� Unpublished, October 1, 2000
Today, I am the tip of an iceberg. I am the most recent pinnacle in a black, bloated tundra of discrimination and bigotry.
I am the African-American second grader introduced to the sociopolitical ramifications of that little six-letter word that starts with an "N" and rhymes with hate: nigger.
I am the fat girl who elicits distasteful glances and whispered joked from men whose sole criteria for romantic merit is a Body Fat Index under 1.00.
I am the old man passed over for a job promotion; the Mexican pulled over by a cop; the cripple, the pauper, the homosexual � the Anybody more than 2% different from yourself.
It's my own fault. The likelihood of finding a real-life friend on the internet is slightly higher than Pope Kelli. I realize that. And yet �
When a guy knows my unique gender past, and claims to accept and endorse that past, one can't help wondering why he's disappointed when he chooses to buy a duck and then hears a quack.
I am meeting Eric at a local restaurant, our first meeting. A blind date. So as not to be late, I postpone my yard work, quickly finish my laundry and start getting ready. The black pants � no, not the pants, they make my butt look too big. Glad my treadmill regimen has lost me ten pounds this month! Okay, my old standby, my favorite print skirt, always reliable, always attractive. And the brown � no, the black vest over a nice crisp pleated white blouse. Jesus, do you go casual or tailored to a lunch blind date? Fix the eyebrows, fix the lips �
I arrive at 2:05, pretty good for our 2:00 rendezvous. Looking around, I see no Eric, but I do see a queue of customers waiting for tables. It's difficult enough meeting someone for the first time, but entering a crowded restaurant to 20 pairs of scrutinizing eyes is doubly daunting. I boldly make my way to the hostess station and put in my name, for a ten-minute wait.
Since no seats are available inside, I wait outside. For ten minutes. Then twenty. Then twenty-five. Finally, 2:30 arrives. But Eric doesn't.
I don't have his phone number, but we had initially met online, where he had found me enticing enough to initiate a chat relationship. So I return home and jump on the 'net. Immediately, Eric pops up online.
Turns out, Eric was in the restaurant the whole time. But the table next to him made some remark as I walked in, indicating they "read" me. Embarrassed Eric chose not to acknowledge me, preferring to make me wait for 30 minutes and ultimately leave without meeting.
Boys and girls, can you spell "humiliating?"
I pass damn well. My employees don't know; my roommate doesn't know. I've been on three dates with two different guys in the past week, and there's been no problem, no issue. Had I spoken to the people at the booth next to Eric, they would likely have realized they'd been mistaken about me, their suspicions quelled.
Hell, had Eric actually met me, even he would have realized who I WAS is no longer relevant to who I AM. In some cases, transsexuals are only transsexuals for a little while; talk, act, think, LIVE as a woman long enough (and take enough pharmaceuticals to subsidize a drugstore), you become the woman.
But at my Amazonian 5' 11", do some people still read me? Hmm � can the farmer tell it's a duck?
To Eric's credit, he at least had enough balls to tell me why he aborted our date. Which is akin to Hitler claiming Dachau: Admitting culpability in no way ameliorates the crime.
So, Eric's an asshole. And the internet is still the best meeting place in the world for losers and social rejects.
And the iceberg grows a little more each day.
