My Face for the World to See (Part II): The Diary of Sherilyn Connelly a fiction September 1 - 10, 2001

Monday, 10 September 2001 (the big reveal) 11:34am So I finally came out to the landlord last night, who came by unexpectedly due to some electrical issues in the building. Oddly enough, the upstairs neighbor informed him before we did; we'd figured the occasional momentary dimming of the lights was related to the state's power difficulties, and I figured we'd bring it up next time rent was paid. (Somehow I doubt the neighbor'll be quite so diligent the next time his doorbell stops working.) Of course, that was also I'd also when I'd planned on coming out to him. No time like the present, though. He was in my home—yeah, he's the landlord, but it still felt like I had the home-turf advantage, y'know?—and since it was getting kinda late in the evening I was functionally in my bedclothes, stripeys and a t-shirt (sans bra, natch). Doesn't get much comfier than that, really. Long story short, he's cool with it. It didn't come as much of a surprise, as he's seen me practically every month for the last six years, and apparently the changes in my body are hard to miss. He said that his kids have occasionally asked why I look the way I do—the nail polish, the makeup, stuff like that, stuff which admittedly I don't do quite as much these days—and he's told them it's just how I choose to live. To my way of thinking, that's the best possible answer. He asked a few questions, such as the perennial about whether or not I'm getting SRS, how The Ex is about it (not really any of his business, and it made Maddy understandably uncomfortable), that kind of thing. So long as I continue to be good tenant and keep the place clean, though, he doesn't really care. He practically shrugged it off as just being life in San Francisco. So that's one of my bigger anxieties taken care of. I'm not sure why I was so afraid to tell them; maybe it's because of all the stories of trannies not being able to rent places, getting kicked out, et cetera. Of course, many of these tales also come from sources which accept it as a given that the only work available is prostitution. I've never turned a trick, but I suppose I may need to reconsider my career goals by the end of the week: To all employees: The strategic review process has been completed. In keeping with the previously announced mid-September time frame, the majority of affected employees will be notified this week, although some employees and departments have already been notified, and some may be notified later. As with the previous staff reductions, managers will hold individual meetings with most affected employees. The meetings will take place throughout this week, and will generally be attended by the employee's manager and a human resources representative. We understand that this has been a difficult period and anxiety is high. While we appreciate that every employee would like to have confirmation of his or her status immediately, we firmly believe that the process currently underway is the most respectful and informative way to conduct these communications, and ask that you bear with us in the interest of fairness to all employees. We thank you for your patience during this difficult process. So maybe I'll be laid off this week, maybe I won't, and surviving the week doesn't necessarily mean my job is secure. Coincidentally, Pike is on vaction in Spain for the next three weeks, so for my meeting the part of the manager would probably be played by The Dreaded Russian Guy. Not my favorite person in the world, but in a lot of ways it's better that the news comes from someone whom I don't consider a friend, and by the same token it would be just as well for Pike. It's not a duty I would wish on anyone, least of all him. "...and anxiety is high." To put it mildly. I've been hearing rumors about security guards being brought in, presumably in case anyone decides to go out in a blaze of glory. Or maybe it's to prevent paperclip purloining. So far I've seen no evidence of them myself, at least not around here. One report has it that a dozen were at Maddy's building this morning; Maddy herself has only seen one. I don't know where the others went. Back into the paranoid aether from whence they came, maybe. 4:33pm I think I've figured it out: I made the appointments, then asked for the day off. It seemed to work. I'm seeing the speech therapist next Monday, then I'm getting zapped later in the afternoon. One of my excuses for delaying going fulltime was wanting to complete electro. I don't know if after this Monday that's quite where I'll be at—those dark hairs always seem to come back—but I guess it'll have to be close enough. Which isn't to say I'll never get (facially) zapped again. And even I have to admit that the necessary growth prior to treatment isn't that noticeable anymore.... Last | Top | Next

