered whether you would let that part still clinging to me overtake your own doubts and memories of what’s in our past and give me your hand?
Or will you let me drift here until I finally am unable to hang on for even another day?
You’ve said you need time to think about it.
I’ve said I have needs, too, and it’s time for you to show me that one of your needs is me.
But again, and again, and again, what you show me is that you will sail along without me unless I find my own way back into your lifeboat, on my own.
You feel assured that you’ve done enough, even though we both know, it takes two. And it always has.
I shared with you a story that touches my heart, about how even after a husband goes beyond what it takes to be together, how his love for the woman who refuses to move even an inch costs him everything. How much I feel that this is our story, too. And how the woman in the story saves him by finally seeing him as he is, not as she thinks he is. And how I feel I am losing you because you cannot see beyond your own version of who and what I am.
And you say all you take away from that story is that it’s depressing. You don’t see deeper meaning. It doesn’t affect you deep down like it does me. You only see the surface, like the old water between us.
You don’t even see a lifeboat for all of us, just for you and our children, and you let me go.
So I let go.
Still you make not one move to bring me back in.
I hope perhaps I will find another lifeboat, but all I want is for that vessel to carry me home.
Home, back to you.
But you instead see me as “once again” abandoning you.
As I drift away, alone. Cast away.
If I find another lifeboat, I know you will only see it as further proof of your suffering and what you perceive as my abandonment. You would never see that I came as far as I could without you, and that you made your choice by sitting still, taking time, and leaving me outside.
So what happens next?
If you choose to look away, and not consider what happens to me to be relevant to you, I will drift away toward uncharted waters.
After all, it was you let me go.

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Attention, “Transparent” Fans and Wanna Be Screenwriters

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Before you ask, yes. I’ve already sent in my entry.

But… if you’ve always dreamed of living in Hollywood and writing for a program about a family dealing with a transgender person going through transition, this is for YOU!

THE DEADLINE IS TONIGHT! They are, indeed, looking for a trans woman writer to join the writers’ room.

Official Description:

TRANSPARENT is looking for a trans woman writer to join the writing staff next season. No TV experience necessary, but you should be a self-identified writer. A love of words, comedy, story, drama and performers is a must.

If you don’t live in LA, you’d need to potentially be able to relocate to LA from January to June ish, 2015.

Your first step, if you’re interested, is to write a 2-3 page fictional short story about anything you like. Your story doesn’t need to be about being trans, but it can be. It should feel brutally, beautifully honest, show your sense of humor and feel like a reflection of you. It would be great if there were a protagonist or idea of a protagonist on a journey towards getting something, but not necessary.

If you’re interested, please send your resume and a 3-page short story (double-spaced and as a word doc) to estigiordani@gmail.com by (TONIGHT) October 15th. Please be sure you have a separate cover sheet with your name on it and that your name doesn’t appear in the headers of the story as part of the process will involve blind submissions.

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Betrayed by a Bedpan: the Last Drive of Dawn Ennis

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“What happened to her?”
“She was in the wreck. Very lucky.”
“Did she roll it?”
“I’d say, looking at the damage, at least once.”
“How is she doing? God, she’s got glass all over her.”
“Pulse is strong, but elevated, 132. BP, whoa, 150 over 35, Jesus. Hang in there, miss.”
“What hurts, ma’am?”
“What’s today’s date?”
“How’d you get way over here? Was she thrown?”
“Was anyone else in the car, miss?”
“Lacerations to her arms, looks like her left leg is bleeding someplace. Says her back hurts and she’s foggy.”
“Get a collar on her! Where’s the board?”
“Ma’am, tell me your name. What’s your name? Ma’am, can you hear me?”

Who, me? I thought for a moment about my name… and no, not this time. I remembered.

“I can hear you,” I declared. “I’m Dawn Stacey Ennis.”

