An Angry Inheritance

               Anger is a badge of honor for my father.  It is included in his version of what a real man is and I carried it with me.  Why was I angry?  So many reasons.  Righteous anger is being angry at what angers God .  We as a society feel pretty sure we have the right to this particular type of anger, but we are usually wrong with this assessment as we are usually wrong about what angers God.

                When I was born I looked very much like my father, chubby with short legs.  I would love to say I outgrew both of those, but sadly did not.  Growing up I tried to be like him, even going so far as to state my desire to be a welder in a sixth grade class report.  The very next year when puberty hit, a lot began to change and I realized how unlike him I was.  Still I tried to mimic him, to make sure he liked me.  Love is unconditional, I thought.  Like is a whole different story. 

                I now realize one of the few traits of his I was able to master was anger.  I have the characteristic temper from the Thompson family genes, mostly Irish with a supposed smattering of Native American but not enough to get scholarship money or casino dividends.  My temper was held mostly at bay by the guiding hand of my exclusively English and devoutly Christian mother, until I left for college.  Once there I began to explore the temper and companion salty language of my father’s people with almost as much passion as I pursued academics and social acceptance.  My temper ran parallel to my achievements and both increased at a surprising rate, considering I was a closeted, chubby nerd and life is not an after-school special.

                I assumed anger was my inheritance as nothing else in the way of property, money or mixed securities existed.  Mixed insecurities I had by the carload, which exacerbated my anger.  Often, for me at least, anger had its root in fear.  Fear of actually being gay.  Fear of being outed.  Fear of not fitting in.  Fear of rejection by family, friends, fraternity.  Fear of overstaying my welcome in any context including friendships, dinner or even talking to my academic advisor. My friends had no clue how often I fretted, worrying any glimpse of the real me would ruin my strategy to become a “regular guy”.  Truthfully, my feelings were mostly anticipatory fear which is much more toxic as it is based on imagination not reality.  My imagination is strong, y’all, and I can come up with all manner of terrifying scenarios, some of which unfortunately have come true; most, happily, have not.

                As this anger slowly seeped into my personality at work, it began to impact my career path.  I was known for results.  I could walk into a department, assess it fairly quickly and turn it around in a relatively short amount of time.  The success was career-enhancing but the psychological toll on some with whom I interacted was an unfortunate side-effect.  The casualties left in the wake of my leadership style were simply the costs of being awesome, I felt.  I found out later these costs were unnecessary. 

                God placed into my life two mentors who were brutally honest with me and encouraged anger management counseling.  It was marginally helpful from a management perspective but it provided excellent insight to the root of my anger.  I tried to heal, turning to God for relief and redemption.  I had decided in 2004 to leave behind the “gay” and return to church as I felt I had to choose.  When faced with the options of career or eternal damnation, I chose career.  Through prayer, support and leadership training I began to make solid progress.  I learned the difference between leadership and management.  I recognized I had been an occupant of a leadership position, not a true leader.  An uncomfortable truth but one I used to better myself.  I realized I had placed unrealistic expectations on myself and when I invariably stumbled, I was furious with myself.  I knew I wasn’t perfect, but I was none too happy about it. The anger I felt at myself was often misread by my peers and subordinates as anger with them.  I had been too pre-occupied to notice my effect on them. 

                Fear of failing at my experiment of being someone other than the white trash person I felt I was, caused disproportionate reactions to minor set-backs.  I was promoted from a GS-4 to a GS-14 in seven and a half years but felt I could have done it faster.  I wasn’t falling into the typical bad habit of comparing myself to anyone.  I was comparing myself to an unattainable ideal and punishing myself for failing to meet this artificial, self-imposed standard.

                Servant leadership training taught me to be confident in my abilities and unafraid to fail.  Once I started to practice these traits, my sense of calm returned and my anger dwindled.  When The Dad moved in with me, I was working to turn around a failing department in a new facility and it was a demanding job on good days.  When he would question me about my day and I would talk about encouraging people to excel and coaching them to improve, letting them share their opinions and valuing their perspectives, he would mock me and tell me about “when [I] was a boss…”  He only enjoyed the old stories of where I was the governmental equivalent of Charles Bronson.  When I would talk of collaborating with a problem employee, he would say, “You’re gonna look weak.  They’re gonna fire you” or “I can’t believe you let them get one over on you.  I thought you were gonna do something when you became the boss.”