Sunday, 9 September 2001 (distortions) 5:24pm I heard an interesting (if possibly apocryphal) Chinese vision of heaven and hell this morning on NPR. Both are in a large, lavishly set banquet hall. Unfortunately, the chopsticks are too long; it's impossible to get the food into your mouth. (No, you can't just put the chopsticks down and eat with your hands, you barbarian.) In hell, nobody eats because they're all trying to feed themselves in spite of the futility of the task. In heaven, everybody gets their share of gyoza and green onion pancakes because they're feeding each other. It's certainly a nicer image than the whole xtian devil-mit-pitchfork thing, and I definitely like the idea of an afterlife centered around Chinese food, even if the implied lack of hot & sour soup is depressing. Bunuel would have thought it was all a great idea, I'm sure. 5:53pm Hi. Just a bit of pop-culture ranting. Don't mind me. I've never watched The Weakest Link. In general I don't care for game and/or reality shows, and the current crop interests me even less, given their emphasis on aggressive competition and humiliation. That I can't venture to the supermarket without seeing the names of the media whores plastered everywhere doesn't help, either. To me, Richard Hatch played Apollo and there'll never be another, y'know? For millions of people, of course, it's the very essence of entertainment. Which, I suppose, is why The Weakest Link is now on PAX. Just because you believe everything you see on It's A Miracle and Encounters With the Unexplained doesn't mean you don't get off on a little ritual abuse like everybody else. Good lord, but I'm pretentious, aren't I? 8:33pm Well, we aren't going to be kicked out anytime soon. Last | Top | Next

Saturday, 8 September 2001 (stones and pistols) 7:13pm I was finishing up at the gym this morning when they finally turned on the stereo. Probably someone was tired of megaflexing in silence, and couldn't be bothered to wear headphones. So for about ten minutes I was hearing a combination of Coil's brilliant, noisy, scary Constant Shallowness Leads to Evil in my head with The Bone assaulting me from the outside. Not pleasant. Not that the numbers matter, but my weight is at 180. I'll probably have to drop another ten pounds before I'll really be happy with it, though it's certainly better than it was. What's most frustrating is that my gut simply refuses to recede, in spite of the fact that my ribs are somewhat prominent. Maybe it is, as has been suggested, a state of distention which can't be exercised away, but that's not going to stop me from trying. Should I find myself seriously considering abdominoplasty it'll be as a last resort. I'm only able to make it to the gym on weekend mornings for a couple hours—cardio and stretching only, as I don't want to risk building up my muscle mass to a masculine-appearing level—though I've been doing crunches every morning for the last few weeks. My goal is to feel comfortable wearing form-fitting clothes without a waist-cincher. It doesn't seem likely to happen before next month, but again, that's not going to stop me from trying. Last | Top | Next

Friday, 7 September 2001 (absolute elsewhere) 6:53am Sorry, that should have read "when he inevitably emptied his stomach and bowels," not "when we." The latter produces a different image entirely. 11:06am Being the first Thursday of the month, Negativland/The Chopping Channel was at the DNA Lounge last night. (Unfortunately, the first Thursday is also the night of The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence's Ba-Da-Bingo! Figures.) I was once again able to get a front-row beanbag, though an unexpected traffic jam after work resulted in me getting out there later than I'd hoped. I shouldn't have worried, because, after all, the DNA Lounge is a nightclub, and nobody shows up when the doors open. Indeed, even arriving after door time (not that the door was open yet), I was still the first in. After claiming my beanbag I went to the merchandise table in the back. Negativlander Peter Conheim was working the table, and as I was browsing informed me that Negativland wouldn't actually be playing tonight. At first I thought he was just kidding, particularly since I'd seen Over the Edge host Don Joyce go in while I was waiting outside. Then he said that The Chopping Channel was a Negativland spinoff, not the group itself; apparently some people felt ripped off, no doubt hoping to hear "Christianity is Stupid" or "U2." I told him that not only did I know, I'd come to last month's show and enjoyed it enough for me to leave the house again, a rare enough occurrence these days. He seemed suitably impressed, although I was a little surprised that he didn't remember me from last month when he was also working the table. What with me being so recognizable and all. Anyway, I bought a couple CDs (Helter Stupid and OTE Vol 5: Crosley Bendix: The Radio Reviews) and returned to my beanbag. A few minutes later Conheim came by and told me that they'd recently received a cease-and-desist from Philip Glass's lawyers regarding the Crosley Bendix CD, released in 1993, because it uses his music. (About three minutes of the Koyaanisqatsi theme in the background, to be exact.) I was the first person to buy a copy in a while, so he just thought I might find it interesting. That's the kind of personal touch you just won't get at stadium shows. On one of the freeway offramps