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Walking in London is Sharon Tate, Piccadilly Circus: 1967

Image by encanto_sunland
‘SEXY LITTLE ME’
This is how Hollywood turns a pretty Texas girl into Sharon Tate, the star.

May 6, 1967 – Sharon Tate had finished her last scenes for The Vampire Killers (later to be called Your Teeth in My Neck), and had no film work for the moment. At 95 Eaton Mews West, London, she moved about in the late afternoon looking for something to do. She sat Buddah-style on the living room floor and put on fake eyelashes, one eyelash at a time. She worried that a sunlamp treatment, taken a few hours before, was going to make red cracks in her face. “Doesn’t it seem to be getting all red on the cheeks? Look close now.”

She wore a gray sweatsuit and furry boots, having been to her daily gym class that afternoon. She didn’t like the gym class, but Roman Polanski, her director, had told her she must go. She frowned into a hand mirror, thinking she saw a red streak. She started to bite a fingernail but stopped. Roman had forbidden any more fingernail biting; she had a tendency to bite them down to the nub. She went to the refrigerator, and amidst Wyborowa vodka and Carlsberg beer, brought out the makings for a salami sandwich. She would not drink a beer because it might bloat her, and Roman was taking her out for dinner.

There was no place in the apartment for her to settle back and relax now. Everything inside had a transient look as if the tenants would only be there a short season. A complicated stereo set sat on crates; Bach on top of a stack of records, Cannonball Adderly on the bottom. There were no pictures, no pets, no cozy heat. Upstairs on the wall was a framed citation stating that Knife In The Water under the direction of Roman Polanski had been nominated for an Academy Award. As Sharon reached for a folder of still photographs from The Vampire Killers to show a male visitor, she stuck up her bottom in a way she has; as she went through the photos, she pooched out her bosom. But she did it by reflex. Her thoughts were totally on her director, who was not there. She had been in three unreleased films – 13, Don’t Make Waves and The Vampire Killers, all with different directors.

If she caught the public’s fancy in any of these pictures, she would become a movie star. And she was pleased with her work in The Vampire Killers. She was in a nude bathtub scene in it, and in a brief sequence in which she got spanked.

The phone rang; it was a strange female voice with a French accent. “Is Roman there?”

“No, I’m sorry he isn’t,” Sharon said, in her accent of the moment, which was English. “Who shall I say is calling, please?”

“Oh – I just wondered if he were in. Tell him, Barbara. Thank you very much..”

Two of Sharon Tate’s three pictures have been produced in Europe. Although Texas-born, Sharon spent her adolescence abroad and much prefers London to Hollywood.

The dull London afternoon turned dark, and still no Polanski. He could be cutting The Vampire Killers, or he could be tied up in London traffic or he could be sitting in a café. She took off her furry boots and put her feet into his house slippers, which rested at odd angels by a mammoth bed that cost over 0. The slippers were far too big for her. She wondered if tonight she would be thrown with people who would overwhelm her with their wit, their awesome knowledge, their self-confidence. When she was out in public with Roman, she never felt adequate enough to open her mouth. She could only talk to him alone. Her problem was that she had always been beautiful, and people were forever losing themselves in fantasy over her – electing her a beauty queen, imagining her as a wife, dreaming of a caress. Most people had fantasies. But a few people, like Polanski, took charge.

At the age of six months, Sharon Tate was elected Miss Tiny Tot of Dallas, Tex. Her mother had sent in photos of the beautiful baby to contest officials. Sharon’s father was (and is) in the Regular Army, and was then stationed in Dallas. (Both her parents are natives of Houston.) As Sharon grew up, the family moved around in Army style, her father frequently absent from home. She remembers that when her father would return from an overseas tour, and she had reached a nubile age, her mother’s first command would be, “Now you, Sharon Marie, button up that nightgown when you come out of your bedroom. Daddy’s home.” Her father was very strict with her as she budded through adolescence, turning thumbs down on potential boyfriends and making her stay in nights. He was very strong and knew how to take charge.

But most people continued to do things for Sharon without her lifting a finger. At 16 she was elected Miss Richland, Washington, and a short time later named Miss Autorama. At the age of 17, she was in Verona, Italy, where her father was stationed, and the prizes mounted. At Vicenza American High she was a cheerleader and baton twirler and was chosen Homecoming Queen and Queen of the Senior Prom. The Vicenza yearbook for 1961 shows her as a very pretty, large-eyed girl, with hair somewhat darker and hips a little broader than now. She daydreamed at this time about becoming a psychiatrist and a ballerina and had little to do with her classmates. Yet if any far-out stunts or fads were proposed, this terribly quiet girl was ready to lead the way. “If miniskirts had come in then, ” she says, “I’d have worn the shortest one.”

Today the fad among young girls in cosmopolitan circles is to use the old Anglo-Saxon words in everyday conversation, and Sharon Tate leads the way. But back in Italy at 17, she was just starting her worldly knowledge. She watched the on-location shooting of Barabbas, a film about ancient Rome, and the family scrapbook now includes still pictures of Jack Palance and Anthony Quinn in the movie costumers they wore in Italy. As she walked in Venice one day, she was spotted by the choreographer for the Pat Boone Show, which was being filmed in Italy. She next appeared very briefly in one of Boone’s TV shows, and his glossy smiling face now rests in the album with a fond inscription for Sharon.

