When I became "Peter Malinowski," in Maine, my 17-year-old son ("Mason" for the purposes of this blog,) became a 15-year-old girl from around the area I will call "Brooke Shaner." I only had a brief time with him to digest what had happened to us before Brooke's parents came to collect her. She had disappeared weeks earlier, initially to spend the night with Trevor, and then simply vanished (into whatever limbo where bodies are held... a question I don't want to ponder) until Mason's transformation. That's two weeks without knowing where their daughter was. I'm told she concocted some kind of flimsy cover story that was starting to grow suspicious by the time Mason was transformed. Mason's shellshocked appearance upon "rescue" was likely not helpful.
The way they arrived very quickly after the change leads me to believe someone tipped them off, who would have knowledge of the Inn's magic (Mason doesn't seem to think they have a clue.)
As a result, while I've been Peter Malinowski of Dover, Delaware, my son has been living in Maine for the past several months, as a girl somewhat younger than himself, and I have been tearing my hair out (which I shouldn't do since I gained a good amount of it) trying to keep tabs on him from a distance.
Understand, I hadn't been a full-time parent in years before my wife left him with me to go "do good" in Central America. So I'm a little protective of him, and the idea of leaving him with strangers, to play this new role, was frustrating to me, but I had no choice. I wished I could have been there, especially in those scary early weeks. It might have brought us closer together. Instead, we are further apart than ever.
I contact him often, to ask how he is feeling. Mostly he dodges the question by giving simple answers. He tells me things are fine, and I wonder how that can possibly be.
So I told him, over the Christmas holiday, I was going to use some vacation time to go to Maine and see him. He seemed reluctant, but I told him it was non-negotiable. It was a time for family, and he was important to me. All I asked for was one day of his time. By then, he had behaved himself as Brooke to where his disappearance was forgiven and he was getting a bit more leeway with the Shaners to do as he pleased.
I met Mason at a café not far from his house. I was very early. I kept my eyes fixed on the door. I knew what he looked like, but was not used to seeing it in person, so every young lady who walked through the door got an unfortunate once-over from me before proceeding to the counter to order. I had sent a recent photo so that he wouldn't mistake me for someone else. I was being very cautious.
The last time I had seen my son in person, he was very much traumatized, so the mental image I had was of a tense, shuffling, awkward girl. I had to look twice when a comparatively poised, confident young lady breezed into the coffee shop and, after a moment's glance of recognition, took her seat across from me. I didn't know how to react.
She was wearing a green scarf and a dark coat, undone. She had her dark brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She didn't appear to be wearing any makeup, that I could tell - a few spots of acne dotted her face, which made me wonder if Mason would be more or less self-conscious from wearing cover-up (as I believe many teenage girls and grown women do) than letting blemishes show.
"Hey," she said softly. Then, collecting herself, she added "Dad" more softly.
"Hi... Brooke." We were in public, so "Mason" wouldn't do, but his new name stuck in my throat awkwardly. I went in for a hug, and he leaned forward only slightly in his seat to allow it.
"Sorry, I didn't know how I should..." he said, before trailing off.
"I understand," I said - even in our normal form our hugs were perhaps not as comfrotable as they could have been. "Are you going to have anything?" Maybe later, he said.
I asked how things had been. I had asked often enough over text, but there he was able to be evasive. I hoped in person he would be forthcoming.
"It's okay," he said. We weren't off to a good start. "School is easy since I took a lot of these classes already, but I get a little tired of repeating stuff. Brooke's friends are good people."
"Interesting," I said, "Do you feel like... you fit in?"
"Sure," he said.
"Is it strange?" I asked, "Having a body so different? Are you okay with it?"
"Yeah, it's fine," he said, "It took some getting used to, but, like, it's been months, so whatever."
I guess I didn't expect him to tell me if he spent his nights crying about it. But his phrasing, that it "took some getting used to," suggested he was now officially "used to it." This would be in line with what I knew about Leon, and Cathy for that matter. The implication that he was as used to it as they were, or most of the people who go through this blog, unsettled my stomach.
"Tell me about your new friends, then, what are they like?"
"They're ok. They make fun of me because they think Brooke is going through a serious tomboy phase, not to mention becoming a total amnesiac about her own life, but they're still nice to me. That part is really reassuring. We hang out a lot. I was afraid to ask for girl tips from them but I get a lot of info just from listening to them talk."
"Okay, that's good."
"It's better than when I was living with you, because I didn't have any friends in Illinois."
Ouch. But at least he was finding silver linings. And it didn't really sound like he was blaming me for that...
He named off a few friends... Katies, Melissas, Lauras. They sounded like typical teenage girls, discovering make-up and fashion and, yes, boys.
Then he started naming boys who were friends of Brooke's - Dereks and Lukes and Brads. "Brad and I watched a few football games together. Luke's into Xbox, so we stay up late playing over the headset. Derek is always the first to sit next to me at lunch."
To write it out, it might sound very innocent, but as he described it, he was practically swooning.
I took my time formulating a response to this. I wanted to be fair to this but I also wanted information.
"And how do you feel about the way these boys treat you? Is it... different from how it used to be?"
He scoffed a perfect teenage girl huff. "Obviously."
"And... do you like it?"
"I don't know, kinda," he said, shifting in his seat. "Are you asking if I like boys now?"
"No, well... I would like to know if you have thoughts on it. You don't have to hide that from me."
"I don't know. I don't want to talk about it. It's weird."
So now it was weird. A minute ago he kinda liked it. I'm trying to remember what it was like been a teenager and having lots of confusing feelings.
"I don't want you to judge me," he said, "If I'm not some all American super boy like you want."
"I don't care about that. Who told you I did?"
"Trevor," he said. "He told me you were really rooting for him when he went out for the football team."
"You talked to Cathy?" I said, using 'Trevor's' proper/original name.
"Sure, we have lots in common." I supposed that was true, in a sense. Their experience is... closer to each other's than mine. But it still felt like a betrayal because neither mentioned it before now and I had no idea what they were saying to one another.
"Did you know that she's dating?" I said, maybe a little spitefully.
"Yeah," Mason said. "It's not really dating though. Nothing official."
That didn't make me feel more at ease.
"You should be careful, Mase," I said firmly, "These boys probably are interested in you, at least some of them."
"So?" he sneered petulantly, "I can make my own decisions."
"So... I don't want you to do something you'll regret."
"You don't trust me," Mason said, crossing his arms under his breasts and looking away.
"It's not that. I just don't trust... other people."
"If I was a boy, you would never talk to me this way. You're a sexist."
"You don't know what you're saying!" I snapped back. "It's different for girls and boys, okay? You at least know that much, right?"
"I can handle it. Don't talk to me like I'm an idiot. You don't even know me."
"Apparently I don't."
We sat there silently for a moment, then he murmured, "You're hooking up with Leon, for God's sake, and that guy is digusting. Don't talk to me about urges okay?"
I was aghast. Finally, I sputtered, "What I do, what adults do, is none of your concern. You're still a child, you're my child, and that makes you my responsibility."
"Oh yeah?" he said, standing up to leave, He leaned in and hissed "Why should I listen to you? I'm not your son anymore."
"You think it's that easy?" I said, frustrated, "That some magic curse overrides my parental responsibility? Poof, you're a stranger to me?"
"Why not? You had no problem handing me over to them - and they're way nicer than you anyway."
"I was never mean to you! Don't make a scene. Is this... just your hormones or something?"
That, admittedly, was the wrong thing to say. He left, saying only "Don't follow me."
I felt very bad after he left, especially for the hormones remark. I was very bothered by the fact that my timid, introverted son would never have spoken to me that way. Had estrogen warped his brain, or was he finally about to really let out what he really felt, emboldened by the fact that he no longer had to rely on me for parental support, and no longer had an identity that was tied to mine. That he can declare me a stranger so quickly was startling.
I sent a very carefully worded e-mail to him afterwards, acknowledging that things had not always been perfect between us - I stopped short of outright apologizing because 1) I firmly believe I did my best, and 2) I think it is a sign of weakness for a parent to apologize to his child so quickly. I told him that no matter his feelings, I had his best interests in mind 100% of the time, and that, with nobody nearby who knows his situation, it is incumbent on me to help him get his normal body back.
Assuming that is what he wants.
If he would rather be a girl? Well, I suppose the chips will fall where they may, but there is a woman in upstate New York who lived the first 16 years of Brooke's life, and I doubt she would be pleased about being cut off from it, and I told him so.
Mason sent me a lengthy e-mail in response, in which he also did not apologize for his behavior but hinted at admitting wrongdoing. He defended his attitude and admitted things "had been difficult" to figure out (re: identity and sexuality, I guessed) and that I hit a nerve by suggesting he was somehow wrong to feel that way.
I told him I didn't mean to give that impression, only to give the advice I would want to give a daughter, if I had one, about boys' intentions. I guess that was both stupid (because he was a boy and knew their intentions) and a double-standard, because I had never warned him off of girls and in fact encouraged him to do his best to win them over.
Mea culpa on that one.
The last part of my response concerned Cathy/Trevor, who I assured him was NOT the son I wanted. I wanted him, no matter who he is - athletic or nerdy (apparently that's a cool thing to be called now?) boy or girl.
He appreciated my saying so. Once that was smoothed over, we agreed to meet again before I left town. This time he arrived wearing pre-ripped jeans (I had no idea those were back in style, yuck.) I asked if his legs got cold, and he laughed it off. I complimented his hair, which was up in a messy bun.
"Thanks... it's not that hard once you learn the basics."
Things were a lot more warm between us this time. He told me that no matter what, he did want to go back to being himself. He didn't know how to make it work, given that the Shaners were going to be watching their daughter like a hawk come summertime, considering her disappearance last year. He thought maybe he could get one of the girls to claim they were going on vacation together. I don't like the idea of a child having to lie to parents, but obviously we have limited options. I told him to let me know.
Showing posts with label Cathy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cathy. Show all posts
Saturday, February 13, 2016
Saturday, January 16, 2016
Glenn (Peter Malinowski): Driving me crazy
Originally I was going to entitle this post "Women are crazy," but that seemed sexist given that just about everyone else writing here has been a woman at one point or another. I'm just trying to stay sane, surrounded by mixed-up people. And those people, to some degree or other, all seem to be women. I don't want to say one has to do with the other, but...
To refresh your memory, going back to the letter I had Tori post several months ago, my name is Glenn Stevenson. I visited the Inn this summer with my son, Mason, and a friend of mine named Leon. When I left, I was Peter Malinowski, Leon was Peter's wife Meredith, and a woman named Cathy became their son Trevor, while my own son became a girl named Brooke, who had been reported as missing after she snuck out to have a tryst with Trevor and never returned.
It has been hard to maintain contact with Mason since then, as Brooke's parents have kept a close watch on "her." It didn't help matters that she was native to Maine, and the Malinowskis were based out of Delaware. I was obligated to take my makeshift family, leave my own son behind, and go live Peter's life... for a while anyway.
Leon, understandably, handled the change less than gracefully, complaining about becoming "my bitch" (his words, not mine!!) because Meredith was a housewife and Peter made enough money to support them both. I told him things could be worse, and if he wouldn't mind just taking care of the house, he could have as much of Peter's money as he wanted. He decided to hire a maid while he slept until 11, hung around the house in a bathrobe, and drank constantly.
I was dismayed at the cost, but I didn't give him too much of a hard time about it. He's not exactly a Domestic, I've seen the place where he really lives. The arrangement was going fine, with us more or less just continuing as some kind of roommates until mid-November, when one night Leon called me into his room (the master bedroom - I'm sleeping in the guest room.) I came to see what the fuss was. And he was just lying there on top of the covers in some sexy underwear, propped up on his arm in a seductive posture. I was confused until I noticed the empty bottle of wine next to the bed.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said, "I just thought we could have some fun tonight. We've waited long enough."
