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

Her ears were covered with earphones, stanching the din of the world as though a shield. My left hand loosely held her right. We walked silently in the rain: there was nothing that needed to be said.

I looked down the street through lenses slowly accumulating droplets, my mind quietly mapping away the difference in refraction scattered about my field of vision. As my eyes settled on the flashing white lights around the speed limit sign, a question formed in my brain.

"What am I supposed to want out of life?", it came. I kept walking, not missing a beat. My mind, though, struggled to process the thought.

I'd been married, not once but twice. There'd been the house in the suburbs, the job that was mine as long as I might want it. The wording of what I was asking myself split out in my head: _Supposed To_

I'd worked through the answer to the question of what I did want, again and again. The conclusion was perilously close to the life I have: not an exact match, and with some rather gaping holes, but not so dramatically different as to be unattainable.

We stopped at the end of the line of people waiting for the bus, and she let go of my hand. My blue hair dripped water onto my face, while my unbuttoned raincoat bared the shoulderless top I had on only slightly. Perhaps the queerness that sometimes felt like armor to me was more than that. It was possible I was supposed to want something unusual: maybe, I was supposed to want exactly what I did.

The car pointed east, and we sped along the freeway. Neither of us spoke. The sign that flashed past told us that we were on route 71. The airplane graphic attached was no coincidence. It wasn't the first time we glided along the same highway in silence, but the previous times I'd been the driver.

As we'd left the reception, I pointed the car toward the end of our evening, confident of my path despite the darkness. Did I need directions, zie mused... "No, I know where I am," I replied before explaining that I could surely pick a route close to optimal with just what I knew of this place I'd never been before. Shortly zie fell asleep, and I was alone with some quiet music as I zipped back toward the city.

Today, though, we were both awake. I looked around me, my mind replaying the events of the previous 13 days. Ahead of me stood moving. Finally I would have a place of my own, for the first time this year. But something to look forward to didn't negate the sadness I had from my impending departure.

As we continued east, traffic quickly congealed as we reached a merge point, and we slowed to a crawl. There was no fear: I knew I would make my flight, and I could tell zie did too: despite our silence, we still were communicating via other channels. Physically, if only by a light touch. Emotionally, our tender souls laid bare.

A wisecrack about the signage broke the silence, and I chuckled as I replied. As we stopped, I collected my belongings, and we exchanged a touching goodbye. The silence enveloped me again as I walked into the building, turning once to blow a kiss before walking out of sight.

I wondered if he noticed my brief hesitation as I considered how much I wanted to share in response to what he's just asked. It was an innocent enough question, one about whether I was always a local. How many times had I elaborated variations on this story of late?

"I just moved here after 43 years in Pittsburgh," I replied. "I have an apartment starting the day after tomorrow." I could have stopped there, left it at that. Instead, though, I caught my breath before continuing.

It had been the night before New Years' Eve when my friend showed up. I slumped in his arms as I sobbed briefly, before composing myself. I collected a small pile of clothes and my laptop, and we left to cross the city. For much of the next several months, the spare bedroom at his home would serve as mine.

His family seemed in no rush to have me gone, but I try to take nothing for granted. My barren fiscal standing left me unable to get a place myself, though, and so I hoped I wouldn't be too much of a burden.

"It will be the first time this year I've had my own place to live," I said as I ended the thought. If he was bothered by my explanation, he betrayed nothing. There wasn't really anything different about me anyway: my neat appearance betrayed nothing about my status. Blue hair aside, I looked not much different than anyone else present.

You might well have thought you didn't know anyone who's homeless. Two days, yet, still separate me from a place which is mine, from no longer being transient. In the meantime, I have spent all of this year in places where I had no claim beyond friendship. I leaned harder than I felt any right to. It is an experience which lends additional empathy, but it is not one I'd dare suggest everyone should have.

No, just the opposite: homelessness is an experience *no one* should have.

I pushed myself along the canal towpath, working against the waterlogged clay surface, into the gorgeous morning. On one side of me was the early 1800s canal; On the other, a broad, placid river. I'd failed at self-care for a few days, and it was time to apply some.