The paramedics, cops, firefighters were all around me and a few feet away I could see the car I had been driving which now had no windows, a partially crushed roof and looked like a giant crushed it and tossed it like an empty soda can from about 200 feet in the air. I was able to see the car, but as for the men just inches from my face, not so much.

“I can hear you but it’s a little hard to make out faces right now. It’s like, out of focus, like through a kaleidoscope or a cheap pair of binoculars.”

“Glass. It’s all over her face, too,” said one paramedic to another. “Where do you want to go ma’am?”

“Home,” I said.

“Where’s home?” asked the man who kept calling me “ma’am.” I immediately didn’t like him.

“West Hartford,” I told him. Then the man wearing dark blue spoke up, apparently a police officer. “Says here on your license you’re from Danbury.”

“People do move,” I said, probably a little too sarcastically.

“Not you, you don’t,” said the paramedic who called me ‘Miss.’” I liked him, a lot. “Don’t you move until we get you checked out, we’ll move you. And home is a bit too far so we’ll take you to either Waterbury or St. Mary’s Hospital, which do you prefer?”

At this point, I’m beginning to realize I have crashed a car, somehow walked away, and yet I am not exactly well. So why I should be the one to decide which hospital is the one to take the best care of me is incomprehensible. I think back to many visits to the Emergency Rooms at hospitals from here to Florida, for a variety of reasons and not all of them to treat me. One particular memory stands out: my great aunt, lying on a gurney in a hallway at a Brooklyn ER after falling down a flight of stairs at a funeral home of all places.

For hours, she lay there in agony, forgotten and scared, until I suggested we hire a private ambulance to take her out of there. We took her away from the triage for gang-bangers and patients hooked up to IVs and handcuffed to their gurneys, and straight to the hospital on Long Island where my mom was a nurse.

“Which hospital treats the fewest gunshot wounds?” I asked Nice Paramedic.

“St. Mary’s, by far.,” he said.

Didn’t need to ask me twice: “That’s it then.”

While Not As Nice Paramedic drove, Nice Paramedic took off my pants. Don’t go getting any ideas, he was checking out my legs. No, again, you’re missing my point. He needed to see if I was injured where clothing covered my body,

“Hope these weren’t your favorite jeans, miss,” Nice Paramedic said, as he cut them away with a big pair of scissors. They were, but I wasn’t exactly going to argue, and besides, he was cutting them off me whether they were or they were not my favorite.

The paramedics rolled me into the ER at St. Mary’s and then the nurses took over, with more scissors, cutting off my top and my underwear, too. They had been clean, before whatever happened in the car. I had no memory whatsoever of anything except seeing a black SUV or pickup type truck pull out fast in front of me on a two-lane road, right in my path, as the driver exited a shopping center parking lot, no doubt with the accelerator floored.

I was going maybe 40 as I maneuvered to avoid him and that’s when a man opened my car door and said “Let’s get you out of here, come on, before the car explodes!”

I can’t explain why I don’t remember the crash; a doctor told me later I may recall the details in a few days or a week, or longer, or never. My brain once again hitting rewind and erase to protect me from – I don’t know. At least, this time, it was seconds of memory instead of 14 years.

So, the ER nurses successfully cut away my bra and everything else and I was being checked for bumps, bruises and lacerations – a fancy word for cuts. I’d say if there was any doubt about my gender, it probably would have been resolved right there in room 18, as I was stripped nude and then covered in a typically flimsy hospital gown.

“It’s going to be okay, Miss Ennis, don’t you worry.”

I guess there was no question, then, about my gender; one less thing to worry about.

Doctors kept coming and looking me over, nurses set up an IV, took blood, and changed my neck brace from the one the paramedics put me in, to what must be the model now in vogue. Of course, the newer one was even more annoying.

I was scheduled for X-Rays of my chest, my leg and my wrist and CT-scans of my head and my pelvis.

But first: I had to pee.

Well, actually, no, as I told the nurse with the pink plastic bedpan in her hands, “I already did that at the scene, wasn’t exactly planned.”