"Waited for what?" I said.
"Come on..." he said, crossing the room to stand in front of me, "I've seen the way you look at me. How long's it been, Glenn? A year? Two? I know you want it. You know you think about it."
"You're drunk."
"So what?" he scoffed, "I'm about to let myself get violated, I needed to loosen up."
"I didn't ask for this," I calmly replied.
"You didn't have to!" he said. "I'm giving it to you! I've been an asshole to you and it's the least I can do."
"I don't know what to say..." I said.
"I'm not hearing a no..." Leon said, unbuckling my belt.
I took a step back. "Wait a minute, let me think." I was very flustered. "We've never talked about this."
"Come on Glenn," he said, "I don't have all night."
"What brought this on?" I asked.
"Don't ask," he said impatiently, "Don't ask any more questions, just fuck me, or get out."
I looked him up and down. It was a sad mess. He had even tried some makeup, and really botched it bad. I didn't feel like I could possibly perform in that condition. I told him good night, and he responded with a lengthy stream of epithets, mostly questioning my manhood and sexuality.
I couldn't sleep, so I went downstairs to have a snack. It as around midnight when I heard the car pull up - it was Cathy. When he passed by the kitchen, I asked where he'd been.
"Where've you been?" I asked.
"None of your business," he snapped back.
"Woah, woah," I said, following after, "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound judgmental or anything. Sometimes I forget you're not my real son and I get protective. Let's try this, one adult to another. How was your evening, what did you get up to?"
He lightened up a little. He explained he was on a "group meetup" with some of Trevor's friends.
"Can I ask you something?" I asked, "Do you feel like you're fitting in?"
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know," I groaned, "Do you like it? Being a kid again? Being a boy? Do you feel weird about it or does it seem natural?"
"It feels all right," he said, "I feel more confident in myself than the first time around, obviously. The kids seem to be accepting me. The more I act like I belong, the more I do. It's classic high school."
"Uh huh," I said, taking a bite of my baloney sandwich, "Do you have a girlfriend?"
He paused. I know he does have one, but he may have thought I didn't notice. I wanted to hear him say it.
"There's a girl," he finally admitted. "We... do stuff."
"Have you two... you know? Been together?"
"No, she's not ready."
"But you're ready?" I asked, "If she wanted to, would you?"
"Keep in mind, you're not really my dad," Cathy said, "But yeah. If she wanted to, I would. I like her."
"What do you mean you like her? You're a 42-year-old woman, for God's sakes."
"Nobody knows that but you and me and Drunky up there," he said. "I won't take advantage of her, but I wouldn't reject her either. She could do a lot worse than me."
"What makes you want to do this?" I asked.
"Because I'm a guy now, and I'm loaded with testosterone, and it would feel good. Physically and emotionally." He paused, "Why are you asking about all this? If you're trying to talk me out of it..."
"No, no," I said, "This is about me, and, well... Leon, I guess."
Cathy smiled. "Oh, did he come onto you?"
"You knew he was going to do that?"
"I thought he might," he snickered, "He bent my ear all night last Thursday about the way you look at Lila, and how gross it was and how if you wanted some action he was right there and you never even asked. I think he's feeling really gross about his body, and honestly, I think if you were into him, that would really reassure him."
"I see..." I said. (Lila is the housekeeper, and while she is a rather attractive young woman I didn't see myself as "looking" at her any particular way.)
"Would you? Get with Leon?"
I thought for a minute. I honestly didn't know.
It never occurred to me. You read about the kind of rewiring the transformation does to people, but Leon was such a "guy" to me that I didn't think he would see me as a potential partner.
I went back up to the bedroom, unsure what I'd find. Leon was there, naked and sobbing. When he noticed me standing in the doorway, he yelled "Get away, creep!" Except instead of "creep" he used a homophobic slur.
"Leon," I said, "I had no idea what you were going through."
"Shut the fuck up, I'm not going through anything."
I considered wrapping my arms around him, He didn't push me away. Eventually, through his sobs, he said, "I don't know what the fuck's wrong with me. This body sucks so much."
"Look, man," I said, "I never thought about... doing that with you. I'm... I guess I'm not against it, if it's something you want. I'm just not ready yet."
"You expect me to just sit here and wait?" he said bitterly.
"You can do whatever you want," I said, "You're your own person. We're not married. Not really. But I could be ready... sometime soon, if this is seriously what you want. It was just really surprising tonight, that's all."
"Whatever... I wasn't really feeling like it anyway," he said, leaning his head on my shoulder. "You smell good, though. That's so weird." I didn't know what to say, so I pecked him on top of the head and let him fall asleep.
And that's the strange story of how Leon and I became a sort of a real couple.
It's not like this was something I initiated from the start and actively worked toward. It took several weeks of consideration before I could properly revisit the issue in December, and even now we're still trying to figure out what this all means... we've both got a long history of failed relationships, and so I'm trying to be reasonable and manage expectations and maybe, I don't know, negotiate to get a "deal" that both of us will enjoy. And yes, that actually does involve some physical intimacy, but I'm a bit uncomfortable talking too much about that because I know my son is likely going to read this.
I guess, when you think about it... after all this, and despite our burgeoning relationship, I still call Leon a "him" but I also call Cathy, who has equally assimilated the role of a teenage boy, "him" as well. So maybe it's inaccurate to say women are the crazy ones. Maybe it's men. And hey, maybe it's me.
To refresh your memory, going back to the letter I had Tori post several months ago, my name is Glenn Stevenson. I visited the Inn this summer with my son, Mason, and a friend of mine named Leon. When I left, I was Peter Malinowski, Leon was Peter's wife Meredith, and a woman named Cathy became their son Trevor, while my own son became a girl named Brooke, who had been reported as missing after she snuck out to have a tryst with Trevor and never returned.
It has been hard to maintain contact with Mason since then, as Brooke's parents have kept a close watch on "her." It didn't help matters that she was native to Maine, and the Malinowskis were based out of Delaware. I was obligated to take my makeshift family, leave my own son behind, and go live Peter's life... for a while anyway.
Leon, understandably, handled the change less than gracefully, complaining about becoming "my bitch" (his words, not mine!!) because Meredith was a housewife and Peter made enough money to support them both. I told him things could be worse, and if he wouldn't mind just taking care of the house, he could have as much of Peter's money as he wanted. He decided to hire a maid while he slept until 11, hung around the house in a bathrobe, and drank constantly.
I was dismayed at the cost, but I didn't give him too much of a hard time about it. He's not exactly a Domestic, I've seen the place where he really lives. The arrangement was going fine, with us more or less just continuing as some kind of roommates until mid-November, when one night Leon called me into his room (the master bedroom - I'm sleeping in the guest room.) I came to see what the fuss was. And he was just lying there on top of the covers in some sexy underwear, propped up on his arm in a seductive posture. I was confused until I noticed the empty bottle of wine next to the bed.
"What's going on?" I asked.
"Nothing," he said, "I just thought we could have some fun tonight. We've waited long enough."
"Waited for what?" I said.
"Come on..." he said, crossing the room to stand in front of me, "I've seen the way you look at me. How long's it been, Glenn? A year? Two? I know you want it. You know you think about it."
"You're drunk."
"So what?" he scoffed, "I'm about to let myself get violated, I needed to loosen up."
"I didn't ask for this," I calmly replied.
"You didn't have to!" he said. "I'm giving it to you! I've been an asshole to you and it's the least I can do."
"I don't know what to say..." I said.
"I'm not hearing a no..." Leon said, unbuckling my belt.
I took a step back. "Wait a minute, let me think." I was very flustered. "We've never talked about this."
"Come on Glenn," he said, "I don't have all night."
"What brought this on?" I asked.
"Don't ask," he said impatiently, "Don't ask any more questions, just fuck me, or get out."
I looked him up and down. It was a sad mess. He had even tried some makeup, and really botched it bad. I didn't feel like I could possibly perform in that condition. I told him good night, and he responded with a lengthy stream of epithets, mostly questioning my manhood and sexuality.
I couldn't sleep, so I went downstairs to have a snack. It as around midnight when I heard the car pull up - it was Cathy. When he passed by the kitchen, I asked where he'd been.
"Where've you been?" I asked.
"None of your business," he snapped back.
"Woah, woah," I said, following after, "Sorry, I didn't mean to sound judgmental or anything. Sometimes I forget you're not my real son and I get protective. Let's try this, one adult to another. How was your evening, what did you get up to?"
He lightened up a little. He explained he was on a "group meetup" with some of Trevor's friends.
"Can I ask you something?" I asked, "Do you feel like you're fitting in?"
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know," I groaned, "Do you like it? Being a kid again? Being a boy? Do you feel weird about it or does it seem natural?"
"It feels all right," he said, "I feel more confident in myself than the first time around, obviously. The kids seem to be accepting me. The more I act like I belong, the more I do. It's classic high school."
"Uh huh," I said, taking a bite of my baloney sandwich, "Do you have a girlfriend?"
He paused. I know he does have one, but he may have thought I didn't notice. I wanted to hear him say it.
"There's a girl," he finally admitted. "We... do stuff."
"Have you two... you know? Been together?"
"No, she's not ready."
"But you're ready?" I asked, "If she wanted to, would you?"
"Keep in mind, you're not really my dad," Cathy said, "But yeah. If she wanted to, I would. I like her."
"What do you mean you like her? You're a 42-year-old woman, for God's sakes."
"Nobody knows that but you and me and Drunky up there," he said. "I won't take advantage of her, but I wouldn't reject her either. She could do a lot worse than me."
"What makes you want to do this?" I asked.
"Because I'm a guy now, and I'm loaded with testosterone, and it would feel good. Physically and emotionally." He paused, "Why are you asking about all this? If you're trying to talk me out of it..."
"No, no," I said, "This is about me, and, well... Leon, I guess."
Cathy smiled. "Oh, did he come onto you?"
"You knew he was going to do that?"
"I thought he might," he snickered, "He bent my ear all night last Thursday about the way you look at Lila, and how gross it was and how if you wanted some action he was right there and you never even asked. I think he's feeling really gross about his body, and honestly, I think if you were into him, that would really reassure him."
"I see..." I said. (Lila is the housekeeper, and while she is a rather attractive young woman I didn't see myself as "looking" at her any particular way.)
"Would you? Get with Leon?"
I thought for a minute. I honestly didn't know.
It never occurred to me. You read about the kind of rewiring the transformation does to people, but Leon was such a "guy" to me that I didn't think he would see me as a potential partner.
I went back up to the bedroom, unsure what I'd find. Leon was there, naked and sobbing. When he noticed me standing in the doorway, he yelled "Get away, creep!" Except instead of "creep" he used a homophobic slur.
"Leon," I said, "I had no idea what you were going through."
"Shut the fuck up, I'm not going through anything."
I considered wrapping my arms around him, He didn't push me away. Eventually, through his sobs, he said, "I don't know what the fuck's wrong with me. This body sucks so much."
"Look, man," I said, "I never thought about... doing that with you. I'm... I guess I'm not against it, if it's something you want. I'm just not ready yet."
"You expect me to just sit here and wait?" he said bitterly.
"You can do whatever you want," I said, "You're your own person. We're not married. Not really. But I could be ready... sometime soon, if this is seriously what you want. It was just really surprising tonight, that's all."
"Whatever... I wasn't really feeling like it anyway," he said, leaning his head on my shoulder. "You smell good, though. That's so weird." I didn't know what to say, so I pecked him on top of the head and let him fall asleep.
And that's the strange story of how Leon and I became a sort of a real couple.
It's not like this was something I initiated from the start and actively worked toward. It took several weeks of consideration before I could properly revisit the issue in December, and even now we're still trying to figure out what this all means... we've both got a long history of failed relationships, and so I'm trying to be reasonable and manage expectations and maybe, I don't know, negotiate to get a "deal" that both of us will enjoy. And yes, that actually does involve some physical intimacy, but I'm a bit uncomfortable talking too much about that because I know my son is likely going to read this.
