

### whatever.odt

JD O'Meara

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2012 JD O'Meara

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Thank you for downloading this free ebook. Although this is a free book, it remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy at Smashwords.com, where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.

Acknowledgments

I'd like to thank my primary readers for their critical insight and helpful comments on my multiple (and occasionally disastrous) drafts. Jackie, Jody, and Liz, this text would be a lot less coherent if weren't for you.

I also need to thank Becky, Bob, David, and Linda. The conversations sparked by your comments and questions ultimately made me believe that this text is worth publishing.

And finally, this text would never have happened without my fab four: Mom, Dad, Jerry, and Derek. I have no words for you guys. Thank you for your love and unwavering support, even when I'm being difficult...which is most of the time.

~ ~ ~

Table of Contents

A Note on the Text

Prologue

All I Want

0 dB

Lines

.5

Here It Goes Again

i

. . . \- - - . . .

Sigma

rmdir ~/hate

Drive

Rx

Roots

Sig Figs

It's Not a Fashion Statement

Lambda

O.o

Boundaries

Diamond Eyes

Defense

400 nm

Epilogue

About the Author

Cited Material

~ ~ ~

**A Note on the Text**

Because many ebook readers do not properly display symbols, I had to make compromises on the representations of three of my chapter titles. Modifying the SOS chapter title from the symbolic dot and dash format to a combination of periods and hyphens works to an extent. Having no common punctuation symbols with which to create the upper case Greek letter Sigma and the lower case Greek letter Lambda, however, forced me to simply spell out those chapter titles.

I also opted for the epigraphs to substitute the titles of the songs for their file name representations that I originally used. Thus the original Table of Contents for _whatever.odt_ \-- and the version of it with which I am most happy with as a writer -- looks as follows.

A link to the Cited Material page is included the first time a work is quoted. Following the "back" link at the end of the citation will return the reader to that spot in the text. As indicated at the bottom of the Cited Material page, I do not include documentation of all 5331 Yahoo! comments with this version of the text. I do, however, make that documentation available to everyone.

The name of the font on my cover is "Schoolbully." *grin* Yeah. I even appropriated your font.

~ ~ ~

~ ~ ~

Prologue

2009.

An exhausted traveler sits in a hotel lobby in the wee hours of the morning. A valet holding a pair of key cards approaches. The traveler motions toward the Front Desk, where a second traveler negotiates heatedly with an attendant. The valet then joins their discussion.

A casual observer would see nothing unusual in this exchange. And frankly, I didn't either. But the reason I saw nothing unusual in it is kind of unusual.

The exhausted traveler -- that's me. I'd been on the go for hours. Security had been particularly strict at both Detroit Metro and LaGuardia, in part due to the fact that the date was September 11th. Or had been, anyway. It was now a little after 2 am on the 12th. And I was still green from Mr. Toad's Wild Ride from the airport.

The first room we'd been given had a bad air conditioning unit. Long story short, after 40 minutes or so of being on hold alternately with the Front Desk and Maintenance, a guy with a toolbelt came sauntering in. After less than two minutes of looking at the unit quizzically and slamming his closed fist down on it (in much the same way, I should note, that I myself had done, before queasily falling face down on the bed), he pronounced the unit broken and advised us to move to another room.

Another 20 minute, on-hold bonanza ensued. Why there was such a wait to talk to the Front Desk at 2 in the morning is a mystery to me. But then again, when I'm face down on a strange bed at 2 in the morning, a lot of things are a mystery to me.

An argument erupted.

"We've already called the Front Desk about this once. No, we already had a guy from Maintenance come look at the air conditioner. We need a new room. What do you mean, you don't have another room? You're telling me that there are no vacant rooms in the entire hotel? On the 47th floor? Ok, can we have a valet meet us up there so we don't have to come down 48 floors just to turn around and come back up 47? What do you mean, no? The 19th floor? You just said that there was a room on the 47th floor. Yes, you did. You just said 47. I heard you myself. You just said it."

Suffice it to say that a lot -- and I mean, a lot -- of words were spilled on both sides of this conversation.

My travel partner slammed down the phone.

Two minutes later we were dragging our luggage back to the elevator. My attempt to stab the button for floor 19 was thwarted, however, by the fact that the lowest floor served by that particular elevator was the 20th.

I looked blearily at my travel buddy. It might have been my imagination, but I'm pretty sure I saw smoke wisping from her ears.

I couldn't keep up with her stomp toward the front desk, so I opted to sit with the luggage while she handed the Front Desk attendants their collective asses. I flopped onto a bench -- feet on the ground, elbows on my knees, head in my hands \-- and stared at the floor.

I blinked.

The first time we'd come through the lobby, I'd thought the floor was gray. But now that I was staring at it, I noticed that it was actually composed of small alternating black and white squares.

I squinted.

And actually, the whites weren't even white and the blacks weren't even black anymore. The scuffs accumulated through regular usage had rendered them more alike than different. Was a shame, really, to have invested all that time and energy into the black and white squares when the floor ended up being gray.

A pair of shoes, worn by the aforementioned valet, entered my field of vision.

"Hello?"

I looked up slowly.

"Are you the ones moving to the 19th floor?"

I attempted but failed to reply in time.

"Excuse me, son. Are you the ones moving to the 19th floor?"

I grinned and motioned toward the front desk.

"Oh, your mom? Thank you."

The shoes disappeared, leaving me to ponder both the floor and how accustomed I am to being referred to as "son" -- which is a little unusual for a 35 year old chick with a PhD (so technically, I'm "Doctor Son") who in this particular case was in New York not with my mother but on business with my boss, who isn't even 10 years my senior.

~ ~ ~

**Let's leave no words unspoken**

And save regrets for the broken

Will you even look back when you think of me?

All I want is a place to call my own

And mend the hearts of everyone who feels alone

You know to keep your hopes up high and your head down low

A Day to Remember, "All I Want"

~ ~ ~

0 dB

I should probably warn you that I generally can't tell a story for shit.

I never know quite where to start.

Sometimes I'll be all into a story and look up to find a bemused look on my listener's face, usually indicative of my not having started the story back far enough. Other times it's the glazed look, for starting the story too far back. There's also the confused look, for neglecting a critical detail; the annoyed look, for taking too long to make a point; and the irritated look, for failing to make any semblance of a point at all. And then there's the noose-tying look, which is useful because it scales as needed: the 'please hang me' look, for when I'm off on a tangent; the 'seriously please hang me now' look, for when I've interrupted myself to go on a tangent; and the 'fuck this, I'm going to hang you instead' look, for when I've interrupted a tangent with tangential interruption.

Occasionally even I myself will realize that a story has devolved into a poorly-authored choose-your-own-matrushka-adventure, but I'm usually told to shut the hell up before it gets quite that bad.

Take my story here, for example. I have no idea where to start.

I'd like to just dive right in, but I've learned be wary of looks. I've seen too many. And I'm not talking about the ones my lousy storytelling generate. I'm talking about the ones the me and my story generate -- the ones that me and my sisters and my brothers and all of our stories generate.

'At the beginning' is of course the obvious place to start, but this assumes I know when and where 'the beginning' actually is. And I don't. But even if I did, I wouldn't start that way anyway. Sounds too much like 'in the beginning,' which isn't what I want at all.

Saying that it all started 'back in the day' might ingratiate me with the non-academic crowd that I'd like to have hear my message, but I happen to know that would make my friends and colleagues in the academy break out in hives. And I'm actually starting to itch a little bit myself after having typed that just now.

'Once upon a time' doesn't have the right ring to it, and neither does 'a long time ago.'

I am, like many of my generation, partial to 'a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.' For that matter, I'm also a huge fan of 'far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the Western Spiral arm of the Galaxy.' But both of those beginnings are a little too...I don't know...galactic.

I guess I could start with some basic information about myself, like the stuff you'd put in an online profile -- but really, does anyone ever tell the truth on those things? I know I don't. I have profiles splattered all over the web, none of them the same and not one of them entirely truthful. My usernames and aliases are quite the motley bunch, and many of them are connected to email addresses that aren't even registered in my real name. Sometimes I literally don't know who the hell I am.

Still, this text being what it is, I suppose some truth is in order.

I was born on All Saints Day, but the day before would have been more appropriate for a variety of reasons. The year was 1973 and the time was right around 4 pm. Nearly all of the descriptions that I've read of the Scorpio, the Ox, and, more specifically, the Water Ox are essentially accurate.

My grandmother says that everything happens for a reason. This I believe. She also says that the world contains more assholes than asses. This I also believe. The best advice I ever got was to look both ways at a green light. It was given to me specifically in a driving context, but I find it to be useful overall. I'm a downright lousy liar, and this I'm proud of.

Most people say I'm a rotten driver. I cite my squeaky clean driving record to the contrary. But frankly, I don't give a shit. I was told that we would have flying cars by now anyway.

The world (like Camelot) is a silly place. I see amusement anywhere and everywhere. I often get the giggles. I've pulled muscles playing air hockey and sprained joints in epic tubing wipeouts. I'm always looking to add to my crazy hat collection, and I'll usually be the first to laugh at myself. I'm called 'doctor' most often in jest, typically after I've done something that is reflective of neither my age nor my intelligence. "And so, doctor, you got stuck in that tube slide -- how?"

I wrote an essay in 11th grade that said I wanted to be Roger Rabbit when I grew up. In college I knocked the door off of our oven with my french horn case. I was recognized as an Academic All-American on the bowling team in graduate school, and routinely use an analogy involving Dairy Queen to explain why Milton's God isn't responsible for the Fall even though He knew it was going to happen. Not bad for a kid who was kicked out of kindergarten.

I believe that bodies are to be lived in and enjoyed. Terribly cliché as it is, I can tie a cherry stem into a knot using only my tongue. I can also, however, affix an ice pack to nearly any part of my body using only a t-shirt, and I play Guitar Hero only on expert. All foodstuffs fall into three groups, according to whether they can be improved with the addition of ranch dressing, cheese, or chocolate. If it doesn't fit into one of these groups, odds are I don't eat it. Ice cream works wonders on emotional bumps and bruises, and the world would be a happier place if we all just wore cotton, flannel, leather, and silk.

I'd consider leaving my husband for Brian Griffin, but that's probably just the midlife crisis talking. When I --

"You're too young to be having a midlife crisis," they tell me.

I object once.

"You're too young to be having a midlife crisis," they tell me again.

*sigh*

Maybe they're just trying to make me feel better. Maybe they don't know how condescending it is to assume that they know more about how I feel than I do. Maybe they have no idea how dismissive it is to deny my feelings and experience.

I'd rather they just told me to shut the fuck up than silence me like that.

Now how on earth, you might wonder, could anyone be silenced in this day and age? Blogs are free and plentiful. Social networking sites abound. The intertubes are bursting with vlogs, and the microblogging sensation allows everyone to announce in real time to the world and Google when they're taking a particularly satisfying dump. So how -- do tell, how -- could anyone possibly be silenced?

Let me tell you.

It doesn't take much.

~ ~ ~

Lines

I always had a sense that I was different from other kids. Most of the ones I went to school with never let an opportunity to tell me so pass them by. I never really internalized this difference, though, until my first high-school soccer banquet.

I began playing soccer when I was 9. I started in the local recreation league, but soon advanced onto a premier team that played out of a different city. I remember being well-liked among my teammates. Looking back now, I see the reason that I was able to tolerate school at all was because I had this other support network of peers. No matter how much the kids I went to school with teased and bullied me, my soccer teams provided me with a haven.

The premier league played year-round. My teammates and I saw each other only in a soccer context: we travelled to tournaments, played twice a week, and practiced for hours. Our season never ended, so to speak, so there was no need for banquets or other social gatherings.

This changed in high school, when I played for the first time on a team with kids from my own school. My teammates and I saw each other in the hallways: we gossiped about cute guys, talked about teachers, and bitched about homework. I was still badgered and insulted every day by most of my schoolmates, but I did feel to a certain extent that I had on my team, if not friends, then at least a group of allies that wouldn't join in on the abuse.

The end of the high-school season was formally marked by a soccer banquet, which was a dinner for players and parents, an awards ceremony, and a send-off to the seniors, all wrapped into one. Our coach informed us of the banquet date one April afternoon via memo.

The memo contained the statement that to this day still haunts me.

"Proper attire is required."

It sounds silly, I know. But it's no laughing matter.

I showed up at the banquet in the required attire, which was specified in that and in every other such memo that I'd brought home at least once a year since 6th grade as "a dress or a skirt and blouse for girls." My teammates were all there, also all 'properly' dressed.

And it was, just like that, painfully clear to me. I was the only one who was so uncomfortable that I couldn't even speak.

I had, you see, come to assume certain similarities between myself and my teammates. We hated the color pink. We stomped in mud puddles and had spitting contests. We threw elbows and took out ankles.

And yet, they could wear 'proper' attire and I could not.

Why?

My search for the answer to that question, in essence the search for my own identity, was complicated -- I repeat, complicated -- for years by the fact that I am what most people would call heterosexual.

I ended up playing only one more season of soccer before opting instead to go back into the band, where I felt the least uncomfortable during my final years of high school. It would, however, be seven long years from the time of that soccer banquet to when I would truly feel like I was part of something again.

I know now that there are a lot of people who understand where I'm coming from and what I'm talking about. I wish like hell that I would have known at the time.

One such person is Daphne Scholinski, who tells her story in The Last Time I Wore a Dress.

The academic in me, I should note, feels compelled to pause here to include a literature review and a sprinkling of footnotes to impress you with how much I appear to know about Scholinski and her text. The edupunk in me says fuck that. You know how to use a web browser.

Scholinski was bounced in an out of mental institutions, treated primarily not for the depression or for the sexual abuse from which she actually suffered, but rather for what her doctors deemed a Gender Identity Disorder.

He rolled his pen between his fingers for a moment. He said the other diagnosis was something called Gender Identity Disorder, which he said I'd had since Grade 3, according to my records. He said what this means is you are not an appropriate female, you don't act the way a female is supposed to act.

I looked at him. I didn't mind being called a delinquent, a truant, a hard kid who smoked and drank and ran around with a knife in her sock. But I didn't want to be called something I wasn't. Gender screw-up or whatever wasn't cool. My foot started to jiggle, I couldn't stop it. He was calling me a freak, not normal. (15-16)

Part of Scholinski's medical treatment for GID was to make her more feminine -- to make her a more "appropriate female."

Every week my staff advisor, Nanette, who had a calming voice, sat on my bed beside me and reviewed a piece of paper outlining my weekly treatment plan. This included: "Pt to spend 15 minutes with a female peer in A.M. and comb and curl hair. To experiment with makeup; to look into mirror 1x day & say something positive; Pt to continue to spend 15 minutes with female peer working on hygiene and appearance in A.M."

In addition Dr. Freeman suggested I learn how to dress more like a girl.

"How am I supposed to do that?"

He suggested I talk to my female friends about what kinds of clothes they wear, and what kinds of clothes boys like. (117-18)

What drew me to _The Last Time I Wore a Dress_ was the title. What horrified me about it is that its events take place in the 1980s. Not the 1880s. The 1980s.

The soccer banquet occurred in '88.

I'd been refusing to wear dresses since the mid-70s.

This could have been me.

I too was freakified by the medical establishment. Family Therapy, they called it. Solo sessions alternating with ones that included my mother, father, and brother. My parents dragged me there when I was in 7th grade. They were concerned as to why their straight-A, generally well-behaved daughter had begun acting out.

"Everything isn't a contest," the therapist told me. "You don't always have to win."

All I could do was smirk. If that was the case, then why was I on the losing end of every interaction with my peers?

I remember one particularly disastrous therapy session. I had just hours earlier brought home a 'proper attire' memo, this one for an upcoming honors assembly at which I would be honored with numerous awards.

Even though I was only 12 or 13, I had already been fighting with my parents for years about clothes. Looking back, I realize that those early fights were more or less tantrums -- to which, I confess, I am still prone. The force of my denials had always been in their volume and sheer persistence.

So there I sat on the proverbial couch. I didn't like therapy, and I definitely didn't like that therapist. She asked me what was on my mind, and I blurted out that I had brought home that fucking memo. She asked me questions and responded to my tearful answers with all of the softness and understanding of a Brillo pad. I told her repeatedly that I didn't want to wear a dress, but ultimately failed to come up with what, according to her educational training and professional opinion, was a satisfactory explanation of why.

Her lack of sympathy was upsetting. Her advice to drop the argument and simply wear the required clothing was distressing. But her assurance that I would look beautiful in a dress was completely unbearable.

Mark Rees echoes this sentiment in Dear Sir or Madam.

She tried to reassure me of my femininity, even telling me that I was pretty, which was about the worst thing she could have done. (35)

What exactly happens when I'm in a dress is impossible for me to articulate. You'd think I could, what with a fancy PhD and all...but I can't. It's like I disappear. I can't think. I can't speak. I can't be. Everything I am is silenced and erased.

Scholinski was forced to wear makeup as part of her treatment at Michael Reese hospital. I understand wholeheartedly her reaction to seeing herself made-up.

I sneaked a glance and it was a jolt. My beige face gave me a creepy dead look. The blue eye shadow, the blush -- I looked like a stranger. Michelle's friend, Linda -- the one who would let boys do anything to her and who could stand to lose about a half a pound of makeup from her face -- laughed her mean ha-ha laugh in my ear.

Over the edge, they said at Michael Reese, when Anne started throwing paper cups of juice in the lounge. She's gone over the edge. I knew this edge. I felt it now under my sneakers. You had to walk the edge without looking down, casual-like, so you didn't let them know you were on it even though, like now, your neck felt hot and your legs trembly as if you might sway and tip over. Going over the edge -- I'd never done this, exactly. It was tempting. I could feel myself sliding a bit because it wasn't me with the makeup on my face, it was happening to someone else, but it was me, and it would be so relaxing to take the fall, to join the ones who tilted and babbled and threw things. Although, in spite of my own violent reputation, I wouldn't be a thrower. I'd be the one in the corner, rocking herself, my arms around my curled-up legs, like my dog Pudgy under the coffee table. (119-20)

I know that disembodied feeling, what it's like to look at someone else staring back at you from the mirror. I know that edge, and have walked it with my own trembling legs. I have been the thrower, and I have been the one in the corner.

I know the feeling of unreality described by Jay Copestake in "Butch."

I cannot remember when it became clear to me that no wedding, job interview, family gathering, or bar mitzvah was going to convince me that putting on a frock or feminine attire was a viable option. And certainly it didn't feel right! In my early twenties, on the rare occasion that I wore a frock or a skirt, I felt like a fraud; somehow it seemed inauthentic, like I was playing dress-ups. (264-65)

I don't remember this ever becoming clear to me, either. It just always was.

I'm not supposed to wear a dress.

I regret that it took me so long to find these writers -- so long to find others who would understand and validate my feelings and experiences. I at one time felt the fear incited by the House of the Freaks in Carson McCullers' female protagonist in Member of the Wedding, Frankie Addams.

The last booth was always very crowded, for it was the booth of the Half-Man Half-Woman, a morphidite [sic] and miracle of science. This Freak was divided completely in half -- the left side was a man and the right side a woman. The costume on the left was a leopard skin and on the right side a brassiere and a spangled skirt. Half the face was dark-bearded and the other half bright glazed with paint. Both eyes were strange. Frankie had wandered around the tent and looked at every booth. She was afraid of all the Freaks, for it seemed to her that they had looked at her in a secret way and tried to connect their eyes with hers, as though to say: we know you. (20)

My fear, however, has matured into a sense of connection, much like the one Scholinski felt to her fellow patient, Sandra.

At dinner she sat at the table with the rest of us and it was as if she wasn't there. I studied her. One of the attendants whispered -- as if she could hear. "Faggot," he called her, and I told him to shut up.

Putting her meal tray back into the metal cart, Sandra slipped and fell and her dress flew up. We saw she was a man, even though we already knew. We saw it. Her wig slid off her head, lay on the floor next to her bald head. I sat in my seat frozen, scared. A thin line connected Sandra and me, I didn't know how or why, but I felt it. (60)

This line. This thin line. It connects me to Scholinski. It connects me to Rees and it connects me to Copestake. This thin line connects me to my sisters and brothers, and to their sisters and brothers, and to their sisters and brothers in turn.

The more I follow this line, the more it empowers me. And I believe this line has led me to where I finally belong.

~ ~ ~

.5

The date was August 10th, 2009. I am sure of this not because I'm a whiz with dates. Far from it. I actually got married on Christmas Day in part so I would never forget my anniversary, and have nonetheless forgotten my anniversary nearly every year since.

I remember shuffling through the mail one holiday season, opening Christmas cards and taping them to the back of the front door. One of them mysteriously read "Happy Anniversary to my Son and his Wife." Weird card, I thought to myself.

And then it hit me. I was on a mad dash back to the mall before the card fluttered its way to the floor.

Definitely not a whiz with dates. I know that it was August 10th because I jotted the date down after I laughed my ass off.

I had finished reading Jennifer Finney Boylan's She's Not There and had returned to the library to grab two other books that Boylan had mentioned: Mildred L. Brown and Chloe Ann Rounsley's _True Selves_ and Richard Russo's _Straight Man_. I was standing by the circulation desk, surveying my surroundings. I was absolutely out of my element. It was only the second time I'd been in a public library in well over 15 years. The first time had been just three days before.

A short, homely lady wearing a thick gold cross around her neck ambled toward the desk, bringing a cloud of perfume and cat dander with her. I handed her my driver's license and the two books.

She punched up my account.

"Oh, it looks like you already have a book checked out."

"Yeah, I do," I answered casually, not really paying attention.

"A life in..." She trailed off.

The subtitle of Boylan's book is _A Life in Two Genders_.

