One year ago, 14 March 2011, formed the first day in a bridge of transition. In memory, nothing stands significant about my day, not in comparison to the world.
In Libya, people challenged Muammar Gaddafi for the right to run their country, at the time in a precarious balance where they would crush him or he would crush them. A month before, I predicted a Mussolinian end for him. I wasn’t far off in the end.
In Japan, the aftermath of tsunami horrified, the stories, images, and potential continued consequences shocked the world. In this country, riding a self-created wave of political stupidity, leaders elected to fix the economy began a comprehensive effort to dismantle reproductive health choices for women, as if we took out the American economy and not those skilled in the machinations of money movement.
In Ayer Massachusetts, I wolfed down a Danish and orange with a glass of milk, the breakfast serving as a last meal milestone in a place I couldn’t wait to leave behind. Lunch and dinner matched in boredom, ramen noodle packages by choice; just me, avoiding lines, using up the last of my food supply, of things not already given away.
Two loads of laundry, of bed linens and clothing, followed, as did scrubbing out my locker for the next occupant and a clean of our cubicle, because who wants to leave a place messy for the other resident and whoever replaced me?
Day flowed into night, some writing, some packing of 952 pages constituting nine handwritten stories, letters – every thoughtful correspondence from friends and family saved – and the few remaining books on hand not already shipped home.
In the morning, they shooed me to admin early, somewhere around seven. I gave my goodbyes to Rich, bunkie for twenty-one months and of whom I’ve much fondness and respect; I rode with he and his maintenance mates, they to work, me to admin, joking with the guys on the way. Nine months before, another person departing ran through a ‘I like you, I don’t like you’ spiel to them, stupid, and so I teased about not acting in such a gauche way, wished the lot of them well, an early release, and a good life. There are good people amongst those there, people who erred, and who regret they erred, people sentenced too long and who wish to go home. I’ll talk on them at another time.
Processed out, I waited for my mom and sister, reading, watching, looking back up the hill from where I came, the only thing visible the edge of the athletic field and passing track walkers. Funny thing, they all knew me for several things… writing, doing everything I could within the educational environment to assist those who came to me for help, for being a trannie, and for walking that track. I did walking miles in thirteen minutes, and usually anywhere from four to eight miles a day. When I built up steam…
Mom came in with walker, our first in person connection since June of 2009, accompanied by my sister. Grey sweats shed and clothes brought slid on within seconds. We left for home, no doubt leaving rather stunned officers at the front desk. J