Transition

 

 

I am really conflicted about this Caitlyn Jenner situation.

 

* Formerly William Bruce Jenner.

* 1976 Olympic Decathlon Gold Medal Winner.

* Was the Best Athlete in the World

* In the Olympic Hall of Fame

* Photo on the Wheaties Cereal Box

* "Stellar" Acting career

* Nominated for the 1980 Golden Raspberry Award for Worst Actor for his performance in the film Can't Stop the Music (1980).

* Former Patriarch of the First Family of Reality Television - The Kardashians

 

All of these accomplishments (prior to the acting thing ;-) ) . All of these accolades. All of these adoring fans. Man needs to be a woman?

 

Yes! Man needs to be a woman. Man has to be a woman. Man has been a woman in everything but body, until now.

 

Does Caitlyn Jenner coming into her own affect my life? No. Does it affect your life? Only if you feel the same as Caitlyn has felt her entire life and her transition gives you courage to follow a similar path.

 

My conflict, maybe you ask? It's not about Bruce Jenner finally becoming Caitlyn Jenner. No. It's about how some of my friends have reacted to Caitlyn Jenner finally becoming herself. I have always known how some of these people feel about others who do not vote the same way they do. I know how prejudiced, bigoted, and homohated some people I know are. I have heard the most horrendous things spoken about a person that none of us knows personally.

 

My conflict, you ask? It's not about accepting Bruce Jenner finally becoming Caitlyn Jenner, because that does not affect me. It's about Mellie from Texas rejecting her friends, because that does.

Laz

It was a perfect spring afternoon in Houston, upper 70s, low humidity, and an ever so slight breeze. Baby Lucas was napping and my niece and I were enjoying the day, each other's company, and the hummingbirds slurping and flirting at the feeder.

There were many females at the feeder, but only a few males, including one who was a little bit disheveled, perhaps a little long in the beak. Occasionally, a very large male hummer would swoop in, chasing away the other males to keep the nectar, female and liquid, all to himself. It seemed that all the boys deferred to the large chap, with the exception of the older guy, Laz.

I noticed old Laz didn't mind Biggie H when he demanded they leave his honey hole. In fact, Laz preferred the comfort of one spot on the feeder. Second by second, minute by minute, he sipped and sipped, and licked of the nectar. So content he was supping that he hadn't moved in about five minutes. Wait, five minutes? That's just not right. Hummingbirds don't stay in one spot eating for five minutes. Old Laz had apparently croaked. There he was, immobile, perched there with snout firmly inserted into the yellow plastic feeding flower, not a feather quivering.

If birds are capable of having a look of contentment, satisfaction, even satiation, on their faces, old Laz had it. I think it probably was the equivalent of an old man dying just seconds after orgasm after having sex with the most desirable partner of his dreams.

I reached toward him, placed my thumb and forefinger on either side of his tiny, beautiful body, and gently lifted him away from his sugary death tube, but I felt the tiniest bit of resistance from his beak area. Just then, his little body shook, his wings extended to their full four inches, and he hummed happily away.

Old Lazarus wasn't dead, he had just been stuck.

Next week, I'll walk on water.

happy Birthday

I haven't seen my mother in, oh shit, four years. I remember I had gotten up early that morning. It was my birthday, and momma always put out my presents on the kitchen counter for me to find when I got up.

When I woke up, something just wasn't right. I went to pee and then wash my face, thinking that maybe she had planned something really special since this was an important birthday for me, but I wasn't hearing noise, no voices, not a sound from anything.

I walked into the kitchen and saw the envelope. My name was scrawled across the face of it, like it had been done in a hurry. I ripped it open. It was one of those pull out cards that announced what a wonderful day the recipient would have. I started pulling out the message, seeing my message:

H A P P Y A N N I V E R S A R Y

That was the day I turned 13.

That was the first day I started raising myself.

I think of that day often. I think of it every time I get up on the pole. I see it behind my closed eyes every time a john is licking my face and telling me how beautiful I am. I think of it every time some Christian minister walks in the club, trying to put his "Jesus is coming and you're going to hell" pamphlet in my hand and saying girl you can do better for yourself than this.