At that point she picked up the _True Selves_ book and gave a little gasp. That I noticed. Her eyes widened as they met mine.

The subtitle of that one is _Understanding Transsexualism for Families, Friends, Coworkers, and Helping Professionals_.

She quickly scanned the book and put it face down on the desk. She then grabbed the Russo book and looked back up at me. At this point I'd figured it out, and was looking amusedly right at her.

I think she wanted to cry.

She hurriedly scanned the second book, took another look at my license, cleared her throat, and stammered a quiet "thank you, Jennifer." Her attempt to push the books toward me was weak at best. And her "have a nice day" was easily one of the most ridiculous ever uttered.

The librarian's reaction is just one of the many that I've evoked over the years. Fear, curiosity, anger, revulsion -- I've triggered the whole gamut, really. I myself am fortunate enough to have walked away from most of these run-ins, if not laughing, then at least physically unscathed. Many of my sisters and brothers aren't so lucky. They've been carried away from their run-ins in body bags.

People don't like when they can't determine your gender. No. Let me rephrase that. People don't like it when they think you're not displaying your "true" gender clearly and accurately. Hence the question, "what are you?", or, more frequently, "what the fuck are you?"

My answer is simple. I am what I always have been.

My domestic spaces neither are nor have been any more integrated than usual in terms of gender. I have many childhood memories of parties at my aunt's house, with the women in the kitchen preparing side dishes and the men in the yard barbequing the main course. The scene remains the same today, the only real difference being that, given the advances in technology over the past 30 years, the chef standing over the barbeque can now singe not only his own eyebrows, but also the eyebrows of anyone foolish enough to stand within a three foot radius of him as well.

As for me, I'm the go-between.

My uncle sends me to fetch the cheese for the burgers. My aunt hands me the cheese and tells me to bring back the plate the patties were on. I hand him the cheese, he hands me the plate, he asks me to bring back a platter. I hand her the plate, she hands me a platter, she gives me the buns. I hand him the platter, he asks for the buns, I hand him the buns. Flames flare, I duck, and he sends me for a beer to replace the one he douses the fire with.

I move seamlessly back and forth. Accepted in both spaces. Expected in neither. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Boylan uses the term 'boygirl' to describe a particular stage of her transition from male to female.

I seemed to pass from being perceived as male to female at a moment's notice, depending on whom I was with, where I was, whether my hair was tied back or loose, how I crossed my legs. (152)

For Boylan, this boygirl stage in which she could easily alternate between being read as male or female was a temporary state, and one that most transexuals understandably want to get through as quickly as possible.

I, however, live in this state. I embody and embrace it.

I decided to write my story because it isn't quite like any of the others I've read. It's not a coming out story and it's not a transition story, although on some level it's a little bit of both. It's kind of hard to explain, given there is no language to explain it with. Hands down the most difficult question I'm asked nowadays is "what's your book about?". "Me" never seems like an adequate answer, but in a lot of ways it's the only answer I have. It's the only word I have.

I can, on the other hand, tell you exactly how I wrote this book. I started thinking in a serious way about it after I traumatized the librarian. A friend of mine suggested I check out the NaNoWriMo website, which challenges its participants to write 50,000 words during the month of November. The idea is to put your head down and go.

I went.

I ended up with well over a hundred pages of text. Random thoughts, unfinished ideas, and marginally coherent passages were jumbled together in over thirty different documents. It was a hell of a thing to try to read.

I then began the delicate and deliberate process of creating the Frankendraft.

Using a pair of scissors, a roll of tape, and a ream of paper, I literally cut apart what I'd written and taped the pieces back together in a way that made sense. I reread. I dug up memories, drafted them, and taped them in. I reread again. I dug up more memories, drafted them, and taped them in. And so I worked, repeating this process again and again, stitching my story together.

This book represents in both form and content my various and, some would say, contradictory facets.

You might like.

You might hate it.

But either way I hope you'll accept it for what it is.

~ ~ ~

**Oh just when you think you're in control**

Just when you think you've got a hold

Just when you get on a roll

Oh here it goes, here it goes, here it goes again

Oh here it goes again

I should've known, should've known, should've known again

But here it goes again.

Ok Go, "Here It Goes Again"

~ ~ ~

i

The desk clerk motioned unenthusiastically toward a stack of clipboards.

"Also need a copy of your insurance card."

My husband rolled his eyes and dug for his wallet. I took a pair of clipboards and flopped into a nearby chair.

Derek eventually sat down next to me and leaned over, I assume, to remark how foolish it was that we had to fill out New Patient paperwork when it was in fact the desk clerk who was new.

She interrupted him.

"Your son can fill out the paperwork but you have to sign it."

We looked at each other. The screwed-up face he made set me a-giggle.

"She's not my son," he replied.

I turned and saw that the couple adjacent to us had tuned in to the exchange. They were both smiling. I grinned back at them.

She said it again.

"Your son can fill out the paperwork but you have to sign it."

I snorted a laugh and started coughing.

"She's my wife," Derek replied, this time a little louder.

An amused murmur swept through the rest waiting room.

The clerk began a third time, but Derek cut her off with a loud bellow.

"She's not my son, she's my wife!"

At that, the whole waiting room erupted in laughter.

The incident to this day remains one of my favorites.

This sort of thing happens all the time. I am frequently read as being younger than I am. I am occasionally read as being much younger than I am. Women almost unanimously tell me this is a compliment; some men backhandedly so. A handsome security guard carding me in Vegas once told me, "You're gonna look good when you're fifty."

:/

One summer I went to Disney with a cousin who is 16 years younger than I am. We dined one evening at the Italian restaurant in Epcot. The hostess gave me a children's menu when we arrived, and the server gave her the bill when we were ready to leave. I was in college at the time.

On another occasion I was in graduate school. Our family had gathered at my grandmother's house the Spring after my grandfather had passed away. I was raking the front lawn when a little kid on a bike stopped, introduced himself, and said that he had just moved into the neighborhood. I have no idea what I said back to him. I do, however, remember him asking me was what grade I was in, and his surprise when after a moment of calculating I replied, "twenty-second."

These incidents are funny as hell. I take them seriously too, though, as they form the fabric of those thin lines.

Mark Rees was read as a youth on numerous occasions.

It has been said that female-to-male transsexuals, after role-change, look considerably younger than their chronological ages. My own experience shows this to be so before, as well as after, reassignment therapy. (73)

In Conondrum, Jan Morris describes her transition from male to female as a journey backward in time.

Hasty calculation suggests to me that between 1964 and 1972 I swallowed at least 12,000 pills, and absorbed into my system anything up to 50,000 milligrams of female matter. Much of this doubtless went to waste, the body automatically discharging what it cannot absorb; the rest took its effect, and turned me gradually from a person who looked like a healthy male of orthodox sexual tendencies, approaching middle age, into something perilously close to a hermaphrodite, apparently neither of one sex or the other, and more or less ageless. (105)

...

The change was infinitely gradual. I felt like a slow-motion Jekyll and Hyde, tinkering with test-tubes and retorts in my dark laboratory; but the effects were so subtle that they seemed not to be induced at all, were not noticed for years by everyday acquaintances, and seemed to be part of the natural process of aging. Except that, fortunately, they worked backwards, and rejuvenated me. (106)

...

All this helped to make me younger. It was not merely a matter of seeming younger; except in the matter of plain chronology, it was actually true. I was enjoying that dream of the ages, a second youth. (107)

I dig the metaphor. I too am both scientist and offspring, shaping and transforming myself and my text.

I find it interesting that we might share something somewhere in our hormone soup. I am afraid, however, that the white coats might descend and attempt to eradicate it.

A mentor of mine once called me the Doogie Howser of PhDs. "Doctor Doogs." I like it.

I was in my late 20s when I made a beeline for an exit row seat on a Hawaiian island-hopping flight. As soon as I sat down, a flight attendant appeared and apologetically asked me to move: all exit row passengers had to be at least 16 years old. My family laughed during the entire flight, and the other members of the crew held a contest amongst themselves to see who could guess my real age.

I was in my early 30s zipping around a lake on a jet ski when I was stopped by the sheriff. I flipped the seat and grabbed the fire extinguisher, figuring that's how he was going to nail me. Instead he asked me how much experience I had operating a personal watercraft. I grinned and told him a little over 15 years. He scratched his head, apologized, called me ma'am, and went on his merry way.

Best. Sheriff. Stop. Ever.

Truth be told, I actually don't feel my age. I peg myself at about 19.

Derek and I discussed my sense of self over dinner the weekend I turned 36. We were sitting in a restaurant at Hotel Breakers, just outside of Cedar Point. The Halloweekend was in full swing and the park would be open for several more hours, but I'd already had enough. We'd been on all of our favorite rides, my body had been thoroughly rattled, and I'd be sore well into the next week.

The park had been celebrating the 20th anniversary of the Magnum, which had at one time been its most badass coaster. I was caught in a Damn, I'm Old reverie, remembering in detail when that ride first opened. I was 15 that summer. Not even old enough to drive.

When I told my therapist that I see myself as a 19 year old, he asked what happened when I was 19 that might have caused the development of my sense of self to arrest. Sipping my double chocolate shake as we waited for our appetizer, I explained to Derek that I don't like that question. It's implicitly pathologizing. But more to the point, it's the wrong one. The better question is why the development of my sense of self couldn't proceed.

In order to grow up, you have to grow up into something. Girls grow up into women. Boys grow up into men. Makes sense. And it works for the majority of people.

We see in Becoming a Visible Man that it didn't work in quite that way for Jamison Green.

In the process of my long self-investigation, it finally dawned on me that I had not been able to grow up fully because I was never going to be an adult woman. I knew that the only way I could grow up – really be an adult – was to become a man. (22)

Green ultimately did grow up, but only after his female-to-male transition.

But people like me are stuck in perpetual adolescence.

Our culture only recognizes men or women as adults. If you fail to exhibit the accepted cultural markings of either a man or a woman, the prevailing assumption will be that you've not yet grown up. And if you've not yet grown up, then you're still a kid -- not only in the eyes of others, but in your own eyes as well.

Mine isn't a case of arrested development. Mine is a case of culture failing to provide a space for me to grow up into.

Derek and I finished our meal and paid the check. I still had about a third of my shake left, and so asked the server if he could get me a traveler.

He soon returned, red and embarrassed, apologizing that these were the only plastic cups they had. He scooted away as quickly as possible.

On the table he'd placed a brightly-colored kiddie cup, complete with lid and straw hole.

Derek and I looked at the cup, looked at each other, and both laughed out loud.

~ ~ ~

. . . - - - . . .

Memories from when I was actually a kid are much less fun to recount.

Not a day went by that I wasn't subjected to some sort of verbal abuse from the kids at school. The torment was continual. It happened before school. It happened during school. It happened after school. It even happened in my sleep.

I suffered at the hands of both the boys and the girls. They sensed my alienation, and gleefully reinforced it. They let me know every day that I was different, and that I was neither wanted nor welcome among them.

I quickly learned that to confide in teachers was pointless. My antagonists would simply deny their words or actions, leaving the teacher to arbitrate a he said/she said, she said/she said, or -- as they said -- an I said/it said situation.

If the teacher happened to have heard or seen the incident, the situation was even more absurd. The teacher would preside over a forced and insincere apology that effectively gave my assailant another shot at me, this time in the presence of the authority figure who should have been protecting me.

"Sorry I called you a stupid queer dyke faggot."

Sure you are.

The worst part of these apologies, and the part that to this day pisses me off, is that I was then forced to acknowledge and accept them.

Talk about a triple kick in the ass.

I promised myself a day would come when I would no longer accept such apologies.

I remember one time when the boys asked me if I wanted to play football at recess. They told me they needed another person to make the teams even. I eagerly ran out to the field, but I didn't get to play. Nobody had even brought a football outside. They all just stood there and laughed at me, because they knew I'd fall for it. Because I was a guy. Because I was a fucking faggot dyke that wanted to play football like a guy.

Another time they did let me play. One play. I caught a pass. Everyone on both teams then tackled me and piled on, all yelling "smear the queer" at the top of their lungs.

That effectively ended my football career. Lucy had pulled her last ball away from this Charlie Brown.

I didn't fare much better among the girls. They called me names incessantly, but at least didn't try to physically hurt me. Except for the bully. I always tried to avoid her. She seemed to go out of her way to get me.

There was one time in particular when she caught me off guard during recess. She feigned throwing a ball in the opposite direction but instead whipped it right at me, hitting me square in the gut. When she came over to retrieve the ball, she told me that I should take my fucking dyke ass to K-Mart and get a sex change operation.

And I was so accustomed to such abuse that my first thought was "really now...K-Mart?"

Middle school wasn't any better. Our elementary school merged with two others, and I hoped my new classmates might be more accepting.

They weren't.

The assholes had networked during the summer. I was barraged with insults on the first day of school from people I didn't even know. I thought one guy in particular was cute. When I finally gathered up the nerve to say hi to him, he replied, "you must be that fucking queer."

Gym class rather than recess now provided opportunities for humiliation. Despite being one of the best female athletes, I was regularly chosen last. I was tripped, pushed, blocked, and elbowed. I was hit by basketballs, volleyballs, and floor hockey pucks. I was intimidated, badgered, and belittled. This was all either denied or said to have occurred on 'accident.'

Bullshit.

They knew exactly what they were doing, and so did I. I couldn't fight back. I was outnumbered. I couldn't tell on them. That was useless, and just made it worse for me the next time around.

The only thing I could do was shut up and take it.

In silence.

I thought at the time that this abuse was specific to me. It's not. My sisters and brothers around the globe experience it too. People like me -- girls and women deemed not feminine enough, boys and men considered not masculine enough -- we are abused every day. And often the only thing we can do is shut up and take it.

In silence.

I now know that what I experienced as far as physical abuse was very mild. Violence against us is all too common, perpetrated by strangers and acquaintances, by friends and loved ones, and by authority figures.

The fact that I didn't experience significant physical abuse makes me aware that I have and that I write from a position of white, middle class privilege. My story varies significantly from those of my sisters and brothers who are not white and whose socioeconomic status differs from my own. This variance, however, in no way weakens the bond I share with them. Our similarities are more important than our differences.

I also have the benefit of an extremely supportive family. I learned only recently that when I was 8 months old, my grandfather stood over me and said to my parents, "don't stifle her."

I am thankful they never have.

As an individual, I would like nothing more than to forget all that I've suffered. As a member of my community, however, I think it's important to remember.

We all still suffer, sometimes on a global stage.

~ ~ ~

Sigma

It took all of three minutes for August 20th, 2009 to become a day I would never forget.

I'd finished reading the Scholinski book and wanted to type up some thoughts. Instead of opening my word processing program, I inadvertently popped the browser, which fired me over to the newly redesigned Yahoo! homepage.

The top headline: "Gender test for track star." The tease: "A world-champion South African runner will be tested amid concerns she may not qualify as a woman."

A needle scratched loudly across the record in my mind.

I read the story. There was nothing particularly remarkable about it.

The comments, however, were quite another matter.

They were being posted as fast as I could read them. Memories washed over me, flooding my mind. I felt like I was drowning. Like I was being eaten alive. Like I was being violated in every way possible.

I was powerless against it. All I could do was read.

In silence.

People wonder why I don't go to my class reunions. Why I take evasive action when I see someone I went to school with. Why I still hold grudges after all these years.

"People grow up," they tell me.

Too late. I don't give a shit what kind of people they've grown up into.

Name calling troubles me.

On one hand, it's important to consider the source. I've heard that many times. The world is full of intolerant assholes. Ignore them, and don't dignify their comments with a reply. They're the ones with the problem.

On the other hand, it's important to realize that words are incredibly powerful. Names can and do, in fact, hurt \-- and the wounds they make can take a hell of a long time to heal, if they don't go septic first.

Language is in many ways the most potent weapon we have.

I suppose we could discuss where on the scale of relative cultural importance Yahoo! comments fall. That seems, however, more like an exercise I would do with an undergraduate rhetoric and composition class.

"Should we take these comments seriously?"

The students would stare at me apathetically. Papers would be shuffled. Gum would be snapped. A phone would vibrate so violently that the thing might as well have just rung out loud. A student might even answer it.

I'd repeat the question and let it hang there, eventually looking at my watch or leaning deliberately against a desk to signal that I have no intention of letting them off the hook.

Annoyed at my persistence, someone would say no.

I'd ask why.

"Because people just post stupid shit online without thinking."

Bait taken.

I'd elicit a few more responses and jot them down on the board.

"Comments are posted by kids and people with nothing else to do."

"People post and read comments for entertainment."

"It's easy to be an asshole when you're anonymous."

"We don't know whether the comments were intended to be serious."

Good enough to start. Time for the Socratic questions.

Is there a universal consensus of what activities qualify as entertainment? Must I ignore what I see as the negative political or cultural implications of an activity simply because someone else considers that activity to be entertaining?

Does the identity of the individual who posted a comment matter? Does the intent of the individual who posted a comment matter?

If people post stupid shit online without thinking, does that mean that I have to read the stupid shit without thinking? Does that mean that I have to ignore what I see as the seriousness of the stupid shit? Does freedom of speech also grant freedom from the implications of speech?

Most of the students will get it, or will at least play along.

The Yahoo! story was relatively short in length and on facts, as I recall. I have no idea if that has anything to do with why Yahoo! eventually removed the story. I suspect not. At any rate, its previous url is now a dead link, and I can't find the original story or comments online anywhere. And believe me, it ain't for lack of trying.

I'm not sure how many people actually read the story anyway, though. The single part of it that generated the most comments was the idea that the determination of gender/sex (which, again, if I'm remembering correctly, were collapsed into the same thing) is a complex process that would take a panel of various experts several weeks to complete. The overwhelming majority of the comments, however, focused on either the appearance or the name of runner, or -- in true internet fashion -- on something else entirely.

The loss of the story isn't as much of a bummer as the loss of the comments. I do, thankfully, have a record of comments 1-5331, the last of which was posted at 9:46 am on August 21st. The frenzy by that time seemed to have abated, and it was shortly thereafter that I began to copy and paste the comments into a document of my own.

Just for the record, 5331 is an insane number of comments. Commenter 209 notes that even that many is a lot, and that was well before things even got rolling.

To read the 5331 comments straight through is quite an experience. My .pdf file of these Yahoo! comments \-- single spaced, with an empty line between each comment -- is 771 pages in length. Little appears to be known about sex, gender, sexuality, and the relationships between them, several notable exceptions notwithstanding. Insensitivity and intolerance abound. And many of the comments in terms of grammar, spelling, and overall expression are either train wrecks or comedies of errors, and in some cases are both.

The athlete featured in the story was Caster Semenya, a middle distance runner from South Africa. Questions about Semenya's gender were raised following her victory in the 800 m at the IAAF World Championships in Berlin, Germany in 2009.

The Yahoo! commenters offer three main theories as to what is wrong with Semenya. The first involves hormone levels.

_684. Posted by gpearlman53_ she does look like a man, but some parts of her body dont resemble what a man athlete would have, such as larger shoulder muscled. she probably has a lot more male hormone factors, could have been ready to be a boy until the female hormorns took control.

_685. Posted by Robert_ I think more than anything it is more Like cross dressing on the inside not the outside. She could very well be a girl but it is not unheard of althles that work out alot looseing there peroids and all female hormons and acualty there bodys proudceing more testotorme then enstergin. Haven't you gyes every saw the world women body buliding contests Tell me thoses women don't look like men. I think they are just checking to make sure that her body is prouduceing the testostrome naturaly and not beging added by herself or some coach.

_1561. Posted by danielle_ As a heterosexual woman I believe that the committee should leave her alone because they should have tested her based on the facts that she's muscular and that she have a deep voice before they admitted her in the race. I believe that the officials are picking and searching for away to disqualify this person because she won! If her gender was an issue then it should have been addressed way before the race, not after the race. And, I don't believe that if she is a man she should feel ashamed because she could be one of many who believe that she's a man trapped in the wrong body, therefore, if she is taking homo pills and going through a transformation of becoming a woman this is grounds to understand that she believes that she qualify to be apart of the women track and field race and not the men track and field race. So, again if that is the case, the officials should have tested her before the race not after the race in order to make the right decision of which race she would have to participate in. Personally, I believe that the officials messed up and they should not have the rights to take her gold metal. They let her run as a woman, they gave her a gold metal as a woman, therefore, they should leave her alone, as a women.

Hi -- sorry to interrupt. Just want to make sure you caught that up there. "Homo pills."

Do continue.

_3186. Posted by D Hoyt_ Come on people, many women athletes lose estrigen from the extreme exercise. It doesn't make them a man.

_3481. Posted by nubian queen_ Im not one for comments, blogs, or anythin like that but this issue caught my eye. i have been runnin track for years includin junior olympics, and i have to say ive seen my share of he/she"s. First congrats to this athlete if everythin turns out ligit. judgin by the way she looks, yes as a female u have that instinct that makes u wonder, but i have no idea why they decided to make this public. if anythin i think they should test her for any enhancements, and if enough probably cause maybe a gender test, cant be too sure nowadays and lets be honest looks can be deciving.... black people let it go on the race card, im tired of it and im black. she's from africa,some racist runners maybe mad thats she is black with this record fast time, others may really think like me that a hormorne balance enhancement might be the "explaination" we"re looking for or maybe pure talent? i"ll let science tell me, and keep an open mind til then, i think we all should cause if everythin is ligit we'll be the ones looking like donkeys.....

To sum up: theory one surrounds hormorn levels. Semenya is either looseing female hormons and enstergin, or she has a hormorne balance enhancement, due perhaps either to testostrome beging added by her coach or to whatever is in those homo pills.