I guess, when you think about it... after all this, and despite our burgeoning relationship, I still call Leon a "him" but I also call Cathy, who has equally assimilated the role of a teenage boy, "him" as well. So maybe it's inaccurate to say women are the crazy ones. Maybe it's men. And hey, maybe it's me.
Friday, October 02, 2015
Innbox: The Stevensons
Tori here! I thought I would take a break from updating you on the sordid details of my life to dig into our inbox. Since I set up the new account we've had some correspondences with a few fellow Inn victims, some of whom have agreed to share their stories but don't want to make themselves regular contributors here (not that they wouldn't be welcome.) In fact, our first write-in comes from someone who was at the Inn not long after one of our familiar faces...
Don't forget, if you have an experience you'd like to share with us, please contact us at TradingPostStories@outlook.com! All are welcome!
--
Dear Trading Post,
I have spent weeks attempting to decide whether this site is legitimate or not, whether I could feel comfortable sharing my story. But reading over the accounts from this summer, the timing and details line up. I can tell that what happened to me was indeed shared by people who are writing at this site. I feel satisfied that we are in, as much as can ever be expeted from the internet, a safe space. But all the same, I will proceed cautiously.
My name, by birth, is Glenn Stevenson. I work in middle management at a delivery company in Illinois. I am 47 years old, balding, with a wiry frame and angular features. At least, that's the image I have of myself in my mind's eye. The story in the mirror is quite different, albeit not as much so as some of those who write here. I would never compare what I have gone through personally with some of the traumas many of you have faced, but the curse did hit those around me quite badly.
I was a visitor to the Inn in late July 2015, just after Tyler and Meg were there according to this blog. I was visiting with my 17-year-old son, Mason (not his real name, but I will use it henceforth) and a friend of mine, Leon, whom I had befriended at a support group for divorced men. Which is to say, he needed a drinking buddy, and glommed onto me. When someone from our group recommended a trip to Maine to clear my head and bond with my son, Leon tagged along.
It was important to me to spend quality time with my son this summer. His mother and I split up when he was very young, and I did not see him very much because they moved often. Then a year ago, she accepted a position working with underprivileged communities in Central America and he wanted to stay in the States, so he moved in with me. Suddenly I was a full-time father again for the first time in nearly a decade - and my son was practically a stranger. It was a very difficult school year for him - he is (or was) quite overweight, shy and introverted, and while I don't necessarily oppose the way his mother raised him, I would like to think I would have helped him learn to get out of his shell if I was around, a valuable skill when you are always the new kid in town. Instead, he seemed behind, a bit immature for his age, smart but not socially comfortable yet.
From the moment we arrived, I struggled getting much interaction with him - he is very enamored of screens and not so much the beach - and neither of us were particularly fond of the rustic, almost haunted stillness of the Inn. Leon seemed unfazed, though, and started drinking as planned as soon as we arrived. It became clear that I had to spend more time attending to my friend than my son, especially when he would leer and make comments at some of the female beachgoers. There was a single woman in our age group, Cathy, in one of the rooms, but Leon dismissed her (a shame since she seemed interested in him and I didn't see him doing any better,) and focussed on younger ladies to the point of almost starting a fistfight at one of the bars in town with some college boys whose girls he was chatting up. I did my best to run interference and not encourage him.
It was a few days in. I had taken to letting Leon sleep in my room so that I could keep an eye on him, and Mason was sleeping in Leon's room a couple of doors down. I woke up at 4 AM to various cries for help and some shuffling in other rooms. I tried to shake Leon awake, to no avail. Sensing something amiss, I immediately rushed to my where my son as sleeping to make sure he was ok.
I knocked on the door and called in, "Mason? It's dad..." I started to turn the knob and softly open the door, in case he was asleep. "Mason? I'm coming in."
"Dad?" answered a decidedly unfamiliar voice. "What's happening?"
I clicked on the light and I did not see my son. I saw a very thin girl with curly brown hair propped up in bed wearing my son's Wolverine tee shirt.
"Who are you? Where's Mason?" I was in some proportion angry and scared, but mostly confused because it wasn't like my son to invite strange girls to sleep in his bed.
Especially when the next words out of her mouth were "I'm Mason. Who are you?"
I was about to say "No you're not," which seemed absurd to have to say, but she seemed shocked at the sound of her own voice. She held out a long strand of hair in her fingertips, pulling its curls straight, which she gaped at in awe and horror, like it was the first time she had ever seen it. I could see a strange wave of understanding come over her face.
She whipped the covers off her legs and examined them, as if for the first time. I wasn't sure what I was looking at at all, but she was wearing my son's boxers, which were way too big for her. She pulled the elastic band away and gaped for a moment at what she found, in further surprise.
"No way, no...!" she gasped. "What? What happened?"
I turned my head away, modestly.
She stood, grabbed the shorts to hold them up, then sat down woozily. She just stared in space.
"Listen, I want an explanation," I demanded. "Where is my son? Where is Mason Stevenson?" Around this moment, when I raised my voice, I started to notice its timbre wasn't quite right. And neither was the hand I was waving at him, which lacked my telltale wristwatch tan and (ahem) hairy knuckles. I got distracted examining it.
"Is it you? Dad?" the girl asked. "Are you Glenn Stevenson?"
"How do you know my name?" I asked with suspicion and irritation.
"I'm your son," she said, looking at me, seemingly on the brink of tears, "I'm Mason. Is this a dream, or did this really happen?"
And so, the day proceeded. It took me a moment to fully process, but seeing the face of one Peter Malinowski in the mirror (so the matching I.D. later informed me,) a rather ruggedly handsome individual with a strong hairline and jaw, if a bit of a paunch that I was starting to become aware of as I moved about more during the day. My concern was for my son - something strange had happened to all of us at the Inn, and as a young man now in the unfamiliar body of a female, he was at the most vulnerable, emotionally. I mustered every bit of parenting I could to get him through that day. And he just sat there, quietly detached, with this blank look on his new face, trying to process it. And I had to pretend like I knew everything would be ok.
I returned to my room and held my breath as I flicked on the light, unsure what I would find: there lay a middle-aged woman sprawled face-down on the side of the bed where Leon had been sleeping. Leon was now Peter's wife, Meredith. And when he woke up, he was not pleased about it.
I tried to break it to him gently, watching over him until he stirred, and asking "Leon, are you awake? I've got some bad, weird news, so brace yourself." He seemed to understand and accept that we had transformed, pretty quickly all things considered, (after a lengthy round of "What the fuck, what the fuck, holy shit, I've got a p*ssy," etc.) He would not stop complaining about it, saying I should be the "chick" and he the "dude." I told him I didn't know how we ended up like we did.
A couple of girls - the real Lauren and Tasha, who had arrived at the Inn under the guise of a young married couple (I had seen them but paid no mind) - took us aside and explained the finer details, after we had picked up most of the broad strokes. While we were conferring, I caught my son fidgeting and examining parts of his body.
"Mase!" I hissed, "Don't touch--- uh, I mean, go someplace private, okay?" He went back to the room, sullen and embarrassed. I wasn't sure what the protocol should be, but I didn't want to give him the impression that his body wasn't his to touch. Still, if I had a daughter, I wouldn't want her fidgeting with her breasts in a crowd of strangers. Leon as doing the same, but I couldn't stop him from doing so. I just wanted him to set more of an example.
"Okay, I'm a chick but do I have to be such an ugly one?" Leon said, examining Meredith's face in the mirror. I wouldn't describe her as ugly, only that she looked her age, which incidentally was still younger than Leon by a bit. She was in her early 40's, with short, light-colored hair, and a few frown lines, bags under her eyes... with a thin waist, but very round hips and thighs, and breasts that Leon described, disturbingly, as "Sag-a-licious."
"Leon, I understand we're all shocked, but could you keep your attitude more appropriate while my son is around? Try to be positive? He doesn't need to dwell on the negatives situation."
Leon scoffed and used some more vulgar language to describe his new appearance. He started drinking quickly.
Tasha and Lauren instructed us that we could probably find some kind of letter or note explaining who the Malinowskis were and what had become of them, and an impassioned plea to safeguard their lives. It seemed the responsible thing to do, if burdensome. But their letter made no mention of a daughter, only a son - Trevor. I had seen a strapping teenage boy around the Inn over the morning but hadn't had time to ask who he was or anything. That turned out to be Cathy, whose appearance inspired jealousy in Leon. She didn't seem too fazed by it either, all things considered.
The note that Trevor had left her was the one that chilled me... because the Malinowski didn't have a daughter. The girl my son now appeared to be was a local girl who snuck away from her parents to spend the night with Trevor. That explained why the baggage we found there wasn't for her, and there was only the barest minimum of personal effects for her stashed away in Trevor's room: one clearly worn set of clothes, and a clutch purse containing a hastily-written note that agreed with Trevor's. It identified her as Brooke Shaner.
I had even seen a posting asking for information on her whereabouts. People were looking for her, and if my son was now her, then taking him across state lines, either to the Malinowski's home in Delaware or mine in Illinois, would be a felony. My heart completely stopped as I realized my only options were to break the law or surrender my son to strangers, leaving him alone and vulnerable and trapped in a strange body that didn't match his mind.
I mulled it over for a bit and concluded Mason was old enough to be involved in the discussions. So at the end of the day I sat him down on the bed. He was a sad sight, shoulders hunched, hair tangled over his girlish face, which was red and streaked by dried tears he clearly didn't want me to see.
"Hey, buddy, listen. We are in a really tough situation right now. You understand, right? What's happened to us?"
"Uh huh," he sighed. "I'm... I turned into a girl."
"Right," I said, "A specific girl. Someone who is missing, someone whose parents are worried right now. And as a parent, I understand what they're going through. And if you walked through their door right now, they would be very happy, very relieved. But if I let that happen, I would feel like I was abandoning you. I have a responsibility to you. And if you don't want to go, I will do my best to protect you and keep you safe."
"I'm so confused," he sniffed, choked up, "You want me to go live with strangers?"
"No I don't want that at all," I insisted, "But like I said, it's a tough choice. And we're going to make it together. I can't get us back to our own lives, our own bodies, but that doesn't mean... I don't think it means we're stuck. Not forever. I'm going to get us out of this."
He froze for a moment, then said quietly, "I don't want to go."
I wrapped my arms around him. He resisted at first - hugs were always kind of an awkward moment between us and now he was in a body that wasn't his and clearly uncomfortable just being touched - but he wrapped his thin arms around me, and I said into his ears "It's going to be okay, I love you, it's going to be okay."
I didn't sleep at all that night. Partly was that after waking up to such a shock, you find it difficult to get comfortable in the Inn. Partly, I was head-to-toe with Leon and had his Meredith-feet in my face (he first demanded I sleep on the floor but I told him that wasn't feasible.) Mostly I was trying to come up with ways to smuggle my son out of the state. Would we go to Illinois first, or Delaware? Would they be looking for her at the airport, or would we have to drive? What if we cut her hair, disguised her with make-up... would we have to hide her in the trunk?
KNOCK KNOCK.
A loud rapping at the door at 6 am. Oh, no, I thought, what now.
My worst fears: a pair of police officers were canvassing the Inn holding a picture of Brooke. "Sorry to wake you sir, but we got a tip that this girl might be at this Inn."
I had to think quick and stammered, "I, um... I think..." I sighed, reluctantly, "Yeah, I think I saw her but I don't know if she's still here."
"But she was here?"
I tried to backpedal "I don't know, there was a girl here but I didn't get a... uh, good look at her."
"Do you mind if we search your room? Just as a precaution."
"I, um... yeah, sure." I gritted my teeth, trying to figure out a way to stall them.
