"You took advantage of me. You used me."
"Let me help," he said.
"Stay out of it!" she yelled, dressing her wound herself.
"And you know good and well what I'm talking about: You're one of them. A make-believer, a pretender who doesn't want to hear the unholy 'ist' suffix. You're a transgenderist."
"We don't like that word; we prefer 'transgender.'" he said quickly, with a smirk on his face.
"Because 'transgenderist' means something you specifically try to hide," she said just as quickly. "You don't even want-"
Jim's mouth formed part of the word-what?-but it didn't finish. "How dare-"
"Don't lie to me any more. I know too much about it."
"I'm sure you do because you've got your own involvement in this."
"No I don't," she said, tossing her first aid kit into the cargo bay and slamming her cockpit door. She turned to face him. "I have no involvement in your thing."
"Lourdes. Honey. I'm sorry-"
"I'm not your honey, and yes you are!"
"But you're-"
"Don't say it! It's true, but I don't want to hear it." She looked around to see if anyone was looking.
"You know what I mean," he said.
"I know what I am," she said. "But I can pretty much guarantee, it's not what you are."
She zipped up her tent flap, draped the all-important tarp over the doorway, and marched away from both the plane and Jim.
He followed her. "Some of us have genital conversion, and some of us don't," he said.
She was always aghast when she heard that. "What? 'Some of us people who don't want to try to change our sex try to change our sex'? That's like saying some of us who are Chinese are Japanese. Some of us who are red are blue. Can you hear yourself stretching the logic of that? It's a different thing! And you're not saying we are both colors, both Asian, or both transitioners. You're saying we are both red, both Chinese, or both into transgenderism! Because that term you're using for both of us-transgenderism- Remember? Virginia Prince, Ph.D., popularized the term for decades. She was information central on it: Transgenderism is about changing gender, not sex. My phenomenon is about changing sex; yours is not."
"Things evolve. Terms evolve," he said.
"Yes, they do. But sex and gender are still two different things that you're trying to blend-but then, because being blended is what you are all about."
"Transgenderism as a term has evolved. Now, it doesn't mean what it used to mean. We are variations of the same thing," he told her patiently.
She stopped her march long enough to look at him incredulously, then stomped away again.
"No we're not. And it hasn't really evolved. You've just tried to forcibly roll transsexuals into it as well, like Christine Jorgensen and me, for your own social movement, which is good for you but bad for us, because it misrepresents us and makes it harder for us to gain acceptance for our own, different issues. 99% of everyone who says they're 'transgender' are transgenderists and prefer to change gender and not sex-while implying they have my package, or are going to get it, or offering some phony excuse, but really not wanting it. You're fake," she told him.
"If I am, you are."
"Actually," she confirmed, "I'd agree with that," she said meekly.
That caused him to stop in the field, between two rows of antiques. Hardly anyone was up and about yet.
Lourdes stopped to face him again. "Yes, I am. As fake as the day is long. You and I are both fakes, but in different ways."
"Goodness," he said, staring at her.
"No way near it," she said, turning on her heels and marching off again.
"Who would have thought?" he asked, pursuing her again.
"Would you two take it down the road?" someone yelled from inside a nearby tent.
Lourdes worried about having been overheard. Have I said anything in detail? What words did I use? Her face went beet red yet again. Her look clearly blamed Jim for her embarrassment.
She stomped through the grass on the way to anywhere else.
"We- Neither one of us are fake," he said.
"Yes we are," Lourdes said quietly, trying not to draw attention while they argued. "I'm fake because I try- All my life! With all my heart! In every way possible-to be something I need to be- I still, even now feel like I'm dying every day because I'm not truly what I need to be."
He started to speak. " Legally-"
She turned to him yet again, shouting in whisper. "Legally is not enough! I'm thankful for that, but I'm talking biology here: structure, stature, brain differentiations, hormones, rearing, chromosomes, reproductive capability, anatomy, the quality and quantity of being who and what I really am-right down to every aspect- I'm dealing with a birth defect here of something in my brain that can't ever be in accord with the rest of this!" she said, indicating her born-male body. "What do I need people to believe I am? What do I hope they see in me? What I really feel inside! What's really in here!" she pointed at her heart. "I'm just fake because I can't really be that out here," she said, indicating her body again. "I fall short and I know it.
"Why do you think I'm so broke? You think it was all the airplane expenses? That was cheap by comparison. I've spent over a hundred and fifty thousand dollars on myself, tweaking everything in sight-and everything not in sight-trying to be more genuine, and it's not enough. And on top of my own internal battles, I have to face the world's misunderstandings-who don't even believe I have a birth defect. It's a defect that can't be seen."
"Me, too," he said simply.
Her face was pure sarcasm. "I doubt that," she counterpointed with genuine sincerity. "Because you! You-!"
She walked away from him again and entered a portable toilet near the ditch by Theatre in the Woods, slamming the door behind her.
"I think that describes me, too-" he tried to say through the plastic door, but she interrupted.
"Can I get out of here first!" she called.
He waited.
She exited the plastic outhouse, letting the door slam again, and stomped away in the direction of Show Center.