When the Tate family moved from Italy to Southern California, Sharon decided it was time to live on her own. She was 18, and she paid a visit to Harold Gefsky, then an agent for Richard Beymer, a young actor she met in Rome. “She was so young and beautiful,” Gefsky, a softly-spoken man, said in his Sunset Boulevard office, “that I didn’t know what to do with her. I think the first thing I did was take her to a puppet show.”

He also got her work because her father, in Calvinistic style, had only given her a few dollars to sink or swim. One of her first jobs was dressing up in an Irish costume and handing out Kelly-Kalani wine in Los Angeles restaurants at a day. She also appeared in TV commercials for Chevy cars and Santa Fe cigars. People who knew her during this period agree on one thing. She was the most beautiful girl in the world. “Everywhere I took her she caused a sensation,” Gefsky said. “I would take her into a restaurant and the owner would pay for her meal. Photographers kept stopping her on the street. I’ve lived in Hollywood since the mid-Forties, but I’ve never seen anything like it before or since.”

But at this point, no one, except perhaps Sharon, knew if she wanted to be an actress. Then one-day Gefsky took her by to meet his friend Herbert Browar, who was connected with TV’s Petticoat Junction. He thought possibly Browar could fix her up with a minor role, something to tide her over. Browar took one look at her and rushed her in to see Martin Ransohoff, head of Filmways, Inc.

Ransohoff has a strand of hair combed over his bald dome. He wears loose sweaters, torn windbreakers, and breeches that are baggy in the seat. He first started producing TV commercials in New York when food particles were glued onto Brand X’s plate to show the differences in detergents. He branched out into TV programs with such commercial winners as Mr. Ed, The Beverly Hillbillies and Petticoat Junction. He then tackled movies on the order of The Americanization of Emily and The Loved One, which got mixed reviews but generally made money. He founded the company in 1952 at 0, and today it operates on a budget of over million. He will talk about Oswald Spengler or H. L. Mencken and then croon into his ever-present phone, “Helloooo, Bertie, baby. Where’s the action, kid?” He chews gum till his head rings, smokes two packs a day and sends everyone to the wall with his adrenaline. He can be gratuitously cruel in speaking of others – “She’s got a lunch pail for a mouth,” he said of an aging actress, “and if we take out insurance on her, it’ll have to be that she’ll die.” Then he can take his twin sons to a football game, clean up a dog’s mess in his Bel Air living room, and talk to anyone in the world who has guts enough to call him. A rich man’s son, he sold pots and pans from door to door while going to Colgate and claims the experience taught him what the public will or will not buy. He had little interest in films before he became involved in them, and his favorite actress in the old days was Deanna Durbin – who, coincidentally, was also Polanski’s favorite. Both vividly remember her pedaling a bicycle down a shady street and singing through a dimpled smile. Not everyone has had pleasant dealings with Ransohoff in Hollywood, but all agree he is a super salesman.

When he first saw Sharon Tate, he squinted his right eye and did something that was very impulsive, even for him. “Draw up a contract,” he shouted. “Get her mother. Get my lawyer. This is the girl I want!”

He had not seen a screen test, not even a still photograph. She had hardly opened her mouth. But Marty Ransohoff, like the rest of us, has his fantasies – and Sharon Tate walked into one of his fondest ones. “I have this dream,” Ransohoff said, “where I’ll discover a beautiful girl who’s a nobody and turn her into a star that everybody wants. I’ll do it like L. B. Mayer used to, only better. But once she’s successful, then I’ll lose interest. That’s how my dream goes. I don’t give two cents now for Tuesday Weld or Ann-Margret..”

“I think he’s just trying to pull one over on the public,” Gefsky said.

Sharon signed a seven-year contract, and Ransohoff took charge. Gefsky, a nice man, bowed out. At first, she lived in complete fear of Ransohoff and did as she was told. “She wouldn’t even eat a hamburger if he told her not to,” a friend from that period said. If Ransohoff said she was to appear on The Beverly Hillbillies disguised in a black wig, she appeared. If he told her to go on a moment’s notice to Big Sur, New York, London, she went. Off and on she studied acting.

Jeff Corey, one acting coach, said, “An incredibly beautiful girl, but a fragmented personality. I tried to get reactions out of her, though. Once I even gave her a stick, and said, ‘Hit me, do something, show emotion’ ..If you can’t tap who you are, you can never act.”

Charles Conrad, another acting teacher, said, “Such a beautiful girl, you would have thought she would have all the confidence in the world. But she had none.” Among her friends, however, she began to refer to herself as “sexy little me.”

Ransohoff tried to place Sharon in The Cincinnati Kid – his own movie – but failed when the director demanded Tuesday Weld. He packed her off to New York to study under the personal direction of Lee Strasberg at the Actors Studio. “She was only with me a few weeks,” Strasberg said, “but I remember her. She was a beautiful girl.” In New York Sharon had a romance with a young French star, who offered her relief from her Texas-style, Puritan upbringing. The actor was tall, dark and very nice. When they broke up, the actor bungled a suicide attempt.

