Transitions

I have spent most of my adult years as a lesbian, giving up my family in support of my unwavering choice, and I have survived against all odds, avoiding a predestined life of wifely duties, motherhood and children. Despite admiring my mom for her old-fashioned views on gender roles in marriage as well as life, I wanted a different life for myself. I was tired of doing what was expected of me, curious of the world outside the ultra-conservative suburb of Addison, but little did I know where my choices would lead me.

It was 1996 when I met Adina at a lesbian hot spot called Ms. Katz. She was dressed up from head to toe, clad in black leather, a vest, motorcycle boots, a white tee shirt and chaps that were shining in the dimly lit bar like the sun glistening off the water. She was handsome, could almost pass as a guy, with a dark chocolate complexion, and all I could see were her white teeth and a smile that could light up an otherwise moonless night. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her, and for some reason I was unable to speak when a mutual friend introduced us. I think my hello came out like, “Hi, ah, um, my name is Lisa.” Adina’s smile quickly eased my embarrassment, and in her quiet unassuming voice, she said, “Nice to meet you.” Her reply was not at all what I expected from the 5-foot-7-inch tough-looking leather woman.

Meeting Adina was a major turning point in my life, as I began my adventure into the alternative leather lifestyle. I remember overhearing people call her sir, and at first I didn’t understand the title; even though Adina looked butch, she was biologically female. But as my experience grew, I learned it was not unusual for people to use nicknames such as Daddy, Sir, Boy, Girl, Mistress, Master, etc. Much of the lifestyle is about power dynamics, role-playing, escapism, fetishes, pain, pleasure and anything else society finds offensive. I found it exhilarating. It was 1997 when I decided to go to the upcoming Midwest leather convention with the intent of running into Adina. As I was taking the escalator down in the hotel, I saw her at the entrance of the vendor market. She smiled and gave me a quick wink acknowledging me. I whispered in her ear that I was really glad to see her and that I would love to get to know her better.

What I knew of the leather lifestyle I had read in books but it didn’t take long to acclimate myself.  I enjoyed the kinky nature of this world, its protocols, rich history and the fact that I could be whatever I chose to be. I had cut my hair really short when I moved from my parents as I become tired of looking like a Barbie doll. I began wearing combat boots, army fatigues and tight-fitting tee shirts. It was nice to make my own choices, especially when it came to how I looked, and not feeling pressured to be what my parents expected me to be.

After meeting Adina at the leather event, we began dating off and on. At times it was frustrating as I never knew when I would see her, but when we did get together it was pure magic. I hung in there, and by the spring of 1998 she gave me what I wanted: a companion, a partner and, finally, a commitment. I felt secure and had stability in my life, something I seriously needed as I was still dealing with family strains and abandonment issues, hurting deeply within after I “came out.”

The collar in the leather community is like an engagement ring, and I was honored to wear it as a symbol of our commitment. Adina accepted all of me, but she did encourage me to be less tomboyish in appearance, so I started to grow out my hair again and tempered my more masculine attire. My friends, on the other hand, noticed the changes in me, concerned that I adapted far too deeply for Adina and in a way I did, because I wanted to make her happy.

It was May 1998 when Adina spoke to me about a guy she knew who had transitioned from female to male. I had heard the term transgender before but was curious as to the point of her discussion. Eventually she revealed her own plans to begin the process of hormone replacement. After the initial shock, I became angry that she kept this from me. We were steeped in a collared, committed leather relationship that I just started to feel safe in and now things were changing indefinitely.  In the same breath I was relieved because certain things I was seeing made sense, one of which was her asking me to call her Sir. Adina wanted to be sure that she could pass as man whenever we would be out and addressing her as Sir, was important. My own thoughts on this were a surprise to me, but I had become accustomed to her masculine persona and was looking forward to seeing the physical change that I knew was necessary for Adina to feel complete as a man, thus making it easier on me to refer to her as he.