Leon stirred, deeply hung over, "What the fuck, Glenn?"
"These cops are looking for a missing girl... honey," I said, playing husband.
One of them asked, "Your name, sir?"
"P-Peter..." it took me a moment to recall "my" new last name, "Melanski." I got it wrong, but they didn't check. They also didn't ask why my "wife" had called me "Glenn." Leon just laid there, muttering "Fuckin' pigs" under his breath while I tried to hush him.
As soon as they left I scrambled for my phone to text Mason, but I paused... if I warned him, it could be incriminating. If I did anything I could be in trouble. I froze.
I watched them bring my son outside to the Shaner family, who were waiting for their daughter.
I had failed.
When Mason turned to look at me, with a look of fear and confusion on his face, I mouthed, "I tried, I'm so sorry. I love you."
I felt like the worst father, the worst person ever.
I had waited a day to contact the real Malinowskis, currently in Albany, because I didn't know what my plan was going to be. Now it felt like nothing I did mattered, so I agreed to take Leon and Cathy to Delaware. The real Peter is an amenable person, which probably is partly due to currently feeling helplessly trapped in the body of a ten-year-old girl. We started working on plans right away to get everyone back where they belonged, but I could only think of my son.
I worried the whole way about how I was going to contact him, how I was going to rescue him. I didn't have a phone number for Brooke, and he had left his phone in his/Leon's room. But Cathy reminded me that kids today have a huge social media presence, and he would probably still check his own Facebook profile.
I sent him a message from mine: "We are in Delaware. Tell me if you're OK. I still want to help you, to fix this."
It wasn't until the next day that I got a reply: "I'm ok."
I didn't press him for more details, but if I'm being honest, I wanted to shake him until he told me everything he had been through. I had a hard enough time getting two words out of him when things were normal, and now we were separated and there was a chance I'd never see him again. I asked for more details as politely as I could and he just said "Don't really wanna talk about it. Sorry."
I want him to feel like he can come to me, but now there's this huge wedge between us... he's going through something that I can't fully comprehend, and we're so far apart it's like I'm not even his dad. I don't know what to do... but I'm determined to do something.
Anyway, that's my story. So far. Thanks for hearing me out.
-Glenn, "Peter Malinowski" Stevenson
Postscript: I have invited Mr. Stevenson to take part in our blog, and would extend that invitation to any member of his "family." His response was that it took him so long to compose this letter that he didn't see regular contributions as practical, but would consider checking in when he was able to, hopefully when there is good news. Best of luck! -T.
Don't forget, if you have an experience you'd like to share with us, please contact us at TradingPostStories@outlook.com! All are welcome!
--
Dear Trading Post,
I have spent weeks attempting to decide whether this site is legitimate or not, whether I could feel comfortable sharing my story. But reading over the accounts from this summer, the timing and details line up. I can tell that what happened to me was indeed shared by people who are writing at this site. I feel satisfied that we are in, as much as can ever be expeted from the internet, a safe space. But all the same, I will proceed cautiously.
My name, by birth, is Glenn Stevenson. I work in middle management at a delivery company in Illinois. I am 47 years old, balding, with a wiry frame and angular features. At least, that's the image I have of myself in my mind's eye. The story in the mirror is quite different, albeit not as much so as some of those who write here. I would never compare what I have gone through personally with some of the traumas many of you have faced, but the curse did hit those around me quite badly.
I was a visitor to the Inn in late July 2015, just after Tyler and Meg were there according to this blog. I was visiting with my 17-year-old son, Mason (not his real name, but I will use it henceforth) and a friend of mine, Leon, whom I had befriended at a support group for divorced men. Which is to say, he needed a drinking buddy, and glommed onto me. When someone from our group recommended a trip to Maine to clear my head and bond with my son, Leon tagged along.
It was important to me to spend quality time with my son this summer. His mother and I split up when he was very young, and I did not see him very much because they moved often. Then a year ago, she accepted a position working with underprivileged communities in Central America and he wanted to stay in the States, so he moved in with me. Suddenly I was a full-time father again for the first time in nearly a decade - and my son was practically a stranger. It was a very difficult school year for him - he is (or was) quite overweight, shy and introverted, and while I don't necessarily oppose the way his mother raised him, I would like to think I would have helped him learn to get out of his shell if I was around, a valuable skill when you are always the new kid in town. Instead, he seemed behind, a bit immature for his age, smart but not socially comfortable yet.
From the moment we arrived, I struggled getting much interaction with him - he is very enamored of screens and not so much the beach - and neither of us were particularly fond of the rustic, almost haunted stillness of the Inn. Leon seemed unfazed, though, and started drinking as planned as soon as we arrived. It became clear that I had to spend more time attending to my friend than my son, especially when he would leer and make comments at some of the female beachgoers. There was a single woman in our age group, Cathy, in one of the rooms, but Leon dismissed her (a shame since she seemed interested in him and I didn't see him doing any better,) and focussed on younger ladies to the point of almost starting a fistfight at one of the bars in town with some college boys whose girls he was chatting up. I did my best to run interference and not encourage him.
It was a few days in. I had taken to letting Leon sleep in my room so that I could keep an eye on him, and Mason was sleeping in Leon's room a couple of doors down. I woke up at 4 AM to various cries for help and some shuffling in other rooms. I tried to shake Leon awake, to no avail. Sensing something amiss, I immediately rushed to my where my son as sleeping to make sure he was ok.
I knocked on the door and called in, "Mason? It's dad..." I started to turn the knob and softly open the door, in case he was asleep. "Mason? I'm coming in."
"Dad?" answered a decidedly unfamiliar voice. "What's happening?"
I clicked on the light and I did not see my son. I saw a very thin girl with curly brown hair propped up in bed wearing my son's Wolverine tee shirt.
"Who are you? Where's Mason?" I was in some proportion angry and scared, but mostly confused because it wasn't like my son to invite strange girls to sleep in his bed.
Especially when the next words out of her mouth were "I'm Mason. Who are you?"
I was about to say "No you're not," which seemed absurd to have to say, but she seemed shocked at the sound of her own voice. She held out a long strand of hair in her fingertips, pulling its curls straight, which she gaped at in awe and horror, like it was the first time she had ever seen it. I could see a strange wave of understanding come over her face.
She whipped the covers off her legs and examined them, as if for the first time. I wasn't sure what I was looking at at all, but she was wearing my son's boxers, which were way too big for her. She pulled the elastic band away and gaped for a moment at what she found, in further surprise.
"No way, no...!" she gasped. "What? What happened?"
I turned my head away, modestly.
She stood, grabbed the shorts to hold them up, then sat down woozily. She just stared in space.
"Listen, I want an explanation," I demanded. "Where is my son? Where is Mason Stevenson?" Around this moment, when I raised my voice, I started to notice its timbre wasn't quite right. And neither was the hand I was waving at him, which lacked my telltale wristwatch tan and (ahem) hairy knuckles. I got distracted examining it.
"Is it you? Dad?" the girl asked. "Are you Glenn Stevenson?"
"How do you know my name?" I asked with suspicion and irritation.
"I'm your son," she said, looking at me, seemingly on the brink of tears, "I'm Mason. Is this a dream, or did this really happen?"
And so, the day proceeded. It took me a moment to fully process, but seeing the face of one Peter Malinowski in the mirror (so the matching I.D. later informed me,) a rather ruggedly handsome individual with a strong hairline and jaw, if a bit of a paunch that I was starting to become aware of as I moved about more during the day. My concern was for my son - something strange had happened to all of us at the Inn, and as a young man now in the unfamiliar body of a female, he was at the most vulnerable, emotionally. I mustered every bit of parenting I could to get him through that day. And he just sat there, quietly detached, with this blank look on his new face, trying to process it. And I had to pretend like I knew everything would be ok.
I returned to my room and held my breath as I flicked on the light, unsure what I would find: there lay a middle-aged woman sprawled face-down on the side of the bed where Leon had been sleeping. Leon was now Peter's wife, Meredith. And when he woke up, he was not pleased about it.
I tried to break it to him gently, watching over him until he stirred, and asking "Leon, are you awake? I've got some bad, weird news, so brace yourself." He seemed to understand and accept that we had transformed, pretty quickly all things considered, (after a lengthy round of "What the fuck, what the fuck, holy shit, I've got a p*ssy," etc.) He would not stop complaining about it, saying I should be the "chick" and he the "dude." I told him I didn't know how we ended up like we did.
A couple of girls - the real Lauren and Tasha, who had arrived at the Inn under the guise of a young married couple (I had seen them but paid no mind) - took us aside and explained the finer details, after we had picked up most of the broad strokes. While we were conferring, I caught my son fidgeting and examining parts of his body.
"Mase!" I hissed, "Don't touch--- uh, I mean, go someplace private, okay?" He went back to the room, sullen and embarrassed. I wasn't sure what the protocol should be, but I didn't want to give him the impression that his body wasn't his to touch. Still, if I had a daughter, I wouldn't want her fidgeting with her breasts in a crowd of strangers. Leon as doing the same, but I couldn't stop him from doing so. I just wanted him to set more of an example.
"Okay, I'm a chick but do I have to be such an ugly one?" Leon said, examining Meredith's face in the mirror. I wouldn't describe her as ugly, only that she looked her age, which incidentally was still younger than Leon by a bit. She was in her early 40's, with short, light-colored hair, and a few frown lines, bags under her eyes... with a thin waist, but very round hips and thighs, and breasts that Leon described, disturbingly, as "Sag-a-licious."
"Leon, I understand we're all shocked, but could you keep your attitude more appropriate while my son is around? Try to be positive? He doesn't need to dwell on the negatives situation."
Leon scoffed and used some more vulgar language to describe his new appearance. He started drinking quickly.
Tasha and Lauren instructed us that we could probably find some kind of letter or note explaining who the Malinowskis were and what had become of them, and an impassioned plea to safeguard their lives. It seemed the responsible thing to do, if burdensome. But their letter made no mention of a daughter, only a son - Trevor. I had seen a strapping teenage boy around the Inn over the morning but hadn't had time to ask who he was or anything. That turned out to be Cathy, whose appearance inspired jealousy in Leon. She didn't seem too fazed by it either, all things considered.
The note that Trevor had left her was the one that chilled me... because the Malinowski didn't have a daughter. The girl my son now appeared to be was a local girl who snuck away from her parents to spend the night with Trevor. That explained why the baggage we found there wasn't for her, and there was only the barest minimum of personal effects for her stashed away in Trevor's room: one clearly worn set of clothes, and a clutch purse containing a hastily-written note that agreed with Trevor's. It identified her as Brooke Shaner.
I had even seen a posting asking for information on her whereabouts. People were looking for her, and if my son was now her, then taking him across state lines, either to the Malinowski's home in Delaware or mine in Illinois, would be a felony. My heart completely stopped as I realized my only options were to break the law or surrender my son to strangers, leaving him alone and vulnerable and trapped in a strange body that didn't match his mind.
I mulled it over for a bit and concluded Mason was old enough to be involved in the discussions. So at the end of the day I sat him down on the bed. He was a sad sight, shoulders hunched, hair tangled over his girlish face, which was red and streaked by dried tears he clearly didn't want me to see.
"Hey, buddy, listen. We are in a really tough situation right now. You understand, right? What's happened to us?"
"Uh huh," he sighed. "I'm... I turned into a girl."
"Right," I said, "A specific girl. Someone who is missing, someone whose parents are worried right now. And as a parent, I understand what they're going through. And if you walked through their door right now, they would be very happy, very relieved. But if I let that happen, I would feel like I was abandoning you. I have a responsibility to you. And if you don't want to go, I will do my best to protect you and keep you safe."
"I'm so confused," he sniffed, choked up, "You want me to go live with strangers?"