                It would be easy to blame his generation but it’s more likely his attempt to pass down the only inheritance he received from his father, angry until his last breath.  When he tells me I’ve forgotten where I’m from and who I am, I don’t disagree, but it’s not the way he means it.  There are things I retain and cherish like common sense, an appreciation of fried foods and a quick joke.  But there are other heirlooms (holding grudges, closed-minded thinking and anticipatory stress) which are best left behind. 

I move on quietly, purposefully, attempting to go unnoticed to ensure I leave these permanently behind.  I don’t want to look back even though I realize my actions are certain to be misinterpreted.  I know this will be part of my legacy and I’m not quite sure how I feel about it, but I do know I’m not angry.

Could you outrun a Samoan on roller skates?

                Anyone who grew up in the 80s knew one of the most popular forms of recreation was roller skating.  We could not get enough of this sport.  We loved wearing pictures of them on our jeans, t-shirts and the backs of our satin jackets.  And roller-skating rinks were the place to be.  I celebrated my 9^th birthday at The Big Wheelie across the river in Vicksburg, MS.  I have always had my finger on the pulse of what’s happening, even while wearing husky-sized Tuffskins on a dirt road, y’all.

                Many small towns had their own rink and Bogata, Texas, was no different.  It had a rickety wooden floor, scandalously shaky walls and a clientele of every socio-economic level, hence my semi-regular attendance during holidays prior to our move to this fair burg.  A week or so before the fateful event I had thoroughly enjoyed skating in a circle with all of my new friends.  I did not, however, enjoy the couple’s skate as I was solo and not in a cool way.  I have never been cool by even the broadest definition.  Awesome, sure.  Cool, no.

                I decided I would ask Marty Burns (and I apologize if I just totally embarrassed you) to skate with me during the allotted time.  My cousin Kendra heartily approved and the stage was set.  Unfortunately, the stage did not factor in inclement weather or my father’s definition of masculinity.

                One the night of the roller rink rendezvous, it began to rain, heavily.  As the rink had a reasonably sturdy ceiling, the downpour did not affect our plans.  As we were exiting the trailer to pile into the Suburban, I slipped and fell, the top step hitting me in the middle of my back, knocking the breath out of me.  When I recovered, I began to cry because it hurt.  I was 11 years old, cut me some slack, people.

                Well, no slack was cut for the oldest son of “Big Red” Thompson.  I was "big" and red but machismo is something I have never shared with my father.  Once I was returned to an upright position, I was informed I was to stay behind as the others left for fun on wheels.  The reasoning was, I guess, crying boys don’t get to do fun things.  I shouldn’t have cried, was punished for crying and then cried as a result of my punishment, which made the punishment even worse. 

“Men don’t cry” was his response when asked why he was punishing me.  No one bothered to ask his opinion on boys crying.  As the oldest son and scion to the family fortune, which consisted of a plaid couch and used station wagon, I was expected to carry on the Thompson name with masculinity to spare. My age was irrelevant. 

I grew up with a skewed view of what is meant to be a man.  Most of my uncles on both sides of the family were blue collar, farmers, carpenters, welders, mechanics and laborers.  I just wanted to be indoors reading, in clean clothes.  There are so many characterizations of masculinity, but I experienced none of them.  The one uncle who was typically in a good mood (and of whom we were not usually frightened) was handy when it came to fixing all things plumbing or electric, so again it was pressed home, this blue collar definition of masculinity.  My Dad’s characterization was specifically rooted in girth and stoicism in the face of physical pain. 

I know there are many facets to masculinity and myriad placements on the spectrum of what is means to be male.  I have learned to define being a man by my actions, not by my father’s opinions.  However, as I talk to him every Saturday (or rather I listen to him complain), I have to manage the reality of his designations.  One of them has been on-going since my weight loss. 

For those who don’t know, at the height of my weight (and sickness) I weighed 422 pounds.  Having lost 200 pounds and kept it off for 7 years, I am what I would consider a normal-sized person.  I am 6’ and weigh 220 pounds.  Due to our divergent opinions of big, my father often expresses concern about my safety.  He truly feels I am now “too skinny” to take care of myself.  He worries I will be attacked in the parking lot of the grocery store due to my tininess.

I’m not sure where he thinks I purchase food, but the only people who consider me tiny would be residents of American Samoa, some pro football players and possibly the stage crew for those hair metal bands squeezing every available dollar from their one power ballad.

And each weekend I assure him I am able to care for myself and remind him I haven’t been attacked, other than by a pigeon, since the one time in a bar by a lesbian during my delayed rebellion at age 25.  And I remind him I was victorious in that particular interaction.  Trust me when I tell you I am not proud of this fact.