The previous night, after foolishly moving my car, I hoofed it a few blocks to find a late dinner. As I looked north after walking over the canal, a bright light caught my eye. I stepped away from the road, and walked toward the railroad station. I kept moving toward the building so the station sign would come into the view.

We were coming up on a year since I'd first found myself alone aside the river, just as I had the after last night's dinner. On that first occasion, I wept. I realized a month or so prior what I needed to do, but I felt the means to do it would be out of reach, and I feared the consequences of pushing on.

The previous August had brought the realization that the surgery I thought I could do without wasn't optional. By September, I had a plan to pay. In October, I finally told my spouse. By the end of November, I lost that way to pay, and as December ended, so did my marriage. The consequences had all been realized and my fears had come home to roost.

As I came to the next town, I turned the bike off the towpath. Shortly I found myself riding over the river, and shortly turned north. The towpath for the canal along the other side of the river featured a powdered limestone surface, where the railroad that replaced it had previously been. The ride got easier.

With this year, there were changes. Friends took me in as my life fell apart. Throughout the moments where I found myself struggling to keep moving ahead, folks held me up when I foundered. I worked out a plan, arranged to move, and got myself scheduled for surgery.

I turned back across the river, pointed at the spot I'd walked past the night before. As I reached the shore on the Pennsylvania side, the sign naming the municipality echoed the one I'd finally seen when I got close enough to the train station to take a photo.

"We were supposed to be airborne 90 minutes ago," I thought, as we pivoted onto the end of the runway. The sign we'd just passed pointed the way to 34R.

I closed the e-book I'd been reading, and directed my focus to the window. My mind was elsewhere, reeling with the memories, and had been all morning. A number rolled by outside as we accelerated along the runway.

10

I'd arrived in Seattle by rail, 4 days prior. I'd been working from the train, but took a break to get myself and my stuff to the flat I'd be sharing before continuing. After a bit more work, I met a friend for dinner before getting some flowers and heading to the airport.

Distracted by the window, I watched another number flash past outside.

9

The first of my companions arrived. The flowers weren't for her, but she half-suspected I'd surprise her at the airport. We hoofed it to the light rail and got a small bite one stop over before returning to the airport to wait. Our time was a mix of light chatter, heavier conversation, and flirting.

8

We arrived back at the airport just as our other companion landed. Zie was quite late, but it was a small wonder zie made it at all. Hir connecting flight had been cancelled that morning, and it was only by the other two of us nudging hard and coughing up some miles that zie got there at all. When zie entered the concourse, we popped out to surprise hir, with the flowers, but also simply by being there. Shortly, we'd summoned a ride and were heading back to the flat. Before sleeping, we collapsed into a pile of cuddles. The day had been stressful, but moreover we'd been apart a while, and that period had been rife with its own stresses.

7

After too little sleep, we arrived for the first day of the conference. Unlike most other tech conferences I'd been to, this one was much more about people than the technology itself. The focus was divided between taking care of the people building the technology, and ensuring those affected by it were also carefully considered by those doing the building. The first day covered a range from bringing rehabilitation back to prisons, to bringing diversity and inclusivity to a workplace with outward-facing functions, to expanding how we empathize. An ice cream social followed dinner, with the sprouts of a new relationship showing for one of us as the other two looked on, before the day ended as the previous one did: a moment of shared emotional intimacy and vulnerability amongst the three of us, before we collapsed to sleep.

6

The second day was no less deep than the first, as we heard about human factors in complex systems, ethical concerns in the the world where all our devices are connected, and so many aspects of bringing empathy into your work.

Dinner followed, then hanging at a coffeeshop. At the conclusion of the evening, we parted company. Upon returning again to our flat, we first unwound together before collectively collapsing in a tired, snuggly heap on the bed. In many ways it felt for me not just like coming home, but coming home to people who loved me. It was a luxury 2016 had not been especially forthcoming with.

The numbers were flicking past rather quickly now.