The second Yahoo! comment theory as to what is wrong with Semenya involves chromosomes.

_3266. Posted by khosi_g_ people i grew up with this lady. she has all the female private parts,if she has the XX chromosoms then thats not her problem, cause she does not know anything about those things, she simply knows how to run fair and square, she should be consulting her lawyers and open the defarmation case.

Wait. If she has the XX chromoso --

Oops. Sorry. Just thinking out loud.

_3299. Posted by zazadian_ she could have some messed up chromosomes e.g.:xxy or xxx

_3833. Posted by LegalWordWarrior_ Lady Plush - the issue is whether or not she is actually a woman based on genetic testing. If she is a woman who has male chromozomes, then there is an issue of whether or not she can race as a woman. Think about it, most males are superior athletes to women. They are bigger, stronger and faster. If the runner actually has male genes, then that runner should be competing with men, not women. No one is taking away that this is an outstanding athlete, but if you were a woman, would you want to compete with someone who actually had a genetic edge over you?

_4609. Posted by nisadark_ I agree it is very simple, not just pants down because anyone could change that visiting the surgeon but to see if she has XX cromosomes and not Y cromosome. I'm disappointed by ppl that try to explain what is a woman with six paragraphs of text. It must be complicated to try to bend the reality to their wishes. I don't know which gender is that athlete, I believe that the tests should be done before and not after the race to all athletes to not discriminate them by their appearance but better to do the test late than never. At the end in case she was a man he would tried to steal a medal to women and this possibility can't be tolerated in defense to women right to compete between them in equalty without men intrussion.

Theory two: chromozomes. Semenya might have some messed up ones. If she has male cromosomes, this can't be tolerated. Women in sport have to compete between them in equalty without men intrussion. If, on the other hand, she doesn't have male chromosoms, Semenya should open the defarmation case.

The third Yahoo! comment theory is that Semenya may fall into one of the various intersex categories.

_134. Posted by aajs6_ I didn't read all of the other responces, but the only reason it could take such a long time is if she is a hermaphradite. Both sets of sexual orgins and they have to check to see which is the dominate side in her life. Is she emotionally and mentally female, along with the female orgins and an extra set of male. Also they want to check her chromazones to see how they are configured, to see if it comes up as female or male first.

_212. Posted by dwight_ it seems that they must be trying to decide if he/she was a hermaphridite or had a sex change is that what they mean because that is the only logical think i could make out of the rubish they wrote

_989. Posted by Gisela_ She could be a "HERMAPRODITE" which is still hard to determine what category she can be compete with.

_1268. Posted by G_ Thats not a hermaphrodite its a hemaphrodite

Aw G. It would have been way funnier to contrast a _her_ maphrodide with a _him_ aphro --

Damn!

Sorry again.

_1922. Posted by indyjones_ perhaps they think she's a hermaphordite? that makes it not as easy at dropping someone's pants and checking., as someone else suggested.

_2226. Posted by Luke_ Shut up with the race card stuff, dude notice that the team manager never directly calls her a woman or female, he says "we entered her as a female"....!!! WTF either she had a sex change or she is a hermatheradite....

_2541. Posted by renee_ I bet its a hormorphordite they just cut it off and made it grow up as the women. It has a lot of man hormones and you can tell, their died wrong for even let her run in the beginning without noticing that its a man, she doesnt have any titties at all and look at her face, legs, and arms. If she was a women she would be so damn upset that their calling her a man I would be ready to kicks someones ass for saying I was a man.

_2887. Posted by southern pretty_ i'm think that is really a guy instead of a girl. come on...women have boobs...or at least a small amount...it has none... could s/he be a morphadite...???

_3473. Posted by mabamidje_ The only point all the commentators have not touched is wether Semenya is an amaphrodite. If she is, it only means the masculine trait might be more predominant in her build. If on the other hand she is a complete female in her physical form she should simply and rationally be left alone. No such tests as medical, psychological, gaenechological or whatever should be performed on her. Subjecting her to such tests would amount to oppression, humiliation and abuse of her womanhood. Sam. T. -Nigeria

_4241. Posted by Club O'Lears_ Could it be a Hermaphadite? Oh great ,now Hermaphs are going to want the whole we're equal to thing. I can hear it now, we want to marry , we want the same as heteros. Who ever brought this up in the first place thanks for opening that can of worms up.

Theory three: Semenya could be an amaphrodite, a morphadite, or a hormorphordite, hermatheradite, hermaphadite, hermaphradite, hermaphridite, hermorprodite, hermaphordite, hemaphrodite, or (I suppose) some combination of any or all of those.

The point, at any rate, is that the Yahoo! commenters definitely see something wrong with Semenya. And if there's something wrong with her, that means there's something not right about her, which is why _Club O'Lears_ and the rest of his or her not-wrong world will be damned if Semenya and the rest of those not-right hermaphs (et al.) should entertain the notion of equal rights. Or the notion of any other sort of equality, I assume.

In terms of ethics and fairness, comment 10 had the potential to generate a thoughtful discussion regarding the process and reliability of scientific testing.

_10. Posted by gsb18_ Sex testing has been problematic since its introduction in the late 60s. There is absolutely no way to test for it that is problem-free. There are many individuals with variations of chromatin and hormonal composition. These anomalies would surely 'fail' the sex tests. Furthermore, the developer of the test used 'the Barr body test,' Dr. Murray Barr from the University of Western Ontario in Canada, spoke out against its incorrect use in the 80s. The IAAF removed it in 1991 and the IOC removed it from the Olympics in 2001. I am unclear as to why it is being reintroduced considering it was seen as an unethical and unscientific practice in the 80s!

Subsequent comments, however, ignore this one. Number 43 is the notable exception.

_43. Posted by maxmauhdi_ # 10, SHUT THE HELL UP. It sure is ugly whatever "it" is!

Many of the other thoughtful or sensitive comments are unfortunately replied to using this same rhetorical strategy.

_2033. Posted by theresa_ This is so sad for her, doesn't anyone have any feelings? I was a tomboy when I was growing up, and eventhough I was vary large busted, still am, I was often mistaken for a boy just because I hated wearing dresses and high heals. Societies rules suck, and so do people that judge others on how they look.

_2074. Posted by Racer-X_ @2076. "This is so sad for her, doesn't anyone have any feelings? I was a tomboy when I was growing up, and eventhough I was vary large busted, still am, I was often mistaken for a boy just because I hated wearing dresses and high heals. Societies rules suck, and so do people that judge others on how they look." - LMAO. Why do I get the impression that all you accomplished was to give the impression that you got big boobies? So big are them teetees? enquiring minds wanna know. Comon Theresa if you were large busted, what idiot would mistake you for a boy? I don't think anyone here believes that. I LIKE BIG BOOBS I CANNOT DENY!

\- - -

_4848. Posted by butkus_mike_ If she was raised as a woman all her life and beleives she is a woman than she is. My sister had a double masectomy. Does her lack of breasts now make her a man? It seems to me that may be a case of sour grapes.

_4857. Posted by mt_shaggy_ butkus_mike ....DUMBASS!!

A juvenile tactic to be sure, and one with all the rhetorical sophistication of an asshole with a megaphone.

Equally as unsophisticated is the general knowledge of and sentiment regarding the idea of gender testing itself.

_2. Posted by Adam_ Well that is one way to go but a simple dna test will show either way if it was cut off. and i know from watching enough talk shows it can be done rather quickly. So i dont understand why it would take so long.

_150. Posted by NoDakMan_ You can't make this sh*t up, people. Person with Semen in 'it's' name having a bunch of extremely high tech tests done to determine if it's a he or a she or a she/he or he/she, yada yada yada. Where am I? Have it run the hurdles and zoom in with the camera. Maybe then we could tell what it is.

_352. Posted by Hedman58_ They ought to just let me @#$% the @#$% out of her. When I finish, I'll tell you if its a woman or not.

_891. Posted by bennymikko_ Anyone who has taken any basic biology class knows that the difference between men and women is that men have a Y chromosome, and women do not. So why does it take a psychologist, gynecologist, psychologist, and internist to figure out her gender? This sounds suspiciously like something that is paid for by tax dollars.

_1229. Posted by littledeathpony_ Really? Several weeks to pull down her pants to check for a penis? This is where the world's tax dollars are going, to try to make a poor loser feel better. Either she has a dick or she doesn't, it's not that difficult.

_1282. Posted by Wicked_ Come on Caster is obviously short for Castrated and Semenya... Semen?, Ya. they're not even trying hard. A simple DNA test is all you need, X chromosome or Y chromosome, what's with all the other crap, a psychologist? and if the gyne can't tell by an exam,c'mon, check for scars, ultrasound for ovaries, uterus...hello anybody home? bunch of idiots.

_3518. Posted by junkheadkp_ It takes weeks to see if someone has a pecker or a twat? Maybe nobody wants to look it is an ugly mofo

_4528. Posted by RandyW_ Gender tests are a waste of time and money.Just kick her in the balls. If she pukes and passes out, she's a man.

Gender tests? Who needs gender tests! Why waste your time and money on tests? The Gender Determinator does instantly what those idiot, so-called experts take weeks to do!

Simply smack your suspect in the groin with the Determinator, and you get instant results! Questionable co-worker? Fishy neighbor? Freak on the bus?

Determinate them!

It's fast, fun, and -- at only $9.99 -- it definitely won't break the bank!

But WAIT!

Order within the next ten minutes, and we'll send you a second Determinator absolutely free! That's two Determinators for the price of one! Order now to take advantage of this special offer!

ConsumersagreetousetheGenderDeterminatorattheirownriskManufacturersoftheGender DeterminatorandemployeesandshareholdersofFuckYouFreakIncarenottobeheldliableinacaseof somefreakpukingorpassingoutonyou.

*sigh*

I miss Billy Mays.

For people unwilling to pay to determinate us, there's always the free method described in comment 1258.

_1258. Posted by rich_ I could save them all a bunch of time and money. From what I understand, a woman's ring finger is always shorter than her index finger and vice versa for men. I saw this on the show MANswers on Spike TV. They were telling guys how to tell if the hooker were trying to pick up was really a woman :)

Holy. Shit.

I had no idea that our state of affairs was so dire. Men across the country -- nay, around the globe -- having to worry about the gender of their hookers? We ought to shut right the fuck up about education and the environment. This, my friends, is the problem we need to solve!

And seriously -- what a drag that none of the IAAF officials were fans of Spike TV. This whole situation could have been avoided with a heavily scrutinized congratulatory handshake.

*eyeroll*

A congratulatory handshake for Semenya is indeed what some of the more informed and sensitive commenters call for.

_1957. Posted by Natalie_ Ugh. So many misconceptions here. Just to clear things up a bit, there is a lot more to male and female than penises and vaginas. Here are 8 of the variables: \ 1. Chromosomal gender. XX for female, XY for male. Except that sometimes, people are born with XXY chromosomes. Or XYY. Or just an X. 2. Gonadal gender. Ovaries for females, testes for males. Some women can have ovaries and have a penis because of pre-natal hormone disruptions. Sometimes people can have testes that never descend, and look externally female. 3. Prenatal hormonal gender. Male fetuses have lots of testorone, female fetuses do not. This is important because it leads to brain differentiation - basically, the brain being hard-wired to respond to certain hormones, whether "male" (testosterone) or "female" (estrogen). If the mother's body puts out too much testosterone while pregnant, a female child's brain may be wired to respond to testosterone and ignore estrogen. 4. Internal organs: prostate and seminal vesicles in man, uterus and fallopian tupes in a woman. 5. External genitals: penis and scrotum, or vagina and clitoris. 6. Hormones during puberty 7. Assigned gender: What the child is declared to "be" at birth. "It's a girl!" or "It's a boy!" This determines how they will be treated throughout their lives, and society trains them to "act" either male or female. 8. Gender identity: what the person "feels" they are, the private sense of maleness or femaleness. The tricky thing is, all of these variables don't always match up. Some people have female external genitalia but male internal organs and testosterone. Some people really are neither male nor female, biologically speaking, and can only decide for themselves if they want to identify as either. My point is, this young woman is probably entirely innocent of any cheating. I have no idea what variables they consider most important in this thing. But regardless of any of that, she is clearly an amazing athlete, and should be given attention for THAT, not for her gender identity.

_2199. Posted by Quita T_ This seems to me to be less of a race issue than a gender issue. It appears to me because of the vast amount of doctors and the various fields that they specialize in that not only are they testing to see if she is genetically male or female, but also they are testing whether she mentally identifies herself as being male or female. Which is a whole bigger issue than race, because it brings into question what makes a woman a woman or what makes a man a man. Or lets say she is biologically XY or XXY, but identifies as being of the female gender, will her trophy be taken away because of something she has no control over. And even if they prove she is a male, she won't be allowed to participate in male races. I feel that unless she is blatantly male and identifies as such, then she shouldn't be persecuted of cheated and people should leave her alone. Unless aided by medical assistance no one can control their genetic makeup, such as testosterone levels or their sex, and people shouldn't condemn her for this.

_2735. Posted by DennisC_ Seriously, what makes a man a man, and a woman a woman! This has happened before in the Olympics. Women who are extremely good in their sports get accused of being men! How come a man who loses a race doesn't get accused of being a woman, do men have to take gender tests? My only concern is that people are using gender norms to judge this athlete! Let her be, what if the tests come back saying she was born a hermaprodite--what will that do? Will she not be a woman or a man, will she be stripped off all medals! The gender test is sexist and bias! Again do any of us know what makes us, us! We are all the same, about .01% of us makes us different from the rest of the world. Race is not the issue here, it is sex and gender. Women look at yourself--do you not have hair on your body, is there not a range of voices for women from high to low, have you seen female body builders--they are huge compared to some men! How can her physical appearance make her any less of a woman! She is not from America, you cannot judge her by our standards! If she says she is a woman, than that is all the proof I need! If she was a born a man, then did a sex change to be a woman to win a race, well then she is ulitmately a woman now--no take backs--she can't go back to being a man to claim the prizes or maybe she can. The test should not be the deciding factor in this, she won--get over it and stop judging! BTW 1 in 2000 people are born intersexed (aka ambiguous to the degree you can't tell if you are a boy or girl). If everyone got the Gender/Sex test, many people will be surprised! The dichotomy of male and female needs to end, the sexism in men's favor needs to end, and people's hate, ignorance, and intolerance needs to end! So everyone, let it go!

The problem, of course, is that people won't and don't just let it go. Posts such as these that note the various biological, emotional, and cultural variables that work together to determine what we erroneously consider as monolithic Gender are ignored and dismissed, completely overrun by ignorance and intolerance.

A number of the comments involving race, for example, are highly inflammatory.

_3388. Posted by orionsbow2_ I am sick to freaking death of all you goddamn black people (and black people wannabees) constantly yelling and screaming about racism. This has NOTHING to do with racism. Don't you stupid creatins understand that a transgendered person who is biologically a male can become a female through hormone therapy and surgery? Afterward, what appears to be a female will still retain much of the musculature and strength of the original male human while taking on the appearance of a female. If this person competes in athletic events, the mere fact that they possess most or even SOME of the strength of a male may disqualify them from the event because it would then become unfair. The former male would have a distinct strength advantage over the true female competitors. Men have greater upper body strength and are generally faster than women. It's just a medical and geneological FACT. God, some of you creatinous, backward dolts talk like you've never seen a TV or read a newspaper. For god's sake, do a little reading or, at the very least, listen to one of your intelligent neighbors talk about stuff for a while. Maybe you'll learn a little something. And don't any of you pansy assed liberal @#$%heads give me a hard time either. I'm so freaking sick of you people and your all your "racist" this and "racist" that I could puke. There are REAL DIFFERENCES between black people and other people and differences between males and females and there always will be. That's just the way nature made us. You can't make them go away, nor should anybody want them to, by simply pretending they don't exist. If this woman is a former male, she (it) should compete with males that possess the same strength capabilities. Get over it you numbskulls.

(If you've seen _Monsters, Inc_., feel free to insert a Wazowski-esque joke about the misspelling of 'cretin.')

So...who exactly is the cretin here? I'd suggest it's the commenter, but that would probably just be dismissed as my goddamn stupid backward dolt pansy assed liberal shithead of an opinion.

And for whatever it's worth, I'm actually Doctor Goddamn Stupid Backward Dolt Pansy Assed Liberal Shithead.

Comment 3388 draws a number of direct responses. Let's take some calls.

Go ahead caller one, you're on the air.

_3426. Posted by Harre_ to orionsbow ( obviously is a closet racist = coward ) it's not an issue of black and white. it's clear you are intelligent but your ignorance over shadows that. if she was a male then you are right she should not compete with women. by the way why don't you tell us how you really feel! get a hobby dork!

Thank you for the comment.

Caller two, you're on the air.

_3427. Posted by roof954_ I'm so freaking sick of you people and your all your "racist" this and "racist" that I could puke. There are REAL DIFFERENCES between black people and other people and differences between males and females and there always will be. That's just the way nature made us. You can't make them go away, nor should anybody want them to, by simply pretending they don't exist. If this woman is a former male, she (it) should compete with males that possess the same strength capabilities. Get over it you numbskulls. Orionsbow2 Ummmm REAL DIFFERENCES between blacks and whites? Skin color nothing more, you are obviously an ignorant moron and I'm really surprised you can even use a computer. Everything that you have spewed out of your redneck mouth could be considered rasicist, so unfortunately it does exist still because of idiots like you.

We here in the studio can't condone the name calling, but it's safe to say that we're all with you in terms of sentiment. Thank you for your comment.

Caller three, what's your take on all this?

_3441. Posted by joel.dami_ Helo pple,orionsbow2 pr wat do u cal urself,dont u eva in ur life dere talk about blacks lik dat.if u kno ure tired of we neggros then u can go on and commit sucide since dats wat u stupid whites do wen u cant accept defeats.am sure if she was a white girl, u wuldnt hav sent in any comment.just learn to appreciate us cos were miles better than u and we dont even need racists like u in this world.to all Africans thumbs up especially my 9jirian people,kip dong wat dey caneva tink of doin cos we make them.ffangel

*crickets*

As one might perhaps expect, comment 3441 draws its own a direct response.

_3482. Posted by Emma_ I would like to know why every situation must become a race issue? The very people who cry "RACE" are more often than not the ones who have issue with race. I notice someone made the comment about white crackers, and yet I have not seen one indignant white person retaliate with accusations of racism. However, had another word been used, this message board would be lit up like a christmas tree .. Racism will NEVER be over in America until people realize that it's not the 1800's anymore. Whats done is done, cant take it back. None of us on Earth today had anything to do with it, so move on. This world has bigger and more pressing issues than whether or not she is male or female.. Just look at this post I copied from Joel.dami Helo pple,orionsbow2 pr wat do u cal urself,dont u eva in ur life dere talk about blacks lik dat.if u kno ure tired of we neggros then u can go on and commit sucide since dats wat u stupid whites do wen u cant accept defeats.am sure if she was a white girl, u wuldnt hav sent in any comment.just learn to appreciate us cos were miles better than u and we dont even need racists like u in this world.to all Africans thumbs up especially my 9jirian people,kip dong wat dey caneva tink of doin cos we make them.ffangel Now I ask you... is that intelligent? How is that not racist? Am I to judge YOU as a stupid person because you obviously are unable to compose a statement in English? Buy a dictionary, or post in your native language so I don't have to be offended by the butchering of my language.

Really now, _Emma_. Your comment was number 3482. How much more lit up could the message board possibly be?

There is no need, I should note, to react to the post by _joel.dami_ in the way that _Emma_ does. _joel.dami_ 's comment utilizes consistent phrasing and punctuation, and is more coherent than many of the other comments.

Translating for _Emma_ : 'Hello, people, orionsbow2 or what do you call yourself, don't you ever in your life dare to talk about blacks like that. If you know you're tired of we negroes then you can go on and commit suicide since that's what you stupid whites do when you can't accept defeat. I am sure if she was a white girl, you wouldn't have sent in any comment. Just learn to appreciate us because we're miles better than you and we don't even need racists like you in this world. To all Africans thumbs up especially my Nigerian people, keep doing what they can ever think of doing because we make them. ffangel'

_Emma_ essentially plays the role of The Man when she denigrates _joel.dami_ as "obviously...unable to compose a statement in English." The statement, however, is of course written in English: the issue is rather that _joel.dami_ writes in a code-switch that _Emma_ doesn't wish to acknowledge or accept -- hence her indignant order for _joel.dami_ to "buy a dictionary, or post in your native language so I don't have to be offended by the butchering of my language."

_Emma_ 's comment draws two responses of its own, one of which explicitly challenges the notion of language ownership.

_3509. Posted by young Black_ Emma No this isn't 1800 but Its hard to forget 400 years of slavery, Jim Crow, the KKK and in general self serving Caucasians with a superiority complex like yourself who try to make themselves feel smarter by reading every comment to find spelling errors Please save your judgmental comments for yourself

_3510. Posted by rudy_ To post 3554. You sound as racist as the comment that you decided to respond to. Just because you have better grammar doesn't mean you are more intelligent. Racism is the offspring of intolerance and ignorance. You both sound like complete fools to me. I am tired of reading posts that have nothing to do with the article. Thanks for making me hypocrite. I do feel bad for that teenage girl though. It must be humiliating to go through a gender test. I don't think anybody believes she is trying to cheat. It is just an unfortunate circumstance for a teenager that has been raised as a girl. I hope they conclude she is a female. (Emma) Please don't claim that anybody is butchering YOUR language? It's not yours, and I don't like that we even share the same language.