She laughed and said, “well, be that as it may, we need a urine sample. Gotta check on whether you’re preggers,” she said with a smile.

Yeah, no. “I’m not. Definitely not,” I told her. It didn’t seem to matter.

Unfortunately, because it might disrupt their tests, I could not eat or drink anything; apparently that would affect their investigation into whether I was bleeding internally.

So Nurse Bedpan then started to cram that shallow tray under my crotch, and I asked, could she just give me a urine sample jar and I’d fill it the old fashioned way.

“No, you can’t move, we’re going to have to do this another way.” And so I tried to play it her way but asked just one more request. “If you could swap that out for a urinal I’m pretty sure that will work best,” I asked and politely suggested.

“Of course not!” she scoffed, and off she went.

Well as new experiences go, I was as willing as anyone to go where no man has gone before. But there was going to be a problem, of this I was sure.

Now, I must insist, my unusual arrangement between my legs is my business, and if you don’t already know, I see no point in piquing your curiosity about what’s down there, and what is not; however, as this is relevant to this particular story, I don’t see a way to avoid this delicate topic. Suffice to say, it’s not an outie, although it used to be. And it’s not that with which women are equipped, either, by nature or through surgical means. My usual method of relieving myself is to sit, and I do what everyone else does on a toilet.

Laying on my back, however, meant I did not have the proper trajectory nor the target required for such an activity as urination.

The nurse in charge of bedpan duty (now there’s a career aspiration) returned to find that for the second time today I had peed all over myself. “Oh, goodness!” she said, exasperated.

And as she pulled back my gown, expecting to see a vagina amongst my pubic hair – or maybe she was expecting to see a penis, I don’t know – she gasped, as her gaze seemed locked on something she had never seen with her own eyes, and quickly covered up so as not to look further.

I wasn’t sure what to say at this point, so I said nothing; I’m guessing that the sight of my unusual lady parts was just not in keeping with the job of someone who goes around collecting pee.

She washed me off and changed the sheets without me having to leave the bed, since I was not allowed to move, and left without saying another word. But in seconds, she was back in my room.

Nurse Bedpan placed a blue urinal next to my left hand, then walked away.

I don’t know or care if she went around the entire hospital relaying details of my unusual anatomy. Whatever is different on the outside can’t change what’s on the inside, which I’m sure the radiologist and doctor examining the results of the CT scan on my pelvis concluded is a normal, typical and undamaged male reproductive system, absent its usual external aspects.

But what matters is that I wasn’t treated any different; the staff at this Catholic hospital respected my identity and treated me consistently with respect and kindness.

Even the doctor himself never said a word, and treated me as everyone else had. “Miss Ennis,” he told me, crouching by my bedside, “You are alive today because of seat belts and airbags. And you’re incredibly fortunate. We found no internal damage, no broken bones. I’m going to recommend you be released, go home, take some extra strength pain reliever and rest.

“Oh, and make sure whoever is coming to get you brings you some clothes,” he said, smiling.

A nurse finally brought me water, and a ham and cheese sandwich. It was 5:30 in the evening and six hours in the ER was not at all how I expected to spend that day. But the doctor was right: I was lucky. I realized that almost immediately when that Good Samaritan opened my car door and put out his hand to help me. Maybe he was a tad overdramatic since the car never did blow up.

But before I could even thank him, he was gone, and I was left by the curb where I considered what might have happened, not really knowing. All I knew for sure, was that I was glad to be alive, and to not be dead.

Given how I felt four short months ago about the end of my career, the implosion of my marriage and the dashing of all my hopes and dreams for the future, being glad to be alive was what my best friend Susan called a miraculous turnaround. I had been in yet another car crash, and survived with scratches, cuts and bruises. I decided that day it was time to stop risking my life driving, something that, even when it’s not my fault, brought me as close to losing my life as I ever want to be.

