transition


Just when life seems completely settled, just when you think the transition blog has died and shows no sign of life or activity, something odd happens.

Like this email I received out of the blue this morning from Slade Taggart (and this is the total text—no subject line, no salutation, no signature block):

Please remove all your blog posts referring to my middle name.  I find it reprehensible that you would write about me using my name on that blog.  Also, please transfer your business to another firm.  Finally, please don’t call, text, or email me.

I’m not sure what he’s been seeing on his emails, texts, or phone records, but I can assure him (and Slade knows this well) that I haven’t called, texted, or phoned since he cut off communications way back in August of 2008.  I’m guessing he was Googling his various names, and ran across his middle name in a search engine and then, much to his surprise, read about himself as a character in my blog.

In any event, you’d think that pseudonyms would be sufficient, wouldn’t you?  I’m certainly not removing the blog posts, but have further anonymized his character by changing it to Slade Taggart.

I would point out, however, that all the anonymizing (or pseudonymming, or whatever else one wishes to call it) in the world doesn’t change the fact that a dear friend had (and continues to have, apparently) a visceral reaction to my existence, and that this reaction and its accompanying rejection constitutes a major event in my story.  It’s a psychic, social, personal, and historical explosion that cannot, and must not, be erased if this story is to be told accurately.

And blowing a gasket about a pseudonym I use in this blog, and then calling it reprehensible, strikes me as pretty hypocritical.  If we want to talk about reprehensibility, why don’t we talk about abandoning your life-long friend when she needed support, shall we?  Or how about holding on to some sort of deep anger or fear for four and a half years, only to write, out of the blue, this absurd email?  What kind of psyche does it take to push distasteful things this far away from your history for the purposes of keeping up the facade of togetherness?  I’m an empirical thinker, as you know, and the hard facts that Slade doesn’t want to acknowledge is that virtually everyone who cared about me before still cares about me now.

So, applying Occam’s Razor to this data set, which is the more likely hypothesis?

H1 — 99.5% of Joyce’s friends are fools or dupes or deluded

or

H2 — 0.5% of Joyce’s former friends, including Slade and perhaps no one else, is correct in desperately holding on to their their rejection, fear, and anger.

These days, life is about as dull as you can imagine: teaching at the university, helping kids with homework, buying groceries, being an administrator for my academic program, and other non-thrilling activities. Except for a moment now and then, I don’t reflect on my transsexual nature/history — there’s just not enough time to wallow (er… reflect) on it these days. Most days (and even many weeks), it’s just not a topic that I think about.

Which is not to say I’m in denial of how I got here. I know all about those rocky months and years and marvel that things have turned out so well. But the days of nervousness and rehearsing my voice and mannerisms so that I could have the confidence to make a public appearance — those days are gone. I feel strongly that my mind and body are aligned and have plenty of confidence in being myself in all circumstances, and that’s a wonderful and empowered feeling, let me tell you.

So I was truly unsettled today when the following exchange happened.

I walked across campus to a neighboring department to meet with a committee that wanted my help working on a new degree, and since I run a similar program and wrote the proposal to get it approved some years ago, I was a natural “consultant” for their situation. I met the professors and administrators from this other department (I had never met them before), and during the chit-chat before we got started, the dean said, “Mary Jo…. she’s in your department, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” I said, picturing my wife and beginning to wonder where she might have met this dean. “She is in the graduate program and teaches a lot of our graduate courses.”

“I thought so,” he said, “We met at a party and talked about her doctorate from Big State University, where I was teaching at the time. We never crossed paths up there, but I remember that she’s in your department specifically because of our connection at BSU.”

At this point, I’m vaguely remembering this guy from a party in the past, back when I was bearded, heavier, and, well, quite a bit different than I am today. But I figure this small talk will peter out and we’ll get started.

“And what about her husband?”

So much for petering out. “Beg pardon?”

“Her husband. He teaches in your department, doesn’t he? We met once.”

“Uh, I think it’s George.”

“Don’t you know? You work with him, right?” The room’s hot and I’m backed into a corner. I didn’t come to this meeting to discuss my transition. If only I had known this was going to be a topic, I wouldn’t have minded, could have been mentally prepared. But there’s no time. I panic and say, “Sure, of course. He’s fine.”

The dean satisfied, we then proceed with the 90-minute meeting.

Odd blasts from the past like these are disconcerting precisely because I’m no longer on my guard these days, and they take me by surprise.

I don’t think I’m ashamed of being who I am, or who I’m married to. But the fact of the matter is that I denied who I was today. I denied that George is me, that I’m married to Mary Jo, that this dean and I have met some time a few years ago. After the initial panic subsided, I had no trouble allowing him to think I was just someone else in the department, someone different than George, someone unrelated to Mary Jo.

As I left this meeting, walking across campus on this crisp winter day, I began feeling terribly cowardly. I could have said casually, “Oh, you’re thinking of me — I used to be George, but as you can see, things have changed, ha ha ha.” Or I could have said with a touch of sadness in my voice, “Oh, George. He’s no longer with us.” Or I could have pretended to be clueless and said, “I’m new here and don’t think I know Mary Jo’s husband,” which, given my program’s reputation for collegiality and teamwork, would have been absurd.