The derisive suggestion that _joel.dami_ post in his "native language" is an attempt by _Emma_ both to claim 'proper' English expression as her own and to marginalize variant forms or codes of English as unsophisticated and unintelligent 'other.' _rudy_ , however, recognizes and rejects this attempt in a wonderful _Breakfast Club_ moment: "(Emma) Please don't claim that anybody is butchering YOUR language? It's not yours, and I don't like that we even share the same language."

Presumably unaware of the larger debate already surrounding issues of language, _steph3131982_ posts this comment.

_3946. Posted by steph3131982_ I have no strong feelings on the story for which I'm posting this comment. Rather, I'm writing about the difficulty I had reading some of the posts. I'm a teacher and I'm so very sad that people don't have the ability to express themselves clearly using the appropraiate grammar and spelling, or even by organizing their thoughts in an understandable way. This is awful. Dis is not a word. Cuz is not a word. The list goes on. How can anyone take you or your opinions seriously if you don't care enough to express yourself intelligently? Please don't call people who don't agree with you ignorant when you can't even spell easy sight words like 'this'.

Subsequent commenters then challenge _steph3131982_ for rolling up like the grammar police.

_4162. Posted by Jim R_ hey Steph3131982, if you are going to get sanctimonious on folks for poor communication skills, you shouldn't misspell words yourself... Now go look up how to spell "appropraiate" you hypocrite.

_4186. Posted by benjamin c_ 4024. Posted by steph3131982 I have no strong feelings on the story for which I'm posting this comment. Rather, I'm writing about the difficulty I had reading some of the posts. I'm a teacher and I'm so very sad that people don't have the ability to express themselves clearly using the appropraiate grammar and spelling, or even by organizing their thoughts in an understandable way. This is awful. Dis is not a word. Cuz is not a word. The list goes on. How can anyone take you or your opinions seriously if you don't care enough to express yourself intelligently? Please don't call people who don't agree with you ignorant when you can't even spell easy sight words like 'this'. first of al u made tha mistake of telling ppls u r a teacher second don get on ppl about grammer just because u r a teacher.... most ppls talk like this on tha net because either they like ta talk in a certain way or it is easier to shorten words or they slip on tha keyboard so chill tha grammer lessons.... by tha way i have keyboard grimlins and i cant spell anyways so harp on that too.... and i defend this country so what now wanna get me out of tha army cause im dumb, good luck ive been in for over 12yrs lets play dumb games an c who wins.... i hope this girl realy gets something good outta this instead of crushed motivation....

I like that _benjamin c_ responds to _steph3131982_ but makes no attempt to utilize the form of "intelligent" expression she advocates. The linguistic style used by _benjamin c_ and _joel.dami_ isn't "awful": the style is, again, simply a code-switch that _Emma_ and _steph3131982_ refuse to acknowledge and accept.

I particularly like that even those who don't use the code-switch themselves are prepared to defend the linguistic rights of others to do so. _young Black_ , for example, had already in comment 3509 asked _Emma_ to "please save your judgmental comments for yourself." Here the sentiment is expressed more forcefully.

_4234. Posted by young Black_ All of you grammar teachers go to hell, not everyone is a teacher nor do we care about the spelling of certain words that can be shortened to our liking, if you can't read a response keep moving it wasn't meant for your type of people in the first place

Despite the fact that I am, technically, one of those grammar teachers being told to go to hell, I find something refreshing in this discourse -- something liberating about the challenge to the notion of a universally accepted and proper way that we must express ourselves linguistically.

I had hoped that the comments focusing on gender and sexuality would likewise replicate this same liberating challenge to the notion of a universally accepted and proper way that we must express our genders.

My hopes couldn't have been more crushed.

As previously noted, a small handful of commenters are indeed sensitive to the complexities of gender.

_1708. Posted by peanut_ First- GENDER is what we express... its the clothes, hair, mannerisms, etc. SEX is the biology- the chromosomes, hormones, genitals. And the SEX of a person can actually be quite complicated. Most biology classes only go over two possible sexes- male and female- where everything fits into one of two neat and tidy boxes... BUT- Chromosomes are complex little buggers- we can have XX, XY, XXY, and X. Then we have hormones and if you thought chromosomes were funky- check this out: women (gender) with XX chromosomes can have high levels of testosterone due to insulin imbalances, polycystic ovaries, and a host of other reasons, women (gender) can also have XY chromosomes but have androgen insensitivity- so the testosterone does not affect the body at all- and those people may be tall, slender, relatively hairless (except for the head and pubic areas), and have slender hips (Note: Many models -on who our societies base the standard of beauty for women- are women with XY chromosomes and androgen insensitivity. Then there are men (gender) who have raised estrogen levels and XY chromosomes- these folks may look typically masculine yet have gynecomasty- man boobs. AND there are plenty more variations where that all came from without even looking at genitalia. There are estimates that vary widely (from 1/1500 to 1/100: depending on degree of 'abnormality' aka does-not-fit-ntoone-of-two-boxes (BOY vs GIRL) ) concerning the frequency of genital variation in infants. Either way, genital variation is relatively common. Often parents wont be told because doctors (at least in the past) will surgically alter the genitals on the infant to fit the 'norm.' One example of this would be shaving the clitoris down to a smaller size. One can do more research on this topic by researching - Intersex (- hermaphrodism is on older term that doesn't often fit.) SO- there is all of those variations without even considering the possibility of transgender or transsexual identities and bodies. THIS MEANS that there are thousands of combinations of biology and gender available to us as humans. ... which ones 'qualify' and male or female? and who gets to decide?????

_2597. Posted by GailT_ I feel very sorry that world limits this to either one of two male or female because the truth is all of us have both sexual attributes to some degree see transgendercare.com on what is gender. If this person wants to identify as female regardless of sexual or lack thereof physical or chemical makeup she is most likely in a unique position to do so. This kind of put your business in the street is rude. I suppport humans who have been born with an uncertain sexual identy that fits into our preconcieved idea of male and female.

_peanut_ and _GailT_ expand here on the previously quoted comments 1957, 2199, and 2735 by explicitly acknowledging the gray area of gender, or that space between the two "neat and tidy boxes" that represent our prevailing cultural notions of male and female.

A couple of commenters accept this gray area and understand the implication that its wide-scale acceptance would have for sport.

_691. Posted by Ronald R_ Isn't it possible, that male and female aren't opposites, bu that each of us is positioned on a continuem somewhere between totally male and totally female? If this were the case it would take a better man (women) than I am to decide who should compete with men and who with women.

_4400. Posted by Kitrina_ No matter how this turns out, it will be a very sad thing indeed if competative sports exclude everyone who is in the grey of the gender spectrum.

The vast majority of commenters, however, either don't or won't acknowledge the possibility of this gray area \-- a denial that effectively locks them into the belief that everyone everywhere must necessarily fit into the neat and tidy male or female boxes. This belief leads in turn not only to the assumption that Semenya is a transexual (which, according to that belief, is the only possible explanation for her ambiguously-gendered appearance), but also to the rather outlandish accusation that Semenya has undergone a male-to-female transition for the sole purpose of winning footraces.

Reality check, please.

_1286. Posted by Becca_ Alright. I've looked through quite a few of the comments made and need to say hing. As a transgender that is going from male to female, I say that the test for gender should be rather simple. If the athlete presents all of the genitalia of a woman, she should be considered female for all intents and purposes. Now, I don't know any person that would change genders and actually have their genitals altered just to win a medal at a race. For one, no sane doctor that would want to keep their liscense would approve of such a thing. There are also the complications and risks if the athlete did have herself altered and was racing so soon afterward. No sane athletics coach or commission would let a male runner compete in so many female racing competitions. That would be stupid on their part. Now, for those of you that see this as a race issue, it isn't. It's about the athlete's gender. I will find it rather upsetting that if they do find that she was originally male and decide to strip her gold medal just for that fact. And, even if she is "proven" to be female, it is degrading and humiliating for her to have to go through such testing. Now, I really don't care for those of you that decide to call me a @#$%ot, insane or anything else that you come up with. I am proud to be who and what I am and will not hide from anyone. Rebecca

This comment drew a single response.

_1339. Posted by patrickthoward_ Becca......no one cares what you have to say. This article is not about you. No one called you anything. Anyone who changes gender for the purpose of athletics is a cheater. Period.

_Becca_ , I care what you have to say.

I'm glad you said it. I admire you for it.

I won't silence you, _Becca_.

I won't call you insane. And I won't call you a faggot.

It might be true that the article wasn't about you or about me.

But the comments...

The comments are about all of us.

_53. Posted by diosesbueno_ The world is going to hell. This is one of the stupidest things I have ever read! This gender bending is insane.

_609. Posted by Chad_ I like what the second posting said do the Crocodile Dundee test . First if it was a dude then it always be dude no mater what you chop splice ore fill with plastic to make look like women. Looks like a guy try be a girl to me so why let it yes it becuse we dont know what it is. I think the doctors that get away with this crap and the f ing nuts that get the sex change shold be lined up in put in gas chamber like HITLER did. What the f is worng with people today If your not happy with your gender just off your self and make easy for all of us. And Kiss my Ass @#$%ot gay pride bull@#$%. I tired them try rub gay crap in my face ever time i see TV. Keep your BS in the closet its no better then sleeping with farm stock you sick FS. Ow i was born this way BS you sick F you no better then child toucher

_1194. Posted by B'BALL FREAK_ When an track athlete drops here best times 8 seconds in a short period of time they will be tested for performance enhancing chemicals. it is automatic. did you know that after every major track event that the 3 medalist have to take a urine test. this isn/t the first time this has happened. however, now you are dealing with the question if the iaaf does prove that this is not a woman and you allow this person to keep its medal. does the iaaf allow every transvestite compete as a woman? the iaaf needs to get this right and not fall under politcal pressure. this is not about being a certain so called race or political affiliation. this is about having women compete with women and men compete with men. do you think there would be an uproar if this were tennis we are talking about? for those of you that do not want to acknowledge this fact men are men and women are women. there is no gray area. in the united states if you are a citizen you have the right to choose an alternative lifestyle. you do not have the right to try to shove it down everyone's throat. don't look at the distractions. see this for what it is. the homosexual community want this to be a man competing in a woman's sport to enhance their perverse viewpoint.

_1517. Posted by Nunya_ It is simple to determine the gender of this person.It is simple to determine the presence of an overabundance of male hormones.It is hard to determine the mental derangement driving these unbelievably perverted facsimiles of humanity.The crazy attempt to make normal an obvious deviation from normal is ludicrus.I will not take away the right to be what you are...I reserve the right to exclude these things from being thrust up my nose and wiggled.

_1662. Posted by resonance10_ Way to go, Nunya! The whole thrust of the SDs' (Sexual Deviants) agenda is precisely as you have described it.

_4098. Posted by jphares321976_ She is definitely a man. Sick pervs unite another one of your followers has gotten "his" sorry butt in the spotlight.

_5157. Posted by Palmerjack_ If there is nothing to hyde then why the up roar. Remember....transexuals , cross dressers and others are trying to make us co-dependent to their sickness every day.

We are deviations from normal.

We are mentally deranged.

We are perverted facsimiles of humanity.

We are child molesters.

We are sick fucks.

We should be lined up and marched into a gas chamber.

_3911. Posted by Ken_ Put a bullet in it's nappy head. Problem solved and the world has one less socioparasitical sub-human to worry about.

*silence*

Comment 3911, I should note, was deleted at some point. It appears only as a quote in other comments that take objection to it.

Comment 4707, however, stood without reply or objection.

_4707. Posted by junkheadkp_ Just kill it and we won't have to worry about it.

Comment 1621 also stood without reply or objection.

_1621. Posted by mostafa.eltoukhy_ Its hidious hidious i say kill it kill it !!!!!!! kill the beast lol just joking

To some, this is a laughing matter.

_76. Posted by bobby_ I can care less, it's all entertainment to me, I'm hoping it's a girl, with a little juice, have a good day!!

_1663. Posted by Laff_ rofl This story and the ensuring comments are hilarious. Anyway, this is a dude..

_2402. Posted by Ron_ I just enjoy reading all the comments.......had some great laughs.....

You'll have to pardon me, but I don't find it quite so entertaining. I've heard it all before.

My sisters and my brothers and I -- we've heard it all before.

_25. Posted by Adrian S_ Dead serious.....that has to be a dude!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! but real talk, man or female...thats the ugliest @#$% i have ever seen in my life...im sorry!

_66. Posted by Nicholas W_ So, is she a trans gender or something or has "it" had a sex change, I don't get it, if it's working with both tool let it compete in the special olympics

_183. Posted by JustMe_ I just through up in my mouth a little.....

_229. Posted by kathleen w_ OMG..for sure do the gender test...castrated at birth...well aren't we talking congo? Those tribes do the craziest things. You know those congo men probably get turned on by looking at her. Well, I wouldn't either want to check under her hood. Yukky, yukky!

_261. Posted by ih8rtrds_ it's a dude, or the most unfortunate looking chick i've ever seen! Whoa! Turn out those lights!

_268. Posted by sportsus_ All you have to do is look at the picture - Would anyone want to kiss that - Sorry, I have to go throw-up now

_344. Posted by skitchrick_ I love the comment "Women can take testosterone as a form of steroid to increase muscle mass." If that truly is the case, then that would be cheating. But, the real issue here is: That thing pees standing up.

_456. Posted by Tiger Is A Bore_ It's not a WOMAN. It's not a MAN. IT"S A FREAK OF NATURE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! IT HAS A GASH AND A BANANA!!!!!!!!!!!! AHHHHH!!!!!

_468. Posted by John O_ I think he's f***ing hot as hell I love chicks with a hairy ass and chest. YUM YUM! Just playing she a monster. Run fast

_707. Posted by Jeremy H_ That think has a male chicken between it's legs. Or at least used to. Oh god i shudder at the thought of that naked. Yuk!!

_800. Posted by Alana_ ok she or he totally looks like a boy no joke she has the male face and the ugh every thing its creepy!!!

_868. Posted by jjburkeboy1@..._ Just looked at all the pics. DUDE, thats a Dude-dude! If that isnt a guy then its one frickin fuggilly girl that wants to be a dude. Broad shouders, no hips, dudes face, (wheres the boobs?) Not one good shot in any of the pics from the side to show the 'adams apple'. I wonder why???

_949. Posted by bb_ I would rather die, if no one could tell if I were a man or woman, can she talk? Does it have an i.d.? or a birth c? come on, does anyone really care?

_1002. Posted by JasonS_ lol shemale @#$%, never seen that one before

_1016. Posted by pissedoff_ Goddamn she is so uugly that i can't hardly stand it!!! That can't be a freaking woman!

_1104. Posted by PatrickM_ For God sake it is a man!!! If not then it is the ugliest thing in the world.

_1205. Posted by MACDADDY_ Its the missing link.i new they would find it someday.

_1435. Posted by DISGUSTED!!_ Look at the hands folks! Huge platter size paws and with the obvious adams apple, that's either a man or one ugly hairless sasquatch. It's obvious that "it " couldn't compete with a real manso he instead ran against the women since that's the only he could win. BOO!!! ....

_1567. Posted by DavidSS_ I propose the bigger question of not whether this thing is male or female but is it human? I have doubts.

_1614. Posted by Mark_ I dont know why they are making this look so difficult. As 1597 said, draw the undies down and look if there is a penis or vagina, simple. It would be scary if both are there though, that would be a kodak moment for everyone that is there....lol.

_1801. Posted by alriehle@..._ maybe shes an alien from another planet, are we going to use extremely rare cirumstances and act like it is the most obvious choice. oh when someone has a "sex change" they are still the same that they were before, they are just missing some parts. I dont care how bad they want to say they are a female now. They are just a male with a mutilated part. Thats not being mean, its just a fact. They can cut there parts and alter it to look female all they want, and I dont care, but dont tell me you are a woman now, because you still have an xy.

_1862. Posted by Maniacal_ I swear "she" has junk! If she is not some sort of trans-gender freak she is certainly on the juice

_1868. Posted by debora.wright_ Shut Up Rick...If That Chick Got A Dick Thats Sick lol

_2064. Posted by Sherry B._ Sometimes it's really hard to tell in that race. I see ALOT of black females that look like dudes, but If thats a girl....she is BUUUUTTTTTT FUUUUUGLEEEEEEE!!!

_2225. Posted by joshua r_ okay saw the picture it has no boobs big ass dump where the8===D should be looks like a str8 dude to me i've seen chicks with muscles and that doesnt look like a chick hands look like a dudes hand face is to mannly wtf is that thing maybe it is a shemale of some kind crazy to me semen get it see men shemale and if that is a female omg it ulllllllllllggggggggggggggggyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy take it out back and beat it i hope hurricane bill comes to florida yo bill bring your butt over here p.s i think this dude wanted to be one of the girls could be a gay guy wanted to be around his girly counterparts

_2262. Posted by Christine S_ Man, she looks manly! Even in the face! Hope she's a lesbo cuz I can't see a dude wanting to hit that!

_2577. Posted by Barry_ ..It was not in America..The race was in Germany..the Alien was from South Africa..has nothing to do with black and white...just think of the girls..left behind..they were of different Nationalities..Backgrounds..and what crossed the finish line was from District 9...Please call MNU..we have an Escapee

_2901. Posted by gtfoUHoe_ no way in hell is that @#$% a woman. no boobs. gender test takes several weeks? wtf? just have someone look at the penis. nasty ass @#$%. stop calling it a she cuz its not

_3031. Posted by freakmangobucs55_ its a tranny!!!! so hmm geneticly speaking the woman usually tends to have a lot more fat content on her because of the needs for child birth which include breasts being included in the total body fat index of a person and this thing has NO TITS what so ever but if it is a woman more power to you but you got a dudes face and body where your tits? freaks man wtf you going to do with them

_3692. Posted by Benjamin_ I'd laugh if she turns out to be hermaphrodite...what then?

_3950. Posted by TomR_ Thu Simple... Male@#$% Female: no@#$% Shemale: yuck!

_4025. Posted by watchvermont_ Don't you think it would be more appropriate for authorities to determine what species this thing is?

_4029. Posted by WuzUP_ who gives a sh*t...she's still one ugly mudd duck!

_4055. Posted by FATJOEY_ IS THERE A "SIDE SHOW OLYMPICS"? I SAY LET "IT" GO!

_4143. Posted by Barry_ .......District 9...Call MNU.......

_4151. Posted by Robin A_ Show the Freak the door.

_4313. Posted by Obamaistheenemy_ man ? woman? how about finding out if she's a gorilla or not?

_4410. Posted by Barry_ ....District 9.....Call MNU.......

_4468. Posted by Larry L_ IT ran a great race with a great result. NOW, for the test, any volunteers? (Don't ask me, I wouldn't touch that with a 10 ft pole).

_4732. Posted by Boo_ I think she was peeing in the urinal beside me after the race...she said the water was cold...and deep!! gooney goo goo Caster gooney goo goo

_4811. Posted by Mr. Dark_ Groos, talk about goddamned ugly.

_4987. Posted by StiffOneEye_ It's either a pretty monster or an ugly woman. Get some poor sap to check the "package".

_5001. Posted by Sangria_ wat a women--lol i thought it was a he wowow damn she scares me--wat a freek

_5002. Posted by charlesegary_ Who gives a damn what it is, Its still ugly to me!

_5004. Posted by brian_p34_ what ever male female dad should slap the @#$% out of her mother cause he/she is effing ugly

_5224. Posted by joeysandiego619_ It is a monkey, and it should be banned from human sports... Put it back in the zoo!

_5257. Posted by Barry_ ....District 9...Call MNU....

_5303. Posted by_ _Barry_ Fairlie,South Africa..District 9 is being shut down...MNU directive 203.1..Alien Resettlement ..you are being evicted...To District 10...100 k.north of Johannesberg...they have a lab set up..MNU scientists will determine gender and species once they receive lab results...not a problem if a Ehiopian,Nigerian or Kenyan woman wins..at least we will see that the better WOMAN won....

_5307. Posted by Deodanth_ Nice one Barry :) MNU agents rock on!

We can't stop the barrage.

We can't defend ourselves against it.

All we can try to do is run to a safe place, and wonder what the world is coming to.

But then, we remember.

The world isn't coming to anything.

The world is going to hell.

And our gender bending is the cause.

Sometimes I wonder if this kind of verbal assault is even legal. I mean, if it were phys--

_4894. Posted by Matthew M_ I love the dumb ass comments when it comes to these open forums. Is this even legal? Gee.........I don't know, why don't you look it up? What is legal? A predefined acceptable set of behaviors? Do you think they have "gender police"? Trained specifically to make sure no women are passed of as men. Is it legal? lol!!!!!!!!!

*silence*

_Matthew M_ appears to have missed the 4893 comments posted prior to his own.

You bet your ass there are gender police.

And trust me.

They're everywhere.

~ ~ ~

rmdir ~/hate

Where I'm from, it's not good to be different.

Take a look at your right palm. Put your fingers together. See the area beneath the lowest knuckle on your thumb? That's the Detroit metropolitan area.

I'm from Dearborn, one of Detroit's more well-known suburbs. Hometown of Henry Ford. Home to Ford Motor Company World Headquarters. Also home to the nationally renowned Henry Ford Museum and Greenfield Village, which (not coincidentally) just renamed itself simply "The Henry Ford."

In the heart of Dearborn, you can't go more than a few miles in any direction without running into a Ford facility of some sort. In peak testing season, you can't go more than a day or two without seeing a cheetah or a zebra, a new model out on a road test outfitted with a visually noisy bra or paint job intended to mask new design features and details. Forget going to a restaurant at lunchtime. You can't get in. They're all full of Ford employees.

Dearborn residents enjoy a variety of physical recreational activities at neighborhood parks, such as Ford Field and Ford Woods. We can undertake more intellectual or artistic pursuits at the Henry Ford Centennial Library or at the Ford Community and Performing Arts Center.