My crash and the lessons I learned from it brought happy tears to both our eyes as we considered the way the universe had unfolded for me that day.

Miracles
By Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;

These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,

Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves— the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?

My Friend

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Who can lift my fallen spirit with just a story
What turns my sad heart glad is her smile.
When I need her, she is but a keystroke away with kindness
Where my soul lives, she’s willing to walk the mile.

Why would I turn to anyone else when I’m in trouble
Because no one knows me as she does.
Because she is my friend, and I am hers
And I wish that would be how it always was.

In days gone by we had different names;
Perhaps time is what made us who we are.
I can’t say for certain what it is that connects us,
But my friend is my friend no matter how far.

We say good night, and we part with a joke
Something of a smile to carry us on our way
The worries will fade, along with my sadness
Tomorrow, she reminds me, is another day.

To live.
To pray.
To laugh.
To love.
To forgive.
To forget.
To start.
To end.
To take.
And to give.

I’ll begin by giving thanks to God, for my friend, Janine D’Alessandro Ferren. ❤

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Heart of Glass

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Today, I remembered, with the help of a hefty pitcher of mango margarita and long conversations with a longtime friend, that it’s not just the last few years that I had to survive as someone who people knew of, or knew about, or recognized, rather than to be known as an individual. Starting in grade school and continuing on through high school, it really wasn’t until I was in college and finally experiencing natural puberty that I truly was able to make a first impression without someone already having formed an opinion of me.

All because I was a child model and commercial actor.

I thought it was cool, fun, and it helped support my family. But that changed the moment a certain bully cornered me and asked, rhetorically, “What makes YOU so special? Why are YOU on TV? Why’d they pick YOU?” I remember standing there, my back to the brick wall in the stairwell leading to McCloskey Auditorium, connecting St. Anne’s School and the church, sweating, frightened, not knowing what to say.

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This was 40 years ago. I was in fifth grade, just ten years old. “I dunno, they just did,” I stammered.

“‘I dunno'” the boy parroted me, raising his pitch mockingly, getting laughs from the gathering crowd, as he grabbed my tie with his right hand and moved his clenched left fist closer to my face. “How about I break your nose? Not gonna be on TV then, are ya, Ennis?”

My first thought: my mother is gonna kill me.

Not that I’d be in pain, or bloody, or that I would have to live the rest of my life with a broken nose; no, the fear that filled my mind at that exact moment was how angry my mom would get over the fact I somehow managed to have my nose broken by this overgrown escaped convict masquerading as a classmate. And he was right, a broken nose would surely cost me my career.

How many ten year olds do you know who’ve experienced panic at the thought their career might be over? I had spent six of my ten years, pretty much as far back as I can remember, working as a model and commercial actor. And it was all about to end in a big, painful, and no doubt very costly punch.

I decided it was time for action. And that’s when I came up with my plan. But I needed to time it just right.

So, I stood there, defiantly, not answering his taunt, except to take my index finger, and slowly tap the bully’s right fist that held my clip-on tie with his GI Joe Kung Fu Grip… and I drew an invisible line from his fingers to my nose, tapping my nose twice. As if to say, “Here it is. Give it your best shot, tough guy.”

But I didn’t say that. I was too busy watching his eyes change in exactly the way I imagined a bull would look if shown a red cape.

Exactly the same, I am sure. And those eyes were close enough for me to see my own petrified reflection against the wall. And our ears rang with the chant that almost always accompanied a bully — is there a union for bully chanters, or perhaps a roadie-like experience? There should be.

“HIT HIM! HIT HIM! HIT HIM!” chanted the chanters.

He pulled my tie tighter, I watched him clench his left fist, and as it sprung from its coiled position toward my nose, I dropped like a ton of bricks and didn’t look back.

I imagine I must have heard the impact of his fingers against the bricks, the scream of anger, agony and rage as he looked at the clip-on tie still gripped tightly by his other hand, and had I turned around I’m sure I would have seen the almost certain disappointment on the faces of the chanters.

