Monday, October 24, 2011

What I discern in the decision of the Mafia concerning my status review in light of my new gender.

The world is full of examples of female rulers. From that standpoint there is plenty of precedent for me. The different role of help for men and women is one possible concern an overlord might have about it. I have a history of ambivalence about being helped. On one hand it is easy. That's my male history. On the other hand it has to be clear and lasting without further comment, a stable economy being the large scale image. The stable economy is based on a female ruler's knowledge of her power relationships. Mine have been difficult, but rest on a foundation no longer active--a male foundation--but a false one based on fear of reprisals for being a female. It was not power that got me out the door into public crossdressing. It was truth and logic. Certainly a good place for a leader to be.

I will see what response there is. My environment is no less the universe. My writing on this does not specify that I am asking for permission to court. It specifies only the existence of such an entity as an equal periodicity with the statement that the universe is mine. There is plenty of room for interpretation here. One example would be that the statement offers the permission on unspecified conditions.

The departure from the Edgewater Branch of the Chicago Public Library, with the statement secure, revealed, from the outburst reaction of a young black man passing me, one of cheer, proved that my writing was being read in full, to some degree of absolute, by the black Mafia hierarchy, certainly a favorable development that bears reminder now. Ownership of the universe is a wild task set. But coterminous permission to court gives the set definition. As a partnership this is a keynote for unlimited development of power in the universe.

What a woman thinks of getting help.

My mother was a tough cookie. War nurse, mother of five, outspoken opponent of racism, the list goes on. But I believe there was always a confusion about what amount of help a woman should properly expect or ask for in any given situation. She rarely asked for help. She was able-bodied. But the term "weaker sex" is not apparently for nought. As a female now I can note that I feel a huge sphere of dependence on help all around me, that in almost any situation there can come about a margin by mmy routine ways come up short of some objective. This was never apparent when I was a male.

My mother made light of her needs for help. She had a little French phrase she repeated in mock desperation whenever she seemed to be at such a point in her routine as I mention above. It was, "au secours!" I may not be spelling it right. It means, I believe, "oh, help!"

Because she made light of needing help I always thought of this as an indication that she really didn't ever need help. It was a quickly drawn conclusion that I never gave a second thought to.

But the whole matter rests squarely on the commitment of this civilization to a strict division of labor in marriage between husband and wife. If a partner has been raised to keep a certain such division of labor as a good agreement through every up and down, that partner will be able to mind his own part of the marriage without having to speak about unexpected variances of the division, that is, ask for help. I don't believe I can recall a single incident of my mother asking for help from my father. With men it seems to be a llittle different. They are expected to become a part of the industrial world where division of labor is a vast enterprise itself, and one in which innovations, which lead very easily to new divisions of labor, are of the utmost importance at the larger, or outer, levels of that world. So men have evolved an easy familiarity with unexpected needs for help, and know how to ask for it without distracting hesitation. In my family this has led to disaster, as my father expected my mother to adapt to his changing role in the industrial world as political developments led to new feelings in the world about types of people, in particular African Americans, and my mother was hard pressed to jump when he said to on such matters. Instead, she got on a soap box at the dinner table to bolster her defensive position that she knew would not fly with my father, but her need for maintaining a comfortable home environment required this soap boxing to prevent a gradual erosion of that comfort. Perhaps it was wise. What happened instead of gradual erosion was sudden death. My father blew up one day, when family circular paths of political leaning brought everything to a focus, and left the house for good.

But my mother's and father's habits of help both suffered no ill effects and they both lived out the divorce that followed in relative comfort.

But as a trans gender female I have a great amount of groundwork to do to open myself up to the female way with help. I must learn that my immediate impulse in speech, which carries the ease of asking for help without fuss, is in need of repair. The male world has wrecked the achievements of my female impusles, more valuable impulses, for me, than the male ones I trumped up to meet the muster. If I don't listen to voices as crying out for help I can never hear my own doing the same.

My early life with gender identity disorder.

At the beginning of my life, having for unknown reasons a potential of living like a girl and no potential for living like a boy, I didn't enter into the search for a career. Every activity was shortened because the only life work I was destined for was being a full-time housewife. This was my legacy from my mother. I was the ultimate Yale female student, there only to look for a husband and not intending to use my education in a career. My high ambition was not moderated by an integral life view and got blown up way out of proportion. I scattered my interests all over and repeatedly went off the deep end in career-like ventures, scoring some remarkable victories but none of it adding up to a basic understanding of the male contract with civilization.

Now that I acknowledge being trans gender I have to ferret through the maze of thoughts, memories, and impressions from my childhood to arrive at a logically sound female contract with civilization. The greatest puzzle at the present time is my breasts. With an x and a y chromosome my breasts are vestigal. My life with gender identity disorder provides me with a sensitivity for large breasts and no sensitivity for small. Without estrogen therapy or surgical augmentation I will have small and yearn for large, forcing me to mollify myself by wearing a large cup bra with water balloons in it. It's a bizarre solution but sure feels a lot better than living without it. My mother had large breasts and living her legacy puts me into a position of naturally looking for large breasts to be there at every turn. The water balloons provide something to bear off of in that natural expectation. I believe it is not uncommon for women to stuff their bra to get a larger appearance there, so it is not absolutely correct to say that this practice is illegitimate or dishonest.

Now that I can go about in public with the stuffed bra I can relax and wear it all day every day and get used to the feeling of satiation it gives to me. Giving satisfaction to a male partner is another part of the matter as yet not a priority.