Once, inspired by other blogs, I started my own so that I could tell my story: how I got to where I was, how I knew I was who I was, how it was going being who I was. From HRT, electrolysis, full-time living, coming out, surgery and recovery, and reintegration into life which is and will alwasy be ... life.
The time has come after six and a half years for me to put this blog to rest. Someone in the community once said that you transition everyday for the rest of your life, always becoming who you are, renewing your commitment to yourself ... everyday. I believe this. But, this blog was about my medical and social transition, and those are complete. My struggles are outside of that now.
I want to thank all of you who have followed me since May 2011. Those of you no longer with us watching from another plain, thank you as well. This blog will not be coming down, but will stay up as one story of woman who found herself, finally, and made up for lost time and began to heal parts of her life and her relationships; she realized that we are all works of progress. It is both beautiful and heartbreaking. I will leave the welcome mat out for anyone out there who happens by with questions keeping them awake and walking through the nights and stumbling out-of-body through the days. Good luck to you, you are not alone. Learn what you can here. Share it.
And, lastly, no I am not going away, but I have a different online presence in mind which you will be able to reach from here at a later date.
It took everything I had to put that enthusiastic looking exclamation mark after the new year in the title. After the grimness of last year's new year's post, I had hoped for a better year globally, locally and personally, at least personally. It was anxiety provoking and extremely draining.
On the other hand, there were some very special moments this year as well: healing, reconnecting with friends and family, time spent animals, plants, trees, renewed spiritual focus. A renewed commitment to my mental and physical health, in short, what brought me out west twenty-two years ago.
Life has become a series of rebirths and reunions.
I have experienced a rebirth of enthusiasm for my professional work as well as for writing.
I went swing dancing for my birthday after I returned to Vancouver in September; the faces have changed, but I enjoy dancing from time to time.
I occasionally see folks from the community garden (which I left in December 2016); things seem to be going well and the garden is being passed down to another generation of food security activists and community builders. I concentrate on my home garden and look forward to the day when I can live a complete permaculture life, earthship and all.
I have returned to practicing t'ai chi, something I once discovered as a deeply shutdown undergraduate student practicing my way out of asthma symptoms, practicing on my dying mother's apartment balcony and carrying on after moving out west.
I recently went to visit my old meditation centre as they were packing up to move to another location after over 40 years in the same storefront; I saw many old faces and my real self got reacquainted with them. I look forward to sitting with them again in the new year.
I consider my own neighbourhood a community; I have made friends with folks up and down the street, in the shops, cafes, restaurants, the local library branch where I get to be a library user for a change of pace. They were all there for me through transition, through the good times and bad, through the world's ups and downs and my own. I am grateful that they were there for me this year; I love you all very much.
Almost two months ago, I re-caulked my shower stall, and at the end of the year, it looks like I'll need to do it again. A pain to be sure, but necessary in so many ways. Not just because the stall and the washroom need it, but I do too, for reasons related to my respiratory health. After a couple of years of breathing and coughing symptoms, I was finally diagnosed with asthma this past August. It was three days after the smoke cleared out of the Lower Mainland from the interior BC forest fires. Finally, things had cleared up. In many more ways than one.
2016/17 was, as Queen Elizabeth II once said, annus horribilis; every area of the world and my own life seemingly on a tail spin. By the time of my second anniversary Post-Op, it had taken its toll and I was in trouble. 2016 was the year that I was supposed settle into myself, finally, and deal with some unfinished health business: namely, the sleep and eating issues that I had developed over years of being closeted. I had just begun that when, suddenly, my work environment was in turmoil. The above mentioned issues became exacerbated. Then came the news that the clinic I had been in for SRS had been attacked. I had (and have) many fond memories of staying there and it had been a healing moment for myself and friends and family; now, it had literally been charred. Six weeks later, the Orlando shooting happened, and my sense of personal safety shattered. Then there was the social and political chaos in the US and EU. By year's end, I was exhausted. My respiratory problems worsened.
That winter saw several snow storms locally, the cold and damp of which affected my health. I took many days off work to recuperate, at times waking up not being able to breathe properly at all. And my antidote to despair had been to become more politically active, but after the January Women's March, I was simply too fatigued. When I went to the local drop in clinic, I was (mis) diagnosed and given what would turn out to be the wrong inhaler. I returned to my regular routines, feeling better, but it would not last.
Isolation is usually, not the best thing health wise, but that is exactly what I became as winter gradually became spring. A late snow storm in early March made going outside treacherous breating wise. So, aside from work, I stayed home, only able to peer at the world I had wanted to engage as it became more and more chaotic. I watched as the local anti-racism march was attacked by white supremacists, I heard of friends and friends of friends being threatened and attacked themselves. Every day brought a fresh hell from south of the border and, sometimes on this side of the border.
Tatum's health mirrored my own in this strange symbiosis that exists between humans and their pets. Often, I felt that he was all I had; he had been with me through it all and I with him. I feared losing my job and my financial footing and having to give him up; once, years ago, he had been surrendered in northern BC and months later I had adopted him. The though of abandoning him kept me up at night.
