Woke up in my clothes again this morning; Don't know exactly where I am

We brushed past her as she held the door to admit us. As I turned to face her as I sat, I paused to absorb her countenance. “You seem nonplussed.”

It had been a hard session, I remembered, where at the conclusion I apologized for nervously peeling the polish from my nails as we talked. “Don’t worry,” I’d told her. “I put the flakes in my bag. No one will need to clean up my mess.”

Our roles were supposed to be well-defined. She was a mediator, holding court for us weekly as we laid out the problems we had and the triumphs we made. The threads of our lives were vibrant, but sometimes frayed. The tapestry thus formed would not always be sturdy enough to face the realities of the day even if it was exciting enough to want to show off.

On that day, as I collected my stuff to leave, she looked at me thoughtfully. After chewing her words for a moment, she dropped a piece of truth which was all too apt.

“Well, you have the curse of empathy, don’t you...”

As I sat the bag, the helmet, and the keys down, she remembered her words. This wasn’t how our relationship was supposed to work. “I’ll be fine in a moment.”

It was okay if she wasn’t. Having a job, a task, which involved absorbing our problems before nudging us in the right direction — hopefully — did not negate her humanity.

No, I could understand pain, and look past it’s derivative effect on me as her patient. Forgiveness was easy, as long as the person I needed to forgive wasn’t the one I found myself staring into the mirror at every day.

My day was 6 hours old by that point, but I'd given back an hour when I crossed a time zone boundary, somewhere in that last half hour of flight. The hour of predawn driving so I could unceremoniously deposit my car in the long term garage at the airport that had briefly served as the hub of my time in The Hub had thankfully been uneventful despite the dismal weather.

I stepped out of the main terminal building to the curb, wondering if the glass structure behind me shared a lineage with the Ohio Center, a structure long since incorporated into Columbus' convention center. The feelings so evoked served only to make me miss that city all the more, as I still lamented the one I was in. I was determined to make the best of it, though.

Shortly, a black Prius pulled up, and a man slight of build and not quite old enough to be my grandfather got out to help me with my bag. We exchanged brief pleasantries, but for whatever reason when he seemed interested in engaging further, I followed his lead without hesitation.

I wonder often how much my voice betrays about my history. In places where I might be at a disadvantage because of the bigotry of others, I'm sometimes hesitant to say too much. But if he had any inkling that it had taken me two puberties to reach this stage of my life, he betrayed nothing.

We started from one shared point, the early awakening we'd both shared that day, before moving along to housing security (his son had suffered some of the same setbacks I had), the explosive development Nashville has experienced since my last visit, the traffic pattern changes a place experiences as it grows and changes, and moving in and out of rings of orbit around a place in phases over one's life.

When finally I clambered out of the car across the street from the downtown terminus of the city's single commuter rail line, I bade him a pleasant remainder of his morning, and found my way to my accommodations for the week, quickly fixing my face before rushing off to a talk. Perhaps the week would be less emotionally draining than I feared, after all.

I quickly confirmed our destination as we got in the car, and then set off. As we moved up the river valley, I pointed out the bike trail alongside the freeway, gesturing at landmarks I so often passed on two wheels: The old mill. The fish ladder. The park.

Before long, we reached a decision point. The road we were on trailed off into a stub aimed vaguely toward its intent of connecting to the next state capital west, leaving me with options north and south. I took the former, shortly dropping onto a surface road to find my way to our first stop.

Our day had begun with a 3 hour walk to and through a park in the southern reaches of the city, a journey which included neighborhoods I hadn't yet visited, stumbling into a tree climbing championship and gawking at waterfowl blithely fussing in the lakes a few feet from our plodding. It made up for not being on a bicycle, I thought, as I turned onto a road I'd traversed a couple weekends earlier with foot power, in the opposite direction.

We turned off the main road and up a narrower country lane before being waved into the grass. I turned off the car and we walked a couple hundred meters, lining up at the end of a row of folks whose attention was focused on the tent ahead of them and the amazing smells wafting from it. Minutes later, our prize collected, I paused to enjoy one still-warm fried ring of dough before reversing my path to the main route.

Our path through the afternoon was just as the morning was, one where each turn either created or duplicated a piece of my own known world. Cartography was not always printed: sometimes, as it did in this moment, it lived only in my mind, a mesh defined by the shape of the physical, organized by the places and people of my own experiences.

Most of the trip to our next stop duplicated one or the other of two recent cycling expeditions. We were still surrounded by familiar landmarks: the road across the street that I'd ridden after visiting its namesake orchard. The hot dog stand in front of us. We got our tickets for the corn maze, though, and soon disembarked from the hayride to start tracing a path between the stalks. We each held a map we'd been assured was not quite accurate: what would be the fun in that, after all?

I've gotten used to the look of surprise on people's faces. It's been easy to elicit: "I've only been here for a month as of today," was the most recent.

As looks go, it's up there in terms of positivity with the ones I get when i describe the hills I bike up; when I tell people where I live (it's definitely one of the best-known historic residential structures in the city); or when I describe my relationship to serendipity.

