A Way of Acceptance

I posted an entry in October 2015 about the evolution of acceptance I had experienced by the neighbors on the block where I live, here in New York. It remains of the more poignant pieces of my transitional jigsaw. However ten days ago, one of the neighbors I referred to in that article, passed away, rather suddenly after a short illness. I felt such loss hearing the news as we had become such firm friends over the last two years. If ever I saw him on his stoop I would make a point of chatting with him, and he would usually give me a kiss on the cheek. A kiss that signified much more than friendship; it was complete acceptance. It was lovely being able to reconnect — especially as it hadn’t always been that way. I will miss him. I paid my respects to him and his family at the funeral home a few days later and was greeted like an old friend by his daughter and widow. I was honored to be there and feel so proud to have been in his friendship. So, in honor of you, Angelo, here are some reworked passages of that blog entry again.

*  *  *

I suppose we all have different ways of accepting who we are. For me, it took many years to accept that I am transgender, and even longer to say it to anyone else. When I moved into my current apartment, in Queens, I was still portraying myself as a man. How deeply I was male I really don’t know, but outwardly to the neighbors I was a man. Once I started presenting as female, it undoubtedly caused a lot of confusion to those on my block. Along with humor, probably, and sneering at the guy in a dress.

I live in a quite traditional area of Queens — as much as anything is traditional in this city of immigrants, of which I am unashamedly one. So it’s quite normal that on one side of my apartment there is a family from South America (I’ve never established which country it is; it never mattered as we don’t talk much to each other though always exchange a friendly greeting) where as on the other side is a family of Italian Americans spanning three generations. One door further down the block an older couple, also Italian Americans, who I guess must be in their 80s now.

I had had conversations with the male half of that couple soon after I moved in as I admired his garden and valued his horticultural advice. However once I started presenting as female, that casual friendship evaporated. He always turned away when I walked by, eschewing any eye contact. It didn’t unduly surprise me, and I wasn’t offended by his actions – just saddened by the rejection. I appreciate the complexity and misunderstanding that being transgender must be to others — especially older generations — but I was just sorry that our little friendship was no more.

Over the next few years I wondered if his rejection had softened. Was that a glint of a smile as I walked past, or just a nod of recognition? Either was a step in the right direction. One day, however, everything changed. I had paused outside his house, ostensibly to admire his flowers, but perhaps more in the hope that there might be a small chat. He asked me about my book, which had come out six months earlier. Apparently the other neighbors in the house between us had told him about it. I was a little surprised, but welcomed the dialogue wholeheartedly. It ended up being quite remarkable.

“I remember talking with you when you moved in,” he said. “You were a man.”

“Yes, that’s right” I replied, ignoring the specifics of when I actually might have been a man or ‘become’ a woman.

“Now you are a woman,” he continued. “So much work you have done… operations and so on.”

“Yes,” I said, “but I am happy. Very much at peace. The sense of calm I have is wonderful.”

“I am a very Roman Catholic person,” he added. I had assumed this, as he had always been a key and visible part of events at the local church, but it also made me have some concerns about what he was about to add.

“This is a miracle.”

I didn’t see that coming.

“God wanted you this way. You were born another way, but God wanted you this way. It’s a miracle.”

I felt incredibly humbled. I don’t consider myself a miracle in any shape or form, but in his mind — in his belief and in his faith — this was his particular way of dealing with something that he had never expected from the neighbor two doors down.

Faith is many things to many people, religion likewise. Our beliefs drive us forward in many and diverse ways. They can also cause friction, wars, and distrust that may linger for countless generations. But not on my block. New York is known to be a melting pot of countless cultures and religions but it still has many divisions. Not on my block. The obstacles to acceptance that I felt in my early transitional days when I left my apartment have gone. Those around me may never fully understand what being transgender is all about — that often confuses me too — but it doesn’t matter to them anymore. Nor me, either.

That is my block.


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