As snow turned to regular and torrential rain, I tried to keep up with my responsibilities, but floundered. I felt my self worth plummet. When my respiratory issues failed to clear up completely, I booked an appointment with my regular doctor and was put on to a waiting list for the lung clinic: it was six months long.
Sometime in April, I heard that a friend (who had arranged for free travel back to Montreal for surgery) was in the hospital in Toronto with congestive heart failure. I knew that I could afford to travel there, and felt horrible, but kept in touch with mutual friends to get updated about his condition. I felt some relief when he was discharged.
*
I had been living in Vancouver nearly 22 years; I had arrived in a city of desperate hope and strangers with a mountain of grief and unexplored issues on my shoulders. I wanted to continue my mother's personal growth work to avoid the tail spin she had got into in her last years. She had died at 47; in 2017, I would be 47; on the first of June 2017, she would have been 70. As Mother's Day approached, it was all too much. I began posting the kind of desperate social media posts that I had posted back 2009 when my life had seemed at a dead end. The work week leading up to that May weekend had been particularly stressful and came out of it feeling that I had lost my way in life. Then, that weekend, my friend in Toronto had a massive stroke. Information was sporadic, but I learned that the stroke has left him half paralyzed and with his short term memory gone. Again, I could not get there.
I staggered through the next two work days alternately angry and depressed; I was awakened at night by panic attacks; I would gaze at Tatum and burst into tears not wanting to lose him. After my late shift that Tuesday, I went home in a daze and wrote down my own funeral arrangements in a notebook. it sounds profane that while my dear friend was fighting to live, I was making preparations to die, but I had developed tunnel vision feeling I was of no use to anybody. Early on Wednesday afternoon, after my morning shift and lunch break, I had a nervous breakdown and went on stress leave. In a blur, I got my things together and numbly walked out to the bus stop to go home, all nineteen years at my organization passing in front of my eyes. I would not return for four months.
I began six weeks of crisis counseling that week with a phone call to an employee counseling service 1-800 number. I give a lot of credit to the counselor I spoke to for helping me regain my will to live. Tatum had a lot to do with it as well. I was placed with an in-person counselor starting the Thursday evening of that first week. The following weekend was Victoria Day long weekend; I had booked an appointment with my regular doctor's office. Another doctor who was substituting evaluated my anxiety levels: almost all my indicators were tops. Oddly, it was almost as much of a relief as it was an upset. I would be re-evaluated every two weeks by my doctor. Documentation would be sent back and forth, phone calls, emails, faxes: in the middle of it all I began to gradually get my footing again.
Soon afterwards, my friend's sisters had him flown from Toronto to Richmond Hospital where he underwent more tests and procedures. I visited once on a very hot spring day. On a rainy June 1st, my mother's 70th, a mutual friend and myself went to see him. He was stabilizing; he was due to go to St Paul's for a procedure for a few days, then he would be sent to the G F Strong Rehabilitation Centre in Vancouver. I spent the rest of June 1st with a counseling session and another friend's comic book launch.
Near the end of June, I touched base with a friend I had gone to library school with who volunteered at the local Van Dusen Botanical Gardens. We spent an afternoon there. I realized that I had missed being around nature. I also began writing again, poems mostly, although I also had a couple of ideas for TV that I needed feedback on. Other times I would walk down to my neighbourhood park, sit on a bench, write, read (spiritual, emotional healing books: Gabor Mate, Mark Epstein, Mark Wolynn, Pema Chodron) or just sit while the sounds of life moved around and through me. On Saturdays, I doubled down on the internal martial arts practices I had started at the beginning of the year.
But it was with friends, visiting one friend at the Rehabilitation Centre, spending an afternoon with another at Crescent Beach, taking long walks with yet another, that I regained a sense of being connected others, catching up on our lives, seeing the value in each day.
*
A couple of weeks after Canada Day, I was contacted about an appointment at the lung clinic. My breathing had cleared up with the weather, but I was happy that my wait four months instead of six.
Not long after, smoke from the Interior BC forest fires was pushed out to the coast by changing air currents where it stayed for three weeks. I had been gardening a fair bit and getting to know the nature in my backyard, but now I had to close the windows and stay inside. Some of my symptoms returned. I stayed in and watched old 60s and 70s TV shows on DVD at home, occasionally have a friend over. I didn't walk in the Trans March this year but instead waited at the end point in a park, and with a breathing mask, welcomed the marchers home.
When the smoke cleared, in mid-August, I went for my lung clinic appointment. I was tested on a Monday and the following day I got the diagnosis. Asthma. I had grown up with one smoking parent at a time when there was no awareness of second hand smoke. Over the years, my chest colds had been particularly harsh and my dry coughs lasted quite a while afterwards. Then there were my spells of pneumonia in November 2015 and February 2016. One of my inhalers was replaced with another with different medication. My symptoms improved over the next couple of weeks.
*
A week later, on the morning of the total eclipse, I woke up to a deep orange light and strange shadows. Perfect in an unusual year.