leading to downtown Fresno, there's sign with an arrow reading "Tourist Information." I've never been able to figure out just where it's supposed to be directing people. I'm beginning to think that there's a similar sign pointing towards me, though. Much like at the Beyond the Pale festival a few weeks back, a guy planted himself next to me, announced that he'd just come into town and asked what there is to do. I guess I must look like someone who would know (go go happy girl), but really, I don't. Or, at the very least, I don't know what to answer in those situations, since I feel like I so rarely do any of it anymore. He mentioned Death Guild, and I sorta faked it from there. Thankfully, he was neither drunk nor as generally incomprehensible as the last guy. All the same, it took him a few times to get my name right. Maybe I should just cut to the chase and change it to Shirley. Anyway, even though The Weatherman was nowhere to be found, it was still a great show. Started earlier than last time, and as a result got out at earlier, at midnight. Makes it a little more tempting to go next month, in spite of the fact that it'll be on October 4, the night before our 7:25am flight to Vegas. Seeing as how I've established myself as a regular... 3:55pm I'm going to be talking with HR late next week. Helpfully, the schedule for the move has just been announced; my department is part of the first round, on Friday, October 5. As you may recall from the paragraph above, I'll be out of town, and won't be coming back to work until the following Wednesday, after eveyone else has had a couple days to settle in. And things will be different. 4:47pm I'd barely been at work for half an hour yesterday when Pike (who was only doing his job) dragged me to a farewell lunch at a trendy Embarcadero eatery. The dearly departed was a temp, so I don't know that it can be seen as evidence of the axe falling the department. Anyway, I got three things out of it: an expensive caesar salad which reminded me of its existence for rough(age)ly the next eighteen hours; a sunburn on my inner arms, since classy joints like that assume everybody wants to sit outside and soak up the UV; and an utterly fascinating, nay, hilarious tidbit regarding The Fidget Queen. He is, at least part time, modeling for Tommy Hilfiger. If you've never seen him in person, all I can say is, he is utterly perfect for the job. Without trying, he captures the very essence of shallow vapidity which is so treasured in male modeling. Provided they don't look too closely at the snot buildup on his hands (and give him something shiny to play with between takes) I'm sure it'll go wonderfully. And—I mean this sincerely—I hope he gets all the (double entendre, comin' right up!) blow he wants. Last | Top | Next

Thursday, 6 September 2001 (dismal orb) 4:01pm Poor Oscar. Less than a week after his traumatic visit to the vet on Saturday, he went back this morning. (Unlike last time, though, he didn't get any food beforehand, so when we inevitably emptied his stomach and bowels on the drive over it wasn't quite as messy.) On Tuesday evening his right eye started to water; yesterday he couldn't open it at all, and it was leaking a clear fluid. It appeared to be a recurrence of eye herpes (ewww!), and the last time he got it the vet at Kansas State said to just let it run its course and he'd get better, which he did. Just to be on the safe side, though, Maddy called the vet. After making sure it wasn't evidence of a tumor (it's not a tumor! greatest Schwarzenegger line ever, that is), the vet essentially recommended waiting and seeing, although I had the option of getting an antibiotic to put in his eye thrice daily. I chose the wait-and-see option. If nothing else, it gave me the opportunity to fix the title on my name, so it now reads "Miss Sherilyn Connelly" rather than "Mr." They even asked if I preferred "Ms." or "Miss," which I guess is a nice touch. Still, though, that's just at the vet, with no M or F to contend with. The real fun will come with my bank—or, worse, my insurance company. That one's gonna hurt, because they're always looking for reasons to reduce coverage. Wouldn't be surprised if they stop covering my hormones. Then there's dealing with the kids running the desk at UCSF's ophtalmology department, and the guys at the garage, and... But those will be dealt with. 5:18pm After having originally spoken to them about it an eternity ago—on my twenty-sixth birthday—I've contacted HR again about me being transsexual, and specifcally that I'd like to go fulltime when we move into the new building next month. It's scary, scary as hell, but it needs to be done. I'm beginning to feel like I'm just spinning my wheels. Or treading water. One of those. Last | Top | Next