Young kids in Dearborn can attend Henry Ford Elementary School or William Ford Elementary School. High school students go to Edsel Ford, Fordson, or Henry Ford Early College. Adults from Dearborn and the surrounding areas may choose to attend Henry Ford Community College or the University of Michigan-Dearborn, the latter of which was founded with a land gift from the Ford Motor Company. The Henry Ford Estate, home to Henry and his wife Clara for over thirty years, is located on the UM-Dearborn campus and until very recently was owned by the University as well.

Dearborn celebrates Ford as an inventor and pioneer who transformed the very fabric of American culture. Dearborn residents like to believe this spirit infuses our town, and that it lives in each and every one of us. This is the positive legacy that we inherit from Henry Ford and his era.

We don't talk about the negative legacy.

But we should.

There is no way and no reason to state it otherwise.

Henry Ford hated Jews.

Ford purchased a weekly newspaper called _The Dearborn Independent_ in 1918, and between 1920 and 1927 used it as a platform to publish a series of virulently anti-Semitic articles. These articles were eventually compiled into a four-volume set entitled _The International Jew_ , the first volume of which bears the title _The International Jew, The World's Foremost Problem_.

Adolf Hitler greatly admired Ford's writings, cited Ford as an inspiration, and had a life-sized portrait of Ford in his office.

In 1927 Ford did issue an insincere and authored-by-someone-else apology. He had apparently forgotten about this apology a little over a decade later, however, when he accepted the Grand Cross of the German Eagle bestowed upon him by the Nazi government.

And that isn't all.

For the last five years of Henry Ford's life all the way into the first five years of mine, from 1942 to 1978, the City of Dearborn had one mayor. His name was Orville L. Hubbard. Also known as the "Dictator of Dearborn," Hubbard is noted for being one of the most outspoken segregationists north of the Mason-Dixon line.

Dearborn loved the guy. Wikipedia tells me that Hubbard's birthday is honored as a municipal holiday, and that there are two senior citizen apartment complexes and two roads named for him. Hubbard Drive runs adjacent to Ford World Headquarters. Hubbard Street is literally the next block over from the one I grew up on.

Hubbard's slogan "Keep Dearborn Clean," which was widely understood to mean "Keep Dearborn White," is painted on our police cars and on our brand new city-issued garbage cans. Someone at some point added "and Safe" to the end of the slogan on the police cars, but I'm not sure if that makes things better or worse.

I vaguely remembered a controversial statue of Hubbard in front of City Hall, and wondered as I was writing this book if that statue had ever been removed.

Funny story.

The first thing I did was call Dad. After putting up with some good-natured, fatherly ribbing about how I could simply take a short drive down Michigan Avenue to see for myself if the statue was still standing, I determined that he didn't know either.

That's two, if you're counting.

My next call was to the Mayor's Office. The rather embarrassed administrative assistant confessed that, since she comes and goes by the doors in the back, she actually didn't know if the statue was still out front or not. She did add, however, that there is a picture of Hubbard in the Mayor's Office, and that she was "looking at it right now."

Check.

I then called the Reference Desk at the Henry Ford Centennial Library. The librarian put me on hold and, I'm guessing, googled the same things that I already had. When he came back on the line, he admitted that he didn't know if the statue was still there either, despite the fact that he drives by City Hall every day on his way to work. He recommended I call over to the Dearborn Historical Society.

The lady over there was a riot.

"The person in the Mayor's Office didn't know if the statue was still there?"

"No."

"Did you ask her to look out the window?"

"She said she was looking at his picture on the wall."

"Well, she should've turned her head and looked out the window. I'm pretty sure it's right there."

Just for kicks, she asked someone else from the Historical Society and was at that point able to confirm for me that yes, the statue of Orville Hubbard is, indeed, still standing in front of City Hall.

*headdesk*

The only consolation to a good liberal like myself is that the statue looks across the street at what is now the Arab American National Museum.

Dearborn is the Islamic Center of North America. It also has the largest proportion of Arab Americans of any city its size. The vast majority of Ford- and Hubbard-era Dearborn residents, of course, hate this.

Hubbard said a lot of disturbing things. A number of them are documented by Hubbard biographer David L. Good in the online excerpt, "Orville Hubbard -- The Ghost Who Still Haunts Dearborn." One statement in particular resonates deeply with me.

I believe in freedom of choice. Most people want to be accepted, and the only way to be accepted is to fit the pattern. I'm not against any human being in the world. I've never taken a stand against a person because he was red, white or yellow, whatever his color is. I've taken this stand; I've never changed it: I don't believe in one group of people forcing themselves upon another. The average fellow with good sense doesn't go where he's not welcome and not wanted.

I have questions.

What kind of "acceptance" is he talking about? What does he mean by "freedom of choice"? What does his notion of "good sense" justify?

_3911. Put a bullet in it's nappy head. Problem solved and the world has one less socioparasitical sub-human to worry about_.

What does he mean by "pattern"? What other types of patterns are there?

_1194. for those of you that do not want to acknowledge this fact men are men and women are women. there is no gray area_.

How are these patterns determined? And who gets to determine them?

_1517. The crazy attempt to make normal an obvious deviation from normal is ludicrus_.

What recourse do you have if you don't fit the pattern? Or if you don't want to fit the pattern?

_609. What the f is worng with people today If your not happy with your gender just off your self and make easy for all of us_.

How is "color" determined? What if others identify you as a color that differs from the color you identify as?

_1517. It is hard to determine the mental derangement driving these unbelievably perverted facsimiles of humanity_.

What if you happen to take the spectrum as your color? And what happens if you're proud of that, and don't mind saying so?

609. Kiss my Ass @#$%ot gay pride bull@#$%. I tired them try rub gay crap in my face ever time i see TV.

1194. you have the right to choose an alternative lifestyle. you do not have the right to try to shove it down everyone's throat.

_1517. I reserve the right to exclude these things from being thrust up my nose and wiggled_.

I wrestle with these questions every day -- and I don't mean by just thinking about them. They have real world consequences that I can't ignore.

When I get dressed in the morning, do I wear a shirt that will accentuate my female body? Or do I go instead for the t-shirt that's far more comfortable? A minor decision for most, I know. But not a minor decision for me. For me it means the difference between being courteously directed to the women's department when I walk into the sporting goods store, or being called a faggot by the teenagers I walk past on my way in.

When someone sees my wedding band and surprisedly asks if I'm married, do I make sure to add "to a guy" after my affirmative answer? What if I don't? And what if I refer to Derek as my partner rather than as my husband? The reality of my relationship doesn't change, but the perception of it changes absolutely.

How much can I really tell people about myself? Will the simple act of wearing my pride bracelet be perceived as rubbing gay crap in people's faces? If I choose to disclose my gender or my thoughts surrounding it, will I be accused of thrusting myself up people's noses, or shoving my ideas down people's throats?

I honestly don't know.

From where I'm standing, "don't ask, don't tell" slides over pretty easily into "shut the fuck up, I don't want to hear about it."

And then...

*silence*

~ ~ ~

**Sometimes I feel the fear of uncertainty stinging clear**

And I can't help but ask myself how much I'll let the fear

Take the wheel and steer

It's driven me before and seems to have a vague

Haunting mass appeal

But lately I'm beginning to find that I

Should be the one behind the wheel

Incubus, "Drive"

~ ~ ~

**Rx**

I joined a health club last summer and started playing racquetball again. The players at the club were better than I was, but they welcomed me nonetheless.

The first day I played with them is kind of a blur.

The second day I played with them, I'll never forget.

It was June 11, 2010. A couple of matches were already underway when I arrived, so I struck up a conversation with one of the other players as we waited our turn. The door to Court 2 flew open. I turned my head just in time to see a guy come out of the court, head straight into the bathroom -- the bathroom that I'd noticed before but couldn't for the life of me fathom why it was located in the middle of the hallway -- and puke himself dry.

There must have been a pause in our conversation. There had to be. Disturbing thoughts flashed through my mind. Irrational voices shouted conflicting directions. I closed my eyes and focused with all my might on the one quiet and lonely voice that I hoped would save me.

And then, after whatever indefinite time interval had passed, I continued with the conversation.

I celebrated for days afterward.

Odd?

Indeed.

But you see, I have a vomiting phobia. Had it for years, for as long as I can remember. And I don't use the word "phobia" lightly, either, like people who say they have a spider phobia but can still stand there and point while someone else comes in and squashes one.

When I say I have a vomiting phobia, I mean that I can become psychologically and physiologically debilitated by people, places, or things that become associated in my mind with vomiting. The phobia is real and it is incapacitating.

August of 2008 started off pretty well. I was still running on the high of having defended my dissertation the year prior, and was happily cruising through life not reading, not writing, and sometimes not even thinking.

I had had the honor earlier in the month of standing up as one of the groomsmen in my cousin's wedding. The kid at the tux place had no idea how to measure a chick, and frankly neither did I. We made it up as we went along and laughed ourselves silly when he applied the rental points to my husband's account.

That was the third wedding I'd ever been in.

The first was my uncle's. I was the flower girl, and well past the age where I'd begun to complain about wearing dresses. Neither of my parents specifically remember the fight I put up, but they both agree there had been one. Probably a massive one. And that some sort of bribe had also been involved.

The second wedding I was in was my own. Derek and I wore jeans and t-shirts. Aside from that, I imagine it was like any other Justice of the Peace wedding. The licensing office and the marriage bureau took exact change only, so we had to break a hundred dollar bill at the cage on our way out of the casino. The security guard asked my brother and 13 year-old cousin if they were next ("hey, this is Vegas!"). The JP asked if she could step out for a smoke before she did our ceremony. And we got yelled at after we went back to the hotel because we had told the rest of the family that we were just going on a quick booze run. But other than that, it was totally like any other wedding.

We used a standard set of vows, including "in sickness and in health."

That's the one I failed so miserably.

I had worked until shortly after 4 am one morning in mid-August, the exact date of which I'm happy to leave to oblivion. It wasn't long after I'd fallen asleep on the couch that I was woken out of a dead sleep by the sound of Derek vomiting.

I sat bolt upright, unsure if I'd actually heard what I thought I'd heard.

A moment later, Derek tried to step out of the bathroom but turned immediately back around and began vomiting again.

At that point, I did what came naturally.

I ran right the fuck out the side door.

And it's a damn good thing I was still dressed in yesterday's clothes at the time, because my reaction would have been exactly the same even if I had been naked.

Three separate trips to the ER culminated in a week-long hospital stay. Two weeks later, Derek was home from the hospital for good. Two months later, he had regained his balance functions and been cleared to return to work.

I remember very little of this, as I was neither functional nor coherent during most of it.

I was referred emergently to a psychiatrist. In order merely to exist, I had to be completely stoned. I ate more xanax than food. I crashed on my parents' couch because I refused to sleep in my own house.

The fear of anything associated with Derek was paralyzing. Every time he moved, I saw him reach for a trash can to vomit into. Every time he coughed, I heard the beginning of a vomiting spell. Every time he spoke, I heard him say he was going to vomit. This persisted for months even after his recovery.

The ENT specialist said that Derek's was the most severe case of vestibular neuritis he'd ever seen. The psychiatrist said that my phobic response was one of the most severe he'd ever seen. This did not make for a happy marriage.

I told Derek to find himself a new wife, one who would be there for him in all the ways I so obviously couldn't be. He told me to stop being silly.

I was serious.

Nine months after Derek was first afflicted, I was spending another sleepless night on the couch. A harmless noise came from the bedroom, but my mind and body went into a full panic. After the attack subsided, I grabbed the laptop to search for an apartment.

And then I stopped.

I finally understood that I was very, very sick.

Into the search box, my fingers typed "phobia hypnosis."

It is unquestionably the best thing I have ever done for myself.

In the same way that an alcoholic can only ever be a recovering alcoholic, I will always only be a recovering phobic. This is why I'm convinced there must have been a pause in the conversation that day at racquetball. I needed time to find and listen to that hypnotically empowered voice of reason.

I had two separate 90-minute sessions with the hypnotherapist. She burned the hypnosis portions of these sessions onto discs. I listened to these discs, and to this day still do, with the intention of burning them into my brain.

As the phobia's grip eventually began to loosen, I started to realize how shackled I'd been. My fear had since I was a child dictated where I was comfortable going, what I was comfortable doing, and whom I was comfortable with. I began to realize that I had all sorts of new options, and slowly crawled my way back into contestants' row.

My next spin, however, was another whammy. Midlife Crisis. The confetti was disorienting, the applause sounded like gunfire, and Don Pardo announced from nowhere that I would be going on the head trip of a lifetime.

I'd deteriorated notably during the breakdown. My weight had dropped to an almost unhealthy level, and my fitness likewise had suffered tremendously. I needed to take better care of myself.

I figured it was probably time to go for my yearly exam, or as my father would say, for my "Pabst beer." As I sat on the table, the medical assistant with her ponytail and baby bump informed me curtly that it had been three years since my last visit.

Oops.

The doctor remarked that I hadn't been in since he did my tubes, and joked that doing tubal ligations was bad for business.

He has no idea how sore a subject that is.

You see, I assured each and every gynecologist I've ever seen, at each and every appointment I've ever had, that I didn't want to have kids. I asked each and every gynecologist I've ever seen, at each and every appointment I've ever had, if he or she would tie my tubes. And each and every one of those fucking gynecologists, at each and every one of those fucking appointments, told me the same fucking thing.

"I can't give you a tubal. You'll want kids someday."

*silence*

I had to jump through hoops and spend two decades as fertile yet childless female to prove to the medical establishment what I knew from day one. They didn't "give" me anything. I had to earn that procedure.

After the exam, the doctor suggested that my family physician take a look at a spot on my skin.

Not a problem. My family doctor was in the suite next door. I'd walk over and talk my way into an appointment.

He also said he wanted to send me for a routine test.

Also not a problem. The lab was right down the street. I'd buzz over there for a quick blood dr--

He handed me an order for a mammogram.

Holy. Shit.

He'd handed me an order for a freaking mammogram.

I sputtered. I stuttered. I stammered. I felt like I'd just been handed my old lady paperwork.

I staggered over to my family physician.

"Looks like an age spot."

What. TheFuck.

I drove straight from their offices to the Ford dealership, picked out a nice white one with a black top, and set my radio stations while I was out on the test drive. Two days later, I roared off the lot in a Mustang convertible.

"This button here is the traction control," my salesman pointed. "If you want to burn your tires on the way out of here, turn it off."

That was just what the doctor ordered.

~ ~ ~

Roots

The new wheels treated the symptoms of my midlife crisis but not the cause, which was then and remains to this day a mystery.

A quote from Jeffrey Eugenides' Middlesex served as my guide.

I hadn't gotten old enough yet to realize that living sends a person not into the future but back into the past, to childhood and before birth, finally, to commune with the dead. (425)

Knowing neither what I was looking for nor what I would find, I headed down to the basement for a real-life escape game.

My basement could have been a comfortable living space, but it was really only a path from the stairs to the laundry room. Straying from the path was dangerous. The terrain was overgrown with boxes of stuff. Stuff from when I moved out of my parents' house. Stuff from graduate school. Stuff I'd recently accumulated. Stuff I knew I had. Stuff I didn't know I had. Stuff I'd been looking for. Stuff that I didn't even know what the hell it was. Boxes and boxes of stuff, stuff, stuff.

Some of the boxes were so sturdy I could have built a fort out of them. Others not so much. Handles gave way, sending me into appendage-flailing staggers. Sides and corners gave way, spilling contents onto the floor. Bottoms gave way entirely, leaving me looking down at the tops of my shoes through cardboard squares.

Some of the newer boxes didn't have labels. Most of the older ones did, although it was often a toss-up as to whether what was in the box would match what was written on the outside of it. I laughed like hell at the box labeled "misc crap." The fact that the label was accurate made it even funnier.

The dissertation boxes blocked my access to everything. Years ago I had questioned whether I even wanted to finish the thing. I remembered promising myself that I would commit all of it to the pyre after I defended.

So I did.

I lugged hundreds of pounds of paper over to Mom and Dad's and had a good, old fashioned bonfire in their fire pit. Mom thought I was crazy. Dad offered to help. It was a chilly night, but the fire kept us toasty and the conversation was good.

I asked Dad to tell me again about The Incident.

"The incident?"

"With the wee-- "

I was only through the first syllable when my father began giggling uncontrollably, as both he and my mother do literally every time I say the word "weeble."

My memory is sketchy. Which makes sense, what with the concussion and all.

All I know is that one minute I was playing with a childhood friend, and the next minute I had been hit upside the head with a weeble. And I'm not talking your average, garden-variety doink, either. She freaking rocketed that thing off of my skull, creating (I am quite sure of it) the flat spot that to this day makes my hair stick up all wonky right there.

I screamed and ran to my parents, who were in the kitchen playing cards with her parents. They were rightfully concerned, and it took several minutes of their combined efforts to bring my sobbing under control. When I could finally speak, I told them that Kelly had hit me in the head with a weeble.

They busted out laughing so hard they could barely breathe.

30+ years and still hysterical.

After Dad stopped cackling, I asked him exactly what had been so funny. His story was that he and Mom had laughed so hard because it was -- and I quote-- "not the death situation" that my "overreaction" had led them to believe.

*humph*

There is no telling how long Dad and I might have stayed out in the yard that night talking and laughing had the weight of the ash not broken the terra cotta bowl of the fire pit. In the end, all that remained of my dissertation was a smoldering pile on the driveway.

Ridding myself of the dead weight was a cathartic experience.

Now when I think of my PhD, I think primarily of two mementos.

The first is my Mickey ears: classic black with Ph D in red block lettering on the back. The ears are on permanent display in my office, sitting proudly atop the ridiculously expensive mounted diploma that I haven't even bothered to take the plastic off of.

The second memento is the card I received from my uncle. The blue envelope is addressed to Dr. Jen O'Meara, and the card reads: "After all these years of working your butt off...you deserve to sit around on what's left of it. Congratulations on your retirement." The word "retirement" is scribbled out, and beneath it a column reads "dys dic disc desse disce accomplishment. Love, Uncle G---."

It is to this day my second favorite card of all time.

My absolute favorite card is one that I received from my parents. The cover is plain white, and the word 'Love' is written in a boring Times New Roman font. The 'o' is a holiday wreath with bells in it.

I thought they'd gone bonkers.

Then I opened it.

The inside of the card read "May the hope, joy and faith that only He can bring be yours at Christmas and always." The goofballs, however, had crossed off "Christmas" and written "your birthday" beneath it. And only after a closer look did I notice they had also changed the "H" in He to a "W."'

We laughed our asses off.

It turns out I had gone over to their house before they'd had a chance to get me a birthday card. Some religious group had sent them a packet of Christmas cards in the mail -- a group with which they have no affiliation and cards that they neither asked for nor wanted -- so Mom and Pop just went ahead and transformed one of those cards into a useful one.

Practical people, my parents.

And that card is one of the very good reasons why, that night when Dad and I wheelbarrowed the smoking remains of the busted up fire pit to the front curb and Mom yelled at us from the door to see, she told us we were crazy...well, all we could really do was laugh even harder.

With the dissertation boxes out of the way, I was able to reach back to some of the other material in my basement.

One of the boxes contained my grandfather's newspaper obituary and remembrance cards. It also held a number of copies of "Flowers," a poem that I wrote upon his death and read at his funeral.

A tool-and-die maker by trade, my grandfather was excellent with his hands. Both of my uncles are too, one particularly skilled with wood and the other with metal. Anything you ask them to make, they can. My grandfather was the same way.

In the years before his death, my grandfather's hobby was making wooden flowers. He created a number of different varieties. He thought up the designs; cut, sanded, glued, and painted the parts; and then planted them with love in all of our front yards. He saw the potential in what other people just saw as a board.

Every so often I'll come across one of his flowers. They always make me smile.

Real flowers, on the other hand, are quite another story.

I appreciate real flowers from a scientific perspective. The range of colors and textures across species is amazing, as is the variety within each species. Each and every flower is beautiful and unique as an individual, and yet also part of a larger group that thrives on difference.

What I do not appreciate about real flowers is the way they smell. I haven't been able to tolerate them since my grandfather's passing.

We were at the funeral home for days. Hundreds of people came to pay their respects. And I swear every last one of them sent flowers. Arrangements filled the front of the room. They lined the sides and back of the room. They spilled over into the hallway, into the family room, and even into the damn bathrooms. There was no way to escape the sickening conflation of fumes.

I've seen people stick their whole faces into a bouquet of flowers and inhale deeply. This I can not fathom. When I catch the merest whiff of fresh flowers, my first reaction is to ask who died. Then I do my best to get the hell away.

My grandfather was an important man -- much more important than we younger grandkids, regrettably, ever really knew. As an undergraduate, I mentioned my grandfather's name in my Marxism class. The professor's eyes nearly bugged out of his head.

Walter Dorosh.

President of UAW Local 600.

Administrative Aide to UAW President Leonard Woodcock.

I had no idea. I mean, I knew he went to conventions. I'm told that when I was very young, I was even taken on the road trip to some of them. But I had no clue what a "convention" was. I thought that everybody's grandfathers went to them -- that going to conventions was just something old people did to keep busy. I thought that everybody's grandfathers had hats with their last names on them: his a white trucker hat with a red foam front and a patch that said "Dorosh Team."

I had no idea. To me he was Bumpa, a name bestowed upon him when my oldest cousin mispronounced the word "grandpa." When he was away, he would send letters, combinations of drawn pictures and written words, to tell me where he was and what he was doing.

Bumpa was a good man. Very down-to-earth. He believed in the good in people. He taught us that everybody was important, and that everybody made a meaningful contribution. His work touched many lives and helped many people.