Neither clever nor fast, I simply denied myself, my existence, my relationship with Mary Jo.

Maybe all trans*people go though this after transition is over, but it was unsettling and I feel like a fraud. I suppose I could defend my actions and rationalize that this polite query was just as potentially personal and painful as asking someone about their divorced spouse, maybe not having heard the news, or asking how the research project was going after its funding had been pulled, maybe not having known the funding was pulled. I suppose there must be dozens of similarly-personal, and anxiety-producing, questions, and maybe this incident has nothing to do with being transsexual.

I’m not ashamed of who I am, what I do, and who I’m married to — in fact, I’m incredibly proud and happy about my existence and my relationships. But I’m also somewhat private and not inclined to make my personal life the topic of committee meetings. I guess I just don’t know what to do when such potentially-revealing questions come out of left field. Maybe I take this incident as one data point in a larger post-transition experiment (let’s call this choice “the public denial approach”), and if it happens again, I’ll try the “full and amusing disclosure” approach to see what happens.

Mike Penner (once known as Christine Daniels), a transsexual sports writer, has committed suicide, and I find myself heartbroken at the news.

April 2007 was a time of huge uncertainty in my life. I had just started hormones and was working through the horrible fears I had about being judged, abandoned, and hated. I was also beginning to get glimmers of self acceptance and was beginning to discuss my situation with Mary Jo, my doctor, and my therapist. I began to feel that I might survive GID (gender identity disorder), but I couldn’t picture just how I would go about surviving it.

Then, on April 26, 2007, I read an electrifying piece in the Los Angeles Times, “Old Mike, New Christine,” a story about the sports journalist Mike Penner who was transitioning into a woman named Christine Daniels. Here was a heroic trans*woman who had outed herself on the front page of the newspaper, a woman who was able to describe her gender distress and her subsequent decision to transition to sports readers, a woman who was instantly celebrated in her LA Times transition blog.

Two months earlier, on February 21, Susan Stanton was outed on the front pages of her newspaper. The way Stanton, the city manager of Largo, Florida, was outed in a way that frightened me to no end, and I could easily imagine my firing and destruction if anyone ever found out about me. But Christine Daniels’ self-outing felt completely different: she was taking control of her life, told her story to millions, and kept her job as a sports writer. This was someone I wanted to be like — her poise was an inspiration to me. I thought of her often, read her transition blog weekly, and even studied her coming out letter as I grappled with finishing my own letter on Christmas, 2007, only a few months away from the date I eventually mailed out my letters to the world.

It was quite a jolt, therefore, when Christine decided to de-transition in October 2008 (read here , here, and here for more information). Detransitioning is a huge thing (I wrote about it in February 2008), and there was a lot of speculation in the trans* community about Mike’s decision. Was the real-life experience not going well? Was Christine finding it difficult to continue doing sports writing? It was suggested by those in the know, i.e. those who attended Los Angeles transgender support groups, that Christine’s transition was going well and that she was happy.

Still, this decision to return to being Mike Penner spoke volumes to me, not because there’s anything wrong about figuring out your gender in the way that you need, but because I wondered if Christine had come out too early, perhaps burned bridges that could not be fixed once her public coming-out story was printed. Or was it the case that Christine felt the deep sadness of loss as she began to settle into her new life, a sadness with which I’m quite familiar. Who knows why she returned to being Mike. The derision in the sports pages was intense — if there had been sympathy among the LA Times sports readers at her earlier coming-out, this switch back to Mike was greeted by jokes about “women changing their minds,” about the “penis being mightier than the sword,” and worst of all, doubts about the legitimacy of the trans* phenomenon at all.

Christine / Mike meant a lot to me for all of the above reasons. S/he was my age and had to face a very public coming out. S/he, like myself, managed to transition and maintain her job. S/he managed to transition (and then de-transition) without dragging all her neuroses in front of talk-television, without writing a best-seller. S/he seemed to me to be a very complex, very powerful, and very frail human being. Reading the news of the suicide today feels like a kick in the gut, not just because of the terrible sorrow surrounding a life cut short, but because of the reminder of the torment attached to gender variance of all sorts, whether “classic” transsexualism, crossdressing, or gender-queering. I wish there were balm that could have been given to Mike/Christine to sooth the pain.

I wrote a short piece called Dark Places in July 2008 about another trans*woman who committed suicide, and the feeling I have now is equally wrenching. It’s too late for this online friend, just as it’s too late for Mike Penner. But it’s not too late for the rest of us — life is too short and the hurdles from outsiders too high for us to harm ourselves. Better to accept ourselves, to open up channels for outreach to those who are alone, to tell our stories. We need to tell stories of success. We need friends, families, and co-workers to tell stories of acceptance so the imagined terror is diffused. And we need to hear stories of pain and failure, as well, to remind us of the stakes involved. When we list the names of transgendered people harmed by violence every year during the Transgender Day of Remembrance (November 20), we should also recall our own violence —physical and mental — that we foist upon ourselves.