I want to yell, "I have already been to hell, but someone else sent me there, and nothin else can be worse than that."
But I don't. Because that same minister, that shepherd of lost lambs, that emissary of a so called higher being, comes back in two hours with dark sunglasses on his face, and makes my rent for a month. And sometimes, if he has gotten an especially full plate of tithes the week before, two month's.

Today is my birthday. I am not old enough to vote. I cannot legally drink, and I cannot sign any type of contract without a parent, but I am alive without having one.

This is the day I turn seventeen.

Broken

I walked into the coffee shop and sat down. I don't know why. I'm not a coffee girl.

The guy was there before me. And had obviously been on the phone for awhile. "I don't need a girlfriend, " he said. "Why would you say that?

"If you think that, then you don't know me like I thought you did.

"I don't need a girlfriend!"

He slowly removed the phone from his ear, looked at it in disbelief, and laid it on his table. "I need you." 

Then he put his face in his hands and wept.

I sat there, one table removed, one life separated from another by a piece of furniture, and shared his grief, his pain. He didn't know I was there. I didn't care.

02.20.02

He hadn't spoken in days. He couldn't.

I hadn't spoken in hours. I couldn't.

I was going to be the last witness to my Daddy's life. I was the one to see him off on his next journey, wherever that may be.

I was to bid him bon voyage and Godspeed.

Before he quit speaking, he was talking to my dead Mother, which brought a certain amount of comfort to me. He also thanked Charlie for the hearing aides Dorothy gave him after Charlie died. Then there was the old cat that seemed to be always jumping into the clothes dryer. My dear old Dad asked a kitty to give him back his shorts.

He chattered, I listened, I laughed.

I held his right hand with my own. I didn't want to squeeze too hard for fear I would bruise him. I cupped his face with both hands. I told him that I would be all right. I told him my brother would be all right. I told him that we loved him and that he did a good job as a Daddy, as a Friend, as a Man.

I told him he had suffered for one second longer than was too long.

I told him that it was ok for him to go.

He looked at me, his hand relaxed, and one single tear fell from his eye.

Rest in eternal peace, Hugh Lang Pettit.

Buzzzzzzzzzzzz

Shutter Shock

"Lay down with me. God you look so good. I want to take some pictures of you. Open your legs a little. Touch yourself. A little more, babe. Ohhh, that makes me hot. Honey, no one is gonna see these but me, don't worry, I promise. We're married, after all. Trust me.

Trust me.

Trust me.

I am your husband."

I heard what he said. Each and every word. And I believed each and every word. What a turn on, what an aphrodisiac, to hear someone voice their desire for you. How erotic to hear someone you love wants to take photos of you, wants to look at you like that, remember you like that, forever.

Those were the days before smart phones, before cameras with USB drives. The days even before the internet. The images were Polaroids because you would not want to send film to the drugstore to be developed. After all, it was to be private. Only between a husband and wife. Only between partners. Only between trusted lovers.

Then, one day I said to him, "You hit me. It will not happen again. I am leaving you. Do you understand what I have just told you?"
He said to me, "If you leave me, I will nail those pictures to every telephone pole in town."
I said to him, "if you do that, I will come up behind you when you least expect it and put a bullet in your brain. Do you understand what I have just told you?"

The next day, there was an envelope containing my intimate pictures under my Welcome mat.

I have come to know that a lovely young woman in my community has been the victim of a similar situation, albeit with a modern, twenty first century twist.

These are the days of smart phones, devices that can "bump" each other to transfer high res pictures. One click, one bump, and your face and every before now publicly unseen part of you is out in the world to look at, forever.

Forever.

This young woman's husband has broken the spousal trust. He has released intimate photos of his wife. A wife who loved her husband enough to trust him to take intimate pictures of her.

Trust me

Trust me

He put those pictures on the internet to hurt her, to shame her, to humiliate her. To possibly lose her job. No reason justifies this action. It has only shamed him.

Unfortunately, she can't tell him "if you do that, I will come up behind you when you least expect it and put a bullet in your brain. Do you understand what I have just told you?" because we do have smartphones, recording devices, and internet, and she is a public figure. The images are already out there.

But her friends, family, and I will stand beside her. We will champion her. We will defend her, no matter what.

Forever.