Which, of course, was the reason for all the damn flowers.

Flowers are ruined for me, but that's ok. I'll gladly take that hit for the Team.

Some aspect of Bumpa can be seen in every member of my family. I'm honored that I got his physical stamp too. I have a birthmark on my leg that matches the one that he had. Mine isn't as big or quite as dark, but it is there. And I'm proud of it.

I didn't end up finding one of Bumpa's letters in my basement, and that saddens me. If I ever do find one, I will cherish it forever. I did, however, find in another box some pictures from when he came to visit me in Illinois, not long before his death. I added those pictures to the other keepsakes and transferred them all to a sturdier box that I look forward to digging up again someday.

I know that Bumpa would be proud of the things I've done. My academic honors fill a room. I was the first grandkid to finish college. I'm the only doctor in the family. All good things.

I just wish I could have had the benefit of his advice when I had to decide whether to go onto the academic job market. I often wonder what he would think of my option to settle for a non-academic jo --

"Settle."

It suddenly became imperative for me to find the Roger Rabbit essay that I wrote in 11th grade.

I turned my basement upside down. Nothing.

I called Mom and Dad. They did remember the essay. Dad even specifically remembered that the character was Roger Rabbit. Impressive, given that he regularly misremembers Shrek's name as "Thorpe."

My parents assured me that I would find the essay in my school record -- the permanent one that The Man threatens you with for 12 years and then hands back to you when you graduate from high school.

"Permanent."

*sigh*

Mine's lost.

~ ~ ~

Sig Figs

I took my current job as the CIO of an internet company when we were just a start-up, floating somewhere in that space between concept and reality. I have no idea why I use the word "settle": I couldn't have invented a better job for myself. The 'I' in my title formally stands not for Information, but for Innovation.

I figure out how to make things exist.

I work a lot of hours, but generally have the freedom to do things in my own way. I work primarily from home. I roll out of bed, throw on my robe and Mickey feet slippers, and shuffle down the steps to my office. Not a bad commute at all.

In many ways, I'm the quarterback. I synthesize information, develop plans, and do whatever is necessary to help our team achieve our goals. Sometimes this involves being a cheerleader. I also function as a translator, sending information and inquiries back and forth between our business and our technical teams.

When I started graduate school, my intent was to become an English professor with a low-stress appointment in a stimulating and supportive environment. It was deflating to learn this isn't possible.

Working as an adjunct exposed me to the realities of the academy. The intellectual material that made you want to go in academics in the first place is usually forced off of your radar. If you're lucky, you might get to teach a specialty course on it every couple of semesters. Generally speaking, you teach stuff that you know but don't necessarily like to bored and inattentive students in classes that have too many students in them. And you'll have to teach so many of these classes at the same time that you won't be able to open a book that truly interests you until the end of the term, after you've dealt once and for all with the increasing number of self-entitled grade grubbers.

Your institution, your college, and your department will require you to serve on a bunch of different committees, but then handcuff you with red tape so that nothing actually ever gets accomplished. That might not be such a bad thing, though, seeing as how, if your hands weren't tied, you'd probably strangle the shithead from down the hall who has been out to get you ever since you voted nay on his or her completely inane proposal during a departmental meeting three years ago.

Combine all of this with the fact that academics are ridiculously underpaid and culturally undervalued -- "your discussion, professor, is purely academic" -- and one wonders why the hell anybody would want to go into academics anyway.

"Settle."

The assumption when I started college was that I would be a scientist of some sort. The 'women in science' thing was pushed at me pretty hard throughout high school, and as an undergraduate I was told that I probably could have gone to any Chemistry graduate school I wanted.

I could have had a good life making and breaking chemical bonds.

I started doing Chemistry research during my second semester as an undergraduate at UM-Dearborn. My mentor was a cool guy. He was about my height. His sideburns and fashion sense made him a throwback, and he was often rolling a toothpick between his teeth. When he laughed, you could hear him up and down the hallway.

He was an expert at the archaeological filing method. He had stacks of papers everywhere in his office. When you asked him for something, he would assess how long it had been since he'd seen that particular something. He'd then go to the corresponding pile, run his fingers down the stack, and on the first attempt dig out whatever it was that you needed. The harvesting algorithm worked every time.

I liked him because he was neither a typical academic nor a typical scientist. He had a healthy family life and a wide range of interests. He could speak about all sorts of non-academic and non-scientific subjects. And best of all, he didn't take himself so damn seriously.

I remember him coming one day into our student hangout with a newspaper and writing a headline on the chalkboard: "Unionized Workers Disappointed." A number of students looked confusedly at the words. I immediately began to giggle -- not at the fact that the union-ized workers were disappointed, but rather because I knew that he knew that the other students in the room were puzzling over how the hell those disappointed workers had become un-ionized in the first place.

I wish I could have seen my Chemistry mentor one last time, but I never had the opportunity. When he retired, he left the academy, which is another thing I admire about him. He didn't hang around as an Emeritus, taking up space until he finally keeled over face first onto a dusty keyboard.

Not his style.

He left the academy, moved out of state, and lived a happy retirement on his farm with family and friends. It was his academic research that finally did him in. He passed away in the Spring of 2010, succumbing to complications from a cancer treatment. I sent a Thank You rather than a Sympathy card to his memorial. It more accurately expressed what I wanted to say.

The research project he mentored me on is far more significant to me now than I would ever have thought. The ultimate goal was clear and well-defined: break the [Hg2]2+ bond in such a way that a Hg1+ compound resulted.

Remember during that required Chemistry class umpteen years ago when you turned to the person sitting next to you and asked "when the hell am I ever going to use this shit?"

It's go time.

The chemical element Mercury is represented by the symbol Hg. It exists in two ionized forms: Mercury (I) and Mercury (II), depending on how many electrons are zipping around the ion.

Mercury (II) exists as a single ion with two electrons in its outer shell.

The big circle represents the Mercury ion. The small circles represent electrons, each of which carries a negative charge. The electrons together impart a charge of -2 (because each electron itself is a -1). The overall charge of the system is 0; therefore, the charge of the Mercury ion is +2 . We write that as Mercury (II), or Hg2+.

Mercury (I) isn't so simple.

It would make sense for Mercury (I) to exist as a single ion with one electron, like so.

But it doesn't.

Or at least, if it does, nobody's ever seen it.

The only way that we've ever seen Mercury (I) is as part of a dimer -- that is, as part of a system that contains two Mercury (I) ions that are bonded together. Like this.

Each Mercury ion has one electron associated with it, so the charge of each is indeed +1. We can't write this as Hg1+, though, because that's not accurate. Instead, we have to write this as [Hg2]2+, which tells us that we have a system of two Mercury ions that together have a charge of 2+.

Got it?

Now, the goal of my research was to break the bond between these two Mercury (I) dimer ions in such a way that we ended up with two single Mercury ions, each with a charge of 1+. In other words, we wanted to see Mercury (I), or Hg1+, in the form that nobody had ever seen.

This Mercury (I) chemistry is important from a theoretical perspective because it was my first intellectual engagement with a binary system. I didn't see it that way at the time, though, because this system seemed different from all of the other binaries that were attempting to pull me apart.

I was in the Undergraduate Honors Program, the academic emphasis of which was skewed toward the Humanities and Social Sciences. Pissed that I hadn't passed out of both semesters of Honors Composition, I enrolled in the requisite Composition course during the same semester that I began my Chemistry research.

Research was also the focus of the Composition class. The final paper required us to take something from our own time and trace it back to the Middle Ages. Without a clue and frankly not much caring what I chose, I opted to trace back the history of Chemistry.

What a hot mess that was.

I was still doing it 15 years later as I was writing my dissertation.

I had intended in that Composition research paper to assemble a list of names and dates significant in the history of Chemistry, weave it together with some sort of reverse chronological narrative, and be done with it. The strategy worked until I got back to Robert Boyle (1627-1691), best known for Boyle's Law and often referred to as the Father of Modern Chemistry.

Shit.

I didn't know much, but I knew that 1627 was not the Middle Ages.

So I had to start poking around into what 'un-modern' chemistry might have been. And that was when things got messy.

The alchemy entry on Wikipedia will tell you that alchemy was both a material practice and a spiritual philosophy. It will tell you that alchemists sought the philosopher's stone, a substance believed to enable the transmutation of lead and other "base" metals into gold, as well as the creation of a universal panacea, or elixir of life, which could cure all disease and prolong life indefinitely. And it will also tell you that many alchemical schools of thought considered these two potentially very opposite pursuits -- transmutation and the elixir -- as fundamentally complementary ones.

Both the transmutation of common metals into gold and the universal panacea symbolized evolution from an imperfect, diseased, corruptible, and ephemeral state towards a perfect, healthy, incorruptible, and everlasting state; and the philosopher's stone then represented a mystic key that would make this evolution possible. Applied to the alchemist himself, the twin goal symbolized his evolution from ignorance to enlightenment, and the stone represented a hidden spiritual truth or power that would lead to that goal.

But there was, of course, no damn Wikipedia article in 1992. I read actual books from the actual library for the better part of a month to figure all that out.

Midway through the following semester, I was handed a book as I ran out of my Honors Program humanities class. I had only ten minutes to make it across campus to my Organic Chemistry lecture, and so tossed the book into my backpack without noting the title. I now appreciate the humor of that situation.

The book was _Frankenstein_. There was a note tucked inside from my former Composition professor proposing I do an independent study of the alchemy in Shelley's novel. He furthermore suggested I might find research in English even more challenging than research in Chemistry.

I took him up on it.

I did the _Frankenstein_ independent study during the Fall semester of my third year. My other courses that term were Inorganic Chemistry, Analytical Chemistry, Analytical Chemistry lab, and a second independent study for my chemistry research. Most of the people I told either laughed at or didn't believe my double life.

I enjoyed it while it lasted. Which was only until it was time to register for the next term.

One section of Instrumental Chemistry was offered. One section of Science and Literature was offered. The courses were at the same time on the same days. No compromise could be made. I had to choose one or the other.

The first pages we read in the Science and Literature course explained why this was the case.

It is about three years since I made a sketch in print of a problem which had been on my mind for some time. It was a problem I could not avoid just because of the circumstances of my life. The only credentials I had to ruminate on the subject at all came through those circumstances, through nothing more than a set of chances. Anyone with similar experience would have seen much the same things and I think made very much the same comments about them. It just happened to be an unusual experience. By training I was a scientist: by vocation I was a writer. That was all. It was a piece of luck, if you like, that arose through coming from a poor home. (1)

...

There have been plenty of days when I have spent the working hours with scientists and then gone off at night with some literary colleagues. I mean that literally. I have had, of course, intimate friends among both scientists and writers. It was through living among these groups and much more, I think, through moving regularly from one to the other and back again that I got occupied with the problem of what, long before I put it on paper, I christened to myself as the 'two cultures.' For constantly I felt I was moving among two groups -- comparable in intelligence, identical in race, not grossly different in social origin, earning about the same incomes, who had almost ceased to communicate at all, who in intellectual, moral, and psychological climate had so little in common that instead of going from Burlington House or South Kensington to Chelsea, one might have crossed an ocean. (2)

These passages are from the beginning of C. P. Snow's "Two Cultures" lecture, which famously laments the cultural gulf between literary intellectuals and physical scientists.

This gulf, of course, is why people laughed. It's why people said I was living a double life. It's why the university could schedule a single section of an upper-level English course at the same time as a single section of an upper-level Chemistry course. It was inconceivable that a student could possibly belong in both.

This gulf is why I was forced to choose.

I learned during that term that I'd been awarded a National Endowment for the Humanities Younger Scholars Grant. I continued working on the _Frankenstein_ paper, and started for the first time to entertain thoughts of changing my major.

I dreaded the idea of taking more lab courses. They seemed so...I don't know. Fake. I knew what I was supposed to get. I didn't need to run an experiment to "prove" the ideal gas law.

Sure. For a hypothetical gas with no bound or interacting atoms, it's perfect.

The Chemistry research, on the other hand, felt more authentic. I only thing I really knew is what I was attempting to do. Technically it was messy and intellectually it was challenging. It was much more like real life.

Now that's what I'm talking about.

In the course labs, I threw out aberrant or anomalous data points that skewed the results I knew I should have gotten.

In the research lab, on the other hand, throwing out a data point was a serious matter. I ran the same experiments multiple times to see if I could replicate "anomalous" results. Just because I didn't expect a result never meant the result wasn't legitimate.

To throw out data points in real life is shitty science.

Three days into the Fall semester of my senior year, the Physical Chemistry professor distributed a homework assignment that looked like something straight from NASA. I thumbed thoughtfully through the assignment and put my pencil down.

I was done.

Thirty minutes later, I had revamped my course schedule and the course of my entire life. Many of my peers thought I'd gone nuts. A number of Chemistry professors suggested it was a decision I might regret. There was, they told me, "no money to be made in reading."

My Chemistry mentor, however, was as cool as always. I continued doing research with him, attending English and History classes in the mornings and reading in the lab as I ran my reactions in the afternoon. I chuckled at the fact that I got more sideways glances from the Chemistry crowd for my poetry texts than I did from the English crowd for the occasional latex glove that would flip out of my backpack.

My immediate task in the lab was to grow crystals of a Mercury (I) compound that we could send out for x-ray crystallography. In the same way that an x-ray of your knee shows the positions of your leg bones relative to each other, this x-ray would show us the positions of the Mercury (I) ions relative to each other and relative to all of the other atoms in the compound as well. We were hoping, remember, to break the bond between the two Mercury (I) dimer ions and thus see Mercury (I) in its never-before-seen, isolated form.

I ran the reaction a bunch of times but never got crystals. Just fluffy powders. Thinking only of altering each variable in turn, I left the reaction to run overnight on a hotplate. The next afternoon I was informed that the flask had been pulled off the heat because it was smoking.

Whoops.

Did I mention the stuff was explosive?

I absentmindedly did the same thing a few days later and had to fly back up to campus to pull the flask off of the heat myself. It was much later in the evening than I was supposed to be working unsupervised in the lab, but I wasn't going to hear about making that same mistake again. I mean, I also didn't want to explode the building, but I definitely didn't want to hear about that mistake. Again.

I darted into the lab and raised the fume hood, not sure what to expect.

My jaw dropped.

Crystals.

Good ones.

We sent them off for analysis the next afternoon.

I focused my efforts in the meantime on the _Frankenstein_ paper, which I was scheduled to give later that term at the Annual Conference of the Society for Literature and Science.

I had begun my _Frankenstein_ research knowing only its early-90s knucklehead lore, which consisted of the "Monster Mash," Frankenberry cereal, and _Young Frankenstein_. Today the online "study" sites will tell you about the novel, which is almost always described as a cautionary tale against unchecked ambition, narrated by Victor Frankenstein to Robert Walton, the explorer who rescues Victor from near death as Victor pursues his hideous monster across the arctic ice.

This description, however, located in a number of places on the web, is a notable exception.

Mary Shelley's _Frankenstein_ is a classic tale of a man-made monster seeking acceptance from society in light of his ghastly appearance and strange upbringing.

Perspective is everything.

The actual content of the _Frankenstein_ project is less important than the intellectual framework it created for me.

The project was a crash course in learning that "facts" are historically and culturally contingent. What I as a 21st century American consider to be a fact may not have been considered a fact by a 19th century American, and may no longer be considered a fact by a 23rd century American. It also means that this same fact may never have been, may not be, or may never be considered a fact by an individual in a non-American or non-Western culture.

At first this didn't faze me a bit. Today's knowledge has of course supplanted the knowledge we had in the past, and will in turn be supplanted by the knowledge that we'll gain in the future. This, we are told, is the natural progression of things.

The progression becomes more challenging, however, when the timeline is compressed. What we know is bound to change over the course of 200 years. But how about 20 years? Or 2 years?

Hell, how about over the course of 2 days?

When I woke up on August 25, 2006, the solar system was a different place than it was when I'd gone to bed on August 23. Pluto was no longer a planet.

The implication here is that all knowledge is subject to revision, and therefore we don't -- and can't -- know whether we actually really "know" anything at all.

Some people might find this notion uncomfortably destabilizing.

I understand it as yet another reason to respect the "errant" data points.

The _Frankenstein_ project also gave me an introduction to literary theory. I was situating Shelley's novel historically in its 19th Century cultural and scientific contexts. This happened to put me at odds with a number of feminist critics who argued in one way or another that Shelley's husband and father, poet Percy Shelley and writer William Godwin, had very little positive influence on Shelley and her work.

Throughout my academic career, feminists in a variety of disciplines have assumed that I would naturally share their intellectual perspective and have become indignant upon learning that I in some cases did not. I find this to be as presumptuous as the woman in graduate school who told me that I was actually a lesbian "but just didn't know it yet."

The _Frankenstein_ paper was ultimately well-received at the conference, which marked the end of my undergraduate research in English. Less than a month later, my research in Chemistry came to an end as well.

My Chemistry mentor approached me with a grin and an envelope.

The crystallography results.

"Total failure to break the Mercury (I) dimer bond," he reported.

I grabbed at the envelope, assuming the grin meant he was kidding.

He was not.

I expected to see the neat skeleton of a molecule that contained a single Mercury (I) atom that was not connected to a second Mercury (I) atom.

The image I saw, however, resembled a net.

I glanced at my mentor, confused.

"Mercury (I) polymer." His eyes twinkled. "I've never seen one of those before."

I looked back at the image, back at the web of interconnected atoms.

Circles -- hundreds, thousands, millions of them -- all bound to each other by thin lines.

~ ~ ~

**The damage you've inflicted, temporary wounds**

I'm coming back from the dead

And I'll take you home with me

I'm taking back the life you stole

This hole you put me in

Wasn't deep enough

And I'm climbing out right now

You're running out of places to hide from me

My Chemical Romance, "It's Not a Fashion Statement"

~ ~ ~

**Lambda**

There is often a moment in queer narratives when the writer suddenly feels a sense of connectedness. My moment occurred when I saw the partially defaced flyer.

Bumped and jostled toward a student announcement board during the between-class flurry, I almost couldn't avoid seeing that the Queer student group had added a letter to its alphabet soup.

I stopped in my tracks.

The faculty sponsor of that group was an acquaintance of mine. I headed straight to his office and asked him what the 't' stood for.

"Transgendered," he quipped. "Had to add it to keep up with the times."

The momentary kick in the teeth didn't deter me. I attended the next meeting and became part of the group. And for the first time since the disastrous Freshman soccer banquet, I felt like I belonged.

Those of us who were comfortably out enough to plan and attend LGBT events became fast friends. I am thankful that nobody at the time told me about the conflicts in our larger community.

It for some reason hadn't occurred to me that non-heterosexuals might think that the gender community is as fucked up as the heterosexuals think it is. Or that an open acceptance of and alliance with the gender community would be considered a liability in the lesbian and gay struggle for social and political equality.

I knew nothing of the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival, or of its 'womyn born womyn' policy. I had never heard of Camp Trans. And I was entirely unaware of the vitriolic border war between butch lesbians and FTMs.

I was just happy to have found others who could relate to my experiences. We had all been belittled. We had all been bullied. We had all been shoved into closets and stuffed into boxes.

My new friends asked me a lot of questions about transgenderism that I simply couldn't answer. The 't' was, after all, as new to me as it was to them.

It was new to the Director of the Ann Arbor LGBT office as well. I attended a LGBT campus climate lecture she gave at UM-Dearborn. The lecture contained not one word pertaining to transgenderism. And then, when she was asked what transgenderism even was, she replied that it was -- and I quote -- "an umbrella phrase used by people who are uncomfortable with their bodies."

I may not have known exactly what transgenderism was, but I was pretty sure that wasn't it. I spoke up by walking out.

I understand the misunderstanding, at least to an extent. The definition of transgenderism can only be as stable as the definition of gender, which itself can be fluid and fuzzy. To the editors of the transgender wikipedia page, may the force be with you.

Certainly one part of the problem is that the notion of gender fluidity hasn't gained much traction outside of the academy.

"Your discussion, professor, is purely academic."

A good way to bring this conversation into the mainstream would perhaps be to initiate a thoughtful and sensitive conversation between J. Q. Public and members of the medical community that openly acknowledges the complexities of gender, sexuality, and biological sex. This conversation, however, hasn't quite made it onto the medical establishment's to-do list.

An article by Melanie Blackless and others entitled "How Sexually Dimorphic Are We? Review and Synthesis" was published in the _American Journal of Human Biology_ in 2000. The article ultimately challenges the assumption that humans are "naturally" born either male or female \-- challenges what the authors call the "platonic ideal" that there is no gray space between the biological sexes. The study is abstracted as follows.

The belief that _Homo sapiens_ is absolutely dimorphic with the respect to sex chromosome composition, gonadal structure, hormone levels, and the structure of the internal genital duct systems and external genitalia, derives from the platonic ideal that for each sex there is a single, universally correct developmental pathway and outcome. We surveyed the medical literature from 1955 to the present for studies of the frequency of deviation from the ideal male or female. We conclude that this frequency may be as high as 2% of live births. The frequency of individuals receiving "corrective" genital surgery, however, probably runs between 1 and 2 per 1,000 live births (0.1-0.2%). (151)

Pause for a moment and let that sink in.

Two percent of live births.

Almost 2 out of every 100 people deviate biologically from what is defined as male or female.

You probably know somebody with such a deviation.

Would you join the angry mob to chase them out of town?

Note that the authors of the study use quotation marks around the word "corrective" in their abstract. This is because a number of the surgeries that have been and still are performed to medically "correct" the appearance of newborn genitals are neither corrective nor even medically necessary. Some of these surgeries actually inhibit or destroy the possibility of sexual function or pleasure later in life, and so (spoiler alert!) a good many of the adults who were subjected to these surgeries as newborns aren't really all that happy about it.