By the fall of 1999, I began to refer to Adina as Anthony, with his upcoming surgery scheduled in December. We decided on a more permanent arrangement and I was ready to live with someone again. But I had absolutely no clue about what was involved in going from a lesbian existence to a heterosexual one for my psyche. We had a cute three-bedroom home in the city, and by late December he had flown to San Francisco for his reconstructive breast surgery. I spent the next two weeks organizing our place and putting up the Christmas tree, thinking about our future. The two weeks he was gone were agonizing as I didn’t know what to expect once his change was complete or how I would feel about him or if I’d still be attracted to him. But more than that, I was being haunted by my own fears invading my unconscious mind like a hostile takeover. What would I tell my friends or how would I explain “him” to my family?

After Anthony’s surgery life felt normal, if you can call a lesbian involved with a man who was once a woman “normal.” I grocery-shopped, cooked, cleaned, did his laundry and worked since we could not afford the household expenses if I quit, although that was my hope when I agreed to the arrangement. In exchange for keeping the house, taking care of him and having food on the table at a decent time, I could concentrate on a full-time college education, would only need a part-time job if I chose to but that didn’t happen. Taking care of him made it difficult to concentrate on my degree especially with maintaining a part-time job. We started keeping to ourselves instead of being sociable because of the negative experiences we were forced to deal with after his transition from female to male. He had already lost his family’s support, but it hurt him more deeply being disrespected by folks he thought were his friends and from a community that prides themselves on embracing individuality and acceptance.

With all the controversy we became introverted, and I became uncomfortable around my lesbian friends, especially those who didn’t know.  Anthony was very private about sharing his truth, but I needed a social life to stay connected to the lesbian community and to stop me from going insane. I desperately needed the company of women because in my heart I was still a lesbian. By spring of 1999, we had been fighting constantly and I couldn’t stop thinking about my father, who had just passed away, asking me if I was still happy during his last days in the hospital. It was hard to mourn his loss as so many years had passed before reconnecting with him and the rest of my biological family. I was numb. Losing my father made me hold onto Anthony even tighter, despite our issues.             

With so much confusion in my life I had a mental breakdown, a sudden split identity, absolutely abandoning any remnants of my tomboyish nature, wearing dresses more often than pants and open-toed sandals instead of gym shoes. Anthony needed a woman in his life who complemented his budding masculinity, and it was easy to get caught up in what society viewed as gender conformity. I became immersed in it like a drunken sailor getting his first tattoo. There was a kind of dizzying simplicity to it that I found comforting.  After my dad’s funeral, my personal interests were soon replaced by home responsibility and Anthony’s demanding needs. And with all the issues we had, my happy place became a nightmare with unsettling dreams, seeing my life like a camera’s flash, a vivid image of me becoming my mom. I felt trapped, smothered, yet afraid to let him go and move on. I wasn’t financially or emotionally prepared for any abrupt changes and desperately needed answers without losing Anthony or myself in the process.

The first step I took was to be more independent, keeping busy, hoping that Anthony would take some responsibility instead of relying on me. I was biding my time and little by little I found myself again. I wanted him to stop taking me for granted and go out once in a while. When my initial steps failed to generate any changes in his behavior, I had a built-in excuse for not being in an amorous mood as much as before, with me working, taking care of the house and him, and going to school. We were no longer sleeping together in the master bedroom and we came to the realization that we were better roommates than lovers. I had to make a difficult decision: As long as he was paying the brunt of the bills and I was still living there, I would remain loyal but no longer committed to him. I gave back the collar.                      

We were blessed to have a good situation for a while and Anthony really cared about me, this I knew; he just needed a wife like my mom. Me, I wanted to cut my hair, burn my dresses, wear baggy pants and comfortable shoes again. Even now, when I look back on that day, watching the movers load up the U-Haul with my things and Anthony sitting on the front stoop, it occurred to me our break-up had more to do with my own transitions and less about his.

Update on Saturday, February 15, 2020 at 08:35AM by Lisa Lacriola aka T.Langdon Squire

First Published in Mosaic Anthology Issue XIV, 2019

2019's recipient of the Diane Kennedy honor  

PHANTOM SCARS

By the time I was 16, I was wired differently. I kept my passions hidden from my family and followed all the rules a good Italian Catholic girl raised in the suburbs should. I had a boyfriend, but I was secretly having an affair with this girl named Lynn. She was sexy, confident and outgoing, all the qualities I didn’t possess.  I admit now, after all these years, I wanted to get caught. I was tired of hiding in the shadows, wanting to break free from my parents’ idea of normalcy.