*
Exactly one week after the eclipse, I flew back home for two weeks. Returning to my roots seemed very fitting this year. I feel that since coming out to them a few years ago, my family and I have been doing very subtle but deep healing work. Along with that, the joy of renewed connections and the sadness of missing years surfaced in me. My couple of weeks were everything a trip home should be, everything seemed to have added meaning. I have always been a very nostalgic person, and this was no exception. Maybe it was a brand of biscuit that I remembered growing up, or a song that I had heard. We spent an afternoon at a foodie-type festival down at the old port. On the morning of my 47th birthday, I woke up to find the kitchen table decorated with a gift bag and card: I felt 16 ... the right kind of 16 this time.
On my last Friday in Montreal, my stepmother, her sister and myself went to the Rue St Hubert shopping district. It was mostly window shopping, but my stepmother treated me to a new 2-piece outfit from a boutique. Lunch was at a classic Montreal diner with a 50s rock 'n roll playlist. Dinner that evening was back in the old neighbourhood at a great pizza restaurant with a few other relatives.
The next afternoon, we literally went walking down memory lane; I saw my old elementary school, a shell of its former self, streets that I remembered, one of my old pre-schools, the building was there, but it now occupied by someone else. I felt the impact of that walk the next day, I was flying out that evening. I was once repairing the relationship to my mother and then, she died. Now, I was growing closer to my father and stepmother and I feared losing them. I burst into tears over brunch the next morning and again back at the apartment while old songs played in the background. It was a rare moment when I felt the passage of time move all of us along.
And then, we were at the airport departures, me a mess, them watching over me as I moved through the security line until I was out of sight: a girl all grown up.
And then, I was home greeted by Tatum.
And then, I was back at work the next afternoon. There was a little welcome back party for me with tea and refreshments. It was touching, I managed to keep my tears in.
*
At first, I was on limited hours, four hours a day for four days. I gradually got back to full hours after six weeks. I found that I had a center now, I could handle the pace. The pace seemed easier. Perhaps the pace and me met somewhere in the middle.
Autumn was a blur, but I felt better as time went on. My doctor's assessments reflected that. My respiratory health was manageable and improving. I dove into Christmas early, immersed in the cozy and twinkle of it. I spent Christmas with an old friend and her family. Meanwhile, the friend that had had a stroke was doing much better and spending the holidays with family in the Interior BC.
As usual, I grew reflective towards the end of the year. Earlier in the fall, I gave myself a project, to paint and re-caulk the bathroom. The painting went fine, the re-caulking, as I started this piece off with, needs to be redone. What better time than at the end of a year like this one.
Writing this year's goals, or getting the motivation to write them, is more difficult this time around. I have a lot of trepidation about the future from this point onward (not uniquely, I'm sure). I'm posting them a day later than normal. I spent this afternoon vacuuming, finishing laundry and, most importantly, moving books around. The last one is the most important because, like my intellectual mind, my suite has been filled with piles of books and putting them in order felt like doing the same mentally; I first realized this years ago. I dusted off my shrine after years and moved my Buddhist books back into its shelves. Likewise I rearranged books in all of the other topics, music and pop culture, gardening, food and permaculture, literature, social justice and black history. My mind is clearer and my priorities have come into focus.
Here is what I posted last year:
"Health will continue to be a top
priority: overwhelm, sleep, mood, nutrition and diet, and fitness will
remain important. This year, I have three goals:
1. Finishing my recovery period
2. Improving my overall health and fitness
3. Focusing only on my writing (outside of work) as a creative activity
To elaborate:
1. I will continue to follow my aftercare (dilation) schedule which is
currently once daily and will change to once weekly starting March 21
and continue that way for the rest of my life. Also, I will get regular
check-ups, lab tests and any other health care service I require as soon
as required.
2. I will (other than this blog) avoid social media involvement after
11:00 pm nightly and will get to sleep promptly, doing anything I need
to do to facilitate the proper amount of night time sleep. I will eat a
more balanced diet (I have a sweet tooth which I am sure has deep
emotional roots) and take up a fitness routine, likely something t'ai
chi related along with some light cardio.
3. For years, I have tried to do as much as possible: I can no longer
sustain this. I choose to focus on writing this year as I would to
further develop some ideas I have had in mind."
I succeeded and completed number 1. No complications to date and my weekly schedule continues. I struggled with the second goal throughout 2016 thanks to the many curve balls thrown on various levels, but I persist. I will renew, with slight modifications, my commitment to it in 2017 (more later on in this post). Regarding number 3, my (paid for) writing and other creative activities saw fruition with the completion of a radio documentary and the screening of a TV sitcom which I contributed to a few years earlier. I nurtured a few other ideas, but they are to date still at the concept stage.
For 2017, my goals (outside of my career) are split. There are my personal (health) goals and there are my activist goals. My personal goals are as follows:
1. I will (other than this blog) avoid social media involvement after
11:00 pm nightly and will get to sleep promptly, doing anything I need
to do to facilitate the proper amount of night time sleep.
2. I will eat a
more balanced diet and continue t'ai
chi classes and related fitness activities along with some light cardio (walking).
3. I will also get some bodywork (massage, chiropractic or shiatsu) done to relieve and release stress in my body.
4. I will reintroduce meditation into my schedule and consult with a psychotherapist (as I did in 2016) whenever required.