The Intersex Society of North America spearheads the effort to stop these bogus "corrective" surgeries that are in reality performed primarily to relieve the emotional distress -- "Oh God, my child is a monster!" -- of the newborn's parents. As such, the ISNA is an important part of the social movement, acknowledged in the "How Sexually Dimorphic Are We?" article, to "recognize intersexuality as a legitimate state of nature" (161).

You catch that?

"A legitimate state of nature."

Some crusaders fight for world peace.

Some work to end poverty and hunger.

For others, the struggle is simply to be recognized as legitimate.

Every now and again I like to reread the _Times_ article by Dennis Overbye, "Pluto Is Demoted to 'Dwarf Planet'."

After years of wrangling and a week of bitter debate, astronomers voted on a sweeping reclassification of the solar system. In what many of them described as a triumph of science over sentiment, Pluto was demoted to the status of a "dwarf planet."

...

Mike Brown of the California Institute of Technology . . . said he was relieved. "Through this whole crazy circus-like procedure, somehow the right answer was stumbled on," he said. "It's been a long time coming. Science is self-correcting eventually, even when strong emotions are involved."

...

The decision was bound to have both a cultural and economic impact on the industry of astronomical artifacts and toys, publishing and education. . . Neil deGrasse Tyson, director of the Hayden Planetarium in New York, said children are flexible, when asked about the cultural impact of today's redefinition. . . Dr. Tyson said the continuing preoccupation with what the public and schoolchildren would think about this was a concern and a troubling precedent. "I don't know any other science that says about its frontier, 'I wonder what the public thinks,'" he said. "The frontier should move in whatever way it needs to move."

Well, I can think of at least one science that does.

*sigh*

At any rate, if the astronomy community can lead us through a reassessment of what we know about the solar system, I hope the medical community will likewise lead us through a reassessment of what we know about human sex, sexuality, and gender.

Perhaps then the surgeries will stop and our data points will be allowed to remain.

Perhaps then we will be legitimate instead of abnormal or deviant.

Perhaps then we will finally be spared from the verbal and physical abuse that marks, scars, and in some cases destroys our lives altogether.

But until then, we remain at the mercy of the unmerciful.

Because I had changed my major when I was a senior, it took me six years to complete my undergraduate degree. This was not an acceptable timeline to the UM-Dearborn academic administration.

I had served as an officer in both the Chemistry Club and the Queer Student Group, and had also been on the Student Leadership Team. I was graduating from the Honors Program, had made the Dean's List every semester, and had earned a number of merit-based scholarships. I had been awarded a National Endowment for the Humanities Younger Scholars Grant. I had conducted original research in both English and Chemistry. I myself had given the _Frankenstein_ paper at the 1994 Annual Conference for the Society of Literature and Science, and the crystallography of the Mercury (I) polymer had been the focus of a poster presentation given by my Chemistry mentor at the 1995 National Meeting of the American Chemical Society.

Despite these credentials, I was ultimately deemed not worthy of a Chancellor's Medallion, which is UM-Dearborn's highest honor for excellence in student scholarship, leadership, and service. The snub to this day serves as a bitter reminder that The Man will cut you if you don't meet his expectations.

I was, on the other hand, named the Honors Scholar in English that year. I am particularly proud of this award for two reasons, in addition to having received the award in and of itself.

The Honors Scholars from various disciplines were awarded our plaques at a small ceremony held several weeks before graduation. Two of my former and both long-time UM-Dearborn professors -- one in English, one in Chemistry -- had been sitting next to each other at the ceremony. The English professor later told me that it was first time that he and his Chemistry colleague had ever known the same student.

A different English professor also told me later that I had been unanimously chosen by the English faculty to receive the Honors Scholar award. This is particularly noteworthy because it was well-known, even among the students, that the English faculty was bitterly divided into several factions, all of whom hated each other to such an extent that they simply out of spite never agreed upon anything. I am glad to have been the cause, if only for a moment, of some sort of harmony among them.

~ ~ ~

**O.o**

One of the boxes I unearthed in my basement contained a bunch of my graduate school papers. I grinned when I found the one titled "Foucault and...Chemistry?". In it I use a molecular analogy to explain the power network described by Foucault in _The History of Sexuality Part I_.

In order to better understand Foucault's concept of a power network, I found it useful to visualize society as, of all things, a large chemical molecule. Society in general corresponds to the entire molecule; specific societal institutions (the church, the family, the individual, etc.) correspond to the atoms of the molecule; and the imaginary axes along which power is exercised between and among the various societal institutions correspond to the chemical bonds connecting the atoms. Nifty, but what's the point?

The point is that this analogy helped me, at least, to understand that, despite the fact that power is everywhere, all bodies and all sexualities are indeed not equally endowed with power. Foucault explains that the character of power relationships is "strictly relational"; chemistry teaches that the concentration of energy is likewise relational: while there may be a relatively constant amount of energy in a given chemical bond itself, the energy along that bond is virtually never distributed evenly between the two atoms that the bond connects. One atom (by virtue of its size, its electronegativity, etc.) always has more energy residing on its side of the bond than does the other atom. Substituting power for energy, then, and translating this concept to Foucault, it becomes clear that, in any given power relationship, as in any chemical bond, one societal institution (by virtue of its sanctity, its popularity, etc.) will generally always have more power than a corresponding other institution. The implication of this imbalance of power is that, at any given time, one institution has the ability to exercise power over another institution. Thus, the church overpowers female sexuality; the heterosexual family overpowers homosexuality; the white individual overpowers the "other."

Another significant chemistry point is that, no matter how comparatively little energy the weaker atom in a given chemical bond has, this weaker atom never has zero energy. The implication of this point in relation to Foucault is that, no matter how overpowered the weaker institution in a power relationship might be, that weaker institution still always has at least some degree of power – perhaps a minute amount in comparison, but some amount nonetheless. This point helps to explain Foucault's example that, despite numerous institutions putting forth a "strong advance of social controls in [the] area of 'perversity,'" the advent of these controls nonetheless enabled the development of a discourse arguing for the "legitimacy or 'naturality'" of homosexuality. Thus Foucault's claim that power is everywhere. Granted, there might not be a lot of power everywhere...but power is, indeed, everywhere.

Memories.

I actually remember with some clarity the day we discussed Foucault. Not because of Foucault's text, but because the professor asked me to read this response out loud to my classmates. Totally outed me as a closet scientist on the second day of class.

As I sat reading in the dim light of my basement, I was disappointed to see that my subsequent reading responses to the material in that class had become increasingly less thoughtful.

We read Thomas Laqueur's _Making Sex_ , for example, which documents and discusses the medical paradigm shift from the one-sex model to the two-sex model. The book is great. My response sucked.

Because science until the end of the Seventeenth Century only recognized one sex organ, the 'biological' difference between men and women concerned the bodily placement of that organ: women had it on the inside of their bodies, men had it on the outside. In short, men and women had the same parts -- the parts were just located in different places. Consequent to the female body being seen basically as an inversion of the male body, a degree of biological fluidity between men and women did exist, as is documented by the cases of women 'becoming' men when their sex organs 'fell out.'

Three sentences. That's apparently all of the interest I could muster. And frankly, the three sentences aren't even mine: they're facts from the book.

I could have done so much more.

Academics are generally unimpressed with personal anecdotes, but I could have figured out a way to incorporate a few. I do have a lot to say about the suspicion and policing of gender fluidity. It may not have been a direct response to Laqueur, but it would have been far more honest than the two pages of bullshit I turned in.

I could have read a bit more into the historical cases of women "becoming" men. _Middlesex_ wouldn't be published for another five years, but mulling over whether these women may have had 5-alpha-reductase deficiency or other intersex conditions might have been interesting. Weaving those thoughts into a discussion of the two-sex model's propensity to pathologize such conditions would have made for a legitimate response.

I could also have freewheeled about facts as culturally created. In this case, Laqueur illustrates how the paradigm shift from the one-sex to the two-sex model created the "fact" that male and female bodies are naturally -- that is, literally, are "intended by nature to be" -- different. This fact in turn implies that bodies not fitting into these "naturally" differentiated male and female categories are unnatural and therefore freakish.

We read a pair of tracts published in 1620 titled _Hic Mulier_ and _Haec Vir_ , subtitled "The Man-Woman" and "The Womanish-Man," respectively. I noted the discussion of the Man-Woman's clothing in my response.

As in _Twelfth Night_ and _King Lear_ , the internal characters of the individuals depicted in _Hic Mulier_ and _Haec Vir_ are determined by the clothes that the individuals wear. For example, as implied by _Hic Mulier_ , a drastic change occurs when a woman casts off her feminine garb and dons masculine clothing: she is transformed from a virtuous, beautiful, and heavenly lady into a monstrous, "all Odious," and God-forsaken devil – into a "Chimera of deformity" who ultimately is "just good for nothing" and is destined to be "sent back to hell." Personally, eternal damnation strikes me as kind of a harsh punishment for someone who might simply just like to wear pants, but I suppose that one could be a bit more careful as to what one grabs out of the closet when one's mortal soul is at stake.

Although the professor noted in my margin that the tracts were parody, I didn't see it. Issues of clothing hit too close to home.

I never told that professor about my own gender identity, despite the fact that she would obviously have understood what I was talking about and likely become a friend and ally. And it's not like I was oblivious to the fact that the course material was speaking directly to me, either. I began to wonder why I never confided in her.

I didn't have to wonder long.

It was the F word.

My response to _Lieutenant Nun_ was the next one in the folder. Subtitled _Memoir of a Basque Transvestite in the New World_ , the book chronicles the adventures of Catalina de Erauso, a woman who escapes from a convent and then lives as a male soldier for two decades. Instead of exploring the many interesting issues raised by the text, however, I spent my response paper disagreeing with the feminist critic who wrote the Introduction.

It is primarily due to the complex interplay of masculinity and femininity in de Erauso that I disagree with Garber's assertion that de Erauso's tale is a "parody of masculinist culture." If Garber is characterizing the Lieutenant Nun's "quick and enterprising nature," "spirited, ungovernable temper," and "love of action and travel" as indicative of this "masculinist culture," de Erauso is arguably more celebrating than parodying this culture. She proudly recounts not only her participation, but also, and perhaps more importantly, her success in dangerous "masculine" adventures, behaviors, and battles. She could well have remained in the "'feminist' culture" of the convent, but she is clearly more comfortable in the "masculinist" culture of the world.

While I thus do not see the text as a condemnation of "masculinist culture," I do understand how the text could be read as such. Arguments that end in fatalities begin over seemingly inconsequential squabbles, and the excess of pride and bloodshed seems a bit overboard. Ultimately, however, I think it important not to project our own critique of this culture onto de Erauso – especially when she so clearly finds part of herself in it.

I confess. I struggle with feminism. And I know that's not cool for someone who sports a vagina to say. But truth be told, I am feminish at best. I have always felt that feminism talks down to me as much as it speaks up for me.

The following passage is from Henry Rubin's _Self-Made Men_. It quotes a 1973 article in The Lesbian Tide by columnist Radical Rita Right-On that illustrates the reason for my ambivalence.

The following is a partial transcription of a meeting I attended last week. I felt it was very important, so I am printing it instead of my usual column on advanced political theory.

CHAIR: The general meeting of the Radical Revolutionary Anti-racist, Anti-capitalist, Anti-imperialist, Anti-discrimination, Anti-smog [it was LA] Lesbian Feminists will come to order. [Today's meeting is devoted to] a discussion of the topic: How do we reach the masses? . . . The chair recognizes Susan Savedwoman.

SUSAN SAVEDWOMAN: [T]he name of our group. It turns a lot of new people off, and most don't even come at all. For example, a lot of bar people don't like the word "Lesbian." They prefer the word "gay." I propose we make a change.

CHAIR: That's a very good idea . . . [after much democratic posturing] The name of our group has been changed to the Radical, Revolutionary, Anti-racist, Anti-imperialist Gay Feminists.

NANCY NOTTASLAVE: Yes, I think our problem is that we ignore new people who come to this meeting. . . . I see two new women sitting over in the corner who haven't said anything at all. . . . I'd like to hear from them: why they're here and what they'd like to see this group do.

NEW PERSON: My name's Nicki and my old lady, Suzie, and I thought we'd come and see if you guys can help us out. I got fired yesterday from my job as foreman at a factory because they found out I'm gay, and I want to know what I can do to fight it.

FRANCES FREEDOM: You do have a problem, but more than you think. First off, calling your lover "old lady" is very sexist and monogamous. Secondly, we are not "guys" we are women. And thirdly, you couldn't have been a foreMAN because you're a woman. Now what were you saying?

NICKI: What? Oh . . . . I was saying I want someone to help me get my job back. . . . Look, I need a job to pay the rent NOW. If you don't want to help me, we're splitting now.

FRANCES FREEDOM: Suzie – wait! Don't leave with Nicki. Don't you realize she oppresses you?

CHAIR: Order please! Let them leave. They obviously have no consciousness. Now who has some other ideas on how we can reach out to the masses? (79-80)

Rubin describes this article as humorous. And, indeed, it is.

But it also isn't.

And therein lies the issue.

The professor of that class was a well-known and widely-respected feminist scholar. This, I presume, is the reason I never confided in her. If I had, who knows where I'd be or what I'd be doing today. In retrospect, my decision to remain closeted may have been a genuine Marty-at-the-Dance moment.

I was nonetheless heavily invested both personally and professionally in the final paper that I wrote for her course. My belief was (and still is) that because they occupy a social role that is different from those occupied by Elizabethan men and women, Shakespeare's fools and jesters can be interpreted as fluidly gendered -- sometimes masculine, sometimes feminine, sometimes both, sometimes neither.

I remember being extremely happy with the way that paper turned out. When I got it back, I eagerly flipped to the professor's comments.

Your paper is fascinating, lucidly written, and raises new and compelling questions about the nature and effects of the gendering of Feste's role in _Twelfth Night_. It is strongly organized and is especially good at deploying a strong and developing argument throughout. There are no wasted words or paragraphs. Each part of it makes claims which potentially support the thesis. The introduction and the conclusion are eloquent and arresting and introduce and tie up the issues of the paper well. The laying out of similarities between Viola and Feste is concise and persuasive and you make excellent use of critics to support your points here and throughout. Your discussion of Viola's complexly doubled (or multiple?) gender roles and the potential hetero- or homo-erotic desires they attract and circulate on stage and in audience is excellent. When you get to discussing Feste as likewise multiply gendered and likewise inciting and circulating various desires, you lay the groundwork for making a series of persuasive points about his position in the play: that Feste does not play the role of a man or a woman; that he is forced, as a Fool, to understand and play to, perhaps even imitate, the characteristics of his audience including their gender roles; that his songs may imply various forms of desire, and that his wordplay does likewise. But these points are not argued for sufficiently to support a reading of the play this strong and unconventional.

*headdesk*

Her comments continued, ending on this note.

This is a very strong, unconventional, and original argument – of the sort that you like to make. This is a good thing but arguments like this will be resisted and so you need to do all the hard (and exciting) work of providing evidence and being ready to meet critics' objections. This paper was a great read!

B+

B plus.

A B fucking plus.

That one's still a little touchy.

I took a Queer Theory course the following year that was taught by a younger and openly gay faculty member. That course underscored for me the importance of language as it pertains to identity.

We read a number of articles that explored gender and sexuality in non-Western cultures. One was Nayan Shah's "Sexuality, Identity, and the Uses of History." I titled my response to the article "All's Quiet After the Western Affront."

Part of the problem here – and one in which I am extremely interested – is on the level of language. Shah's article shows the importance of words and names to those whom society has marginalized: "South Asian gays and lesbians have had to invent themselves, often with new words and names of identification"; "the appropriation of language has been integral to the invention of identity for South Asian men and women who feel marginalized in dominant South Asian societies"; and again, "words have invented the world of South Asian queer affiliations and social networks." To the casual observer, this idea may sound ridiculous -- to 'invent' yourselves with words. For those forging identities, however, the names are of utmost importance, for "how does one justify one's own existence when one cannot summon the history or utter a name that describes one's identity?" A crucial question. My answer is that it's damn near impossible to.

At the risk of alienating myself somewhat, I'm going to go ahead and posit that while at least a rudimentary language has been forged to discuss the beings and desires of 'deviant' sexualities, the language of 'deviant' genders is still lacking. This is not, of course, to say that things are peachy on the deviant sexuality front -- that's not what I'm saying at all. But I do think that if an individual were to self-identify as a gay male, that identification would mean at least _something_ to anyone who hasn't been living in a cave for the past 30 years. Granted, the precise meaning is going to shift according to who exactly hears that identification, but some type of meaning is going to be understood because the word 'gay' is part of our verbal currency, both in the gay community and in society at large. Deviant gender identifications, however, do not seem to have such currency. To self-identify as a transgendered individual usually gets me a "transwhaaat?" in return. Backpedaling to queer creates its own problems. "Oh, a lesbian! Why didn't you just say so?" And digging out of there by saying I'm straight doesn't cut it either. "Well hell, if you're straight, why are you hanging out with the queers?"

This lament over the lack of language still reverberates throughout our community. It is expressed here by Jamison Green in _Becoming a Visible Man_.

Our collective battles won't be won until there is a language for transgendered children to use to express their feelings, their fears and concerns when they are young, until none of us is afraid to tell the truth about ourselves to our parents, friends, pastors, doctors, employers, or school administrators, until we no longer fear being cast out like miscreants. The condition of being transgendered will probably never be eradicated from humankind. I believe it's a natural condition, part of nature's standard variation. (87)

Language builds a cultural space.

When there are words, there can be a voice.

When there is no voice, there is silence.

The question of how to create this cultural space, however -- the question of how to reimagine our concept of gender so that individuals falling into one of the many intersex or transgendered identities are no longer seen as aberrant data points to be eliminated from the scientific and social graph -- is subject to debate.

Kate Bornstein proposes in Gender Outlaw, for example, that we get rid of gender altogether.

It's a patriarchal culture, and gender seems to be basic to the patriarchy. After all, men couldn't have male privilege if there were no males. And women couldn't be oppressed if there was no such thing as "women." Doing away with gender is key to the doing away with the patriarchy, as well as ending the many injustices perpetrated in the name of gender inequity. There is no gender inequity that doesn't first assume there is gender -- and only two genders at that. Gender inequities include sexism, homophobia, and misogyny. (115)

This is, to be sure, a radical idea. And it makes for an interesting thought experiment. But eliminating gender is probably not feasible in the grand scheme of things.

Reminds me of the artist formerly known as Prince changing his name to the once-unpronounceable symbol that we all now pronounce as "the artist formerly known as Prince."

I agree with the point about gender freedom that Pat Califia makes in Sex Changes.

If the concept of gender freedom is to have any meaning, it must be possible for some of us to cling to our biological sex and the gender we were assigned at birth while others wish to adapt the body to their gender of preference, and still others choose to question the very concept of polarized sexes. (275)

To eliminate the existing gender system would put out a lot of people who happen to like their gender just the way it is. I'd like to create a space for those who currently don't have one, without displacing everyone else in the process.

I disagree with Califia, on the other hand, over the notion of a dividing line.

While I'd love to live in a society where I got to emphasize other aspects of my personality more than gender, or could move back and forth between gender identities, I don't think we're going to get there by trying to erase the dividing line between male and female. (272)

"Do It on the Dotted Line," an essay by Raven Kaldera in the _GenderQueer_ anthology, is the most powerful personal articulation I've read against such a line.

"Sometimes," the woman speaker said to her rapt audience, "we just have to draw a line between male and female." Her sincerity was apparent. Everyone in the room could feel it. It made them trust her. It made me sick.

I knew I was going to have to stand up and challenger her, and I knew I could do it in one of any number of ways. I could tell her I have a medical condition (congenital adrenal hyperplasia), that I'm the sort of person they used to call a hermaphrodite back in the olden days (like the 1950s), but that now we call ourselves intersexuals. I could tell her that I was raised as a girl and now live socially as a man, that I've seen both sides of that line and know its transience, its fragility, its vagueness. I could order her to define _male_ and _female_ and _man_ and _woman_ and then tear down her definitions. I could argue with her on the field of reason, but I didn't.

First of all, I knew her objections weren't stemming from any reasonable space. She was scared, plain and simple. Scared of finding penises in her restroom and testosterone in her girlfriends and probably a lot of other things too. No matter what I said, I probably wouldn't change her mind, because I wouldn't be addressing her fears -- fears that were, in a sense, reasonable. After all, we are advocating an entire renovation of the gender system. We may disagree on what it should look like, but we're pretty much in favor of bringing on the drills and chisels. We shouldn't pretend otherwise; it insults the intelligence of the frightened masses. Yes, what you fear is true. And you know what? You'll live.

Second, I'm not just a medical condition. I'm a mythical beast. I know because when I was 10 years old, I found the word for what I am in a book of Greek myths and it said so. Two years later, when I hit puberty and grew breasts and facial hair, saw my hips spread and heard my voice crack, bled and got erect, I knew it was true. They said it was a myth, but here I am -- a unicorn, a dragon, a monster, a piece of magic let loose on the world. Your reality gives ground before my undeniably solid presence. And I'm a _heyoka_ , a sacred trickster, on top of it all.

So I grabbed the femme friend sitting next to me and hissed in an intense undertone, "Eyebrow pencil! I need eyebrow pencil! Now!" Coming from someone dressed as butchly as I was, it took her aback, and she fumbled through her purse as if I'd insisted that poison gas had been let loose in the building and I needed her lipstick to counteract its effects. She hurriedly handed me a brown stick, which I promptly used to draw a dotted line from my hairline to my chest. I'd have drawn farther, but I didn't want to open my shirt and show off my hairy breasts just yet. Then I pulled my knife out of my pocket and walked up to the female speaker who was still holding forth on the value of women's and men's spaces.