And while I am still solo-skating through life, I am content and unafraid, coral chinos and all.  I don’t consider myself a target but I continuously promise him I’ll keep my eyes open for Samoans in the parking lot of my grocery store or The Dollar Tree. I feel fairly certain I could at least outrun someone that size should it be required.  Maybe I should keep some roller skates in the car.  You know, just in case.

Cute Clothes, Comfort Zones and Jesus

               I’ve been asked to serve as a fashion consultant this week and I am excited.  I was approached by someone at my church to assist in something called a ‘Glam Closet’ and you know I was intrigued.  It is for the Trans Pride celebration in Orange County.  I’m as surprised as you are as this is something far, far outside my comfort zone.  But I am reminded those who don’t leave their comfort zones, never grow and I am all about growth, y’all.

                I never knew a transgendered person before I moved to Long Beach back in February.  I have long held a particular grudge against this part of the LGBT continuum as I blamed them for making society think all gays are weird.  Drag Queens and those people who dress in leather were bad enough but those were costumes, not day-to-day reality.  I’m just trying to be honest.

I have never been outwardly rude to anyone and I have mentioned this opinion to very few, but deep in my heart of hearts I was not supportive and didn’t want to talk about it.  Transgendered people, I simply did not get as I have never had any issues with my gender identity. But it isn’t my job to get it.

I wanted society to let me be me even if they didn’t understand it but hypocritically I never offered this same understanding to the transgendered community.  Prior to meeting the young man at church, my only information about this population was via Chaz Bono and I pitied him as I assumed the root of his identity crisis was mainly Cher was his mother.  I adore her as an entertainer; I don’t know if I would want her as a parent. 

I never gave my prejudices much thought, mostly because it wasn’t required.  My line of thinking was I don’t know any trans people, so who cares what I think about them.

My church family is studying a book series called “The Good and Beautiful God”.  The subtitle of the series is “Putting on the Character of Christ”.  I have been doing a lot of soul-searching and praying and trying to get myself more in line with the way God really is, not necessarily the way I was taught when I was growing up in the church.  And I’m not picking on Southern Baptists; many denominations give us false narratives about who God is and what He cares about and how He feels about certain populations in our society.  Baptists are just my frame of reference as I attended Southern Baptist churches from birth until 2009, including while I lived in Alaska, Ohio and Massachusetts.  There’s Southern Baptists all up and through this nation, people.

The transgendered man at my church is a happy person, smiling, laughing and just a joy to be around.  Full disclosure, I wasn’t truly aware he hadn’t always been a man when I first met him.  I never really engaged with him and his wife but I also didn’t avoid them either.  We’ve chatted outside church but never really had an actual in-depth conversation.  Several weeks ago he asked me if I could help a friend of his who had just come out of the closet and was in need of a makeover.  Makeover?!   Yes, please!  I am all about helping someone look their best.

One of my spiritual gifts is encouragement.  I love to build someone up to ensure they feel a part of a group of which I am a member.  Knowing what it’s like to always be the new person and what it’s like to feel ostracized, I always make sure I speak to those to whom no one else speaks.  And while I have very specific, vocalized opinions about fashion, I would never tell someone their outfit was unacceptable.  If I am asked for my input I am honest but I try to temper it with kindness.  I’m not a mean person.  But if someone is soliciting my opinion, well you know how much I love to share, right?

I have been paring down my wardrobe of late, shedding items I don’t wear and was looking for some place to donate them as I want to spread the wealth and Goodwill and Salvation Army have already benefitted from my significant downsizing. 

Just last week, I was trying to figure out a way to put a face to a population as this is how I have learned to let go of my prejudices.  I'm glad he approached me because when he told me the activities were part of the Trans Pride Event on July 30 in Orange County, I had to smile.  What a happy coincidence, you might say.  Coincidence is when God doesn't take credit for maneuvering us to right where we need to be.  I told him I would be honored to help men and women learn how to develop their style and properly dress for their chosen gender and body shape and also learn their colors.  My church is also sponsoring an outreach booth at the event.  I am proud of the way we are showing God’s love in Southern California.

One thing I have learned through my spiritual journey is my opinion about a topic should have no effect on my goal of being kind to one of God’s children.  I don’t have to understand the transgendered community to show them God's love.   I don’t have the right to tell them what to feel or whom to love.  Those things are between them and God; they’re not my business.