Sharon continued to fear Ransohoff. Once, while driving at a high speed near Big Sur, she turned her car over four and a half times, but somehow managed to crawl out with only minor injuries. Her first thought was that Marty would be mad. The first picture he finally placed her in was his French-made 13, in which she plays a chillingly beautiful, expressionless girl who goes about putting the hex on people. Completed many months ago, ’13’ still rests in the can waiting for a 1967 release date. Ransohoff flew Sharon back to Hollywood for her second film, Don’t Make Waves, in which she plays a beautiful, deadpan skydiver. Sharon’s first two directors were older men. Britishers – very polite, very nice and understanding with a novice actress.

And then Ransohoff began dickering with Roman Polanski, the Polish director living in London, to take a picture. Polanski, a tiny, baby-faced man whose explosive manner and Beatle-like appearance belie his much-admired skill as a maker of art films, wanted to do something with Ransohoff called The Vampire Killers, a spoof of horror movies. He wanted to play in it himself, and, as in all his movies, he wanted a beautiful girl in a supporting role.

“How about Sharon Tate?” Ransohoff said. “I was thinking more in terms of Jill St. John,” Polanski said.

At Ransohoff’s instigation, Sharon and Polanski had dinner together. He looked at her from time to time but said nothing. On a second dinner date, he was painfully silent once more. Real weirdo, she thought. What’s he waiting on? She found out shortly. Walking in London’s Eaton Square, he suddenly put a bear hug on her and they fell to the ground, Polanski on the bottom. Sharon clouted him and stormed off. “That’s the craziest nut I ever saw,” she said. “I’ll never work for him.”

But Polanski apologized, and they saw each other again. One night he took her to his apartment which had even less furniture than it has now and no electricity. He lit a candle and excused himself, flying upstairs to don a Frankenstein mask. He crept up behind her, raised his arms, and whinnied like a madman. Sharon turned and emitted a terrible scream. It took over an hour for her hysterical weeping to subside. Not long afterward Polanski informed Ransohoff that Sharon would do fine for The Vampire Killers. On the set, he treated her as if they never saw each other at night. He cajoled, flattered, got angry – whichever worked – and never had lunch with her. During the nude bathtub scene, he snapped still pictures of her. Still enthusiastic, he had her pose all over the set in the altogether and then sent the results to Playboy. She plays a gorgeous redhead in The Vampire Killers – and she shows

Roman Polanski walked into his apartment in a sharp blue blazer and high-gloss shoes, carrying a briefcase. He had a good-sized nose and searching, deep-set eyes, and he nodded briskly to Sharon. “A Barbara called,” she let out daintily. “Do you know who that could be?”

“A Barbara?” he called from the kitchen, out of sight. A pause. “You didn’t get any last name? Always get last names. I don’t know any Barbara that would be calling. Sharon, Sharon. There’s no liquor here. Always see to it that we have enough whiskey. Can’t you do that?”

Sharon went on the phone to order some, worrying about which brands to specify. She didn’t want to be embarrassed by asking Roman – although he would certainly tell her. He knew the correct whiskey brands in London, the good pastrami places in Manhattan, and the right topless spots in Hollywood. He learned a country’s customs and language in a couple of weeks. He took a bath now upstairs, calling down for Sharon to fetch him some tea. Later he descended the stairs in a cowboy outfit and boots, ready for dinner. Some movie friends had shown up, and he led the party on foot toward Alvaro’s restaurant.

At the restaurant, Sharon basked in the eyes that roved over her. She listened big-eyed to Polanski explain the difference between the sun’s heat and that on earth, apropos of Truffaut’s Fahrenheit 451. The only trouble was that it was difficult to digest pasta in such a giddy atmosphere, and she complained of her stomach. After Polanski figured out how to work the waiter’s ballpoint pen, he signed the check.

In a dreamlike state, Sharon began slipping into her fox fur coat in the foyer. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a tall Englishman with a prep-school tie and large teeth popped up and put his arm around her. “Ummm, you have a sexy feel, love. Don’t we all love to touch you now..” She squirmed away.

Out on the street, she said, “Roman, a complete stranger began hugging me in there.”

“Yeah? Really?” A short distance away he suddenly spied a blond in fox fur who had the same duck walk that Sharon has. “Hey, there goes Sharon,” he said. “Let’s get her and put the two of them together!”

“Don’t you dare,” she said, her anger flashing. Another day, away from Sharon, Polanski said, “I’m trying to get her to be a little meaner, She’s too nice, and she doesn’t believe in her beauty. Once when I was very poor in Poland I had got some beautiful shoes, and I immediately became very ashamed of them. All my friends had plain, ordinary shoes, and I was embarrassed to walk in front of them. That’s how Sharon feels about her beauty. She’s embarrassed by it.”