She saw me and her eyes widened. With the weird face paint and the knife, I suspect she took me for some kind of crazy coming to stab her. I indicated the dotted line drawn on my face. "Here's your line," I said. "Here's your line between male and female." Then I opened the knife and held it out to her, hilt first. "Put your money where your mouth is."

She looked stricken, horrified, then turned and ran from the room. I don't know what was actually going through her mind, but I know people took her aside later and told her about me, about who and what I am. I hope she got it. I hope she finally understood that whenever a line is drawn, it passes through someone's flesh. (156-57)

Beautiful.

Lines that connect are more meaningful than ones that divide.

As I continued to read in my basement, I was both disappointed and puzzled to find that none of my other Queer Theory response papers engaged with any of these issues. The only other paper of interest was titled "The Response Reappropriated," in which I hijacked what was supposed to be a response to some bullshit written by Freud to tap out a proposal for my final paper instead. In it I returned to Shakespeare's fools and jesters, noting them as the likely topic for my doctoral dissertation.

The proposal caught me by surprise, as I had no recollection whatsoever of having written a second jester essay. At the bottom of my stack of response papers sat not an essay, but rather a number of sketches and a preliminary site map.

And then I remembered.

I actually didn't write that paper. I had instead redesigned and rebuilt the website for the University of Illinois LGBT office as my final course project.

As I sat in my basement marveling over this utterly forgotten memory, all I could hear echoing in my head was the sound of my grandmother's voice.

Everything happens for a reason.

~ ~ ~

**Boundaries**

After completing the coursework required for my doctorate, I came back home to Dearborn to study for my prelims and write my dissertation.

Some things never change.

Other things would never be the same.

Chester was gone, and I missed him terribly. My brother had named him after the Looney Tunes dog. And that was entirely appropriate, given that Chet was indeed looney tunes.

He was a mutt. A hybrid, if you will. This might be one of the reasons we got along so well.

I remember I had come home from soccer one day and there he was. My brother tells me that my reaction at first was one of exasperation. Later that evening, however, I was on the floor in my bedroom and he came in to check me out.

There we sat, sizing each other up.

He tilted his head. I scratched behind his ears. He threw up on my pantleg.

I understood that this somehow made us even.

He quickly trained me after that. We were great pals -- of one mind and, for a while, of one stomach, as he was an extremely persuasive 'hey, gimme a taste'-er. After his arrival, for example, I never again had the opportunity to eat the miniature meatballs out of my grandmother's minestrone soup. We both knew that he had dibs on those, and that I would content myself with the broth and vegetable thingeys floating around in it.

I try to this day to be like him. He wasn't the type to get all frazzled and bent out of shape by little things. A moron at the drive-thru. A snowplow heaving slop at the end of a just-shoveled driveway. A cart jackknifed in the only aisle in the grocery store you need to get down. None of this stuff would have bothered him in the least.

If you really thoroughly absolutely totally pissed him off, he might poop in your shoe -- but only if it didn't inconvenience him.

The pooch loved spaghetti sauce. One of the classes I had taken as an undergraduate met from 6-9 pm on Monday nights. Mom would order me a ravioli carryout that I'd pick up on my way home. When I arrived, he would be waiting for me at the door.

The only reason I actually got to eat my dinner on those nights was because of the roll. Every time I took a bite of ravioli, I would break off a small piece of the roll, dip it in the sauce, and feed it to Chet. I really didn't mind, though. The Monday night class was History of the Holocaust. It was an amazing course but certainly not one that left a spring in your step. When I got home, I was glad to have a buddy, even if he only wanted me for my sauce.

During that class I learned the history of the pink triangle, which was one of the numerous badges used to identify prisoners in the Nazi camps. The pink triangle then identified male homosexuals and those guilty of other sex offenses, such as rape, pedophilia, and bestiality.

The pink triangle today has been appropriated as a symbol of gay pride. I am all for such an appropriation. It is one of the most powerful rhetorical strategies we can employ.

As with the pink triangle, so with the word "queer." There is something delightful about the exchange between Homer and the John Waters character in the "Homer's Phobia" episode of _The Simpsons_.

John: Homer, what have you got against gays?

Homer: You know. It, it's not usual. If there was a law, it would be against it.

Marge: Oh, Homer. Please. You're embarrassing yourself.

Homer: No I'm not, Marge. They're embarrassing me. They're embarrassing America. They turned the Navy into a floating joke. They ruined all our best names, like Bruce and Lance and Julian. Those were the toughest names we had. Now they're just...eh...

John: Queer?

Homer: Yeah. And that's another thing. I resent you people using that word. That's our word for making fun of you! We need it!

Taking it as ours can remove the sting.

Yes. I am queer. What of it?

In her performance piece "My Words to Victor Frankenstein Above the Village of Chamounix," Susan Stryker reclaims "monster."

I want to lay claim to the dark power of my monstrous identity without using it as a weapon against others or being wounded by it myself. I will say this as bluntly as I know how: I am a transsexual, and therefore I am a monster. Just as the words "dyke," "fag," "queer," "slut," and "whore" have been reclaimed, respectively, by lesbians and gay men, by anti-assimilationist sexual minorities, by women who pursue erotic pleasure, and by sex industry workers, words like "creature," "monster," and "unnatural" need to be reclaimed by the transgendered. By embracing and accepting them, even piling one on top of another, we may dispel their ability to harm us. (246)

Yes. I am a monster. What of it?

In _Gender Outlaw_ , Bornstein embraces "freak."

Standing with freaks never hurt anyone -- it's when we agree that we deserve the oppression and the ridicule that accompanies the freak's position in the culture -- that's when the wound is mortal. (81)

Yes. I am a freak. What of it?

The one phrase in particular that has been slung at me over the years is "fucking queer dyke faggot."

And now that one is mine too.

Yes. I am a fucking queer dyke faggot. What of it?

I can't tell you how many times I've been told, in earnest, that I wouldn't be mistaken for a boy if I would just let my hair grow out. Or if I would just wear clothes that would show off my figure.

Thank you all...but no.

I'm not interested in going out of my way to make sure I'm not mistaken for a guy.

All I am and all I have ever been interested in is being myself.

But being myself is not and has not ever been easy -- not for me, not for my sisters and brothers, not for any of us freaks and outlaws to whom Bornstein's Hello Cruel World speaks.

Bullies can make life miserable. And I'm not just talking about kids, because bullies don't stop being bullies once they've grown up, they just get more sophisticated. (33)

So true. Although "sophisticated" is way too sophisticated a word to waste on a bully.

Champaign, Illinois is a college town, and during the years I spent there I had become pleasantly used to not being stared at or singled out based solely on my appearance. A little rebellion against The Man in that atmosphere was seen as a good thing.

No so back home in Dearborn.

At my very first game of co-ed softball after my return, a guy on the other team shouted to the ump that we were cheating because we had put six guys in the field.

"Look at third. The guy on third makes six!"

I was playing third.

His wife apologized to me profusely. That was a nice change of pace.

The guy himself, however, did not apologize. This of course was because his embarrassment was my fault. Had I had the courtesy to have a ponytail sticking out of the back of my hat or to have worn a shirt that showed off my tits, he wouldn't have made the accusation.

Going out to eat likewise turned back into an ordeal.

"Hi. Table for two."

"What's the name?"

"Jen."

"Table for two for Ken."

"No, Jen."

"Oh I'm sorry. Table for two for Ben."

*facepalm*

If I am with a nice looking female friend or relative, we are often put on display at a table in the center of the restaurant. Or, more precisely, she is put on display. The Man might not admit it, but he kind of likes the idea of a hot lesbian.

If I am with a male friend or relative, on the other hand, we routinely get seated at a table by the bathroom. They can't put out a sign that says "Fags Not Welcome," but they have their ways of letting us know.

Public bathrooms went back to being a complete debacle.

I once walked into a public bathroom with a female cousin and was greeted by a lady who nastily remarked, "this is the women's room." My cousin was offended. She doesn't know the half of it.

The trouble actually starts ten or so feet away from the door. That's the invisible alarm radius.

Guys in the radius try to be helpful. They usually offer a friendly heads-up, like "dude, that's the chick's room." Occasionally they'll ready their phones. If a chick does end up chasing me out of the bathroom, swearing and swatting at me with her purse, they could win big money somewhere on the internet for a hilarious video like that.

Women in the radius are less helpful and often have no sense of humor. "Women's room" or "ladies' room," they say, with a snippy emphasis on "women's" or on "ladies'," in case I wasn't aware that I don't qualify.

I try to ignore the radius comments.

The comments made by women who are just inside of the bathroom, on the other hand, can be a little dicey. These women have a purpose, and that is to keep me out. "Wrong restroom." "Women only." Both words are emphasized, and accompanied by a look intended to kill. The more confrontational bathroom bouncers even step in front of me as they say it.

The message is clear.

I do not belong.

Neither wanted nor welcome.

The bouncers patrol the area from just inside the bathroom door to just outside the bathroom stalls. Unlike many of my sisters, I have not had anyone -- actual security or otherwise -- pound on the door of the stall and order me out. I did, however, once have a woman wait for me to come out of a stall just so she could continue to examine me.

A friend once asked me why I tend to grab my earrings when I walk into a bathroom. The short answer is that the earring grab is one of several appeasement gestures that I have been conditioned to perform, Pavlovian style, as I head into a public restroom. Together with a shoulder drop, slight head tilt, and small brow furl, the earring grab has gotten me unmolested into many restrooms.

Trying to get out of a public restroom is also tricky, as the hand washing interferes with a fast escape. The sink area is the stare domain.

Adults at the sinks are usually busy. I tend to have more problems there with kids.

Moms will be fixing their makeup, putting on lotion, or doing one of the hundred other things that women tend to do in bathrooms. This leaves the kid-in-tow with nothing to do except stand there and look around. And let's face it -- when your eyes are at ass-level, the scenery really isn't so interesting.

Suddenly feeling a gaze sear into me as I wash my hands, I'll look over and see some kid staring at me, mouth all agape. Kids haven't yet developed the oops-I've-been-caught-staring-so-I'll-casually-look-away mechanism. So even when I fire a look back at them, they'll continue to stare at me as if I've just strangled every blue Muppet.

Sometimes a mom will notice and tell the kid to stop staring. Most of the time, though, the kid is dragged out, still staring at me as they go.

Getting from the sink out the door is the last hurdle. My strategy here is to look at the floor and go like hell. Sometimes the women coming in will see me and assume they've made a mistake. "Oh, I thought this was the women's restroom!" The motivation behind the comment is the same, but at least it feels a little less threatening.

I can honestly recall only one day in the past two decades that I didn't experience a sense of threat or anxiety related to public restrooms. It was the day that my cousin and I ended up in Disney at the Magic Kingdom, completely unbeknownst to us until we were literally swallowed in a sea of red shirts, on Gay Day.

That was, incidentally, also the only day I can honestly recall in the past two decades when every ice cream cart at the Magic Kingdom was sold out of chocolate covered frozen bananas. Go figure.

~ ~ ~

**I'm on the front line**

Don't worry I'll be fine

The story is just beginning

I say goodbye to my weakness

So long to the regret

And now I know that I'm alive

Shinedown, "Diamond Eyes"

~ ~ ~

**Defense**

I taught as an adjunct faculty member for several semesters after my return home. As previously noted, this was an educational experience.

Academic institutions are hopelessly laden with politics. Petty squabbles abound. Mundane tripe gets discussed at length on faculty list-servs. The inmates run the asylum.

I left teaching after I passed my doctoral Special Field exam and took a day job that allowed me to work on my dissertation in the evenings. A few years later, I submitted a complete draft of my dissertation to my advisor, who replied by cutting me loose.

I was stuck in neutral for about a year before the unfinished dissertation began to haunt me. I eventually gathered myself together and emailed a new professor. We assembled a new committee and I jammed through their revision requirements. A year or so later, I stepped back onto the Illinois campus for my dissertation defense.

I actually don't remember a whole lot about that trip, and my defense itself is a wash. In slightly over 24 hours, I flew to Champaign, met with my advisor, filed paperwork, met an old friend for dinner, slept, filed more paperwork, nearly shit my pants, filed more paperwork again, sat for the defense, and flew back to Detroit with a PhD in my pocket.

On the way to meet with my advisor, I unexpectedly ran into an old adversary. The look on his face was priceless.

I had years before taken the graduate level course that he taught. In one of our first class discussions, I called attention to what I thought was a good point noted by the editor in the text's Introduction. Notprofessor (he never did get tenure) apparently disagreed with the point, and replied with something to the effect of "that's why I don't like students to read Introductions."

Hilarious.

The class atmosphere took a serious turn for the worse. By midterm, I flat out hated the guy. The last straw came on November 30, when he referred to me in class as "waspish," which was in direct reference to the nasty character in _Bartholomew Fair_.

I am sure of that date because I found my formal complaint in the boxes downstairs.

I held my tongue until the end of the term, and never even mentioned his erroneous footnote in the text of whatever the hell play it was that he edited. Yes. Notprofessor is one of those obnoxious asses who made us buy his book. And for the record, the Introduction was required reading that week.

The Illinois English Department had no 'My Professor is a Royal Asshole' committee, so I filed my complaint with the Grade Review committee instead. Not, I should note, because I disagreed with the A- he gave me, but simply to broadcast to his colleagues in the English Department what a dick he was.

The Grade Review committee denied my grade complaint, which I fully anticipated. The last sentence of their letter informing me of that denial, though, was a beauty. "The Committee acknowledges that the student-professor interaction may have gone awry, but not in a way to support a capricious grading grievance." Despite the hedgy wording "may have gone awry," the committee had demanded Notprofessor issue me a written apology.

The date on his apology was February 14. And what a valentine it was.

This is what he wrote.

Yesterday I learned for the first time from Professor --- , the chair of the departmental grade review committee, that you had filed a grade complaint about your grade in English ---. Without requesting any input from me, the committee has made a decision about the matter, and Professor --- will be informing you of it.

It is evident from the narrative you submitted that the issue is not just the grade you received on your major project, but your feeling that you had been insulted by comments I made to you in class. I do not remember either my specific language or the context of the incident you cite in your statement, but apparently what I viewed as good-humored banter you found deeply offensive. If I unintentionally belittled you, I am sorry, and I apologize. I certainly did not intend to cause you distress, and I regret that you experienced any.

Sincerely yours,

\- - -

I read the letter standing by the graduate student mailboxes and I laughed out loud.

I went back to my office so my fellow graduate students could read the letter, and we laughed out loud.

I made a copy of the letter, blacked out the names, made an overhead out of it, and used it in class that afternoon to show my Rhetoric students how one can appear to say something but in reality say nothing. We all laughed out loud.

Apology. Not. Accepted.

I laughed myself to sleep remembering all of this the night before my defense.

I had to run around campus the next morning to do errands and file paperwork: formal change of address, student ID reactivation, coursework and Special Field exam extensions, and so on. If the petition existed, I had to file it.

One of my stops was the Registrar's office, where I needed to pay my $100 dissertation deposit fee. I announced my purpose and victoriously slapped a benjamin on the counter. The cashier smiled and asked, "and what about the $7500 tuition charge?"

That was when I nearly shit my pants.

Turns out I had been registered for 3 full out-of-state-tuition credit hours rather than for just the .5 credit hours that I needed to be registered for to defend. It was an easily remedied administrative mistake. But it was also quite the bowel-cleansing surprise.

I was light on my feet as I walked into my defense. Two of my four committee members were on speakerphone, and I was meeting for the very first time one of the two committee members who were physically present. I remember shaking their hands, sitting down, twisting the cap off of my green apple Jones soda, and nothing else.

I must have spent the next two hours explaining my dissertation, which analyzes how the experimental philosophers of the 17th Century Royal Society -- basically the guys we know as the first "scientists" -- explained to the 17th Century world at large who they were and what they did. Because nobody at the time knew who or what they were, this explanation effectively created and justified the scientific and social identity of the experimental philosopher.

I must have answered questions about how the early rhetorical attempts to create this identity using a series of comparisons and contrasts between the experimentalists and alchemists failed miserably, and about how that failure led in turn to the extremely successful creation of that identity by using a series of comparisons between the experimental philosophers and the literary epic hero.

I may well have been asked what personal significance I saw in my dissertation -- a question I would have answered then by saying that it was just finally finished, but that I would answer now by saying that I find comfort in the fact that it is possible to create and build a space for a new identity in a culture that is both resistant to that identity and doesn't believe there is a need for it.

But again, I don't actually remember any of this. The next thing I remember after cracking that Jones soda is walking out of the exam room into the Graduate Studies office and being greeted for the first time as Doctor O'Meara.

~ ~ ~

**400 nm**

Nobody seems to notice that I wear purple on October 20. And yet, if there is a single issue to which I am deeply committed, a single issue that unifies the experiences that shape who I am, it's that one.

The Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) website explains the significance of the purple.

Spirit day honors the teenagers who had taken their own lives in recent weeks. But just as importantly, it's also a way to show the hundreds of thousands of LGBT youth who face the same pressures and bullying, that there is a vast community of people who support them.

Wearing purple on October 20 is a simple way to show the world that you stand by these courageous young people and to stand UP to the bullies.

It's important to me to stand up and be counted.

There are a couple of comments on the Caster Semenya Yahoo! article that I didn't weave into my earlier discussion. I've debated with myself as to whether I should even waste my time on them.

_1029. Posted by darci_ I want to know what's inside her his/her pants!! As a traditional minded American, I care a whole lot about what type of genitalia you have inside your panties/pantaloons. *You want to marry someone I can marry (a man)? Then take off your pants and let's make sure you have a vagina like I do! *You want to hold a woman's hand in public? I won't throw a temper tantrum if you can show me that you got a penis in your pants (having a penis is like having a license to be affectionate with a vagina-laden human)! *You want to compete with vaginas in an athletic competition? It's only an even playing field if you've got a vagina to compete with against them (penis will make you run faster)! The bottom line is that God created ADAM and EVE 8,000 years ago, immediately after creating the entire universe. This magic-based truism is evidence that sex organs should matter A LOT to us all. Now, with that said, can all commenters here please begin their posts by stating what kind of genitalia we can find in THEIR pants? This would be wonderfully helpful, especially if your user ID isn't unambiguous enough to clarify this information on its own. God bless

I originally thought this post was a joke of some sort: the word "pantaloons" made me giggle. The vision of applying for a license to be affectionate with a vagina-laden human at the DMV made me laugh out loud: "Sorry. This is the 'license to be affectionate with a penis-laden human' line. You needed to be the other line, over there." And seriously, that crack about starting your post by stating what's in your pants? I can't even make shit like that up.

I was ready to send my girl here a high-five.

Until I got to her next post, which made it clear that I had been ready to send a thumb and three fingers too many.

_1172. Posted by darci_ Jim Said: "That's the problem with our liberal world right now. We have men who surgically turn themselves into women, women who surgically turn theirselves into men, and there's those who don't do it surgically but still want to act like and be treated different than the sex they were born (gays). And we who are happy the way we were born are supposed to just accept it all or we're homophobic, racist and inhumane, all BS!!" Exactly true, Jim! Having a genuine interest in something that your opposite sex typically has an interest is the same as wanting to "act like and be treated different than the sex they were born." This is why: women who work outside of the home (for MEN only!) want to be treated like men. men who have an interest in cooking at home (for WOMEN only!) want to be treated like women. girls who like to play sports (for BOYS only) want to be treated like boys. boys who wear any red or pink (for GIRLS only!) want to be treated like girls. Look, I don't care what people have a genuine interest in. You better act the way society tells you to act in accordance with you peepee or vagina, otherwise you're obviously trying to act like you're of the opposite sex! It's as simple as that!!!!!! GOD BLESS!!!

I'm going to follow Chester's example here and not even dignify these comments with a reply.

Perhaps one day I'll get the opportunity to poop in _darci_ 's shoe.

And when I do, I'll be wearing purple.

~ ~ ~

**Epilogue**

2010.

While I was in the process of putting the finishing touches on an early draft of this book, I took several boxes of books and other items from my basement to the same public library where I had freaked out the librarian a year earlier. I was donating the material to the Friends of the Library for their monthly book sale.

The day was gorgeous, and I pulled into the library's circle drive with the top of my convertible down. I got out and in a smooth motion yanked one of the boxes from the backseat onto my shoulder.

A thin voice complimented me. "You're strong for your age!"

I smiled as I passed the gentleman on my way into the library.

Those friends who know of my lifelong quest have asked me repeatedly what identity I will ultimately claim in this text as my own. I know, however, that regardless of the identity I claim, readers -- readers of my text and readers of my body -- will continue to do the same thing they have always done...which is to call me whatever they want.

An elderly woman was approaching the door as I walked out of the library for the last time. I opened and held the door for her.

She smiled and as she came through the door remarked, "chivalry is not dead!"

And with that I hopped back into my car and sped away, wedding ring glinting in the sun and the band Useless ID blasting from my speakers.

~ ~ ~

About the Author

Jen is a recovering academic, addicted to chocolate chip cookies and allergic to housework. She lives in Dearborn, drives her husband crazy, and recently took gold in both the Women's and the Mixed divisions at the Racquetball Association of Michigan's 2011 State Doubles tournament. She also finds it weird to write about herself in the third person.

~ ~ ~

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Yahoo! comments on the Caster Semenya story. If you would like to read or download your own copy of my .pdf file, please go to <http://drdoogs.com/comments.pdf> back

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