Wednesday, 5 September 2001 (tectonic plates) 3:32pm I went to the ophtalmologist this morning for another visual field test, a hellish experience which he'd helpfully told me would be "even more grueling" the next time. It didn't help that I was ill last time, nor had I eaten that morning so I'd been feeling that much more tired and weak and had difficulty concentrating on the infernal, abyss-gazing machine. This time around, though, I'd gotten a good night's sleep (my excuse for not going to Trannyshack as originally planned—it's always something), had a bowl of twigs (I've mentioned that's what we call Trader Joe's High Fiber cereal, right?) for breakfast and helped myself to a liberal dose of Penguin Mints (original, not cinnamon) before going in. I was ready, goddamnit, and it wasn't going to beat me this time. And, in fact, it wasn't so bad this time, or at the very least didn't seem quite as long. (My slightly elevated heartbeat probably had something to do with it.) Still, though, I think my main problem with the test is that I've done acid. I'm not going to say I've done too much—I've seen firsthand what can happen to people who've done too much, and I don't qualify. But there are certain things which can stick with you long after, even years. I don't think it's so much lingering traces of the drug so much as the fact that once you've seen the world through that particular filter, it never quite goes away. The more recent the trip the more pronounced the effects, of course. I vividly remember walking to jonco's apartment on Easter morning '91, after doing acid with The Ex at her place the night before, and although I'd come down a few hours before (I'd only left at all because her grandmother had called trying to convince her to go church, and though her parents had given tacit approval for me to come over while the rest of the family was out of town, being found by her grandmother would have been problematic at best) I remember the bricks of a certain path were moving up and down, like they were excited about me walking on them. Yeah, I'm anthropomorphizing bricks. The point of the matter is, that probably sounds like it would be scary or somewhat unnerving, but really, it was neither. I haven't seen anything like that since a day or two after the party at Orky's, and I do miss it. Costanza once commented that the walls still move for him; safe to say he did a lot more than I ever did, and my most frequent period was the early nineties. Back when I would only do it two or three times a year not due to scarcity (hey! Burning Man's over! hopefully the non-attending Orky will come across leftovers) but out of respect for the drug. But I can still close my eyes (particularly with a light source nearby) and see patterns and light distortions not dissimilar to the much more distinct ones I witnessed on my first trip in '89. It's not a bad thing; like most perceptual effects I associate with acid, it can be very comforting. And I suspect they'd always been there, and I just associate them with tripping. So, whatever the cause, during the visual field test I tend to see phantom flashes of light, visual distortions which seem almost indistinguishable from the actual light of the test itself. I was worried that if I tried to judge whether they were part of the test and didn't press the button enough it would skew the test (good lord! according to these results, you're blind!), but that if I pressed it every time I saw something they'd think I was just doing it at random. Early analysis of the results are that I did just fine, though. Must have been the mints. The other procedure I had done, the ironically named HRT (been there, done that—three years on the 18th!), was much simpler. Not really a test, unless it's a test to see if I can neither move nor blink for 1.8 seconds at a time, four times for each eye, while the machine took cool gorey pictures of my optic nerve. According to the technician, it is tough for some people, and I did better than most, keeping nice and still. Yay me. What's really remarkable was that I had to focus on a small stuffed pig she placed on the other side of the machine, and I managed not to shake from laughter as the words "Let's go to my room, pig!" kept running through my head. 5:03pm And now I've got a classic icepick-through-the-temple headache, almost certainly due to the prodigious amount (by my standards) of caffeinated mintage I ingested this morning. Well, it was an emergency, y'know? My body is also unhappy when I dip a bit too much into the vicodin before/during getting zapped. How that stuff can be used as a recreational drug will forever be a mystery to me. I hope. Last | Top | Next

Tuesday, 4 September 2001 (remotely) 9:48am It was there the whole time. Really. 11:46am This morning, I saw a man driving a jeep with a small child in the backseat. The child was wearing a seatbelt; the man was not. I really don't get people sometimes. Then again, he'd probably say the same thing about me. 3:43pm After a week of phone tag, I finally spoke to the nurse practitioner at the doctor's office regarding my low red blood cell count. She reassured me that it's nothing to worry about, and that it was so close to normal levels that another lab might have reported it as normal. Just to be on the safe side, she asked if there was any history of illnesses such as hemophilia in my family. I told her that I wasn't aware of any, which always sounds kinda lame but happens to be true, and is a better answer than "no." I mentioned that I tend not to eat meat, and