"No it doesn't describe you," she said angrily. "Me? I'm fake because I can't be what I need to be. But you- You you're fake because you want to be taken as something you don't even want to be!"
"No! Not true!" he said.
"Really? Let me see your driver's license."
He didn't respond directly.
"Come on. Let me see it." She held out her hand expecting him to hand it over.
He slowly pulled his wallet out of his back pocket and handed it to her.
She opened it and looked at his driver's license.
It said he was James Boone, Greenhills, Missouri?
"See this?" She showed it to him. "That's an 'M' on there. An 'M.' See that?" She handed his wallet back to him. "It doesn't mean 'Masculine.' It doesn't mean 'Man.'"
"It means 'Male,'" he said to her.
"Right. And you don't want to be one of those, do you."
"I am one of those."
"Oh, really? Drop your drawers."
Lourdes was hurt by her own actions when she saw his face. As angry as she was, as victimized as she felt by the transgender misinformation campaign paradigm, as truthful as she was trying to be, she didn't want to cause that kind of pain.
"I am male," he said simply.
Lourdes tried to respond true to her beliefs, yet a little more gently. "I don't do denial, Jim. You don't want male genitalia. You want what you have to be taken as if it were male. And that's not the same thing."
Lourdes could see his hurt feelings.
She had done it again, and she wasn't proud of herself. She'd had this conflict with others in the past, and it had never worked out well-she feared-because the need in them, however fake it seemed to her, felt genuine to them.
"Denial and wishful thinking," she said. "Effects of serious autogynephilia-or autoandrophilia, in this case. You want to believe it so you believe it."
>
"The surgeries aren't good enough," he said weakly.
"You mean you like what you have better. News flash: the surgeries aren't good enough for anyone who wants the real thing, though they are getting better. And on female-to-males like you? It doesn't stop F.T.M.s who really need it. That feeling you have about yourself as male? It isn't male; it's F.T.M.-transgender. You're offering an excuse as a reason."
"You're being so binary, Lourdes," Jim said.
"You guys put us down with that term: 'binary.' As if it's unenlightened, as if we can't see variation all around us. It's a put-down, and it's not nice. But isn't that binary sex designation what you fight for? That beloved 'M' or 'F' on a driver's license? A passport? You want to be a blend, but be taken as one of two."
"Right, we do- No, we don't-" Jim stammered. "We do want the gender marker-"
"And the rights that go along-"
"Rights should be same for all folks, regardless of sex," he said.
"Yes. But you want to be accepted and thought-of as that other 'binary' sex, even though you just want to be the other gender-so don't hit me with that 'binary' bit, okay? You recognize the sexes too, because you want to be taken as one. One. The other one. You don't fight for an 'F.T.M.' on your driver's license, or a 'T' or something."
The sun was rising a little higher into the sky, warming everything nicely in an orange glow. A few more people began moving about. Dew was evaporating, but the grass was still wet.
Lourdes' toes were feeling the moisture.
"Lourdes-" He said, touching her shoulder to get her to stop. "Honey, I really don't want to hurt you, but I'm right here in this conversation, and I feel I have to ask if you're being a little bit prejudiced?"
"Narrow-minded paradigm!" Lourdes said, angrier still. "See?" she said, speaking about herself. "You have soooo much experience from way back in the '70s- And you know things! You personally know many of the major players. You see how these things evolve! You see the snake-oil industry take over for money-people who have autosomethingphilia willing to fork over Big Bucks to 'professionals' of narrow experience-relative to mine-who reinforce denial for money in a practice- They cater to the earlier stages of transitioners spouting the paradigm right and left because-whoa!-those are the patients who pay most of their bills! If they don't, they're blacklisted in a heart beat, and there goes the new car! And the next thing you know! Bang: forty years of me watching this T-history evolve," she indicated herself, "turns from knowledge into prejudice because it doesn't match the fake paradigm! Your group's marketing sham has been so effective!"
Jim looked blown away.
"It's sexual obscuration," she said flatly. "It's a purposeful misleading to obscure what's really down there and what they really want. The paradigm can never advocate for its way of life if it lies about what it is."
Jim's look was of shock.
Lourdes felt defeated that that simple message was always lost in favor of the pretense.
"Jim: I never gave a whit what you or anybody else like you ever did with yourselves or in society. I wouldn't like or dislike anyone for it. I never even gave it a thought! Why would I? It's not my gig. You don't want to really be the other sex."
"But when you tell people that I am a variation of you, then you're saying I don't really want to be the other sex, either. And that's where I draw the line! Because I do need that other actual sex! I need it! My life depends on it! It's everything to me in a way I honestly believe you'll never get!
"We're about something different," she told him softly. "I have issues with this," she admitted, "not because I don't like your kind, per se, but because you make people misunderstand me. Society doesn't want to give some sex-based right to a transgenderist-right or wrong? Like on immigration or marriage? Is employment an issue for this or that one-or a security clearance, for whatever-because of a gender that was changed but genitalia that wasn't? Do you know how many thousands I've spent on attorneys trying to figure out where I stand, legally, in some of these situations, when I get some lawyer telling me this or that applies to me when it really doesn't? And what about people I meet at a party? Or neighbors? Or even family? They see you all faking your way along-'I'm a woman,' when you clearly are a man in a dress with a boob job-and you say I'm one of you? That makes it harder for me in society. Some governmental agency or individual company intending to deny something to people who claim to be a new sex but who are hiding that they don't even want it hurts people in society who really do want and try to actually be that other sex. We have different issues, Jim. Not just emotionally, psychologically, sexually, interpersonally."