5. I will continue to write and blog.
6. I will finish up any last ID changes (provincial and passport) that need to be done.
7. I will, with help, set up a financial plan.
These seem like more then enough for one year and will likely continue past that.
Because of the oppressive trends (none of them new) that became more visible in 2016, my activist goal is:
1. Participate in a local social justice organization.
2. Get involved in a local permaculture organization.
3. Continue to educate myself about intersectional (race, gender, class) and environmental issues through books and other media.
These are my 2017 goals. Best of luck with whatever goals you may set for yourself!
There is a film studies book on Weimar era cinema subtitled "Daydreams and Nightmares": what more fitting subtitle for the year that is, as I write this, almost history. That hesitant, leery way that Liza Minnelli sings "life is a ... ca-ba-ret old chum" in the final, chilling scene in Cabaret is exactly the tone guiding us out into the fog that lies beyond 2016.
For me the daydreams were personal. Creative projects, one of which had been years in the making, finally came to fruition. The Switch, the world's first transgender sitcom debuted on OutTV on July 25. Being a part of the writers' room in 2012-13 was one of the highlights of my life. The red carpet event in late July (Pride week) was a deep affirmation of our team's work, and for me, in a traumatic year, a rare moment of levity and balm for the soul. The same week saw a more recent solo project, a radio documentary on the medical aspect of my transition, air for the second time this year (it had debuted two months earlier on my alma mater CiTR FM where I had once hosted a music show for seven years). Inspired by these two events, my daydreams were about a life in creative harmony, making sharp, poignant social commentary and reaching many people through writing.
My other daydreams were of the good life, not in the monetary sense, but the sustainable life. Me on an organic farm, living in an earthship, getting back in touch with health and spiritual practice. The daydreams were always sunny and bright. When I arrived in Vancouver, over 21 years ago, they were what I was aiming for. The reality of this year seemed light years away from it.
No area of life in 2016, from the clinic in my hometown where I was nurtured through rebirth to friends, colleagues, family, neighbours, and others in any of my intersecting communities was untouched by shock, chaos, fear of death, gaslighting and abuse and dread about the world and the future. And violence and destruction (Nice, Orlando, Minnesota, Oakland, Aleppo, Istanbul). And the deaths of our modern heros and heroines at the exact point where we seemed to need their guidance the most. And the ascendancy of the evil and the psychopathic into positions of power, or at least, escaping justice and accountability.
By the end of this year, my trauma and that of my friends and others has made us tired and weary. Only fitting that Vancouver is having one of its rare snowy, cold winters this year. In years past, this was my cue to hibernate. Once, long ago, when I was thirteen and my biological mother was hospitalized, I retreated into a world of cartoons, old films and Christmas lights. Years later, after she passed when I was a young adult, I turned inward once again, this time taking refuge in the music I heard as a child. Still years later, during another snowy Vancouver winter, as a newly single person I once again turned inward, this time trying to plot a way forward in life. This winter, other than for thin respite provided by holiday music, I shut off the radio and computer in disgust.
At the end of this year, the way forward is foggy, the steps forward are shaky, the music has, sadly, lost its old magic. But, soon this rest period too will end and looking at the very numbers 2017 will take unparalleled courage. On that, I wish all of us godspeed.
At the end of a traumatic year on almost every level, this holiday season feels much like other time in my life when hibernation seemed the right thing to do ... for now. There will be plenty of time to get active next year and beyond. My next posts will be the usual, annual New Year's Eve/Day posts in a week's time.
In the meantime, Happy Christmas, Hannukah, Kwanzaa, Solstice, Candlemas, Shab-i-Jaldá’, Festival of Lights, Festivus and Secular Holidays to all!
In another hour, I'll be forty-six years on Earth. After a tumultuous year with much to process, I'm taking it ultra low key tomorrow and this week. I hope to get some reading done as well as leisurely late-summer walks with a little socializing thrown in.
Also for Pride season, currently airing on CiTR FM (where I hosted a program for seven years), is my radio documentary "Obstacles and Outcomes", about my journey through the health care system in British Columbia and Canada set against some of the landmark struggles for better trans health care over the past twenty years.
The documentary was made as part of the UBC 100 Radio Documentary series in which each piece features archival radio clips. My documentary features segments from the long-running LGBTQ issues program Queer FM, hosted from 1993-2010 by Heather Kitching. Enjoy the documentary (completed this past April) and follow-up interview (recorded over the phone in May).
Finally, the day (the month, the summer) has arrived! The Switch, the world's first transgender TV sitcom, broadcast its first episode on OUTtv last Monday evening, July 25. Over three years ago I was part of the writers' room that crafted the story arc and developed the characters and their hopes, fears and motivations. The Switch, the brain child of film maker and Executive Producer Amy Fox (who also stars as Chris in the series), features transgender characters portrayed by transgender performers; in addition many trans folks were writers and on the production crew. The show was recast three times and the writing has also been through many changes. In May, the Switch won two Leo Awards for Best Comedy Series and for Best Actor (Amy Fox).