It's not the only look I've become far too accustomed to, though. Invariably the topic of what brought me comes up, and how deeply I'm willing to explain varies.

But there's no gentle way to talk about Amelia's death.

The positive looks thankfully outnumber the ones of anguished sympathy. It's not that I don't appreciate that. Engaging in life, though, requires that I don't wallow in it; that I refuse to be defined by it. And so, I try, to what thus far feels to be good success.

Still, I fear that my new start has a foundation atop a grave. It may not be a realistic fear, but it stands on a kernel of truth: I sleep on hir mattress pad, because the construction zone around me has thus far precluded me from setting up my bed. I ride hir bike, because the practicalities of basement access make my own difficult. When I forgot my overnight bag for a night in Camberville, I was able to find one last change of clothes in the apartment we used to share.

Her clothes.

Bailed out, one more time, from beyond the grave.

I am building the life I need; one that is symbiotic, engaged, connected, empathetic. But it is not without fear and trepidation that I do this, and I know I need to find the right balance of respect for hir in the life I build for me: no one is truly self-made, and those giants whose shoulders we stand on should be honored and cherished; For without them, where -- and who -- would we be?

The light of day was dimming as the stretch of highway named for early colonial settlers in New England drew to a close. Two miles shy of that end, with Hartford enveloping the road, the big green signs above switched to the next control point.

EAST
84
Boston

Home was getting close, finally.

The drive was long, as it always was. There were many stories from previous trips along that journey, and I shared some as we drove. One took place a few weeks after driving my then-spouse, siblings, and grandparents to Vermont for my aunt's wedding.

On that particular Sunday, I was returning home after visiting friends in Cambridge. As our path in the opposite direction along the same interstate that day drew near its end, the voicemail indicator flickered to life on my phone. I listened.

My mother's voice addressed me by name before continuing, "It's your mother. Call me." I turned to my spouse as I ended the call and told her, "My grandfather died."

A discussion ensued before I returned the contact, one which included speculation that my grandmother on the other side of the family had passed. But when I did call, my brother answered the phone. "Pap died," he said, before telling me where the viewing would be in the morning.

We slept that night, and the next morning after I told my colleagues I would miss the subsequent several days, we went to the funeral home. As I walked in, my father was waiting in the back of the sitting room. "My mother died last night," he shared as he greeted me.

We wondered at the time how my newly-widowed grandmother would fare. It was only a little surprising that we found ourselves now about 15 years later to have her still with us, but my father had shared mere hours earlier that her health had taken a downturn.

So it was little surprise when just 2 days later I heard that she was not expected to make it through the night, and shortly thereafter that she had passed.

I looked at air travel, knowing I did not have another 19 hours driving in me -- especially alone. On such short notice, the cost was steep. With heavy heart, I resolved to visit the gravesite on a future visit. At last, though, I knew I'd have one less burden on my mind each time I traveled the course between Pittsburgh and Boston: I had no more grandparents to lose.

"Would you like to dance?", he asked. I followed him to the floor and introduced myself.

I'd been on the fence about going: would I be up for the exercise? Square dancing was a thing I'd wanted to learn for more than a dozen years, but had never quite managed to. If I skipped the opportunity I was having, there'd be others. Still, I figured it would sting. I decided to try.

My second partner of the evening took me to the floor after the first break. With a few steps under my belt, I had at least a modicum of understanding of the motion. The right choice, I mused, even as I worked mentally through my calendar to confirm I'd be able to hit the upcoming 13 lessons.

Still, even if it was the right choice, it came with a trade off. In an idle moment I finally accepted as truth that I am way too hard on myself, that my adeptness in the world I find myself traversing is real. But the price of getting to be myself was and is high, and I wonder if paying it will ever not be a punishing burden on my life.

It would be my last real physical activity for a while, and I was determined to make it count. We drove for about 20 minutes before leaving the car to walk a couple hundred feet. After crossing a short bridge, we descended to the red clay path we'd just passed over, and started walking upstream alongside the bed of the disused canal.

"It's frozen," ey observed, as we walked along a section of slackwater that had developed a thin sheet of ice along the banks. We found some rocks and played a bit, skipping them across the ice sometimes, breaking small holes in the sheet at others. After a bit, we continued north.

The trail was not busy, but we were not alone. One person passed with a nod. A jogger, next, intent on the exercise and the music I assumed was in their ears. Next came an older man, and as I passed I softly spoke a greeting.

"Where are you going?", he asked brusquely. Just a walk, we replied in unison. "Why are you dressed like that?" It quickly became clear how it was going to go. "You're not girls!"

The abuse came in streams, and occasionally I bothered to answer. "You must have wealthy parents, that you can afford to be out here doing this." We were walking away, at this point, but I shot over my shoulder, "Poor as dirt." His stream of abuse continued unabated as we slowly moved out of earshot.

Ironically, as we continued walking, I got a call from the hospital about the final timing for my surgery, then barely 16 hours off. I wasn't independently wealthy, nor even dependently so. The funds I fronted were borrowed, and surgery was only in reach because I moved to a place where I knew my non-employer policy would offer coverage by state mandate.