What is my business, you ask?  To quote Jesus, the first and greatest commandments are to love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength and to love your neighbor as yourself.  Period.  There aren’t addendums, codicils, postscripts or caveats, y’all.  It is an imperative sentence.  It is a command.

Everybody needs to know God loves them and everybody needs a cute outfit. 

And that’s all I’m saying for now.

The Persnickety State of Jones

                In response to what they considered inept and indifferent leadership among the Confederate officers at the Battle of Vicksburg and afterwards, a group of men from Jones County led by Newton Knight left the Confederate Army and subsequently seceded from the Confederacy.  They renamed their county the State of Jones and refused to further participate in a war they did not support and into which they had been involuntarily drafted.

                When I came across this bit of information, I was intrigued.  There are those who feel the Civil War was an act of treason by the South.  There are those in the South who believe the war was about States’ Rights, not slavery.  I will not bore you with my opinion; however, I wonder what I would’ve done had I been alive then.

                My maternal grandfather’s family was from Mississippi, moving to Louisiana only after losing most of their fortune during the Depression as they had prosperous cotton farmers.  According to family lore theirs had been among the wealthiest families in the state.  If true, this would have had a major impact on my opinions and stances about the war.

                As in many wars before, wealthier men could pay someone to serve for them, unless they were trying to establish credentials for political reasons.  Those who agreed to serve were automatically given officer rank and were therefore not in the most immediate danger as they were not necessarily among those on the front line.  There were officers who fought bravely beside their men, but it wasn’t necessarily a requirement.

                I have never been a coward, but I do find it difficult to feign energetic support for a fight I didn’t start or truly believe in.   I don’t know what my feelings about the war would have been if I were living in Mississippi in 1864; however, knowing me, I imagine they would have been very different from those of my family and neighbors.  “Just your average Joe” has never been a descriptor for your humble narrator.  However, if family money were involved, I may have kept my opinions to myself.  One of the few advantages of a lack of any facsimile of an inheritance is the absence of anxiety attached to being disinherited due to disagreements over matters political, spiritual, food/animal-related or otherwise.

                I have made my life’s stance to only fight when I feel passionately about something and/or I feel I have a chance of winning.  This has caused me to engage in fisticuffs only on three occasions in my 44 years on Earth; once in junior high, once in high school and once in 1996, the year of my delayed rebellion.  Well fisticuffs aren’t the best descriptor.  What do you call pushing and/or throwing someone really, really hard?  Throwing something out a window is called defenestration, but there were no windows so I am unsure of the proper verbiage. 

               I assure you I did not pick these fights.  I don't want to fight...I want to sing!  Not really, but my bark is much worse than my bite.  Like most people I see at The Wal-Mart, my bite has few, if any, teeth.  And to be honest, I don’t have much of a bark these days, unless you drive too slow or treat service people poorly in my presence.

I have learned how to feign enthusiasm for something about which I am not jazzed, but it is difficult.  And for this reason alone, I feel as if I might have joined those frisky Jones Countians in their stance.  This attitude of independence still lingers amongst the denizens of the geographic area just north of Hattiesburg. 

Case in point, when the junior colleges in Mississippi decided to change their names to community colleges in 1988, Jones County refused.  They were known as JCJC (Jones County Junior College) and did not want to alter the flow of their acronym.  And to this day they remain JCJC.  I guess the spirit of old Newt still lingers in the Piney Woods. 

And that’s all I’m saying for now.

The Repercussions of Vocabulary

                The first time I remember purposefully making a statement solely to gauge the reaction was in 1979 or so.  My family and I were traversing the Louisiana highways somewhere in the vicinity of Ferriday, home of those musical cousins Mickey Gilley, Jerry Lee Lewis and Jimmy Swaggart.  We may or may not have been lost.  As my mother’s brain was the precursor to Siri, I feel fairly certain she knew exactly where we were.  I however, did not and felt the timing was right to use a new phrase I had recently learned.  “God’s Green Earth”.  I don’t remember from whom I heard it or the context of why it was uttered, but I had a need to use it, y’all. 

                Testing the waters, I cried out in a plaintive voice, “Where on God’s Green Earth are we?”  Rest assured my mother was less than impressed with my question.  My sister looked at me with a mixture of condescension and pity.  Truthfully, she looked at most everyone in this manner, so her reaction was not a part of the equation.  My mother’s reaction was one with which I was familiar.  And it wasn’t good.  I swear I thought ‘taking the Lord’s name in vain’ was something altogether different.