She tried to get off her soap box and summarize for him: "You know how you say I need to be around people who can 'see my heart'?"
He nodded silently.
"Well, you all make it so they don't. They look at me and see your heart, instead."
CHAPTER 17
"Why do you hate yourself so much?" Jim asked, his demeanor as gentle and non-threatening as it could be with such a question. "You've got what you worked for; you could live and enjoy, be happy."
Lourdes looked at him incredulously. She knew he was a smart man who just didn't know.
She walked slowly around Show Central in the morning sun, after dawn, watching vendors get their displays ready for the show, polish airplanes on display, greet each other for the biggest airshow of its kind on Earth.
He walked beside her quietly.
She considered the situation. Usually paradigm discussions lead to fights, but he didn't seem to be going that way, so she decided to make a small attempt to explain.
"It's not about not liking good things about myself," she explained.
He said nothing, just walked beside her.
Someone started up a turboprop monoplane, the first of the day. The smell of kerosene filled the air-mixed with the smell of the lawns freshly cut and breakfast being cooked nearby, the aroma entered her soul with a life-sustaining scent that, it seemed, only pilots could love.
"Your premise is wrong," she said."
"What?"
"Your premise, that I have become what I wanted to be. I'm not. I just said that earlier. And it's not that I- I don't hate good things about me. I love that I'm honest, that I love people, that I am quick in the mind. I love this talent I have for being able to point a plane in the right direction and to land it. I love being able to sense the world and be a part of it. I especially love being able to be alive in the first place. My atoms could have been a rock, you know, or worse: a Republican.
He laughed at her.
"All that is wonderful," she said, continuing.
They stood and looked at the concert stage that was being put up for the Steve Miller band that evening.
She looked at him.
He looked back at her, respectfully.
"And the problem isn't just that I can't become what I need to become, either. That's terrible, but it's more. It's- I think-"
She dug deep, trying yet again in life to find that elusive answer.
He waited, unmoving.
"I'm trying to find the answer for you and give it to you in a way you might understand. It's hard, because the thing I use to think with is the thing that's messed up.
"I think there is something deep inside that you don't have, that is part of the problem."
She turned to him. "Are you in pain? Do you feel good about yourself?"
"Yes. I feel fine," he said.
"And you seem fine to me to be, too. You've become who you want to be. You're happy? Fine. But with me, there's a problem with something inside, a fundamental piece that's causing this in me, some structure or differentiation in the brain-or lack of differentiation-that senses other parts of me are still out of accord.
"It's not about being happy because so much in life has been achieved. There's that, but if I'm not in denial, I have to admit I'm not what I need to be. It really feels-all the time-every minute of my life, waking or sleeping-as if there is
a tiny yet very relevant part of my brain that has a painful discord with the parts of me that aren't biologically so.
"Maybe it's some other biological brain problem that only feels to you like you need to be the other?" he asked.
"I've thought about that. But all my life, my need has been this. Since I was-I don't know, maybe two, at my first thoughts. And the progress that I've made has been the only thing that's helped. Being partially so hurts. Being a blend hurts. I'm not about needing to be beautiful or look good in lingerie. Just female. Just really female. Children? I'd have loved to been able to bear them, but even if I couldn't, I still need to be female, because it's not about bearing so much. It's about being. Not a simulation or approximation."
Lourdes was looking into empty space as she talked, looking inside herself for answers as well as she could.
"I don't know what it is. But if I were to guess, it kind of feels like, when I as a fetus, when I differentiated, that part of my brain did not differentiate and remained female or differentiated differently, such that from my every moment in life- I think long-term exposure to hormones may help to feminize the brain, in part, and other life adjustments help, but I think that that fundamental something I don't know about is still in there needing to actually be the other, that discord whatever it is, and that it still can't work well with the other aspects of me I can't change, that aren't genuinely female."
"But you've changed it all," he said. "Haven't you?"
"You mean genital surgery? Yes," she said. "But that's denial," she said. "That doesn't make me biologically there. And this thing in me is painful, Jim. It hurts. It's not the kind of pain like suffering rape or oppression-horrible though those are. It's the kind of pain as if someone's twisting a screwdriver in my brain tearing my soul apart.
"I didn't do this," she said indicating herself, "because it grew in me over time, like it did for most of you. It's not that it's where my life's evolution brought me. It didn't grow out of an attraction to any clothes. I've never cared about clothes. It's not a fantasy, and it's not a fetish.
"It's about needing to actually be the other. Why can't you all see that? I did it because I've needed to all my life-that something deep inside-and the discord hurts. I did it trying to be the me I always needed to be. I did it on the chance I could live at all, so I could avoid killing myself."