"No I don't want that at all," I insisted, "But like I said, it's a tough choice. And we're going to make it together. I can't get us back to our own lives, our own bodies, but that doesn't mean... I don't think it means we're stuck. Not forever. I'm going to get us out of this."
He froze for a moment, then said quietly, "I don't want to go."
I wrapped my arms around him. He resisted at first - hugs were always kind of an awkward moment between us and now he was in a body that wasn't his and clearly uncomfortable just being touched - but he wrapped his thin arms around me, and I said into his ears "It's going to be okay, I love you, it's going to be okay."
I didn't sleep at all that night. Partly was that after waking up to such a shock, you find it difficult to get comfortable in the Inn. Partly, I was head-to-toe with Leon and had his Meredith-feet in my face (he first demanded I sleep on the floor but I told him that wasn't feasible.) Mostly I was trying to come up with ways to smuggle my son out of the state. Would we go to Illinois first, or Delaware? Would they be looking for her at the airport, or would we have to drive? What if we cut her hair, disguised her with make-up... would we have to hide her in the trunk?
KNOCK KNOCK.
A loud rapping at the door at 6 am. Oh, no, I thought, what now.
My worst fears: a pair of police officers were canvassing the Inn holding a picture of Brooke. "Sorry to wake you sir, but we got a tip that this girl might be at this Inn."
I had to think quick and stammered, "I, um... I think..." I sighed, reluctantly, "Yeah, I think I saw her but I don't know if she's still here."
"But she was here?"
I tried to backpedal "I don't know, there was a girl here but I didn't get a... uh, good look at her."
"Do you mind if we search your room? Just as a precaution."
"I, um... yeah, sure." I gritted my teeth, trying to figure out a way to stall them.
Leon stirred, deeply hung over, "What the fuck, Glenn?"
"These cops are looking for a missing girl... honey," I said, playing husband.
One of them asked, "Your name, sir?"
"P-Peter..." it took me a moment to recall "my" new last name, "Melanski." I got it wrong, but they didn't check. They also didn't ask why my "wife" had called me "Glenn." Leon just laid there, muttering "Fuckin' pigs" under his breath while I tried to hush him.
As soon as they left I scrambled for my phone to text Mason, but I paused... if I warned him, it could be incriminating. If I did anything I could be in trouble. I froze.
I watched them bring my son outside to the Shaner family, who were waiting for their daughter.
I had failed.
When Mason turned to look at me, with a look of fear and confusion on his face, I mouthed, "I tried, I'm so sorry. I love you."
I felt like the worst father, the worst person ever.
I had waited a day to contact the real Malinowskis, currently in Albany, because I didn't know what my plan was going to be. Now it felt like nothing I did mattered, so I agreed to take Leon and Cathy to Delaware. The real Peter is an amenable person, which probably is partly due to currently feeling helplessly trapped in the body of a ten-year-old girl. We started working on plans right away to get everyone back where they belonged, but I could only think of my son.
I worried the whole way about how I was going to contact him, how I was going to rescue him. I didn't have a phone number for Brooke, and he had left his phone in his/Leon's room. But Cathy reminded me that kids today have a huge social media presence, and he would probably still check his own Facebook profile.
I sent him a message from mine: "We are in Delaware. Tell me if you're OK. I still want to help you, to fix this."
It wasn't until the next day that I got a reply: "I'm ok."
I didn't press him for more details, but if I'm being honest, I wanted to shake him until he told me everything he had been through. I had a hard enough time getting two words out of him when things were normal, and now we were separated and there was a chance I'd never see him again. I asked for more details as politely as I could and he just said "Don't really wanna talk about it. Sorry."
I want him to feel like he can come to me, but now there's this huge wedge between us... he's going through something that I can't fully comprehend, and we're so far apart it's like I'm not even his dad. I don't know what to do... but I'm determined to do something.
Anyway, that's my story. So far. Thanks for hearing me out.
-Glenn, "Peter Malinowski" Stevenson
Postscript: I have invited Mr. Stevenson to take part in our blog, and would extend that invitation to any member of his "family." His response was that it took him so long to compose this letter that he didn't see regular contributions as practical, but would consider checking in when he was able to, hopefully when there is good news. Best of luck! -T.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Alia/Rob: Reaching out
God damn is the month of June stressful for high school teachers. Between marking papers and making exams (which I will then have to mark) my mind has been so focused on just making in through this month that I've hardly had any time to think about what happens once I'm done.
It's taking its toll on my personality. I've hardly talked to any of my "friends" at work, I avoid talking to Todd and others on MSN and I sure as hell don't feel like venting here. My mind is cloudy and I can't focus.
I started to notice the irritation about a week and a half ago, not long after the 90's dance, and the truth is it was partly because of what happened, or didn't happen, or almost happened, between me and Cathy at that dance. And what happened next.
An astute commenter asked me, on that entry, whether I thought men or women took rejection worse. Maybe I'm biased, but I really think it's women. I never took it very well, whereas a lot of the guys I've known seem to hide it really well, if they feel anything at all. And all this time, I didn't want to get involved with anyone, because I didn't want to get attached or complicate my relationships with the people in Rob's life, but the truth is, it's already complicated, and if anything I've made it worse.
A week after I declined to pursue a physical relationship with Cathy, I found out she started seeing Dean. I don't know whether it's just a casual fling, or if they have a fling (neither of them seems like the serious type) but it seems pretty much motivated by my actions, because now the two of them are, um, not my biggest fans.
As much as I want to pretend like this isn't my life and I shouldn't care -- what's more, this is probably best -- I'm actually losing sleep over the matter. I don't like the idea that these people, whom I considered my closest friends in this life, are now against me.
So I've had to go it alone. Where can I turn? My schedule doesn't really sync up with Todd's or Cliff/Tori's. I'm often too embarrassed of myself to express myself on this blog. So I went through my stress and my anxiety, feeling frustrated with the kids and the job and everything again, when who should call but an unlikely source of sympathy... Ingrid. The former Mrs. Rob Garcia.
Don't ask how we got to talking -- she'd been in South America for a lot of the winter, only to return last month, and she was checking in on me, I guess. You'd think a divorced couple could just extricate themselves from one another, but here you are. She wasn't even that big a presence in my life, and yet I'd be a liar if I denied that those big blue eyes and curvy hips hadn't popped into my head once or twice in my occasional quiet moments of reflective....... jerking off.
We ended up meeting up, and having a serious talk. Not about "us," but about life and the world and about how the things we do have unforeseen consequences on those around us. I lamented that sometimes the things you don't do can be as hurtful as the things you do. She gave a wicked smirk at that, alluding, I guess, to some unknown event in Rob & Ingrid's past.
She spoke warmly of her new love interest, a guy she met over the internet. I don't know why, but when she mentioned that, I felt like I was missing out on something. Despite my pledge otherwise, I can't help but feel some level of desire for this woman. Despite her hard personality and hot-cold nature, I can't help but be drawn to her. I wonder whether that's just my own confused psyche, or something more primal, ingrained in Rob's bones. Who can say where attraction comes from, or what it really means?
They'd met on a dating site, although he's apparently from out-of-state, which means they haven't physically met yet... which seemed odd for a woman like Ingrid, but I guess after a bad experience, you sometimes go a little nutty. I know from experience. I left the meeting still feeling a bit isolated, but uplifted.
I don't know. I don't know whether, by being in Rob's life, I've improved it or let it stagnate, even making it worse. I get a headache just thinking about it. I want to go home soon.
-Alia
It's taking its toll on my personality. I've hardly talked to any of my "friends" at work, I avoid talking to Todd and others on MSN and I sure as hell don't feel like venting here. My mind is cloudy and I can't focus.
I started to notice the irritation about a week and a half ago, not long after the 90's dance, and the truth is it was partly because of what happened, or didn't happen, or almost happened, between me and Cathy at that dance. And what happened next.
An astute commenter asked me, on that entry, whether I thought men or women took rejection worse. Maybe I'm biased, but I really think it's women. I never took it very well, whereas a lot of the guys I've known seem to hide it really well, if they feel anything at all. And all this time, I didn't want to get involved with anyone, because I didn't want to get attached or complicate my relationships with the people in Rob's life, but the truth is, it's already complicated, and if anything I've made it worse.
A week after I declined to pursue a physical relationship with Cathy, I found out she started seeing Dean. I don't know whether it's just a casual fling, or if they have a fling (neither of them seems like the serious type) but it seems pretty much motivated by my actions, because now the two of them are, um, not my biggest fans.
As much as I want to pretend like this isn't my life and I shouldn't care -- what's more, this is probably best -- I'm actually losing sleep over the matter. I don't like the idea that these people, whom I considered my closest friends in this life, are now against me.
So I've had to go it alone. Where can I turn? My schedule doesn't really sync up with Todd's or Cliff/Tori's. I'm often too embarrassed of myself to express myself on this blog. So I went through my stress and my anxiety, feeling frustrated with the kids and the job and everything again, when who should call but an unlikely source of sympathy... Ingrid. The former Mrs. Rob Garcia.
Don't ask how we got to talking -- she'd been in South America for a lot of the winter, only to return last month, and she was checking in on me, I guess. You'd think a divorced couple could just extricate themselves from one another, but here you are. She wasn't even that big a presence in my life, and yet I'd be a liar if I denied that those big blue eyes and curvy hips hadn't popped into my head once or twice in my occasional quiet moments of reflective....... jerking off.
We ended up meeting up, and having a serious talk. Not about "us," but about life and the world and about how the things we do have unforeseen consequences on those around us. I lamented that sometimes the things you don't do can be as hurtful as the things you do. She gave a wicked smirk at that, alluding, I guess, to some unknown event in Rob & Ingrid's past.
She spoke warmly of her new love interest, a guy she met over the internet. I don't know why, but when she mentioned that, I felt like I was missing out on something. Despite my pledge otherwise, I can't help but feel some level of desire for this woman. Despite her hard personality and hot-cold nature, I can't help but be drawn to her. I wonder whether that's just my own confused psyche, or something more primal, ingrained in Rob's bones. Who can say where attraction comes from, or what it really means?
They'd met on a dating site, although he's apparently from out-of-state, which means they haven't physically met yet... which seemed odd for a woman like Ingrid, but I guess after a bad experience, you sometimes go a little nutty. I know from experience. I left the meeting still feeling a bit isolated, but uplifted.
I don't know. I don't know whether, by being in Rob's life, I've improved it or let it stagnate, even making it worse. I get a headache just thinking about it. I want to go home soon.
-Alia
Monday, May 24, 2010
Alia/Rob: 90's Dance
A lesson I keep having to learn no matter what life I'm in: you can't control other people. You'd think, having dated Todd, I would be used to the idea, but it was something that often frustrated me. People are gonna feel what they're gonna feel. It's hard enough to control yourself. Other people? Forget it.
I was chaperoning a dance with Cathy last week. Teachers are obligated to put in a certain number of extra responsibilities, and sometimes I'm okay with them, sometimes not. By that token, dances are a bit easier to stomach than, say, PTA meetings or parent-teach nights. The PTA is a bore, and parent-teacher nights have largely been a train of parents asking why their kids aren't doing so well (admittedly, their teacher is an under-trained novice, but I've gotten better.) Some parents can handle themselves, others decide to forget that I'm a human being and just let loose all their frustrations on me.
So dances. Yeah, that's a bit easier to take. All I have to do is stand around and enjoy the snacks while the kids paw at each other, and make sure they know they're being watched.