Sharon has a quarter-inch scar under her left eye and one beside the eye, the result of accidents which she keeps having. As Polanski drove with her one night in London, meticulously keeping on the left in the custom of the land, an Englishman with a couple of pints under his belt hit him from the right. The only one hurt was Sharon, whose head bounced off the dashboard, spraying blood on slacks, boots, and fur. An angry red wound appeared at the start of her scalp, and it will leave another whitish scar on her head. With blond hair combed down over her forehead to hide it, she skied at St. Moritz. And then she caught a jet for Hollywood because Ransohoff had called. She must redo a few scenes for Don’t Make Waves. She grumbled a little. She found she could grumble to Ransohoff now. She hated Hollywood, and she didn’t want to leave Polanski. Also, she hated to fly. She had to be drugged to endure it.

And then she appeared beside Ransohoff at La Scala restaurant in Beverly Hills. She had a black costume that looked more like a slip than a dress, and her blond head caught glints of movie-star light as she turned this way and that. “Oh, there’s David! David Hemmings. David, David!”

David Hemmings, who had been featured with her in 13 and had gone on to star in Antonioni’s Blow-Up waved. Other celebrities flicked glances her way, at each other, to the door to see what majesty might enter next. Occasionally they looked down at food or drink. The place was as crowded as Alvaro’s in London, the customers practically the same. Ransohoff wore an open-neck sport shirt and shapeless coat, and he talked business. “Listen, sweetie, I’m going to have to cut some stuff out of The Vampire Killers. Your spanking scene has got to go.”

“Oh, don’t do that. Why would you do that?” “Because it doesn’t move the story. The story has got to move. Bang, bang, bang. No American audience is going to sit still while Polanski indulges himself.”

“But Europeans make movies differently than Americans, ” she explained to the producer she once feared. “Blow-Up moved slowly. But wasn’t it a great film!”

“I’ll tell you something, baby. I didn’t like it. If I’d have seen it before the reviews, I’d have said it’d never make it. It’s not my kind of picture. I want to be told a story without all that hocus-pocus symbolism going on.”

“But that one scene, Marty. When the girl show’s her, ah –” (only Sharon said the Anglo-Saxon word). In Hollywood, New York, and London they all talked now about Blow-Up, dwelling on that scene.

“Yeah, I got to hand it to the guy for that one,” Ransohoff said, chuckling. “He pulled a good one-off there.”

“Oh, I want to do a completely nude scene,” she said. “Say you’ll let me!”

“OK, OK,” Ransohoff said, bored, looking toward the door. “Yes, yes.”

“Do it now. Don’t just say it.” Then Sharon got bored.

Early in the morning, Sharon appeared before the camera at Malibu Beach, redoing a scene for Don’t Make Waves. The sun had a hard time getting through the wisps of fog, and strong klieg lights helped out. In a sequence with an undraped David Draper, “Mr. Universe”, Sharon stuck out her backside and shot out her front. Magically, a button or two came undone on her polka-dot blouse, and after close examination of camera angle, director Sandy Mackendrick decided to leave it that way. He gave Sharon guidance in rubbing mineral oil over Draper’s bareback, as the scene called for. “Treat him like a horse,” he said. “Pat him just as you would an animal. That’s the way..”

She lovingly went over Draper’s muscled back, and then went “ugh” when the camera ceased to roll. The scene was done over and over. In her tiny trailer dressing room, she took a break and smoked daintily. “I’m happier when I’m working,” she said. “I don’t have time to think too much that way.”

One thing to think about was a visit to her parent’s home in Palos Verdes Estates, an hour’s drive away. (Her father was stationed in Korea, her mother and two younger sisters were at home.) Driving to the house one night in a heavy seaside fog, she became quieter and quieter, her words less Anglo-Saxon. A passenger beside her remarked, as the car neared its destination, that the fog reminded him of snow. “You know what it looks like to me?” she said. “Vomit.”

Her mother – a pleasant, plump, dark-haired woman – turned Sharon’s face this way and that. “Have you had your blood count recently, honey? You look so pale to me.” What did she think of Sharon’s becoming a movie star? What did she think of Roman Polanski? “You know,” she said, in the voice of every middle-class American mother, “I don’t care – just as long as she’s happy.”

Back in Hollywood Sharon moved from hotel to hotel, from one friend’s home to another. She talked to Polanski by phone. (It embarrassed him to try to write letters in English because of his mistakes.) So many things were unresolved, shadowy. Ransohoff was sore at Polanski because Polanski had gone way over the budget on The Vampire Killers (“Very un-Hollywood of him,” a Filmways executive said; another only referred to him as “the little–.”); Polanski was mad at Ransohoff because Ransohoff was cutting away at his film and postponing its release in the States. (Ransohoff had also had difficulties with Tony Richardson, the English director, over the budget and the cutting of The Loved One.) “The thing is,” said Sharon, “that Roman is an artist.”

At night Sharon went to The Daisy, a private discotheque in Beverly Hills. She wore an aviator’s leather jacket, slacks, and tinted Ben Franklin glasses. Seated near the dance floor, she silently watched young actresses her age go through their gyrations. Suzanne Pleshette and Patty Duke did subdued turns; Linda Ann Evans, in a miniskirt, did a much more spirited flying. Carolyn Jones, who only yesterday had played the ingénue, now looked like a chaperone. Sharon gave Linda Ann Evans the once over and said, “I’ve worn a much shorter mini in London. That’s nothing.”