Farewell, Mike. Farewell, Christine. You were brave and well-spoken. Your story was both an inspiration and a cautionary tale for the rest of us. You will be missed.

Straight from the aerospace medical division of the FAA came my official airman’s medical notification a couple of days ago, and while it’s a very good thing that ends a long chapter of frustration, the document is not without thorns.

The good news is that I do have a medical certificate (below), but it carries more restrictions than my previous certificates — I have to carry a letter of authorization with me whenever I fly, for example. Here’s what the medical looks like:

medical certificate

medical certificate

But more interesting is the letter of authorization, which invokes the regulations, parts 67.113, 67.213, and 67.313, which are simply identical and parallel subparts covering first-, second-, and third-class medicals, and deal with general medical conditions that aren’t generally specified in the rest of the part:

(b) No other organic, functional, or structural disease, defect, or limitation that the Federal Air Surgeon, based on the case history and appropriate, qualified medical judgment relating to the condition involved, finds—

(1) Makes the person unable to safely perform the duties or exercise the privileges of the airman certificate applied for or held; or
(2) May reasonably be expected, for the maximum duration of the airman medical certificate applied for or held, to make the person unable to perform those duties or exercise those privileges.

(c) No medication or other treatment that the Federal Air Surgeon, based on the case history and appropriate, qualified medical judgment relating to the medication or other treatment involved, finds—

(1) Makes the person unable to safely perform the duties or exercise the privileges of the airman certificate applied for or held; or
(2) May reasonably be expected, for the maximum duration of the airman medical certificate applied for or held, to make the person unable to perform those duties or exercise those privileges.

I don’t know where the FAA gets the idea that gender issues (or the medications, if any, related to gender issues) would “make a person unable to safely perform the duties of the airman certificate,” and I find the suggestion pretty insulting.

The letter (below) also mentions 67.401, which deals with the letter of authorization. The rationale given in this section is largely public safety with language like this: “…capable of performing airman duties without endangering public safety.” This stands in contrast to the aforementioned sections, which appeal to the airman’s ability to perform duties. To its credit, this section recognizes that holders of 3rd class medical certificates are private pilots:

[The FAA needs to] consider the freedom of an airman, exercising the privileges of a private pilot certificate, to accept reasonable risks to his or her person and property that are not acceptable in the exercise of commercial or airline transport pilot privileges, and, at the same time, considers the need to protect the safety of persons and property in other aircraft and on the ground.

Despite this “freedom” paragraph, my letter makes no mention of the fact I’ve sought a 3rd class medical (for private pilots versus commercial ones), and I’m curious why a private trans*pilot can’t just be left alone, using this paragraph as FAA rationale.

So anyway, we have these twin rationales, a) that people with gender issues may not be able to perform their duties as pilots and b) that people with gender issues may pose a threat to public safety. These two dubious claims lie at the core of the “conclusion” stated in my letter, namely that gender identity disorder is inherently a disqualifying condition that causes trans* pilots to have to go through this nonsense in order to keep flying.

I would certainly agree that people who can’t perform their pilot duties and/or who pose a public threat probably should be automatically disqualified, but what I’d like to know is just where those two assertions about trans*people come from. They cannot be based in empirical facts — I’ve looked through the NTSB accident reports and can find no mention of transgendered pilots as the cause of any incidents or accidents. Where is the hearing or the memo or the commentary that glued these twin falsehoods onto trans* people? I would love to read that rationale.

Notice on page two that an olive branch is held out: next year, if I have no changes in my current medical condition, they’ll consider removing the requirement for a letter of authorization. Fair enough, but my question is Just what is my current medical condition? I’m healthy, productive, and capable. I’m already bound to ground myself if I develop a medical condition that hampers my ability to fly, and I would think that such a rule would already apply to trans*pilots (as well as all other pilots). Does the letter mean to say “my current psychological condition,” or does it mean to include everything? The second paragraph says, “Because of your history of GID and GRS, operation of an aircraft is prohibited at any time new symptoms or adverse changes occur.” The word “history” is instructive here — maybe the FAA means that my history makes me suspect, and not necessarily my current state as a fairly normal pilot. If that’s the case, then how long does that “history” stick with me and compel me to carry around this letter when I fly and when I go for my next aviation medical exam?

I feel as if I’ve been branded as someone we need to watch, someone who might “get sick” again. I’m not sure what that would look like, but the GRS is a done deal, and the GID has gone away. What if I take up cabaret singing? Or take a turn towards butch-dom? Just what are these relapses that the FAA imagines might happen to me? These recurring conditions constitute a third area that I’d like to understand better — did the FAA approve trans*people for flying some time in the past, but their behavior or demeanor led them into an accident, and thus triggered this rule that they have to be watched in case gender issues return? If so, where are those records, those stories that would provide grounding for the current rule? If they don’t exist, then does the FAA just make up random nonsense to justify argumentative nonsense arrived at via non-existent data about public safety and pilot abilities? I’m starting to think this is precisely how it works.

medical authorization, p. 1

medical authorization, p. 1

medical authorization, p. 2

medical authorization, p. 2

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