                The look she gave triggered a memory which caused me to involuntarily shudder.  As a child I wasn’t particularly ill-behaved.  I do, however, remember making several serious errors in judgment.  The one that always pops to mind was when I was a lad in 1977 and was enjoying the summer twixt first and second grade.  My sister and I have shared a reliable relationship since childhood.  I loved her always; she did not particularly care for me until she became a mother. 

                We were living in the last of our three houses (Front Street) our gypsy family rented in Winnfield, Louisiana.  I remember being psychologically injured in a grievous way; she may have insulted my Lego house or merely told me I was stupid.  My typical response was to tell my Mother.  For some unknown reason I took leave of my senses and decided to handle this situation myself.  Having no physical advantage, I used the only tool in my arsenal, my vocabulary.  I felt I was superior to her in this respect, as I was a member of the Gifted and Talented class, people.  It’s true.

                Her reaction to my response immediately offered proof I had chosen poorly.  I won’t repeat what I said but it stopped my sister dead in her tracks.  She immediately recovered, smiled maliciously and said, “oooh, you’re gonna get it!”  Unfortunately the voice that allowed me to lead cheers in college without a megaphone caused the words to reverberate down the hall to the kitchen where my mother was cooking and singing.  She stopped suddenly and asked in a tone signifying doom, “Dustin Terryll Thompson, what did you just say?”  My first response was “My name is Dustin?” 

                You see I had never seen my name written down and had been called Dusty for all seven of my years on the planet.  I never knew my actual name was Dustin.  I relished the new-found knowledge.  Additional knowledge gained that day was what Lava Soap (with pumice) tastes like as Mother decided on a creative punishment for a creative turn of phrase.

                Lava Soap was what my father used to get the hard to remove grease and dirt off his hands after work.  Never have my teeth felt so shiny and gritty and free from all verbiage which is considered vulgar and unacceptable by one Catherine Waynette Thornton Thompson.  I guess it made sense.  The colorful phrase was one The Dad had used on a number of occasions.  Needless to say the words I uttered never crossed my lips again, even when stuck in traffic in DC or Los Angeles.  Synonyms for some of those words, maybe, but definitely not those particular words.

                And that’s all I’m saying for now.

Accidental Rodeo Champion

             I have ridden many horses in my life; never once voluntarily and almost always with a, let’s just say, interesting result.  One horse in particular factored into two episodes forever burned in my memory, pushing home the reality that I was, for all practical purposes, the East Texas equivalent of Dill from To Kill A  Mockingbird.

Throughout my childhood, I was included in all manner of things based solely on the belief that my inherent testosterone would push me, like any other good ol’ boy, toward activities both death-defying and ill-conceived.  Case in point, sometime in what had to have been 1983, it was determined that we would ride in the Grand Entry of the Bogata, TX Rodeo. 

For those of you who don’t know, the Grand Entry is an opportunity for those who own horses and cowboy finery to non-competitively ride around the rodeo arena while smiling and waving to those who paid for said horses and finery.  The steed selected to ferry me about was named Ginger and I sat gingerly atop her pretending I wasn’t scared or planning an escape.  Truthfully, the only thing stopping me from fleeing was a fear of heights.  What? You get on a horse when you’re 4 foot nothing and you tell me how far you think it is to the ground.

 I sat atop this mare, swathed in ill-fitting attire, resigned to my fate, aglow with perspiration, looking like an overgrown Gerber baby in a cowboy hat and vest, waiting for the start of this procession toward what I assumed would be death by trampling.

An upside for someone bereft of the instincts to control an animal is horses are communal by nature and will travel in herds given the opportunity.  I found no major issues simply sitting in place, demonstrating how to wave with my eyes as I was not about to take either hand off the saddle horn, gripping it as tightly as the frog does the stork’s neck in the “Never Give Up” cartoon.  And we made it around the one allotted loop with no issues and I was home free or so I thought. 

When we approached the exit, Ginger, preening starlet that she was, decided to turn and follow the horses that were just entering the arena.  And so we made a second sweep in front of the crowd, then a third.  Finally, by the fourth go-round, someone had apparently notified the people that you notify in these types of situations and the esteemed Rodeo Queen, Darlene Brooks, wearing a white hat and tiara, appeared at my side, took the reins and led us out of the arena, to the cheers of the crowd.  It could have been laughter.  They sound the same, don’t they?