By some strange twist of fate, the dance Cathy and I signed on for was the "90's dance." I'm not some old lady, but I grew up in the 90's, and it was trippy to see my youth re-purposed the way people did the 80's when I was young. Nobody dressed up in 90's clothes or anything, but the music was a pretty dead on recreation of what was around back then, ranging the entire decade:
List of artists who were played over the course of three hours: Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Guns N Roses, Soundgarden, Metallica, Boyz 2 Men, Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Brandy, Monica, Eve 6, Smashmouth, Sugar Ray, Third Eye Blind, Fatboy Slim, Beastie Boys, NSync, Backstreet Boys, 98 Degrees, Blind Melon, Jamiroquai, Beck, Cranberries, Barenaked Ladies, U2, Rob Zombie, Cher (Believe), Aerosmith, Spice Girls, Michael Jackson, Seal, Chumbawumba. Yeesh. Talk about hitting all the bases. The 90's were one effed-up decade, in retrospect, as far as popular tastes were concerned.
Cathy, who is about Rob's age, was similarly nostalgic for all this, although she has very different memories than I do, obviously. I was in grade school, and a little bit of high school, for all of this, so my earliest school dances would've had Britney and boybands. Also Canadian groups like The Tragically Hip, Great Big Sea and Moist got their due, but I'm getting off topic.
Cathy and I rehashed the stories of our youths, me sort of improvising on the spot to account for my age and gender. I mainly let her do the talking. When the Backstreet Boys' "I Want It That Way" hit, she couldn't take it anymore and led me out on the dancefloor for an "awkward high school slowdance."
I had my hands around her waist, she reached up and rested hers on the back of my shoulders. Suddenly I felt like I was back in a time before all this, way before Rob Garcia and the Trading Post inn and even before heartbreak and angst over Todd or the stress of University, when you could just be with someone and feel awkward over something so simple. And I looked down at this woman and she was clearly thinking the same things, just enjoying her flashback, and then she drew closer and closer, and I didn't mind so much, even when she pressed herself against me and I very clearly had an erection. She felt so small in my arms. Then at the end of the song, she turns her face upward and kisses me in the cheek, then again closer to the lips. I pull away in shock.
She glares at me in... shock? Disappointment? Embarrassment? I don't know. She wasn't pleased with either of us, because she just walked off and didn't talk to me for the rest of the night.
I caught up with her the next day and she was still cold. "I'm sorry about that," she said bitterly, "I guess I just misread the entire thing. I'm an idiot, okay? don't hold it against me." It was half a sincere apology and half pure anger. I know, because I've used that tone.
"Cathy, things are really complicated, and I don't think..."
"No, shut up. It's not complicated at all, you idiot. We're grown-ups. You don't have to act like every little thing is a tragic romance. You have to let yourself have a little fun. I mean Jesus, what did your wife do to you that you can't even just... enjoy things?"
And that was that. I'll never be able to explain exactly why I can't be with her. I was trying very hard not to get close enough to anyone that this sort of emotional reaction would happen, but I guess no matter how hard you try, people can't be taken and packed away like that. Now I've hurt someone without meaning to, and made things awkward with the woman who had pretty much been my closest friend here. I shouldn't take things like this personally, maybe, but I can't say "it's not really my life" because it really is. I did this.
I don't think I was wrong, but I feel bad that it came to this. I wish I could just crawl into bed for the next month and a half and wake up in Maine, but sadly, this is the real world, and I have work to do.
-Alia
I was chaperoning a dance with Cathy last week. Teachers are obligated to put in a certain number of extra responsibilities, and sometimes I'm okay with them, sometimes not. By that token, dances are a bit easier to stomach than, say, PTA meetings or parent-teach nights. The PTA is a bore, and parent-teacher nights have largely been a train of parents asking why their kids aren't doing so well (admittedly, their teacher is an under-trained novice, but I've gotten better.) Some parents can handle themselves, others decide to forget that I'm a human being and just let loose all their frustrations on me.
So dances. Yeah, that's a bit easier to take. All I have to do is stand around and enjoy the snacks while the kids paw at each other, and make sure they know they're being watched.
By some strange twist of fate, the dance Cathy and I signed on for was the "90's dance." I'm not some old lady, but I grew up in the 90's, and it was trippy to see my youth re-purposed the way people did the 80's when I was young. Nobody dressed up in 90's clothes or anything, but the music was a pretty dead on recreation of what was around back then, ranging the entire decade:
List of artists who were played over the course of three hours: Nirvana, Pearl Jam, Guns N Roses, Soundgarden, Metallica, Boyz 2 Men, Whitney Houston, Mariah Carey, Britney Spears, Christina Aguilera, Brandy, Monica, Eve 6, Smashmouth, Sugar Ray, Third Eye Blind, Fatboy Slim, Beastie Boys, NSync, Backstreet Boys, 98 Degrees, Blind Melon, Jamiroquai, Beck, Cranberries, Barenaked Ladies, U2, Rob Zombie, Cher (Believe), Aerosmith, Spice Girls, Michael Jackson, Seal, Chumbawumba. Yeesh. Talk about hitting all the bases. The 90's were one effed-up decade, in retrospect, as far as popular tastes were concerned.
Cathy, who is about Rob's age, was similarly nostalgic for all this, although she has very different memories than I do, obviously. I was in grade school, and a little bit of high school, for all of this, so my earliest school dances would've had Britney and boybands. Also Canadian groups like The Tragically Hip, Great Big Sea and Moist got their due, but I'm getting off topic.
Cathy and I rehashed the stories of our youths, me sort of improvising on the spot to account for my age and gender. I mainly let her do the talking. When the Backstreet Boys' "I Want It That Way" hit, she couldn't take it anymore and led me out on the dancefloor for an "awkward high school slowdance."
I had my hands around her waist, she reached up and rested hers on the back of my shoulders. Suddenly I felt like I was back in a time before all this, way before Rob Garcia and the Trading Post inn and even before heartbreak and angst over Todd or the stress of University, when you could just be with someone and feel awkward over something so simple. And I looked down at this woman and she was clearly thinking the same things, just enjoying her flashback, and then she drew closer and closer, and I didn't mind so much, even when she pressed herself against me and I very clearly had an erection. She felt so small in my arms. Then at the end of the song, she turns her face upward and kisses me in the cheek, then again closer to the lips. I pull away in shock.
She glares at me in... shock? Disappointment? Embarrassment? I don't know. She wasn't pleased with either of us, because she just walked off and didn't talk to me for the rest of the night.
I caught up with her the next day and she was still cold. "I'm sorry about that," she said bitterly, "I guess I just misread the entire thing. I'm an idiot, okay? don't hold it against me." It was half a sincere apology and half pure anger. I know, because I've used that tone.
"Cathy, things are really complicated, and I don't think..."
"No, shut up. It's not complicated at all, you idiot. We're grown-ups. You don't have to act like every little thing is a tragic romance. You have to let yourself have a little fun. I mean Jesus, what did your wife do to you that you can't even just... enjoy things?"
And that was that. I'll never be able to explain exactly why I can't be with her. I was trying very hard not to get close enough to anyone that this sort of emotional reaction would happen, but I guess no matter how hard you try, people can't be taken and packed away like that. Now I've hurt someone without meaning to, and made things awkward with the woman who had pretty much been my closest friend here. I shouldn't take things like this personally, maybe, but I can't say "it's not really my life" because it really is. I did this.
I don't think I was wrong, but I feel bad that it came to this. I wish I could just crawl into bed for the next month and a half and wake up in Maine, but sadly, this is the real world, and I have work to do.
-Alia
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Alia/Rob: Mentor
Yeesh. If it weren't for the walking reminder of my physical state, I might forget this blog exists.
Call it self-censorship. I don't live a terribly interesting life. Cliff doesn't either, but she's at least willing/able to air her grievances/thoughts on her body, on her life. I get home after a long day at work and just zonk out.
Stress stress stress stress stressstressstress.
For a long while, it was just overwhelming. I wanted to find some quiet corner of the school and cry (manly tears) over how overwhelmed I was. But generally speaking it is not recommended that teachers lose control of their emotions in front of students. So I bottle it all up.
It's hard, man. Let's not kid ourselves here, this is a stressful job. I remember when I was in high school, the feeling of how overwhelming the pressure was, my quiet suspicion that nothing I was doing would affect me in the long term so long as I got into a decent University (I did.) These kids walking around the halls, half of them have the same parental issues as I did, some way worse. Some don't even talk to theirs, for better or worse. I certainly don't know all their stories, but you get to know who's having trouble.
Oh, you get to know things. The way hormones rule this hallway is palpable, to say the least. Monday morning comes and you can tell which ones had a bad weekend. Every little romantic gesture is scrutinized and agonized over. Students' moods and behaviours change on a regular basis, especially the girls. I've chaperoned a couple dances (I'm on duty for one more this week as a matter of fact) and seeing the way these kids attempt to free themselves from their own awkwardness - with varying degrees of success - well, it takes me back.
That's not to say the teachers are immune to this. We gossip, we make cliques, we have in-jokes. In some really sad ways, we emulate the behaviour of the kids for whom we're supposed to set the example. The sex lives of unmarried teachers (like myself and Cathy) are scrutinized by the older ladies teaching English, Geography and History. We all indulge in inappropriate speculations about the kids. It becomes like a weird little soap opera for some of these people.
Some, however, don't seem to care. This is Marshall McPhee, the senior English teacher. Earlier this year, when the Vice Principal was on my ass about my lackluster in-class performance, Mr. McPhee stood up for me, and even became a mentor of sorts. He's the kind of teacher who's been at it for 25 years, and still gets out of bed in the morning, glad to be teaching, where so many of these people have had their spirits ground down. He's a friendly, balding, thin, bearded sort with John Lennon glasses and a button-up vest.
"Rob," he says to me after school one day, "It's our job to positively impact these kids' lives. We may be here for the long term, but they aren't, and it's our responsibility to see them them through that. We only get a few years to do anything for these kids, and even then it's just a sliver of time. And then they're gone. You've got to be strong. You've got to know your stuff, and you've got to be there for them." I'm paraphrasing, of course: This was months ago. But the feeling stuck with me.
There was this girl who, at the beginning of the semester, was having relationship trouble. That much was true. She showed promise, but also distraction. I knew a lot of girls like that in high school -- hell, I envied them, I was never the one who had the boys' attention, until Todd -- and I know it would've been hard for me to take any teacher's advice seriously (especially a male one) but I did what I could.
Basically, what it amounted to was taking her aside after class and assuring her of the potential I saw in her, and reminding her that things were probably going on in her life that felt the most important, but wouldn't seem so relevant down the road. And showing her perceptiveness, she rebuffed, "And all the classes ARE?"
I told her, "At this point, you're learning more about how to be a person than you are about books. We give you assignments and work not only to teach you their lessons, but how to learn, how to work, full stop. Having a life is important, but what's really important is to learn to balance it all, because believe me, it's never going to stop. There will still be boys, if you don't run off every weekend to hang out with them, and instead keep up on your readings."
And she laughed at this, but a little later when we started doing poetry, she was the only one to have anything memorized, and her insights were quite strong as well. She did a report on Sylvia Plath, which was a sort of "Oh God what have I done" moment (I kid, Plath-lovers.) Was it University-level? Of course not. But she's only a sophomore in high school.
Anyway, the balance-talk worked on both ends because I started dealing with school-related issues a little better, even taking a few extra assignments just to hone my abilities. It's still not my dream job, but I'm getting better at it. And like high school, my time here is limited, and in fact coming to an end sooner than later.
Anyway. It's late, and as always I have an early morning tomorrow. Todd sent me this album by this new Canadian band, Zeus. He loves it, but I think it's a little weak until the midway point gem, "Marching Through Your Head," and then there are some lovely tracks after that, such as "The Sound of You" and "At The Risk Of Repeating," which all makes me yearn for home.
I made him promise not to send me the new Broken Social Scene album. I don't want to hear that until I'm a girl again.
-Alia
Call it self-censorship. I don't live a terribly interesting life. Cliff doesn't either, but she's at least willing/able to air her grievances/thoughts on her body, on her life. I get home after a long day at work and just zonk out.
Stress stress stress stress stressstressstress.