she said that her next question was going to be if I'm vegan. I told her that I'm working on it—I simply can't commit to the word, because it would be dishonest. I'm still a sucker for a good California roll, and I can't say for certain that if someone offered me a deviled egg (the greatest hors d'oeuvres ever, bar none) I would turn it down. But apparently I'm close enough for jazz. So, rather than plead with me to recognize my hallowed place at the top of the food chain, she suggested I make sure to eat plenty of leafy greens and legumes (the highfalutin' term for the musical fruit) and to take multivitamins. I actually haven't eat much in terms of pure greenery lately, although Maddy and I recently replaced the tuna in our sammiches with a bean-based concoction, so I'm part of the way there. Of course, my control over these things is limited to my immediate surroundings. I expect my options will be much more limited when we go to Fresno for the holidays, or Vegas next month. But that's okay; exceptions have to be made. I'm not a hardliner about many things. A bit of indulgence now and again, calorically or otherwise, won't be painful. After all, I wear leather and twice daily ingest a by-product of horse cruelty. My slate isn't clean, and I'm not going to pretend it is. Let's see. I'm female-identified and am attracted to women but don't call myself a lesbian because I don't like the (mostly political) connotations of the word; I try my best not to eat meat and avoid animal products if at all possible but I don't call myself a vegan or even vegetarian because I don't like the (mostly political) connotations of the words. Does that make me post-modern, picking and choosing from belief systems and modes of existence without actually pledging allegiance to them, or do I just lack the courage of my convictions? Last | Top | Next

Monday, 3 September 2001 (the sleeper) 3:14pm As if to accentuate the point, she pulls out a picture of when she was 17 and had just been inducted into the Marines. She looks like a recruitment poster. Dress blues and white hat, smooth olive skin, square jaw and wide-set eyes. I can't help thinking she was a much better looking man than she is a woman. The above is precisely why I would never want to be the subject of one of these articles profiling a transsexual which occasionally pop up on SFGate and elsewhere: the tone of snarky contempt which inevitably creeps in. Or, in this case, which is blatantly obvious from the first paragraph onwards. I imagine that he'd probably write the same thing about me based on an old picture—a patently untrue proposition—if only because back then I looked normal. You know like the guy which he knows I really am, nudge-nudge wink-wink. Among other things, the writer seems obsessed with the subject's black nail polish (I counted four references), and while observing SRS is almost overcome by his own castration anxiety, describing the fate of the testicles as "an ignominious end for organs treasured so highly by most men." (ig·no·min·i·ous n. 1. Marked by shame or disgrace: "It was an ignominious end... as a desperate mutiny by a handful of soldiers blossomed into full-scale revolt" (Angus Deming). 2. Deserving disgrace or shame; despicable. 3. Degrading; debasing: "The young people huddled with their sodden gritty towels and ignominious goosebumps inside the gray-shingled bathhouse" (John Updike).) But it's okay, because he gets through by fancying himself as being like Hunter S. Thompson. And what is it about "most men" that causes them to regard transsexuality in general and the surgery in particular as being a personal affront to their masculinity? I guess it's not something I can really understand because my penis has never been a part of my identity. It was always just kind of there, and by the time I realized that as an American boy it was my patriotic duty to worship my penis, it was too late—I'd long since been aware that I wanted to be Diane Lane when I grew up. I digress. Ultimately, I suppose the exposure, even if to my biased view it seems negative, is a good thing. Someone might read it, get a better understanding, not be so quick to laugh (or worse) when encountering one of us. I can hope. Last | Top | Next

Sunday, 2 September 2001 (how to destroy angels) 1:14pm Any movie made before 1970 is a comedy, whether billed as such or not. That's the only conclusion I can draw from the laughter during M last night. It is at times funny, and intentionally so—Lang was no fool and realized a bit of humor would be necessary to leaven the otherwise very dark subject matter. But what certain audience members last night found most amusing was, of course, the fact that people in old movies looked and acted funny. Germans in 1930—look at 'em! What a bunch of krazy kut-ups! Even a shot of the police scouring a field looking for clues, something which has been seen countless times by anyone who's ever watched teevee, was made hilarious by the fact that it was in an old movie. So I presume from the braying laughter of the guy sitting in front of us, anyway. How do they know to sit so nearby? Because it's so old and foreign, it's evidently easy