5

Unlike the previous days, Sunday morning would be unrushed. We awoke without an alarm, in that same heap. A trip south toward the center of the city followed, with a lovely bookstore, an elegant brunch, a leisurely stroll, a ferry ride, and dinner with a longtime friend of one of my companions, as all the while in the background the budding relationship that had started the weekend began to bloom around us.

The evening ended again with we three together, with the comedown from a fantastic conference washing across us amongst a sea of other emotions. In a continually changing series of awkward poses on the floor, we took turns listening and holding each other up -- literally and figuratively -- before collapsing on the bed for one final night.

Outside my window, we took to the air, finally, lifting slowly away from the ground.

4

Cleaning up the flat was quick work, and we shortly headed to the airport. Our flights were spaced such that we'd see off one person, then I'd go, then the last of us would board hir delayed plane last. There was plenty of time for emotional goodbyes at each step, though we expected to see each other again in weeks instead of months. Still, each of us climbed aboard our planes carrying our own emotional weight. I wondered if I'd make it off the ground before I cried. Thanks to the 90 minute delay, I didn't.

The numbers, the runway, the land, peeled slowly away below me, count ended short. Once again I had no home. Most of the width of the continent stood between me and my next itinerant stop.

I'd placed the video call while sitting in the car atop a remote hill. The state park campground hosted my tent as well as a dozen friends, and tho I'd be staying only one night, I was anxious for the respite.

As we chatted, zie told me my stream had become choppy. "I'll drive out to the road for better signal," I told hir. Slipping out one earbud and tossing the screen aside, I started the car and headed toward the entrance.

Partway out, a car appeared ahead of me as I exited a hairpin turn. It moved aside, then pulled in tight behind me. I knew what was coming.

Sure enough, when shortly after exiting the campground I turned off, the car pulled in behind me and turned on its flashing lights. I rolled down the window, shut off the car, and made a show of tossing the car keys on the roof above me.

Zie chatted with me between moments with the officer. He verified my information and that I was allowed to be at the campground, and let me go on my way. When zie commented that it had gone smoothly, I could only reply that of course it had. "I'm white."

I can't indict every official involved in law enforcement, but more critically I can't excuse a system which ignores, or worse excuses, the culpability of individuals who show themselves to be undeserving stewards of the trust we have placed on them to pursue the peace in the guise of the whole public.

Being unable, or more likely unwilling, to protect all of us means you cannot be trusted to protect any of us. And that these failings are allowed to continue without any effort to understand how to ameliorate the issue let alone hold accountable those who have abdicated their duty to us means the entire system must be treated as unworkable. Its failure is our failure, and the lack of change is our shame.

I sat facing the wall, a window to my left. The desk in front of me held a laptop, which I occasionally gazed on at. Through the closed door, my colleague was asleep. 48 hours earlier, I was surrounded by folks whose experiences I knew intimately well. The dramatic change in circumstance, almost completely to my detriment, did not suit me at all.

Rationally, I knew it would be fine, but the flame, the passion for life that burned inside me felt like it was dimming. The silent hotel room offered no comfort. I had no inkling where to turn, what to do at 1am.

Even in the midst of executing a plan for life which I felt assured would set me on a level course toward the support I needed, here was my reminder that I didn't have all the answers, that I was still fragile. I suspected rest might bring me stability, so I took the only action that seemed likely to fix it: I did my best to set my vulnerability aside and sleep, despite the lack of anyone to hold me or even whisper that it'd all be fine.

We paused for a moment as our bus dropped the poles that had given us power as we moved quietly underground, and the diesel engine started. The operator opened the doors while doing so, and I was momentarily whisked from my train of thought. The cool breeze! The scenery! The lovely scent of the trees outside! I sighed softly, sad to be leaving. I looked at the water to my left, knowing we'd shortly turn into the tunnel that would connect under the harbor through to the airport, and my impending flight to the other coast.

Ocean to ocean, it would be. I recalled again the conversation from the previous day. As I sat in a coffeeshop, I closed my laptop on my work for a bit and made a call. With his greeting, it was evident he knew who was calling. I wished him a happy Father's Day, and we proceeded to gab for a bit. Knowing I'd be at the other ocean soon, I said as much. He then recounted a story I'd forgotten.