But I was focused only on the stairs that I was running down, toward the door that leads outside. A few more steps, and I’d be —

“STOP HIM!”

The chanters had turned the page from two-word repetition to two-word command, directed at anyone else in my path.

I went for the door, my hands extended to hit the bar that would spring it open. And it did not. It would not, no matter how hard I pushed, not with two boys on the other side holding that door shut.

A tall glass door, glass covering every inch except in the frame and hardware that made it operate. I stared at the four hands pressed up against that glass, and to this day I cannot recall the faces… just those hands.

I turned in panic, as a bloody fisted bully with my tie wrapped around his bleeding fist came barreling down those same stairs I had just scooted… and he was headed right for me.

There wasn’t any option left. I needed to escape. It wasn’t just my nose that was at risk this time. I pounded on the bar to open the door, on the glass, on the frame, with my fists, with my body, and finally with my feet.

I kicked, hard… and that’s when I heard the sound that should have meant freedom.

The glass in the door shattered: some of it cracked, some fell in, some fell out, but the bottom line was: Ennis broke the door.

“ENNIS BROKE THE DOOR!!!” screamed the chanters.

What came next was a surprise. The bully turned, and ran, and everyone followed his example. Their allies on the outside, the chanters, the bystanders, anyone and everyone cleared out so fast, you might have thought I had farted.

I stood there, tieless amid the glass shards and tiny pieces, and within seconds of the foyer becoming void of children, in flew the nuns. They didn’t hear the chanting, the punching of the wall, the screams to stop me or the taunts that had started this entire ugly episode. No, what they heard was glass breaking, and what they saw was what others surely told them: Ennis broke the door.

And no, my mother was not mad, despite the call to come get me, and meet with the principal. She was not mad, having avoided my nose being broken; but she still berated me for coming so close to “risking everything.” Actually, it was my father who was pissed that I hadn’t thrown the first punch, or taken the punch and fought back, or tried to, or did anything other than run, and break school property that we now had to pay to replace.

I share this memory because it’s a reminder of a time when I felt so despised, ridiculed, bullied and mistreated… just for being me.

It’s sad to think there are still people in the world who feel that same way about me, even now, just for being me.

But instead of sadness, I feel so wonderful… to have found love, kindness, acceptance and good ol’ simple friendship and respect, here online and out in the world. Then, and now, I’m going to be me, like it or not.

And I’m learning, slowly, what I now must do is learn how to break glass ceilings, instead of doors.

And Now, The News

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I took two months to consider the advice of smarter people, closed the blog, took time away from social media (not enough time, of course; I’m addicted) and can boast that I have again found work and reached a mutually beneficial severance agreement with my former employer, from whose employ I have now officially resigned.

And with my new start, my new job, my new attitude, I am going to once again resume blogging and ramp-up my online presence to heretofore unseen visibility. I will be active in activism, outspoken in civil rights, and offer my voice to causes in which I am invested. My hope is to help those already leading the charge and put my energy to work in raising the tide that lifts all boats.

Do not mistake me for someone seeking more attention for me. I have had more than my share and I am glad to be behind the curtain, behind the throne, backstage and making noises off. I am not taking stands to be seen or heard for my own sake but for our sake, as humans, as people, and no, not just for transgender people.

But without a doubt I will not be silent. It was a joy to be a part of the tradition of journalism, when it was something I enjoyed. I always said I would quit when it was no longer fun, and surprisingly, I needed a shove to recognize I had already entered the “no fun” zone. But that’s okay. I am happier, I am clear in my mind and in my soul that I am on the right path, one that leads to my future and not someone else’s.

Allow me to introduce you to the new me, and not just the old me, improved and refitted. I am me, and I am glad, and hope you will be, too. The biggest change? I won’t feel bad if you don’t approve or accept who I am and what I do. I am not living for you, or anyone, anymore. I am not changing to make others happy anymore.