It's been a long time coming! I saw the first three episodes at the red carpet gala a week ago. Tune in tonight at 9:00 pm for episode 2, story by yours truly. There are six episodes in total. Most importantly tell OUTtv that you like what you see and help The Switch get a second season produced and on the air.
Many, many of us in the LGBTQ/ally community have been impacted severely by learning of last weekend's shooting in Orlando, Florida. This can include anxiety and PTSD symptoms. This is currently the case with me. The numbers below can provide assistance anytime. If you need help from a doctor or a psychotherapist, please seek help immediately,
The focus of part 4 is on the unsung heroines outside continental North America (as well as two from inside) with more of an emphasis on the 70s.
Letta Mbulu
We start and end with a South African artist in this post. Letta Mbulu began performing at a young age and moved to the United States in 1965 to escape apartheid, joining her contemporaries Miriam Makeba, Hugh Masekela and Abdullah Ibrahim. She recorded vocals for film soundtracks and with jazz musicians throughout the 60s and 70s. Her first album Letta Mbulu Sings was released in 1967 on Capitol. 1968's Free Soul was a fusion of South African styles, soul, jazz and funk. "Welele" is the best example of this mix. 1970's; "Macongo" from her third album Letta is an equally strong track.
Dawn Penn
Jamaican music has, and has had since before the early days of ska, it's own soul singers. This was especially true with the arrival of rock steady, the transitional style between ska (early-60s) and reggae (late-60s). Rock steady's smooth, lilting rhythm was complimented perfectly by soul-styled vocals by groups and solo singers alike. Dawn Penn was one of many solo vocalists. "I Let You Go Boy", from 1967, does not sound like much of a title, but the proof is in the listening. The song is a response to the Uniques' rock steady tune "Let Me Go, Girl" using the same instrumental backing track.
Phyllis Dillon
Narrowing down the late Phyllis Dillon's repertoire to one or two favourites is nearly impossible. The anointed Queen of Rock Steady released dozens of hits through her career. Her 1967 rock steady cover of the pop standard "Perfidia" and her 1969 classic "Love Was All I Had", from the very beginning of the reggae era, are my favourites.
Joya Landis
If not Queen then the Duchess of Rock Steady, Landis' string of hits (covers of "Kansas City" and "Angel of the Morning" among them) began as rock steady started morphing into the choppy, more polyrhythmic style that would be christened "reggae" by the end of 1968. "Moonlight Lover" is a perfect example of a late rock steady number recorded on the prolific Treasure Isle label (also Phyllis Dillon's label at the time) owned by entrepreneur Duke Reid.
The Gaylettes/Judy Mowatt
Rock steady and, later, reggae, had its girl groups just like American soul music did. The Gaylettes were a trio featuring the very young Judy Mowatt on lead. The spring of 1968 saw their release "Silent River (Runs Deep)" on the Gay Feet label (hence their group name) owned by the first female label owner in Jamaica, Sonia Pottinger. Innovative rhythm guitarist Lynn Taitt and his studio band The Jets provide the back up while the Gaylettes' harmonies send a chill up your spine as they seem to meld into a fourth voice.
The Gaylettes split up in 1970 and Mowatt began to record solo material. In 1971, she recorded a reggae cover of Fontella Bass' "Rescue Me" also for Sonia Pottinger. She also, famously, began singing back up for Bob Marley and the Wailers becoming one of the I-Threes group alongside Rita Marley and Marcia Griffiths. Having been made an Officer of the Order of Distinction for "services to music" by the Jamaican government in 1999, Mowatt continues to record to this day as a gospel artist. Pottinger died in 2010 after a long, illustrious career as a record producer.
Marcia Griffiths
While Phyllis Dillon was the Queen of Rock Steady, Marcia Griffiths is still considered the Queen of Reggae, although her career stretches back to the halcyon days of ska around the time of Jamaica's political independence in 1962. Griffiths performed with the internationally famous Byron Lee and the Dragonaires before signing with Clement Dodd's legendary Studio One label in 1964. Much like Mary Wells, Kim Weston, and Tammi Terrell at Motown, Griffiths recorded soul ballad duets with male singers, among them Bob Andy and Bob Marley. Her only rock steady number, from 1968, "Feel Like Jumping" used the backing track from the Maytal's "54-46, That's My Number".
In 1969 she recorded an entire album with Bob Andy on the Harry J label which yielded a local and UK hit single: a cover of Nina Simone's "Young, Gifted and Black" on the top side. Motown picked it up for US distribution in mid-1970, but the single went nowhere stateside. Other great covers that she recorded in her pre-I Threes days included a scorcher of the Beatles classic "Don't Let Me Down" and, alongside Bob Andy, the Crispian St. Peters one hit wonder "Pied Piper".
Dorothy Ashby
Back to the US ... Dorothy Ashby, like Alice Coltrane, was a jazz harpist who recorded numerous albums throughout the 50s and 60s. In 1968, she signed with Chess records in Chicago. Chess had released jazz records before, but, increasingly, they were coming upon music that defied easy categorization. For those artists, they introduced a label called Cadet Concept; the first act signed to it was the Rotary Connection in 1967. Ashby released three albums on Cadet Concept, the last being the mystical Rubaiyat of Dorothy Ashby, in January of 1970. The standout track is "The Moving Finger". Beginning and ending with an incantation (taken from a translation of the epic poem The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam) drenched in apocalyptic reverb, the music begins like a rumbling, climaxing with a riff from string section. There was much spiritual seeking in 1969-70, but also much chaos, violence and destruction; this foreboding atmosphere some of the best music of those years.