I loved kissing her so much. I was oblivious to the clock on the wall in the downstairs TV room in my parents’ home about to strike 11 p.m., my curfew. My mom caught us literally with our shirts off, and Lynn, well she was cool as a cucumber. She simply put her shirt back on and said hello to my mom. But that was Lynn, following her own path and making the rules up as she went along. She would say, “Being wrong is when you choose to lie about who you are.” I admired that spirit in her, but I wasn’t strong enough to follow through.

My parents, of course, did not agree with Lynn's line of thinking. Things got pretty bad after that experience. Although my father felt this was just a stage, my mom began drawing correlations between my love for sports and boys clothing with being gay. The next two years in high school they forbade me to stay on the basketball team or play softball. As if forcing me into some feminine-straight role or ideal was going to “fix” me.  My mom picked out my clothing, dressing me up like her favorite Barbie Doll. I felt absolutely helpless.

I was a creation borne out of ignorance and fear of what other people would think or say. I was no longer an individual but a character I had to play for the masses. My home became a battleground of accusations, emotional abandonment, and identity loss.  I didn’t know who I was anymore. Writing became a catharsis for the scars that would never disappear, only fade.

At 19 I left home. My parents would say I always had a choice. But what is choice when the options are: temper your individuality or choose to live proudly. At least, that’s how I saw it. Soon as I moved out, I went to the nearest barber shop and cut my hair short. Honestly, because I didn’t know how to manage the longer locks that my mom had always handled. I threw myself into playing softball with reckless abandon and every scrape, bruise or bloodied knee was strangely comforting. I watched the newly-formed scars physically fade overtime, unlike the emotional ones. The emotional scars were like phantoms brushing up against you at night, then disappearing in the light of day only to come back when you dream. 

Years later, I continue to write with the madness of a possessed spirit that swallows my pain and releases the hurt on my diary’s pages. The phantom scars are a reminder that there is still work to be done. I am an educator, a voice for all those kids whose only choice is to lie about who they are.    

Update on Saturday, February 15, 2020 at 08:26AM by Lisa Lacriola aka T.Langdon Squire

First Published in Mosaic Anthology Issue XIII, 2018

Like a Phoenix I Rise

The Egyptians called it Bennu; the Native Americans, the Thunderbird; the Russians, the Firebird; the Chinese, Feng Huang. The phoenix is associated with eternal life, destruction, creation and new beginnings. The phoenix mythos has been incorporated in many religions, not just in Greek Mythology. Even Christianity uses it as an analogy for Christ’s Death and Resurrection. In fact, its symbol could be found on early Christian tombstones.

Many societies continue to be obsessed with longevity and immortality or how to cheat death. I suppose that’s why the phoenix remains a symbol for the ages. History continues to repeat itself when wars devastate a population, and from the ashes, a new nation is reborn. We continue to play out this death and rebirth symbolically in everyday life, relying on our steadfast nature to survive even in the harshest of times.

For me, the phoenix represents something much more significant and personal as I’ve lived a warrior’s life, not a hero’s journey. I’m challenged every day to fight the good fight against those who would wish me harm. The battles at times have come from those closest to me; other times, it has been the outside forces beyond my control, like when I had a routine mammogram. I received a call from the doctor’s office asking me to come in for another test. The initial results they claimed were “inconclusive,” so I needed a follow up x-ray from a different angle. I recall trying to drive the speed limit to the hospital, hoping that whatever mass they found was just a calcium build up.

It was a very scary time for me, almost unbearable. I worried for two full days, wondering if I had breast cancer or not. I would lay in my bed at night, staring up at the ceiling with the covers pulled up to my chin, unable to sleep, mumbling to myself all the what if scenarios. I would purposely drink two cups of coffee to avoid falling asleep, afraid that my dreams would have the potential to manifest into some darker reality of chemo, radiation therapy or worse, a breast mastectomy. Precisely after I received the results of the second test that everything was okay, I went to my favorite tattoo artist to symbolically mark this moment in my life as I had done for many other experiences that I wanted to capture permanently. Nowadays, every time I look at the tattoo on my back of the mythical bird with colorful feathers of oranges and reds, shimmering in radiance like fire when the light catches it, the flames extending outward, I’m reminded of that April 22^nd, 2007, day of relief.