For a long while, it was just overwhelming. I wanted to find some quiet corner of the school and cry (manly tears) over how overwhelmed I was. But generally speaking it is not recommended that teachers lose control of their emotions in front of students. So I bottle it all up.
It's hard, man. Let's not kid ourselves here, this is a stressful job. I remember when I was in high school, the feeling of how overwhelming the pressure was, my quiet suspicion that nothing I was doing would affect me in the long term so long as I got into a decent University (I did.) These kids walking around the halls, half of them have the same parental issues as I did, some way worse. Some don't even talk to theirs, for better or worse. I certainly don't know all their stories, but you get to know who's having trouble.
Oh, you get to know things. The way hormones rule this hallway is palpable, to say the least. Monday morning comes and you can tell which ones had a bad weekend. Every little romantic gesture is scrutinized and agonized over. Students' moods and behaviours change on a regular basis, especially the girls. I've chaperoned a couple dances (I'm on duty for one more this week as a matter of fact) and seeing the way these kids attempt to free themselves from their own awkwardness - with varying degrees of success - well, it takes me back.
That's not to say the teachers are immune to this. We gossip, we make cliques, we have in-jokes. In some really sad ways, we emulate the behaviour of the kids for whom we're supposed to set the example. The sex lives of unmarried teachers (like myself and Cathy) are scrutinized by the older ladies teaching English, Geography and History. We all indulge in inappropriate speculations about the kids. It becomes like a weird little soap opera for some of these people.
Some, however, don't seem to care. This is Marshall McPhee, the senior English teacher. Earlier this year, when the Vice Principal was on my ass about my lackluster in-class performance, Mr. McPhee stood up for me, and even became a mentor of sorts. He's the kind of teacher who's been at it for 25 years, and still gets out of bed in the morning, glad to be teaching, where so many of these people have had their spirits ground down. He's a friendly, balding, thin, bearded sort with John Lennon glasses and a button-up vest.
"Rob," he says to me after school one day, "It's our job to positively impact these kids' lives. We may be here for the long term, but they aren't, and it's our responsibility to see them them through that. We only get a few years to do anything for these kids, and even then it's just a sliver of time. And then they're gone. You've got to be strong. You've got to know your stuff, and you've got to be there for them." I'm paraphrasing, of course: This was months ago. But the feeling stuck with me.
There was this girl who, at the beginning of the semester, was having relationship trouble. That much was true. She showed promise, but also distraction. I knew a lot of girls like that in high school -- hell, I envied them, I was never the one who had the boys' attention, until Todd -- and I know it would've been hard for me to take any teacher's advice seriously (especially a male one) but I did what I could.
Basically, what it amounted to was taking her aside after class and assuring her of the potential I saw in her, and reminding her that things were probably going on in her life that felt the most important, but wouldn't seem so relevant down the road. And showing her perceptiveness, she rebuffed, "And all the classes ARE?"
I told her, "At this point, you're learning more about how to be a person than you are about books. We give you assignments and work not only to teach you their lessons, but how to learn, how to work, full stop. Having a life is important, but what's really important is to learn to balance it all, because believe me, it's never going to stop. There will still be boys, if you don't run off every weekend to hang out with them, and instead keep up on your readings."
And she laughed at this, but a little later when we started doing poetry, she was the only one to have anything memorized, and her insights were quite strong as well. She did a report on Sylvia Plath, which was a sort of "Oh God what have I done" moment (I kid, Plath-lovers.) Was it University-level? Of course not. But she's only a sophomore in high school.
Anyway, the balance-talk worked on both ends because I started dealing with school-related issues a little better, even taking a few extra assignments just to hone my abilities. It's still not my dream job, but I'm getting better at it. And like high school, my time here is limited, and in fact coming to an end sooner than later.
Anyway. It's late, and as always I have an early morning tomorrow. Todd sent me this album by this new Canadian band, Zeus. He loves it, but I think it's a little weak until the midway point gem, "Marching Through Your Head," and then there are some lovely tracks after that, such as "The Sound of You" and "At The Risk Of Repeating," which all makes me yearn for home.
I made him promise not to send me the new Broken Social Scene album. I don't want to hear that until I'm a girl again.
-Alia
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Alia/Rob: Movie night
Cathy was really into the idea of dragging me out to see the movie with her friends. She was talking about it all week.
I don't know what to make of the situation. If I were a guy, I would think she's into me. Hell, if I were a girl being described the situation I would think she's into the guy. But I've been up front with her about the fact that I am not looking for a relationship of any kind. Still she persists. I've been friends with guys before, but never did such a thorough job of confusing them about what I wanted (I think.)
The sad thing is, I really do like her as a person. I never hear anything about Cliff's interactions with males, aside from her occasional peeks into the men in Raine's, Sarah's, and that other chick's life. I don't know how she's coping with the estrangement of her gender, but I'm feeling really odd about it.
I can say I'm looking forward all I want, and how I know that in a few months, if all goes as planned, I will be myself again. But in the present, part of me just wants to take care of this situation one way or the other.
Unfortunately, that is not what happened. Inaction reigned once again in the life of Alia Frye/Roberto Garcia. Probably for the best, since my last two big dramatic actions have netted me a lot of ill feelings and a male body.
So what did happen? Exactly what you might've expected. I went with Cathy to the movies. We met her four girlfriends, one of whom had a boyfriend. The other guy and I bookended the ladies, with Cathy to my right. They spent the entire film being being alternately appalled and amused by what they saw on the screen - what such a large group of women were doing at such an obvious guy film I had no idea. There were parts they did seem to like, and parts that simply made them groan. The girl with the boyfriend spent the whole night asking him for updates on the plot, and Cathy and I fell into a bit of a running commentary of our own that probably did not amuse those around us.
For my part, the film got more than a few laughs out of me. My mother would be embarrassed, I used to be such a dainty girl, shy about everything. The opening dog-rear joke madem e roll my eyes but subsequent humour related to bodily functions made me laugh more and more as the film went on. Maybe it's the male body, maybe it's just me. I never hated these movies but I definitely don't remember laughing at them like that before.
We all went out for coffee afterward at a ridiculously pretentious pseudo-Starbucks wannabe place. In theory I was getting to know the girls better but I found them too similar to a lot of the gabby shallow types I knew in University, the ones I secretly envied at one point. The boyfriend for his part looked at me with a look of understanding "Yeah dude, I get it," except no, dude, you don't.
I asked Cathy afterward what was up with the film choice, and they explained it was their theory that watching guy flicks made them understand men more. "I know you probably think we all have you figured out, and for the most part we do, but that doesn't mean we don't want to know more."
I laughed, "Trust me, Cathy, I'm a lot more complicated than I let on."
"Oh, is that so?"
And for a second there, it looked like she was going to go in for the kiss, or she was expecting me to do so, but instead of anything, we both stood still - until she poked me in the abs playfully and walked off into the night.
What do you do with a woman like that? Who plays with you one night, then comes back on Monday and talks about this booty call she made. I mean, I've had many conversations with my girlfriends about random dudes, but rarely for the benefit of guys like the one I currently am. She comes up to me Monday at work and says to me "Hey, you wanna know something? After we hung out on Friday night, I called this guy I know. He was busy, so we met up the next night, and..." well there you go.
Why did I need to hear this, I ask. She shrugs and says she just thought I might be able to use it. She looks down at my belt - except not at my belt - and says "don't think I don't notice."
Goddamn this little thing. We disagree about so much.
-Alia
I don't know what to make of the situation. If I were a guy, I would think she's into me. Hell, if I were a girl being described the situation I would think she's into the guy. But I've been up front with her about the fact that I am not looking for a relationship of any kind. Still she persists. I've been friends with guys before, but never did such a thorough job of confusing them about what I wanted (I think.)
The sad thing is, I really do like her as a person. I never hear anything about Cliff's interactions with males, aside from her occasional peeks into the men in Raine's, Sarah's, and that other chick's life. I don't know how she's coping with the estrangement of her gender, but I'm feeling really odd about it.
I can say I'm looking forward all I want, and how I know that in a few months, if all goes as planned, I will be myself again. But in the present, part of me just wants to take care of this situation one way or the other.
Unfortunately, that is not what happened. Inaction reigned once again in the life of Alia Frye/Roberto Garcia. Probably for the best, since my last two big dramatic actions have netted me a lot of ill feelings and a male body.
So what did happen? Exactly what you might've expected. I went with Cathy to the movies. We met her four girlfriends, one of whom had a boyfriend. The other guy and I bookended the ladies, with Cathy to my right. They spent the entire film being being alternately appalled and amused by what they saw on the screen - what such a large group of women were doing at such an obvious guy film I had no idea. There were parts they did seem to like, and parts that simply made them groan. The girl with the boyfriend spent the whole night asking him for updates on the plot, and Cathy and I fell into a bit of a running commentary of our own that probably did not amuse those around us.
For my part, the film got more than a few laughs out of me. My mother would be embarrassed, I used to be such a dainty girl, shy about everything. The opening dog-rear joke madem e roll my eyes but subsequent humour related to bodily functions made me laugh more and more as the film went on. Maybe it's the male body, maybe it's just me. I never hated these movies but I definitely don't remember laughing at them like that before.
We all went out for coffee afterward at a ridiculously pretentious pseudo-Starbucks wannabe place. In theory I was getting to know the girls better but I found them too similar to a lot of the gabby shallow types I knew in University, the ones I secretly envied at one point. The boyfriend for his part looked at me with a look of understanding "Yeah dude, I get it," except no, dude, you don't.
I asked Cathy afterward what was up with the film choice, and they explained it was their theory that watching guy flicks made them understand men more. "I know you probably think we all have you figured out, and for the most part we do, but that doesn't mean we don't want to know more."
I laughed, "Trust me, Cathy, I'm a lot more complicated than I let on."
"Oh, is that so?"
And for a second there, it looked like she was going to go in for the kiss, or she was expecting me to do so, but instead of anything, we both stood still - until she poked me in the abs playfully and walked off into the night.
What do you do with a woman like that? Who plays with you one night, then comes back on Monday and talks about this booty call she made. I mean, I've had many conversations with my girlfriends about random dudes, but rarely for the benefit of guys like the one I currently am. She comes up to me Monday at work and says to me "Hey, you wanna know something? After we hung out on Friday night, I called this guy I know. He was busy, so we met up the next night, and..." well there you go.
Why did I need to hear this, I ask. She shrugs and says she just thought I might be able to use it. She looks down at my belt - except not at my belt - and says "don't think I don't notice."
Goddamn this little thing. We disagree about so much.
-Alia
Monday, March 15, 2010
Alia/Rob: Middle ground
My life - and by that I mean Rob's life as led by me - is exhausting.
I'll be the first to admit that I don't have much of a life outside of the job. Cathy was on my case about this as we supervised the cafeteria today. I keep telling her we're not kids, and that by the time I get home from my after-school commitments, I'm usually too tired to do anything.
I make fun of her for nagging me and ask, "What are you, my wife?" unconsciously forgetting the implications of that statement.
She replies, "Ouch," then pauses a moment to let the meaning settle. Awkward. Then she continues, "No, I'm your friend. I want you to get out there and meet people, have fun while there's time. Don't get old too soon." Too late, I think, but anyway. "Do you do anything but work, watch TV and sleep?"
"Sure," I say, trying to defend myself, wanting to seem like it was true. "I go to movies, I... grocery shop... laundromat."
She laughs, "Errands don't count, buddy! You told me you were busy on Valentine's day. Don't tell me you were folding shirts."
"No, that was a real... well, it was platonic." I had a note of shame in my voice, not because I wish it weren't, but because it's irritating that Cathy is so right and yet so wrong.
"Look," she says, "Once a month, some friends and I go out to see a movie. Usually something we can laugh at. Next week, we're gonna go see that Hot Tub Time Travel movie."
"Hot Tub Time Machine," I correct her.