Ashby continued recording into the 80s before passing away in 1986.
Spanky Wilson
Spanky Wilson's began singing backup for jazz artists and ... the above-mentioned Letta Mbulu. Her own early material, recorded on the bizarrely named label Mothers Records and the Snarf Company, is at the very confluence of funk and rock. Sadly, they never made the impact that they should have.
Wilson's first two albums, Spankin' Brand New and Doin' It, were both released in 1969. Her cover of Cream's "Sunshine of Your Love" is simply electric. In 1970, she released Let It Be, which included other covers besides the title track, another being "Love or Let Me Be Lonely". Wilson recorded an album for Westbound records in the mid-70s before disappearing from the scene. She released a comeback album in 2006 with the Quantic Soul Orchestra called I'm Thankful.
Daisy Dumakude
And now we leap ahead a few years into the disco era for an undisputed South African soul gem. Born in Durban, South Africa, Dumakude moved to New York in the 70s and recorded an album called Africa Disco in 1977 with producer and later, husband, Welcome Msomi. A sleek, shimmering album, there is a track on it called "Early in the Morning" which starts subtle then sneaks up on you and ensnares you in its hypnotic rhythms. Sounding something like the Miracles' 1974 hit "Do It Baby", but with a certain unearthiness, "Early in the Morning" deserves more recognition, and Africa Disco deserves a re-release.
After this album, with the help of her husband, Dumakude entered the world of dance and musical theatre. She has since performed in films such as Cry Freedom (1988) and in Broadway productions such as the musical version of The Lion King all the while supporting charities based in South Africa. She still lives in New York with her husband.
For Women's History Month 2016, I have decided to do two more posts on some of the unsung heroines of soul music, as I can see from the right hand column of this page the lasttwo are still quite popular.
Colette Kelly
There is no much known about Ms. Kelly except that, as of the late-90s, she was the owner of a nightclub based in Baltimore. Hailing from Baltimore originally, she recorded the following A-side and B-side of a single that, in the summer of 1969, was licensed to Stax's Volt imprint in Memphis. Never was there a more un-Stax single release on the label; in fact, even the A-side and B-side sound like two different artists.
The top side is called "City of Fools" which went on to become one of the rarest and most coveted Northern Soul tracks ever. It does NOT have summer of '69 all over it: more like summer of '64 with its Martha and the Vandellas shuffle beat and haunting backing vocals (think of the Vandellas' "Quicksand"). Right from get-go, the eerie, minor key organ the starts the song off gives the whole number an off-kilter feel.
The B-side, "Long, Lonely World", DOES have summer of '69 written all over it. An equally haunting southern soul number with the kind of country feel of that would sounded at home at the Fame or Muscle Shoals studios in Alabama. The sweltering organ, the heartbroken vocal, the melancholy saxophone all combine to make this a true gem. Each side has appeared on different compilations over the years.
Marie "Queenie" Lyons
Another obscure artist with a few obscure singles and a once obscure album, made less so through a reissue a few years back. The New Orleans-based Lyons has singles going back to 1967, a few with unknown dates, and the 1970 album Soul Fever to her name. Her debut single was "A Minute of His Good Time" while the strident "I Want My Freedom" from Soul Fever was reflective of the Black Power movement on the cusp of the 70s.
Alice Clark
Alice Clark has had a cult following ever since the 2002 reissue of her 1972 eponymous album along with bonus tracks. Steeped in gospel, her singing style reaches inside you like the best deep soul. Her debut release was 1968's "You Hit Me (Right Where It Hurt Me)" on Warner Brothers. "Maybe This Time" was a track on her album released on Mainstream Records.
Dianne Brooks
A Canadian artist hailing from Toronto, Brooks sang back up for many artists, including fellow Canadians Anne Murray and Keith Hampshire as well as others such as Funkadelic and Emmylou Harris. Beginning in 1966, she also released material under her own name. "Walking On My Mind" was released in 1969 on Ray Charles' Tangerine label. Brooks also recorded for Reprise and Mort Ross' Canada-based Revolver label. Brooks died in April of 2005.
Shawn Robinson
60s soul icons Fontella Bass and Doris Troy spent some of their careers in the early 70s recording vocals for European movie soundtracks (in Bass' case, with the Art Ensemble of Chicago for the 1970 French film Les Stances a Sophie while Troy sang on the 1971 Italian film Kill! starring Jean Seberg). Shawn Robinson was much less known, but had been recording gems since the mid-60s, each of which has gone on to become a Northern Soul favourite. In 1971, she recorded "Right or Wrong" for the Italian film Dopo di che, uccide il maschio e lo divora, scored by the great film score composer Piero Piccioni. Not much information on Robinson besides that.
The older you get, the faster the days, weeks and months go by. Years ago seems like just yesterday. You start on a path with much to travel ahead of you: then, one fine morning, that journey (or that part of it) is behind you.