From another table, a slim, bronzed young man with a pampered black hair ambled confidently past Tina Sinatra, Patty Duke, Suzanne Pleshette – and hovered over this strange blond beauty in an aviator’s leather jacket. He had the air of a football star in a small-town high school, who was used to having his pick. He showed his beautiful white teeth and said, “Let’s dance.”
“No,” she said, “let’s not.”

He kept the smile on his face as he backed away. He was now another who had tried to bring Sharon Tate into a private fantasy – but he didn’t know that she had passed his type long ago.

She was going to fly to London and get engaged to Roman Polanski. Then she was going to fly back to star in Valley of the Dolls. Ransohoff was lending her to 20th Century-Fox to play a sexy bombshell who goes to Europe to star in nudie movies and who bewitches the world with her improbable lushness.

By John Bowers

Used with permission of The Saturday Evening Post © 1967 Renewed BFL&MS, Inc, Reproduction rights reserved. To purchase a copy of this article contacts The Saturday Evening Post.

The Historic Chinook School – 95 Years Old!

Image by A.Davey
We’ve driven by this old school building many times without knowing its history or even that it is now a community center, an unlikely feat for a hamlet such as Chinook, Washington.

I took artistic license with this photo. Part of the school building’s renovations included a new cement sidewalk from the street to the front door. Since it’s new, it’s blindingly white. Before the renovation, there was no such walk, so I used Photo Shop to reverse that part of the project.

Here’s a Chinook Observer article from 2005, when today’s superbly restored buildings were just a gleam in the eye of dedicated volunteers:

CHINOOK – About 300 people stormed Joanne Friberg Leech’s Sanctuary Restaurant in Chinook last week for the first Friends of Chinook School fundraiser dinner. The spaghetti-and-all-the-trimmings event brought in about ,500 to help with the restoration of the historic school and gymnasium.

Leech, who was born and raised in Chinook and went through all eight grades at the school, donated the restaurant for the evening. The food was donated, including 100 pounds of hamburger. "We even sold the leftovers," Leech said. "I’m so glad I had the sauce made the day before because people came in the doors early."

An assortment of cakes was supplied by Chinook Coffee Company.

Eileen Wirkkala, president of the Friends group said besides paid admissions to the dinner, lots of people added donations at the door. "The silent auction held during the event was very successful," she said. "A highlight of the auction was an original watercolor by Carol Johnson, a Friends board member, a ‘mosaic’ of the school and children at play.

"It wasn’t just the money that made the event a success," Wirkkala said. "Everybody had so much fun. We’re happy so many people support our project. It was such a diverse group of people who came not only from Chinook, but Ocean Park, Ilwaco, Long Beach and Astoria. The school is dear to the hearts of many people, not just old-time residents but people new to the community."

Board members Loma Leback Billups, Carol Johnson and Ron Williams all graduated from Chinook Grade School and at least two graduates who have moved away from the area came to join the fun.

Dawn Church Wallace, who is a math teacher in Columbia, Mo., came to Chinook with her husband. She attended Chinook School for eight years and said she was "the tallest one in the school. There were five people in my class," she said, with first through eighth grades in two rooms. "I had a great time" all through school, she said. "We had really good teachers – Julia Hall, Mr. Sundstrom, Mr. Pilafian, Miss Melhuishgat and Irene Tinker. Mrs. Tinker taught first and second grades and she was fabulous. She could teach a carrot to read."

Wallace remembered that her uncle Joe was in the eighth grade when she was in the first grade. "He got to ring the bell for recess," she said. "I have such good memories of Chinook School."

Stories of the good times at the school were flying at the dinner. It wasn’t just the students, Wirkkala said. "It was also the warmth the school provided to the community during the Depression and war years when the people of the town needed a safe place to go." She said USO dances for the troops stationed at Fort Columbia were held at the school as well as baseball games and hometown basketball from the 1930s to the ’50s which is still discussed at coffee shops. Plays were staged by Angus Bowmer while he was a teacher in Chinook and before he went on to achieve worldwide fame as the founder of the Ashland, Ore., Shakespearean Festival.

Ron Williams, of Chinook, said he spent five years at the school before he transfered to Long Beach. He remembers first, second and third grades all taught in one room. "There was one person in first grade and three each in the second and third grades," he said. "It was great. We basically all learned the same thing." His grandfather, David R. Williams, was the clerk of the school board when the gym was built in 1921 and that his father, brother, aunts and cousins all attended the school. His aunt, Ellla Williams Gottberg, was a school board member when he was attending the school.

"It’s the soul of the community," Williams said. "We had halloween parties, Christmas plays and sports in the gym. There was a big rivalry with Ilwaco." His great-uncle, Lewis R. Williams, was the school’s principal and superintendent in the 1920s and wrote two books – "Chinook by the Sea" and "Our Pacific County."

Patty Timmen Krager and her husband attended the school, grew up and got married. She said they had been looking at an old school yearbook and discovered her future husband was standing behind her in a school picture. "He said he always knew me," she remembers. "It must have been love at first sight although I was younger than he was when we were in school." The Kragers, both retired teachers, keep a home in Chinook and have taught Yupik Eskimo children at the village of New Tok in Alaska for seven years. They also taught in Ilwaco, Long Beach and Naselle.