I posted my first entry in two months very early this morning, thoughts that grew from an email exchange with one of my dearest friends. I hope it resonates with you, and if not, know that I wrote it to help me better understand where I am and to reflect with my close friend on where I’ve been. I am indebted to Janine for growing with me on this journey, in growing beyond tolerance to a new level of acceptance and awareness.

Thank you, too, for checking in. I’ll have more to say, soon. Big news, in fact.

Expect more of that, from time to time, now that I am who I am. And I Am Real. #iamreal

I Am Real

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I have been told and I even once conceded I am not a “real” woman, according to those who believe it is their place to determine such things.

That word — “real” — couldn’t be more misconstrued, in my opinion.

When it is used maliciously, it is meant to “other” me, to differentiate me from someone born with the anatomy I will soon have a surgeon replicate. No, I will never have the internal organs or chromosomes of a 46xx genetic female such as my wife , my sister or my mom, my mother-in-law, aunts and cousins who were born and assigned female upon their birth.

I will never know the joy nor pain nor physical connection many women have with the children they conceive and deliver, nor the sensation and suffering of menstruation nor the feelings of a very first sexual encounter as a young woman experiences it.

But women who have hysterectomies are still real women. A person assigned female at birth who cannot herself give birth is still a real woman no matter if she adopts or uses a surrogate to have children, or chooses to remain childless.

And even with my current weird amalgam of genitals, my feelings, thoughts, instincts, senses, emotions and desires combined with nearly a decade of needing to sit or squat to pee, significant breast development, nine mammograms, two episodes of lactation, boxes of nipple shields and pads, packages of heavy duty panty liners, what seemed like never-ending bloating, rollercoaster hormonal cycles, thinning upper body muscle mass, stronger pelvic and leg muscles, new curves and shifts in weight distribution, hot flashes and chills… About the only thing I’m missing is a sufficient amount of hair on my head and a sufficiently deep orafice between my legs.

One of the weirdest of all the anomalies I have shared with only two people was detailed in a final report by doctors at NIH who spent a week studying me last summer; a detail that seemed nonsensical when I first read it. The whole experience made me shudder, but the doctors’ description that my “public hair is consistent with a female pattern” stopped me in my tracks, and I’m not sure why. What possible significance could it have, and why is mine is as it is? The answer escapes me. It’s not like I’ve been waxed or had electrolysis down there!

Yet.

Frankly, I’m still quietly surprised whenever callers hear my voice and think it’s my wife answering the phone, or call me “Miss” or “Ma’am” upon meeting me. Yet strangely enough, the only time I get upset are those rare occasions when someone misgenders me by calling me “sir” or “him.” You might as well say you think I’m ugly and that the outfit I’m wearing doesn’t go well together.

Perhaps that is because my overarching need to be loved as I truly am is now stronger than my lifelong obsession to change who I am in order to be liked. Because who I am in the dark, in the spotlight, in my dreams and every day for the past five months is the most real woman I can possibly be.

Writer and activist Janet Mock coined the catchy slogan #girlslikeus to unite transgender women and spread the message of her excellent memoir, Redefining Realness.

Author and professor Jennifer Finney Boylan offered up three words of her own, “Equality of Identity” and I pushed for it to be adopted as another unifying hashtag.

Lately, I feel inspired by the keynote address delivered at the 2014 Pittsburgh Trans Conference, by a longtime friend and true civil rights champion: Brynn Tannehill. Her speech and the title she chose for it resonated strongly within me: a simple sentence, also of three words that sum up my feelings better than anything I myself have ever put together.

I Am Real.

I urge everyone to use these sets of three words in a hashtag on all messages, social media posts and tweets related to transgender civil rights. #iamreal #equalityofidentity #girlslikeus

And I don’t need to prove it to believe it, or feel it. I possess the realness within. I Am Real!