"You should come along, okay?"
I roll my eyes. "What kind of friends? Women?"
"Mostly, but it's a mix. one of my girlfriends usually brings her boyfriend, too, even though we can't really stand him. Otherwise I think you'd like them."
"What do you mean I'd like them? Is this a fix-up or something?" I start to get really defensive for no good reason.
"What? No!" she says in a way that means kinda, adding "Look, I'm not gonna lie. I do think it would be cool if you ended up liking one of my friends, but that isn't what this is about. I just want to hang out with you in a non-school setting for once, let you loosen up."
I give her the benefit of the doubt. Listen, I think Cathy's a really cool woman. She reminds me of myself. Smart, with a bit of a playful streak, but less vulnerable. My problem is that once I started dating Todd, I became sort of a "guys' girl," because I realized I hadn't enjoyed the company of women that much in my teen life. Now that I'm a guy, it's sort of coming back estranged (this is my vague recollection of Freud) and I like it. So I do want to hang out with her, but I don't want to lead her, or any of her friends, on.
So I agree to it. I've kind of followed the opposite path from Cliff... she got really social pretty quickly and regretted it, and I've been anti-social this whole time and regret it. We both need to find middle ground.
-Alia
I'll be the first to admit that I don't have much of a life outside of the job. Cathy was on my case about this as we supervised the cafeteria today. I keep telling her we're not kids, and that by the time I get home from my after-school commitments, I'm usually too tired to do anything.
I make fun of her for nagging me and ask, "What are you, my wife?" unconsciously forgetting the implications of that statement.
She replies, "Ouch," then pauses a moment to let the meaning settle. Awkward. Then she continues, "No, I'm your friend. I want you to get out there and meet people, have fun while there's time. Don't get old too soon." Too late, I think, but anyway. "Do you do anything but work, watch TV and sleep?"
"Sure," I say, trying to defend myself, wanting to seem like it was true. "I go to movies, I... grocery shop... laundromat."
She laughs, "Errands don't count, buddy! You told me you were busy on Valentine's day. Don't tell me you were folding shirts."
"No, that was a real... well, it was platonic." I had a note of shame in my voice, not because I wish it weren't, but because it's irritating that Cathy is so right and yet so wrong.
"Look," she says, "Once a month, some friends and I go out to see a movie. Usually something we can laugh at. Next week, we're gonna go see that Hot Tub Time Travel movie."
"Hot Tub Time Machine," I correct her.
"You should come along, okay?"
I roll my eyes. "What kind of friends? Women?"
"Mostly, but it's a mix. one of my girlfriends usually brings her boyfriend, too, even though we can't really stand him. Otherwise I think you'd like them."
"What do you mean I'd like them? Is this a fix-up or something?" I start to get really defensive for no good reason.
"What? No!" she says in a way that means kinda, adding "Look, I'm not gonna lie. I do think it would be cool if you ended up liking one of my friends, but that isn't what this is about. I just want to hang out with you in a non-school setting for once, let you loosen up."
I give her the benefit of the doubt. Listen, I think Cathy's a really cool woman. She reminds me of myself. Smart, with a bit of a playful streak, but less vulnerable. My problem is that once I started dating Todd, I became sort of a "guys' girl," because I realized I hadn't enjoyed the company of women that much in my teen life. Now that I'm a guy, it's sort of coming back estranged (this is my vague recollection of Freud) and I like it. So I do want to hang out with her, but I don't want to lead her, or any of her friends, on.
So I agree to it. I've kind of followed the opposite path from Cliff... she got really social pretty quickly and regretted it, and I've been anti-social this whole time and regret it. We both need to find middle ground.
-Alia
Monday, October 12, 2009
Alia/Rob: (Real) Thanksgiving Thoughts
I checked the calendar today to remind myself that this weekend was Thanksgiving in Canada. It might not be the healthiest thing in the world but I allowed myself to get nostalgic. The past doesn't seem that far away, and Todd keeps reminding me that before long, I'll be back where I belong. If has has anything to say about it, that is.
Fall always puts me back in the state of mind of my early University days. Even before all this, I marveled at how much things had changed over the years. It was fall 2003 when I first met Todd, this comparatively dangerous-looking boy who kept catching my eye in a couple classes, and whom I swore I'd seen glancing back my way once or twice.
I was living in the dorms and I guess one of the girls he was involved with was on the same floor because one day I caught the elevator with him and he struck up a conversation and I thought it was probably too good to be true because he seemed genuinely friendly and not only that, far more intelligent and well-spoken than his rough exterior. He was sarcastic but kind, and he had opinions but was not preachy. Before I knew it, I was swept up in this whole group of people, some of whom were utterly full of shit, some were legitimate individuals. And as much as I did not want to fall for someone like Todd -- I knew (or figured) going in, that I'd be hurt in the end -- it happened that we were drawn together. And I guess I was the last girl standing. For a while, anyway.
By the end of the semester, we were an item, and as much as I resisted, I had to bring him home to meet my parents around Christmas. It was pretty much as bad as I expected, although not as bad as I feared, if that makes sense. Dad had resolved not to like him no matter who he was, and mom saw he was trouble from the beginning. But he was on his best behaviour, played the good suitor for my dad and charmed my mom. It was a rough start but after some consideration they determined he was not the worst boy in the world.
I tried to limit their contact with him, though. It wasn't until much later they saw his darker side, especially after he resigned himself to a certain state of life and our relationship started falling apart (repeatedly.) And that was still a long while before the break-up that led to him coming to Maine.
But for a long while, we were fixtures at each others' family Thanksgivings. It reminds me of the first time I met his whole family, which of course also features part of Bry's family, since Bry's dad is Todd's step-uncle. It was a choice between helping/hindering the women in the kitchen or sitting in the living room with the men watching the Leafs and scratch themselves. I guess there's nothing wrong with the traditional female role, and looking back, those ladies were some tough cookies. I fit in well with them, and I've missed them. I hope Todd, this weekend, has found some way to send my love, even if I might be there in body. Sigh.
Instead, I'm sitting here feeling nostalgic. I contemplated doing something, going out, having a drink, but instead quietly cooked dinner for one and sat on the computer not doing anything particularly productive.
I pine for those innocent Undergrad days because, let me tell you, I much prefer them to the awkward teenage years that preceded them, which I seem to relive on a daily basis at work. I feel like I'm cursed to watch these kids play out the usual teenage drama, barred from providing any useful advice or assurance that things will get better, because really, when I was a kid, I didn't believe my teachers when they said stuff like that.
The weird/funny thing, I guess, about being in a high school environment is that it even makes adults -- REAL adults, not just fake ones like me -- regress a bit. Sure, there are jaded older teachers who've been here forever, but ones around Rob's age, like Dean and Cathy, have a way of slightly adapting the attitudes of the students, I guess because we're young enough to still relate, not so old that we feel completely detached and deeply embedded in our authority figure roles. It's kind of a dangerous position because when it's time to be firm with a student, you have trouble really asserting yourself. Or at least I do.
Dean and Cathy would be the supporting characters of my little story as Rob. I eat lunch, I make funny excuses not to talk much about my (Rob's) life, despite them having known Rob for a few years at least. Don's a nice guy, in a long-term relationship but is still glad to talk about girls like he is available. Perhaps too glad. Cathy, I don't know her deal. She's mentioned a few guys before, but I guess none of them are all that serious. We all eat lunch together, I don't mind having them as friends, I imagine it's kind of like what Todd, Bry and I will be like in5 or 6 years, if Todd and I aren't together.
Thy have interest in the mostly-nonexistent details of Rob's bachelor life. They seemed somewhat scandalized when I let it slip that "a girl" stayed the night last weekend. Sorry, Cliff, heh. I told them it was completely innocent...
Anyway, I just felt like spelling my guts a bit tonight, all the nostalgia and all, and Todd's busy with family stuff, unable to put up with my little flashbacks, so here I am. hope you've enjoyed it.
Alia/Rob
Fall always puts me back in the state of mind of my early University days. Even before all this, I marveled at how much things had changed over the years. It was fall 2003 when I first met Todd, this comparatively dangerous-looking boy who kept catching my eye in a couple classes, and whom I swore I'd seen glancing back my way once or twice.
I was living in the dorms and I guess one of the girls he was involved with was on the same floor because one day I caught the elevator with him and he struck up a conversation and I thought it was probably too good to be true because he seemed genuinely friendly and not only that, far more intelligent and well-spoken than his rough exterior. He was sarcastic but kind, and he had opinions but was not preachy. Before I knew it, I was swept up in this whole group of people, some of whom were utterly full of shit, some were legitimate individuals. And as much as I did not want to fall for someone like Todd -- I knew (or figured) going in, that I'd be hurt in the end -- it happened that we were drawn together. And I guess I was the last girl standing. For a while, anyway.
By the end of the semester, we were an item, and as much as I resisted, I had to bring him home to meet my parents around Christmas. It was pretty much as bad as I expected, although not as bad as I feared, if that makes sense. Dad had resolved not to like him no matter who he was, and mom saw he was trouble from the beginning. But he was on his best behaviour, played the good suitor for my dad and charmed my mom. It was a rough start but after some consideration they determined he was not the worst boy in the world.
I tried to limit their contact with him, though. It wasn't until much later they saw his darker side, especially after he resigned himself to a certain state of life and our relationship started falling apart (repeatedly.) And that was still a long while before the break-up that led to him coming to Maine.
But for a long while, we were fixtures at each others' family Thanksgivings. It reminds me of the first time I met his whole family, which of course also features part of Bry's family, since Bry's dad is Todd's step-uncle. It was a choice between helping/hindering the women in the kitchen or sitting in the living room with the men watching the Leafs and scratch themselves. I guess there's nothing wrong with the traditional female role, and looking back, those ladies were some tough cookies. I fit in well with them, and I've missed them. I hope Todd, this weekend, has found some way to send my love, even if I might be there in body. Sigh.
Instead, I'm sitting here feeling nostalgic. I contemplated doing something, going out, having a drink, but instead quietly cooked dinner for one and sat on the computer not doing anything particularly productive.
I pine for those innocent Undergrad days because, let me tell you, I much prefer them to the awkward teenage years that preceded them, which I seem to relive on a daily basis at work. I feel like I'm cursed to watch these kids play out the usual teenage drama, barred from providing any useful advice or assurance that things will get better, because really, when I was a kid, I didn't believe my teachers when they said stuff like that.
The weird/funny thing, I guess, about being in a high school environment is that it even makes adults -- REAL adults, not just fake ones like me -- regress a bit. Sure, there are jaded older teachers who've been here forever, but ones around Rob's age, like Dean and Cathy, have a way of slightly adapting the attitudes of the students, I guess because we're young enough to still relate, not so old that we feel completely detached and deeply embedded in our authority figure roles. It's kind of a dangerous position because when it's time to be firm with a student, you have trouble really asserting yourself. Or at least I do.
Dean and Cathy would be the supporting characters of my little story as Rob. I eat lunch, I make funny excuses not to talk much about my (Rob's) life, despite them having known Rob for a few years at least. Don's a nice guy, in a long-term relationship but is still glad to talk about girls like he is available. Perhaps too glad. Cathy, I don't know her deal. She's mentioned a few guys before, but I guess none of them are all that serious. We all eat lunch together, I don't mind having them as friends, I imagine it's kind of like what Todd, Bry and I will be like in5 or 6 years, if Todd and I aren't together.
Thy have interest in the mostly-nonexistent details of Rob's bachelor life. They seemed somewhat scandalized when I let it slip that "a girl" stayed the night last weekend. Sorry, Cliff, heh. I told them it was completely innocent...
Anyway, I just felt like spelling my guts a bit tonight, all the nostalgia and all, and Todd's busy with family stuff, unable to put up with my little flashbacks, so here I am. hope you've enjoyed it.
Alia/Rob
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