The last five years, from my first hormone to today, have been like that. Many of my posts have covered that. The last year since my SRS has also been that way; the last year of posts have shown that. As a recent post on Vox (by Lily Carollo) explained, transition and surgery, have their own ups and downs. When the novelty of the early days of transition wears off, when the reality of daily life, the paperwork, the transactions, and, frankly, the blood and guts of post-op arrives, you find out what transition and post-transition (if there's such a thing) involves. And a year after my surgery, I can say with utmost confidence that I have no regrets about having it, or transitioning as a whole.
The world, of course, continues to be the world: with its convulsions and horrors and, sometimes, even still ... its moments of beauty. There have been many times in my life where I've felt as if I've had no filter when taking in information and energy (for lack of a better word) from the world around me, but this last little while, I feel I've begun to develop one. Simply put, when you know yourself, you take less. A time out (staycation, retreat, rest, etc.) is a time out ... period. I've learned, painfully at times, self-care and boundaries; interesting the things you can do when you're solidly in your body.
Internally, all of the usual suspects (depression, OCD, anxiety) are, naturally, still there to be contended with. And contending with them I am. I've uncovered deep emotional issues with food that I'm seeking help with. For years, I've used food as a substitute for company ... for affection, and it's led to some unhealthy habits which I'm confronting and hoping to overcome and change. I'm also a hoarder for much the same reasons. I hope to be able to make more space for others in my life. I aim to live healthier and happier, treating myself better, than I use to.
Just over a year ago, I posted an anti-Valentine's Day piece. I'd like to amend it. I'm not anti-Valentines; I'm also in no hurry. Life is short and often I think, there's nothing in the world I would like more then to be with someone: but, at forty-five years of age, I'm willing to take my time; the dating/relationship rat race ended a long time ago.
I didn't do much gardening last year, until October anyway, as I was either at home recuperating or gradually settling back into work. But, I still dream of the country and living sustainably off the land. I'm beginning to think that that's my next "career": farming and writing. Someday soon, going with him, someday soon ...
Writing these posts used to seem so easy, but over the past year or so, they have seemed more like long, painful births. They include equal parts melancholy and joy; nostalgia and an accelerating forward. I have tried post pieces that will give readers a taste of my own mind, before, during and after transition (which never ends, I keep forgetting). I hope I have done that.
And now I ride off into the sunset of the rest of my life ...
Today, my hangover is not from last night (I rang in the new year at home), but has been years in the making. Five years of transition, with the preceding few years being especially dark, and the last twenty years of living on my own in Vancouver, getting established, working through deep emotional/spiritual issues, forming and maintaining friendships, managing my life and, then, preparing for and undertaking transition, and recovering from surgery. As I write this, nearly ten months after SRS, I am most of the way through my year long recovery. I have for the most part been very staunch about boundaries around my recovery, doing my aftercare no matter how demanding and tedious, resting when I needed to, taking sick time when I needed it, not taking on any activities beyond what I could handle and, perhaps most important of all, not taking on the emotional energy of others. All in the service of my sole 2015 goal: to get through surgery and my recovery, to put myself first, physical and mental health-wise. Yes, this was a challenge; like other people, I do not live in a vacuum and processing the distress of the world, past and present, has been a burden for most of us.
Now that I have almost completely recovered (I realize that last years' goal carries over into the first quarter of this year), I set my sights on this year. Health will continue to be a top priority: overwhelm, sleep, mood, nutrition and diet, and fitness will remain important. This year, I have three goals:
1. Finishing my recovery period
2. Improving my overall health and fitness
3. Focusing only on my writing (outside of work) as a creative activity
To elaborate:
1. I will continue to follow my aftercare (dilation) schedule which is currently once daily and will change to once weekly starting March 21 and continue that way for the rest of my life. Also, I will get regular check-ups, lab tests and any other health care service I require as soon as required.
2. I will (other than this blog) avoid social media involvement after 11:00 pm nightly and will get to sleep promptly, doing anything I need to do to facilitate the proper amount of night time sleep. I will eat a more balanced diet (I have a sweet tooth which I am sure has deep emotional roots) and take up a fitness routine, likely something t'ai chi related along with some light cardio.
3. For years, I have tried to do as much as possible: I can no longer sustain this. I choose to focus on writing this year as I would to further develop some ideas I have had in mind.
Those are my 2016 goals! Best of luck with whatever goals you may set for yourself!
I would like to wish all of my readers a very Happy New Year! Thanks very much, as always, for stopping by. Best wishes to all of you in 2016! Love, Vanessa
It's been a while since my last post, but such is the nature of an eventful year that flies by.
I want to wish all of my readers and their loved ones and very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Also, best of the season to those celebrating winter solstice, Kwanzaa, other festivities and nothing in particular. You could be gathering with family, biological and/or chosen, friends, intimates and you could be alone and doing compassionate service or emergency work of some kind. Best seasonal wishes to you as well. Reach out to those who have no family or friends to celebrate with this time of year. Keep each other in your hearts.