Judy Church Williams, who still lives in Chinook, attended all eight grades at Chinook and says her eldest daughter was at the school for three years. Williams said she will always remember the fifth-grade teacher, whose name she couldn’t remember, because he was always late for school.

With the kind of support for the school project that was apparent last week, the Friends group, founded in 2000, can look forward to success with their mission – to have the school and gymnasium once again the center point for the community, utilizing the facilities for cultural, educational, social, recreational and economic uses.

The school and gymnasium were indeed the soul of the community after the school was built in 1924. It closed in the 1970s and Friends members want it to once again be a center of services to Chinook and surrounding communities. A ,000 pre-planning grant was received from the state and an evaluation of the facilities has been completed by an architect for the estimated .3 million restoration.

"Our plan for Chinook School is to make it available for low- to moderate-income youth and elderly," Wirkkala said. "Numerous service groups and agencies will participate and they will help provide the operating revenue for the school once the restoration is complete. In addition, we want the buildings available for community use for public and private meetings and gatherings." She said the Chinook Indian Tribe will continue to occupy office space and operate a food bank. The school field will continue to be used for T-ball, baseball and soccer.

"The Friends of Chinook School are very appreciative of the cooperation, assistance and support give by the Ocean Beach School District Board of Directors and the Pacific County Commissioners for the school project," Wirkkala said.

Membership in the group is open and donations are always appreciated, Wirkkala said, and more fund-raisers are on the horizon.
www.chinookobserver.com/news/fans-of-historic-chinook-sch…

To see how those dreams came true, click here:

www.chinookeventcenter.com/home

*** IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT ***

Image by Claire CJS
National Coming Out Day, Supplemental:

What you are about to read is, for me, the most important (and long) post I’ll ever make in my life so far. For others, it’s maybe just a whiny waste of time; too goddamn long, drawn out, & dramatic. I just want to warn you this post is probably going to take like 30 minutes of time to read, and I apologize in advance for the level of effort required for this one. It’s a doozy. But here’s your chance to get a more complete picture of who I am — Only Carolyn and Beth (I love yous!!) have that complete picture, currently.

This is a confessional.

Most people who have known me know what my primary interests are: Computers, music (punk/metal/industrial/cartoon, and concerts), video (cartoons, movies), games (board games, video games), socializing (hanging out, parties, camping, festivals,), people (especially the ladies), and of course sex (like most humans)!

But most people also know that I am a bit…off. I can be a little…difficult. I’ll be nice to myself and leave it at that. I’m socially awkward, and it’s taken me a long time to be as cool as I am now, which is not that very. I test halfway into Asperger’s Syndrome, test higher on the autism spectrum than over 98% of adults, test as a borderline HSP (highly sensitive person), and test an almost-as-maximum-as-possible HSS (high sensation seeker). I have low-grade depression & low-grade alcoholism; a general need for substance use; incredibly low empathy; problems with attention; and traces of sociopathy, narcissism, & borderline personality disorder.

>>>>>>>But while being a very open and vocal person — always talking about all the many things that I loved & hated…. I was also hiding a lot about myself, living a lie, avoiding talking about many deep truths that were directly affecting me, and coping with a deep issue dating back almost as early as I can remember. I have been coping with having a so-called “gender identity disorder”.

When I previously came out, on Oct 11 2016, I stated that I was bisexual, pansexual, polyamorous, kinky, a crossdresser, genderqueer and/or gender-fluid … Which was a lot of labels to suddenly add to one’s public identity at the same time … yet … I still wasn’t being fully honest with everyone else… or even myself!

It’s far more accurate to state, today, explicitly and without ambiguity, that I am transgender.

I am trans;
I am transgender;
I am transfeminine;
I am a trans female;
I am a transgender female;
I am a transwoman [preferred trans term];
I am a woman [preferred general term].

And I am currently transitioning to be a full-time female. And really have been for some time. Since the beginning of 2015 when I stopped cutting my hair & started losing weight.
But even more specifically, since I started hormones at the end of July (basically August 1st).

So anyway, as horribly awkward and controversial as this may be…. For me, it’s do or die. So it’s happening. And it’s not up for debate. But I need to let people know — because “the questions” have already begun — so this is me letting you know.

I really think some people had this MOSTLY figured out. (Who had? I’m curious. Lemme know.) I’ve been hiding it less and less over the past year. But the jig is up, it’s time to come clean, come out of the final closet, and stop living a lie.

POLY SIDE-COMMENT: Being polyamorous just makes everything that much more confusing for everybody to comprehend, too 🙂 Sorry 🙂 Our lives are different than 99.9% of peoples’, and probably incomprehensible to 90% of people. You, the reader, may never be able to understand our lives.

PARENT/FAMILY COMMENT: I thought it was comically funny–

and cosmically unfair–that Carolyn & Beth have both had to deal with having awkward conversations with their parents about my “gender stuffs”, but that *I* haven’t had to deal with conversations with my own family about my “gender stuffs”. Mom, Dad, Britt & Chris, everyone else family-wise: I’m sorry for the weaseliness. This is how I have to do things. I’d rather go through this awkward process as few times as possible, and definitely not in person. This is like ripping one huge band-aid off, instead of 1,000 tiny band-aids. And Mom and Dad, did you really suspect nothing? I really doubt it. See you at Thanksgiving? No need to change my name on any Christmas presents already labeled? Lol? I won’t complain if I get a women’s jacket? Lol.