New Jersey, he said. He'd been cast into the ocean and told that it was time to swim.

I remembered my own childhood: too many years of swimming lessons in the local high school's pool. I passed, after a while, but a placid pool is hardly a match for anything you'd find in the world. Regardless, I hadn't drowned in the intervening years. That was something, at least.

We learn the lessons of the generation before us, what we feel they might have done better, and hopefully carry it forward. At least, that's our hope. It seems rather unlikely I've have an opportunity to do better at passing on water skills, or anything else. But I'm still going to observe, remember, and learn.

As I strode into the terminal, I yawned. It wasn't yet 5 am, but I'd be departing soon from the airport that saw the most takeoffs and landings of any in the world. I wouldn't likely be done with the combination of air and ground travel for another 5 hours.

As I stepped onto the escalator, a voice screeched loudly in distress. Instantly, I was awake and alert. The escalator carried me on, but I listened intently. Nothing of note followed.

I might not have given it a second thought last week. Now, though, I was worried. I feared what I might find waiting for me as I was carried into the ticketing hall below. In the end, it was just a child. Who could blame them for being cranky: it was an inhumane hour to be awake.

I am unashamed, indeed proud, of who I am. My blue hair is a beacon, calling out to the world that I will not be cowed. The reminders keep coming, though: I am still hated -- we are still hated -- by people who know nothing of us. We are in the cross-hairs of groups which believe us to be unworthy of our lives.

I don't believe in respectability politics. Everyone is different, and I will not devalue the way anyone else manages to be themselves. If you want to hate me for who I am, though, know that you hate a loving, caring, nurturing person. You hate someone who strives to lift those surrounding them. My life is not a wild orgy; it's holding people close and trying to feel safe, secure, and fulfilled.

If you want to hate me for who I love, know that you hate me for loving people who have worked hard to understand who they are, and live that life as themselves as best they can, against incredibly steep odds and many hardships.

If these are values you hate, we have nothing in common, not even our humanity.

At the same time, I see many offering hatred based on the religion of others. It is saddening to see what justifications for hatred are cherry-picked in moments of convenience to hold up one's own prejudices. I won't condone that, either. Just the opposite.

You shouldn't have to understand someone to respect them, to celebrate that they are living their life as the best person they are able and understand themselves to be. Not even if they're not doing it the way you would.

Actually, especially not then.

"Slow down," she told me. "You sound really excited!" As we chatted, I barely noticed the sting in my ear. Instead, I concentrated on the calendar in front of me. "January 17th," I repeated back as I blocked it out. Another click: All day. A blue block appeared on the grid to remind me.

Hours earlier, I'd spent a few minutes having some marks made, and then a needle driven, through my ear. Once, then again. He advised me to take deep breaths as he penetrated it. I deadpanned, "I'm wearing a corset. There is no such thing as a deep breath," which caused him to pause and chuckle. As he slid the tiny bars through the newly-formed holes, I acknowledged what I knew: "This body is finally mine to inhabit."

The corset arrived in Pittsburgh while I was away. I'd worn it nearly daily since that time -- even to bicycle -- thus pinching my waist to an even fiercer hourglass than the one exercise and hormones had graced me with. Seeing the person in the mirror slowly take a form I could acknowledge as myself was uplifting, even in the moments where life was otherwise crushing. I pushed hard, doing all I could to make the vessel ensconcing my consciousness into a home. I needed a place to be mine, and the only space totally within my control was the one ending at the exposed surface of my flesh.

The course I was plotting for myself, combined with my marginally-improved fortunes, gave me a little leeway. There would still be much to accomplish before the coverage which would pay my way was ready, but I knew I'd get there. If today my body was mine, it was time to do what I wanted with it. As I worked, the phone rang. After the customary greeting, I offered a succinct summary of the question I'd emailed. Her answer cleared the path ahead, and I assented. She replied, "We do the vaginoplasties on Tuesday. How about the 17th?"