It’s human nature to re-examine your life after having a health scare. I know that moment when I felt the tattoo instrument do its magic, the needles leaving their calling card, all I thought about were the good and bad decisions I’ve made through the years, the things I’ve achieved so far, the mistakes I made and the stuff I have yet to do. It’s quite a humbling experience during the uncertainty of the unknown while you play life’s waiting game.

I’m reminded of the many blessings that have occurred after something tragic tried to cut me down yet again, like when I was in the hospital three years ago. I couldn’t do the most basic of things, barely able to breathe. I recall trying to walk to my car or taking out the garbage. Every step I took felt like I was a fish out of water, struggling to inhale and exhale and at times, feeling dizzy, stumbling, unable to finish the task at hand. Even going to work downtown felt like an eternity to get to Wacker and Randolph from Union Station. It was the middle of winter on a blustery day, and I would have to stop at each cross walk to catch my breath before the next block. I feared the worse because my father had died at 58 of congestive heart failure, and here I was at 50, going through the same symptoms that he had experienced.

I hoped it would be something simple like pneumonia, as I also had a horrible hacking cough. The next day, I called in sick to work and went straight to the hospital. They took a blood test, and it revealed my hemoglobin was dangerously low due to a bleeding ulcer. I was anemic. Hemoglobin helps regulate and produce oxygen which is why I couldn’t breathe. Reality hit hard when the nurse said I’d have to stay in the hospital. It was three long days. I received a blood transfusion: three pints. Unlike my father, I was lucky they caught things in time. I was released from the hospital on the fourth day, but it took six weeks before the outlines of the tape marks where the IVs were inserted disappeared, a reminder of the ordeal, but I was alive. 

I still have vivid memories of the horrible and angry fights I had with my mom for my choices and the emotional scars that were left behind, like phantoms. Even now when I visit her, she reminds me of those choices, whether it had to do with my weight, short hair, or living my life proudly as a gay woman. The yelling and screaming back and forth about what path she expected me to follow that would have been easier versus what I chose to pursue. I remember an overwhelming helpless feeling of not being able to quiet her unrest, taking her insults as punishment for crimes against nature for being different.

I can remember when she threatened to pack my bags outside the front door on the stoop where we used to sit and enjoy the beautiful weather and catch a little sun while watching the cars drive by. I couldn’t help but wonder about this thing called unconditional love I felt I deserved but wasn’t forthcoming. And needing to believe that my parents were right, just and true, but unable to reconcile the inconsistencies with my own individuality at such a crucial time in my development. An unsettling moment of pure terror, realizing that I could be forced to move out, wondering if the 9 to 5 job I had would be enough to cover my bills.

Despite it all, I have lived my life openly as a gay woman, giving up my family’s support to protect an unwavering choice to pursue a different path. I have survived -- unemployment, sleeping on friends’ couches, renting basements -- all to avoid my family’s predestined plan for me to live a life of wifely duties, motherhood and children. Against all odds, I have continued to flourish, just like that mythical phoenix who rises from the ashes again and again. I’m not alone in this struggle anymore, though. I’m part of a greater community now and have chosen a new family. They are like foot soldiers who scout ahead to see what’s on the horizon and report back to me so that I can prepare for what lies ahead. Their continued support gives me great comfort, helping me overcome any fears I may still have about the big bad world.

I’m still uneasy when things seem too perfect though, waiting for that proverbial other shoe to drop. The demons of the past continue to haunt me in the present as I navigate future relationships, hesitant about giving my heart or trusting others once again, but it’s getting easier. And I will keep trying to find that connection so that I can live freely without name calling or judgment and eventually find love.  Despite all the tragedies I’ve endured, I continue to rise in triumph like that magical phoenix, the one nicely etched in the middle of my back.

Update on Saturday, July 21, 2018 at 08:12AM by Lisa Lacriola aka T.Langdon Squire

First Published in Mosaic Anthology Issue XII, 2017

2017's recipient of the Natalie Kaye Manbeck honor