——————————————————————————

WHAT NEXT?

I’m not done. I need to talk about some shit — BUT MAKE SURE TO READ THE “ADVICE FOR PEOPLE” SECTION AT THE BOTTOM…… More writings on other stuff will come out later this week.

——————————————————————————

——— ***** ON HOW THIS HAS FUCKED ME UP AND MADE ME FEEL: ***** ———

Holy shit I’m not at all happy about this, in terms of life convenience. This is harder, not easier. Why can’t I reroll my character’s stat, and get a generic character that isn’t special? I was born in the wrong time for this! It’s inconvenient! It’s a pain in the ass! It’s expensive! We’re maybe K down in the past year alone, and future expenses will most likely make that seem like just the beginning.

>>>>>>>It has, for the majority of my life, fucked me up in all kinds of ways — usually without me realizing it.

>>>>>>>As a child — and as an adult — I’ve always felt kind of lonely and unconnected from people — and I think this has been exacerbated by the fact that it’s hard to have a true connection to a person when you aren’t even your true self. (Devi Lyrics: “When I say that I’ve had surgery, I mean I’ve had a ski mask stapled on permanently.”)

(My neurodivergent state of being hasn’t helped, either.)

This has caused me to seek connections to people in ways that are sometimes excessive.

I feel like “extreme extroversion” is occasionally a coping mechanism for some kind of self-problem — and maybe my extreme extroversion was really just me looking for the validation from other people that I could not give to myself. I feel like Andrea had this “extreme extroversion syndrome” in common with me, and seeing it in her taught me something about myself. She used her love of speaking & spoken languages to connect to more people than someone who did not know those things, and I used my love of programming & computer languages to connect to more people than those who did not know these things. We both were making out-of-country friends growing up, and connecting to people like crazy…trying to increase the pool of eligible friends to be large enough. Large enough for what? Why, to include a true friend!

When you have low self esteem, you believe you need to meet more people to find those that can tolerate you, because the percentage that WILL tolerate you is close to 0. We both had tools and career interests that were both really self-serving ways to be able to connect with more people. Seeing her cope with her problems helped me realize that some of my behavior was not behavioral preference, but me failing to cope with my own problems. Instead of connecting with others, I needed to be connecting with myself–because, for the most part, I just feel a coldness from most people. Or hollow words. Everyone hurts; I’m chopped liver, and all sore spots. I really do need real connections, but I’m going to cope with this by being my true self, instead of by attempting to be friends with every warm body I meet. It. Doesn’t. Work…. I’m. Too. Different… I don’t even think the ‘maximizing the friend pool’ strategy is a bad strategy. I plan to continue to do that. But I was doing it for the wrong reasons.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>So as I was saying, this has, for the majority of my life, fucked me up in all kinds of ways — usually without me realizing it:

My well-being, my self-confidence, my ability to attach to people correctly, my ability to maintain relationships correctly, my ability to be a good husband, my ability to date, to be comfortable having sex with people, my mental health, my physical health, my finances (K down already! It’s my entire fucking car again!), my ability to enjoy myself at vanilla social parties, my ability to enjoy myself at kinky sexy parties, my ability to know what to do with my life. (Violent femmes lyrics: “Everything everything everything everything.”)

Try having way too much dysphoria to be comfortable naked. It’s a bringdown. When everyone hops in the hottub, I leave the party. I’ve been shamed in front of the whole party, for not being willing to drop trou. It was mortifying, it made me feel like less of a person, I did not appreciate the pressure or the shaming, I couldn’t tell people (or even myself) all the reasons why I was not cool with it, and I’m glad the person who did this to me drank himself to death, because he hurt me. In so many different ways.

———– ***** THE ROLE OF ALCOHOL: ***** ——–

Speaking of alcoholic assholes…. I don’t really remember, say, 2003-2011, very well at all. Yay alcohol?
(Devi lyrics: “All the time that I’ve wasted–I just want to burn through the rest of my life. Everytime that I say anything, I’m so FUCKING humiliated by my self! I’m afraid. I just want you to know. Please don’t come near me. I just want to dig deeper down in this well.”)

I know I worked a job for 4.5 yrs, still my lifetime record. I know built an addition to my house. I know I then took 4 yrs off work. I know I did some parties and social things with some people — pretty much none of whom I see nowadays. I don’t really remember what else happened.

I’m not really sure when the daily drinking tapered off. I know Carolyn stopped the daily drinking a few months before I did, and that I HAVE NO RECOLLECTION OF ANY OF THIS. I don’t even remember that this event occurred. It’s a story Carolyn tells me. It rings no bell. I have a hole in my head where some of my life used to be. (Nine Inch Nails lyrics: “Head like a hole, black as your soul, I’d rather die, than give you control” – It’s like I would rather die from drinking myself to death than give control to my feminine self..)