Of course, he knew nothing about what was between my legs. His judgement was made based solely on what I look like, or perhaps what I sound like. To him, I will never be anything but someone I am not, and cannot be. As we walked on, we talked about the vaguely unsettled feeling we both then had, before finally letting the thickly glazed surface of the canal beside us again provide some distraction from a world bent on intolerance, right in the shadow of the haven I'd be spending time recovering in ever so shortly.

As we stood at the curb, we talked about the city, the place I now called home. Until moments before, it had been business as we walked around an apartment. I carried my phone about while on a video call to be eyes and ears for my sweetie, 2000 miles away. Now, though, ey had hung up, and it was just the two of us.

As he looked up the hill, his eyes settled on my bike. "How do you like riding that?", he asked, his eyes shifting to me. "Funny story," I replied.

I knew exactly what he was asking. My bike wasn't the sort most people were used it. A few months ago, I picked up a recumbent bike. To the uninitiated, a recumbent bike looks like a chair on a long wheeled frame, and so people assume it will be ungainly to operate. Indeed, it definitely requires adapting if you're only used to riding an upright bike, but I've taken to it rather well. The only issue I have is my need to build a new set of muscles to climb hills.

I laughed lightly before continuing to reply, "It was actually Savanni who convinced me to get it. I'm having surgery in 5 weeks, and ...". And then I stopped. I'd just met this person. Quickly, though, I finished the sentence. "I'm having a vagina installed. Needless to say, it'll be far easier to sit on a seat like this than on a normal bike. And that's what ey pointed out, so I got this one a few months ago."

For just a moment, I worried whether explaining this to someone who was a stranger but a few minutes ago was proper. His words and his expression indicated he understood, and I quickly relaxed as we finished our discussion.

While it's not reasonable to ask someone about their body, this felt different. I have no qualms explaining my impending surgery. I've been forthright even when the questioner had unreasonable expectations of my obligation to answer. It's important that people understand this is a normal, usual thing that folks may need to do to fully be themselves, to be able to own their own bodies. Talking about the path that led me here and what I expect ahead causes me no burden, and hopefully relieves that weight on others. And so, I will keep sharing.

Only 90 minutes more, I mused, as I peered down upon the capital of the Buckeye State. Places familiar and comfortable fell briefly under my gaze as I scanned the terrain 38000 feet below. How close I'd come to moving there eleven years earlier.

Today, I found myself en route home for just a few nights, a home I hadn't foreseen then. Work would soon draw me most of the way back across the continent, but a moment's rest as I frantically worked through my backlog of tasks lay ahead to my northeast.

My heart ached for what was behind me, though. I knew I'd see em again soon, as ey'd soon be moving Boston-ward emself. The day, and indeed the trip, had been punctuated with moments of joy, passion and love. But there were other moments, too.

The previous evening under other circumstances might have been a moment to cherish, but instead our bodies were curled together from fear. My existence and eirs were both fragile, and we knew it. More troubling, though, were the many friends who had it worse.

With the clarity afforded by sleep, though, I began taking inventory of my life. I understand what I have to lose and how I might lose it: Family. Friends. Employment. Housing. Health. Life itself. Unlike others in similar positions, though, I would relatively not be missed. No one would go homeless or hungry for my absence. No one would be orphaned.

If you are scared for me, for my future, well, you should be.
But I am far from the only one you should be scared for, and I am not the one you should be scared for the most.

After making my drop, I slipped quickly from surface streets near the largest train station in the area and headed rapidly toward home. Shortly I emerged from the subterranean world for a brief overwater trip just upstream of the city's eponymous harbor. The wishbone-shaped center pier supporting the massive cable-stayed bridge offered a modernist view that didn't betray the 13-plus year age of the bridge. Afterward, I found myself on somewhat a more aged freeway for the bulk of the remaining trip.

I threaded a path down the ramp whose sign on the gantry called out the name of my new-found home, pausing in traffic at the end as we waited for a light. When green appeared, we started moving before the driver of the vehicle directly in front of me decided to attempt a right turn from the lane where we were otherwise waiting to head west. Upon passing them, I stopped again for some folks crossing the street. As I waited, there was a sudden jolt: I'd been hit, I realized. But there was something else that felt off, and it took me a moment longer to realize what it was.

I'd lost my hair.

There's nothing like that moment of panic when you realize you'll need to interact with someone in a situation that is likely stressful on its own without a very key part of yourself. My gender isn't an issue the vast majority of the time. Would it be here, especially if I lacked the contextual cue that helped compensate for the voice I so despised? I cringed, and groped behind me.

Fumbling to shevel my bangs, I collected my license and went out to exchange information. On this day, all would be okay. No one was injured, neither vehicle made unusable, and calm heads ruled. I bade my elder counterpart a pleasant and less eventful trip for his ride further across the city we shared, and headed off to attempt to extract my bike from its newfound tomb in the back of the vehicle for a late-afternoon ride along the river.