Late spring 2011. I pull into our driveway. I am, like everyday, the first person home. Something is different. Several somethings.
Why is there water pouring down the driveway? My eyes follow upstream, the water is flowing from the spigot. Why would that be on? I hear a soft meow. My eyes follow the sound to the window above. It is…overly transparent. Windows are often transparent yes, but, it is so very clear. I realize the subtle obstruction from the mesh window screen is missing. In fact, so is the glass. My cat, Ella, is comfortably perched in the window thrown wide open.
I quickly walk to the door – did Anji make it home first? Her car is not here. I realize the door is ajar. What is going on? I walk through the door and at first things are so subtly different that I wonder if nothing is in fact wrong. I walk into the living room and confirm that yes, our house has been broken into.
When our son arrives home from school that day there is a police car parked out front. His video game console, accessories and games had been stolen along with our computers. The camera with pictures from our wedding and honeymoon is also gone. It is a difficult thing to explain to a child. Yes our home had been breached but you are safe. This place has been violated but we are safe here in our home.
The landlord scolds us for having left a window unlocked. The scolding is unnecessary.
The insurance check came six weeks later. That weekend we replaced the items we could afford to. Insurance pays only a fraction of what it would cost to replace the items lost.
The next Monday I pull into the driveway. The crank window which I thought was secure is not so secure. I didn’t know the window even could be opened from the outside. Now, it is open further than I thought it could be. Is there any way that this is not happening again? Please let this not be happening again.
As I touch the back doorknob I look through the window to see that our brand new laptops which had been on the table this morning are missing. Every drawer in the kitchen is open. This time they had gone through the medicine cabinet, jewelry box, dresser drawers…
The landlord lets us know what he thinks of our level of intelligence and because this hadn’t happened before I moved in, he clearly believes I am part of the issue. I already feel inferior and incapable of keeping my family safe so his judgement is counterproductive.
I consider setting up major surveillance and purchasing a weapon. I consider what it might take to rig something to fire that weapon based on a motion sensor. I smile to myself for being such a nerd.
I look around the house and wonder how evident it is that we are queer. Would that motivate someone to return with intent to harm? Are the police any less likely to protect us? Given that society deems us amoral are will we even be believed? Does our sexuality impact our perceived trustworthiness?
But I understand the statistics associated with having a gun in the home and though angry and feeling defenseless I dismiss the idea.
My grandmother had died only a few months before. The necklace she had given me for my graduation, along with three rings I had inherited and my class ring were all gone.
In the following weeks, I spend time on local classified sites looking for our lost items. A necklace I believe to be mine is posted. The police department says there was nothing they can do and that if I contact the seller, even to buy my own necklace back I could obstruct the investigation. So I try to let it go. Try to not think about it. Focus on how fortunate we are to have that which we do.
We drive to another city that day and within the week sign a purchase agreement for a new construction. It is July. The home will be ready in November.
About eight weeks pass. The days are turning cooler. We have a brand new golden retriever named Abby. So fluffy, so sweet. We keep her gated in the kitchen when we are not home. I work only a few blocks from where we live so I come home a couple times during the day to let her outside.
I pull into the driveway. The sky is overcast, the air damp. My wife had left the house only about an hour before. The house should be exactly as it was then. One mildy irritated cat watching the last few days of birds before they fly south. A little puppy chewing something she shouldn’t be, or perhaps taking a big puppy nap.
Yet, the window in the door is clearly missing. Only fragments remain, reflecting what little light this day holds… My heart is breaking. Please let the pets be safe. I peak through the window. Abby is wagging her tail, though covered in her own mess. I am about to walk into the house when I start to do a bit of math and realize that there may still be people in the house. I walk across the street and call the police.
When they arrive they search the property with their guns drawn. The officer warns me that the property has been tossed. I accompany the officer inside. Every drawer in the house is dumped on the floor. The furniture cushions are strewn about. The clothes have been ripped from their hangers in the closet. There is no where to walk that doesn’t result in stepping on something.
Everything of monetary value has been taken. A great many things of sentimental value had been taken. I resent that I am always the first one home.
The police officer informs us that our neighborhood is ‘infested with shitheads.’ ‘Throw a rock in any direction, I guarantee you will hit a shithead.’ Still, our landlord accuses us of being involved in drugs – why else would we be being targeted? If you knew us, you might find that accusation amusing.