And I was hoping any further equine events would fade into the background.  But as is the case in mi familia, I was to be disappointed.  Whether the purpose of this exercise was the pursuit of fun or the outcome of heat-induced insanity, I was again riding astride the preening Ginger.  “Getting back up on the horse” is something my people seem to do with ease; me not so much.  However, I thought this could be a good thing as during my first encounter with Ginger, we had simply pranced in a circle.  This I could handle.  And we were moseying along just fine when something happened.  I later learned the cinch had broken and the belt began to slap her stomach.  Well she took to running full tilt, y’all, and I didn’t know what to do except panic full tilt.

Suddenly she stopped running and began to buck like the University of Wyoming mascot (look it up) causing me to grip the saddle as I was determined to stay astride my mount, like a proper cowboy.  Full disclosure, I had done a quick cost benefit analysis and believed the possibility of flying with the saddle seemed a better option than almost certain death via trampling.

And I proceeded to let loose a scream so loud and piercing and long that the neighbors for several miles thought it was a test of the emergency broadcast system.  After what seemed like an hour (but was probably 10 seconds), I and the saddle flew over her head and landed with a resounding thud on the parched, cracked ground.  My emergency broadcast scream transitioned immediately into silence as all the breath had been knocked out of my Ocean Pacific-clad lungs.

The response from my Uncle Ronald was, “Woah, Dusty, I think you rode her for more’n 8 seconds!  We shoulda put you in the rodeo!”  

I’ve been a cowboy from way back, y’all.  And that’s all I’m saying for now.

Caitlyn Jenner! My Opinion!! Additional Exclamation Points!!!

             This post is from 2015.  I never did watch an episode of her show. I assume it was cancelled.

               

               Recently I have been asked by a number of people what I think about Caitlyn Jenner.  My response is "I don’t know" and I’m not being flip.  She is a new character in the zeitgeist and I'll reserve judgment about her life choices as I am trying to be supportive of the T in the LGBT continuum.  But there are other choices with which I have concern. Throughout this whole transition, I think people are missing something extremely important; Caitlyn may have felt like a woman for many years but I can assure you she did not feel like a ‘Caitlyn’.  Women from her era (she was born in 1949) were typically named Linda, Mary, Patricia, Barbara or Susan.  In some parts of the country they may have been named Eunice, Ethel, Agnes and even Thelma Lou, if you lived in Mayberry.  What they wouldn’t have been named is Caitlyn.   

                The moniker with which you are foisted upon the world has a lot to do with how the world responds to you.  There have been many articles of late discussing those with more ‘American’ names receiving a more positive response on job applications and resumes.  It is sad, but it is true.  It is also a wake-up call for those parents who want to name their children something like McClavity, Apple or D’@ngel*que.  At least Apple will have Speed of Sound money to fall back on if she can’t get a job working for her mother at Goop, if this is in fact a real website and I haven’t mistaken one of The Onion’s satirical essays as a news report.

                There has been much discussion of whether or not Caitlyn is brave and I agree being your authentic self is brave if indeed who you are is not the average person’s cup of tea.  And you may disagree.  But I don’t think anyone can argue it is an extreme act of bravery for a 65 year-old woman, who is not Helen Mirren, to appear on the cover of a national magazine in what can only be described as a lycra onesie.  And let’s not forget about the hairstyle she chose.  What’s brave is selecting a “reality-show-opening-credits-montage” hairstyle for your cover model debut.  I can assure you the G in the LGBT acronym have been discussing this at length.

                I suppose it is appropriate as she will now star in a reality show which is a spin-off of another reality show which is the spin-off of a sex tape which was (and let’s be honest) a spin-off of the OJ Simpson murder trial, and possibly Moesha, being that Ray J is Brandy’s brother.  And we shouldn’t be surprised America has rallied around someone who is desperately clinging to the periphery of our attention span, which is exuberantly ill-informed, inconsistently forgiving and sticky with a mixture of melted Popsicle and nacho cheese.

                Is it really brave to face the world from a position of wealth and material comfort?  I wonder how brave Caitlyn would have been if she had to go to work at Carl’s Jr., or serve as the nursing supervisor at an assisted living facility or work in a bank?  Is it brave when you are lauded for being you and awarded financially for your transition?  Most trans people, from what I understand, just want to be themselves and blend into the vibrant fabric of this country.  It doesn’t mean that we can’t applaud her for helping the national conversation about a topic both uncomfortable and timely.

                I am not someone who is interested in knowing the ins-and-outs of Caitlyn’s life and I will certainly not watch her new show.  I will also not remember her name is Caitlyn because she does not look like a Caitlyn.  Maybe I would remember it if she changed her name to Marilyn or Olivia or Lauren or even Priscilla.

                And that’s all I’m saying for now.