for people to miss the point. Or maybe certain audience reactions suggest that the point is more valid than ever now. (Spoilers for a seventy year-old movie with subtitles coming up. Read at your own risk.) A city is being terrorized by child-murderer (Peter Lorre at his chubby, bug-eyed best). The police have been unable to track him down, and their efforts are making life miserable for the underworld—increased raids, shakedowns, that sort of thing. In order to get things back to normal (with occasional lip service paid to the grieving mothers), the criminals take matters into their own hands and manage to capture the killer. They stage a mock trial, a kangaroo court which gives the killer a chance to speak before his predestined execution. Indeed, the fact that they are going to kill him is never in doubt, since that's the only way business will ever get back to normal. Oh, yeah, and it's to help the children, too. (Gosh, we've never heard that rallying cry in this day and age.) After Lorre gives one of the most impassioned pleas for mercy ever recorded on film, his reluctantly-appointed defense counsel speaks, suggesting that the mob has no right to kill the man, that what he requires is some kind of rehabilitation—and certainly removal from society—but not summary execution. At that, someone behind us booed. Apparently he'd decided that the mob was right, and wanted to see the monster fry. I can only imagine how he felt when McVeigh's execution was delayed. And we wonder now how fascism could have happened? (Real fascism, not the kind that results in non-smoking laws.) It's no coincidence that Fritz Lang fled Germany a few years later. He knew what was happening. 7:17pm It's a brand new month, y'know. Last | Top | Next

Saturday, 1 September 2001 (are you shivering?) 6:45am This is why I try to keep my ego in check: the universe is always ready to bitch-slap it down. Still feeling the comparative glow from the night before (a few things said made it through), I came into work yesterday morning only to find that my work on the current Beeg Project was, well, wrong. Oh, it was functional, but it turns out that I'd fiddled when I should have faddled, and conversely my faddling occured during time earmarked for fiddling. Most of the comments were delivered with (what I perceived to be) a tone of how ignorant are you, anyway? Swell—a feeling of utter incompetence is just what my nerves need when I could be unemployed in the next few weeks. All of this was according to another department which, for reasons I have yet to fully understand, swooped in and sorta half-took over the project, substantially altering the design on which Pike and I had worked so hard over the last few weeks, mostly because they can. Power struggles? Why, yes, thank you. Typical for this business (and probably every other), it all took place amidst a lack of communication so severe as to be indistinguishable from nobody talking at all. So some of it was my fault, some of it wasn't, and I'm not sure where one stops and the other begins. And yet, I don't find myself volunteering to be laid off like so many others are doing. What, it's better elsewhere? I'd even be able to find somewhere else to go? Not damn likely. Feh. At this moment in time, none of it's real. Meanwhile, Fritz Lang's M is playing at the Pacific Film Archive tonight. That's what really matters. 10:06am Oscar got his annual rabies shot this morning; later on we have a session with our therapist, and then we're heading into the East Bay for a day of King Yen and German Expressionism. I'd thought about going to the vet in boi mode (such as it is, considering that at dinner last night I got both "ma'am'ed" and "ladied," which probably means something) (god, trying to conjugate "ma'am" into a past-tense verb is bitch), then coming back home and changing into girl mode before we headed out again. Then I realized how absurd that would be; after all, even though I don't have all the paperwork in order yet, I'm going to have to tell the vet about the name change eventually, right? No time like the present. So I just dressed the way I'd been planning anyway (the quasi-schoolgirl look which makes Maddy want to carry my books), and informed them I was changing my name. No static, no trouble at all. Looking at the receipt, though, I realize that the next time we're there I'll have to ask them to change the title as well—call me nitpicky, but "Mr. Sherilyn Connelly" just doesn't work for me. 10:22pm We're walking down Telegraph, and a jewelry vendor on the street smiles and says hello. I nod and smile back, thinking nothing of it. It's their job to be friendly to get you to buy stuff, after all. We look at the stuff in question, then Maddy asks her if she's ever had a booth at Shrine. The vendor replies in the affirmative and says that's why she said hello—she recognized me. I don't know when it was, but by my math, it would have been early last year, and just one customer out of hundreds since then. On the street, a year later and in daylight she remembers me? Am I that recognizable? Am I, in fact, that unaware of the impression I seem to make on people? Last | Top | Next