Our insurance company opens an investigation into us. They threaten to drop us from coverage. This is probably exclusively related to having filed three claims in 6 months. Still, there is an additional weight to it.
We are almost unable to close on our new home because we had become a high risk insurance liability. It would be early 2012 before we resolved the final claim. Yes, there was a moment where I called our agent and left a passionate voicemail. I haven’t spoken to her since.
It is April 2020. I am at the walk-in clinic. Back to back upper respiratory infections have led to intermittent asthma like symptoms and my doctor wants me evaluated further.
I like talking to my doctor, in general. She is super wicked smart and funny and I like watching her geek out. It makes me feel less weird.
The triage nurse calls out my birth name. Every muscle in my body tenses. She laughs quickly, “Sorry that is my name. It has been a long day. Jesse, come on back.” She is talking at me in a wall of sound. Clearly stressed by the PPE (personal protective equipment) protocols brought on by the Covid-19 pandemic. She just keeps talking. She is a bundle of light and energy. It is kind of making me nauseous.
I return to the waiting room to…wait. One of the reception staff is talking about how ridiculous people are and how incapable they are of entertaining themselves during this Stay Home Stay Safe order. The other receptionist is trying to offer alternative perspective but the first simply talks over her until she passively agrees. I wonder if the receptionist could better entertain herself if she would be more tolerant of others but…given my intolerance of her voice… I am crabby.
The nurse calls, “Jesse.” I hesitate. It takes a moment for my brain to assess that it is me and that it is not birth name me and that everything is fine. I walk up. She seems puzzled and looks from me to the sticker in her hand with my demographics and then back to me.
It retrospect I wish I would have asked what was happening in that moment. Maybe I am just being paranoid. Or maybe my gender expression is erased by a mere disposable face mask. Is she wondering if she has the right person? Does she wonder with everyone or just me? I hate going to the doctor (except the part where my actual doctor is talking). I feel like it is a series of not meeting expectations.
“Oh, you are a former smoker?!” Yep. But I quit in 2011 so… maybe what you are trying to say is… something less judgmental. “No recreational drugs?” No but, have you considered how someone may answer that question who is using? You are totally shutting the door on what could be a vital conversation for someone. “No suicidal thoughts?” Again, no, but see comment above. Why are humans so terrible at just…exploring the truth of one another? Why do we ask questions with the goal of eliciting only the response we are comfortable with? Especially in this setting where accurate information is paramount.
I have to believe that the people who developed these screening questions are intelligent. That they have some sort of special training. This belief makes me question evolution though… If this is the best we have to offer one another perhaps we haven’t been evolving enough… I digress. I hate going to the doctor. I hate people’s expectations. I never meet them.
“How long have you been having symptoms?” I’m not sure how to answer this question. I try to explain that I am not sure. She seems irritated. I wonder what the right answer is. She says, “So three months?” Great! a ‘yes or no’ question. “Yes!” Oops, that was too enthusiastic. What does that facial expression mean? It hasn’t really been three months but I just want to get my dumb x-ray and get out of here. While I don’t know the right answer I do know that Today – End of February != 3 months.
They test for Covid-19, which is annoying because when I was really sick a few weeks ago there were no tests. Whatever. She puts the q-tip up my nose. It is uncomfortable and near the end I involuntarily pull away. “Yeah, it kind of tickles.” Does this person know what the word ‘tickles’ means? What does that facial expression mean?
Next nurse comes in to take me to xray. She seems thrown off by something. “We need to get you a gown.” I cringe. I didn’t need a gown for my chest x ray a couple months ago… Whatever. I put it on. I feel like I am wearing a dress. I now walk all the way across the dumb clinic to the lab.
The x-ray tech very politely asks, “Sorry, I am not sure where you are at, is there any possibility of pregnancy?” I am right here…oh, on my ‘journey.’ Got it. Like, have I dotted all the i’s and crossed off my female reproductive organs? I appreciate that she appreciates this is an awkward moment. Still, my medical chart is quite clear about the impossibility of pregnancy – I have no uterus. I politely say, “no” plus smile so she understands that trans people are really cool plus nice. She smiles. Oh good. That seemed like a successful human interaction. Nailed it.
I often visualize the relationship between two people as the sum of energy exchanged. The sum of the absolute values speaks to the impact of the relationship. The net balance and it’s proximity to zero (completely equal) an indication of the quality of the relationship. I have no idea if this is an original thought.
10 x 8, Acrylic on Canvas
That's Mr. Gender to You 