Usually when I wake up on the morning of my birthday, I temporarily forget what day it is; then, after a few seconds, it dawns on me. Today, it REALLY dawned on me. Halfway through a revolutionary decade, twenty years in Vancouver, the year of my SRS and recovery, the long hello and goodbye of transition ... that's what 45 means to me.
And the irreplaceable wealth of friends, family, colleagues and others.
I am touched by all the birthday messages today on FB and by the words of congratulation from those of you I met today as I fulfilled my birthday plan of taking it easy.
Time, when your daily routine is the same, passes without little or no notice; then, one day, you realize not just days or weeks, but months, have passed. At the end of this summer of recuperation, I am gradually getting my energy and stamina back, but it has been an uphill climb. On shortened hours, half my day is back at work with the other half being at home sleeping, dilating, eating ... functioning. I am fulfilling my one and only resolution for this year, to get through surgery and recovery, to do radical self-care. Physically, it has meant listening to my body and knowing my limits, prioritizing my post-op aftercare and exerting only as much energy as I can, regardless of what anyone may say about it. This is also true emotionally. I have learned not to take on other people's issues, absorbing their anxieties. There are energy suckers around who want your attention, your energy and all the rest. To them, I have been staunch about not letting them have it.
More than ever, I have lived on my own terms and needs.
And my cat's. Tatum became ill with pancreatitis in late May/early June while I was still off work. A few vet visits, an x-ray, an ultrasound and several medications later, he had made a full recovery, but it had been a tense few weeks. It had reminded me of how vital a friend he had been in all the years since I had adopted him, years ago when we were both shipwrecked in life. Since then, he had watched me through some very dark times and many changes. I was not ready to let him go just yet.
Last Monday, August 24, was my twentieth anniversary in Vancouver. Once long ago, I arrived with only two pieces of luggage (although six boxes arrived a couple of days later), but much baggage. Devastated by grief and terrified of disease and mortality, I sought to make a radical departure from the life I had led up until then, to overthrow old habits, learn new things, to live the healthiest life that I could. Every day was a brave new world. I still have a few souvenirs from those days: my meditation cushion and various shrine ornaments, supplemented by two of my late mother's brass candle holders, a second-hand Cowichan sweater, my first new item of clothing that I bought at a bazaar in the old UBC student union building. The future was completely open, the world seemed friendly. I miss those days, but I am glad I had the privilege to experience them.
I turned out that the student union building would have more in store for me then just clothing bazaars. During that first year of graduate school, I did the volunteer orientation for CITR FM, but I would not have time for volunteering until over a decade later. It then became the setting for my nightlife as a radio DJ. Some of the swing dances I went to, and DJ'd, were upstairs in the party and ballrooms. I grew with both of these. Eventually the dances there faded and I left the show. At the end of this past June, CITR moved into the new student union building, called the Nest. I went to the on-air continuous wake on the last Friday evening of that month. An alumni from the 1990s had me on as a guest for about ten minutes. I played twosongs and then talked about how great the new studios looked, then made my way. I missed those days as well. Adding this to my reflecting on my transition this past spring and summer has made this year more melancholy and nostalgic than I anticipated. Music will always be a deep part of my life.
Part of coming into one's own is taking your place in the world, becoming aware of it's state and finding where you can be a service.
The world is in dire shape and I feel the need to be a part of the solution. I know it will be a world of tough choices and sacrifices and I am steeling myself for it. My personal goals of the past twenty years have led to this point. The decisions I make on how best to live, be activist and contribute to a newer world will be built on top of them. We now head into the thick fog we call the future.
Spending a lot of time reflecting these days, I've realized many things. It's been a mixed journey this past year, coming of age (yet again) in a darkening, chaotic world. My story is one thing, but the world I've reentered feels foreboding and not without good reason.
Images from the second half of last year, Ferguson, Cleveland, New York still haunt me. Senseless violence and murder from the unaccountable, flames, riot police and military gear under a season's greetings sign during the holiday season, marches in the snow and cold. Add to these this year's horrors, Baltimore, McKinney and Charleston. The rage and fear I felt, and still feel, is hard to articulate, but consuming nonetheless. I fear the quiet of night time, something that used to comfort me. I live in a tolerant, diverse neighbourhood, but it only takes one hateful individual to cause grave harm, even in Canada. Being black, being trans, being out: any or all could be used as reasons by a bigot on a rampage.
And there's more than that. The free spaciousness of our society is diminishing rapidly. Corporate culture is everywhere and feels like a noose tightening around our necks, inflicting both micro and macro aggressions, unleashing its malcontents in the form of gangs, racists, and "lone wolves" to scapegoat and attack at will. Maybe not today ...
Once, long ago as a bullied pre-teen, I suffered from what I now know was PTSD: nightmares and night terrors, stomach pains and vomiting, chest pains and coughing, anxiety. Growing past this, gaining independence, growing intellectually and creatively through college and university, moving out west (twenty years ago) gave me confidence. Coming out a few times since then, even more so. I had always felt that the world was moving forward as I was. But I wake up feeling that fear in the pit of my stomach that bullies past have returned with a vengeance on the world stage. I walk through the world, with autonomy, with agency, but for how long.