I did all this to myself. And for what? To look forward to death? To “have fun”, but not even remember it, get fat, kill brain cells (alcohol does, marijuana does not), sleep poorly, work poorly, be dehydrated, reduce liver function, not having time to process issues, not having time or will for self-care? What’s the fucking point? We should have pulled each other out much sooner. We lost years. But we did. Carolyn yanked us out of the abyss, and then I pulled us the rest of the way up. It took both of us, and a medical scare, to get to the level of consumption we are at now.

—

——— ***** SO MANY DOUBTS: ***** ———

So YES, I’ve been avoiding this thing. “Maybe I’m not trans?”,

“Maybe I’m more cisgendered than transgendered?”, “Maybe I’m not far enough into the transgendered spectrum that I can ignore my trans side and continue to bask in my privilege and not ever come out of the closet?”, “Maybe I can just explore this sometimes, and not deal with it all the time?”, “Maybe I can be bigender — both genders?”, “Maybe I’m agender and can just be androgynous, or nothing?”, “Maybe I’m gender-fluid, and shouldn’t transition, so that I can maintain my male-female fluidity that I’ve enjoyed for so long?”…….

“Maybe this is just how my bisexuality makes me feel sometimes?”, “Maybe I just like looking at transwomen?”, “Maybe I just like boobs enough that I want a set on my chest to feel up all the time?”, “Maybe this is just a foil for increasingly hating men, their violence, and their aggression?”, “Maybe this is just a foil for increasingly hating myself, my violence, and my aggression?”, “What if I’m doing this because I’m a failure as a man?”, “Maybe I just want an excuse to diet?”,

“Maybe I just want a fresh start and a creative solution for re-inventing myself, and this is a way to give that an illusion of legitimacy?”, “Maybe this is just a mid-life crisis?”, “Maybe this is just a creative solution for depression?”,”Maybe I’m so bored with life that the novelty is the thing that is actually appealing to me, and I don’t realize it’s not authentic?”, “Maybe I’m just seeking attention for myself?”, “Maybe I’m so compulsive and non-self-aware that this is simply the next hole I dig myself into before realizing I’ve wasted even more of what little time I have left?”,

“Maybe I just want increased sexual attention, and could do that without making major changes to my body?”, “Maybe I just like women so much that I fetishize them so much that I want to be one, but for fetish reasons, and not for actual gender identity reasons?”, “What if I get there, don’t like it, and can’t reverse some very important things?” [male-sexual-dysfunction for 75% is not something people realize hormones actually do…and many transwomen often say the new orgasms are better and full-body, BUT WHAT IF THEY AREN’T? Cause I don’t like the butt stuff as much as most of my people, so my options may be limited], “What if I should just get a boob job and surgical feminization but not take hormones specifically to protect male sexual function?”,

“What if I die poor, homeless, and alone, just because I valued my identity and well-being more than the practicality of living?”, “What if I just crossdress, then I can still go to McDonald’s as a privileged male who has far less possibility of being attacked”, “What if Carolyn wouldn’t be attracted to me?”, “What if women won’t be attracted to me?”, “What if men are TOO attracted to me?”, “What if nobody would be attracted to me?” [ironically, I want to fuck myself for the first time in my entire life,haha], “What if I can never pass?” [usually true for MtF-trans in their 40s, but not 30s… I waited 10yrs too long],

“What if my family and/or friends disown me?”, “What if I can only find trans friends, and it’s back to the lonely existence of a huge geographical distance being between me and my friends?”, “What if I can’t travel because a lot of the country is no longer safe for me?”, “What if I can never get a fair shake in a police encounter?”, “What if my feminine voice just sounds like I’m doing a goofy cartoon character?”,

“What if my neighbors burn my house down or vandalize my car?”, “What if I actually have to use my concealed carry permit to defend myself from a transphobic attacker?” [1st time I’m attacked, I won’t go unarmed again; 2nd time I’m attacked, I will end that person to save their next victim], “What if the reason he attacked me was that I goaded him, but in doing so, I save someone in the future who would not have been armed, and who would have been killed, but then go to jail for saving that future person, because police and judges will be biased against me?”, “What if I need facial reconstruction surgery after an attack, because I was scared to carry my gun, because I was scared of going to jail after righteously using it, because I was scared a jury in a country full of Trump-voters would not give a transwoman defending herself via the 2nd amendment a fair shake in court, and will never look the same again, because an empowered transphobic trumpster attacked me after I goaded them for being a piece of human shit?”,

“What if I can never get a programming job again? What the fuck can I do? I don’t know anything else & am kind of bad at adulting, having coasted on privilege the whole time”, “What if I am just doing this because I’m guilty of the privilege I’ve had, and want to punish myself”, “What if I’m doing this for all the right reasons, but still can’t succeed?”, “What if I’m doing this for all the right reasons, succeed, but still want to change my mind?”

Could you even get through that list? The doubts go on, near-infinitely. And can be dwelled on, near-infinitely. Or at least for 20-40 years, for me.
“Am I really trans?” being the big one. (Devi lyrics: “Your place will consume and then deny ya, Make you feel like sugar in saliva, It’ll jinx and hex and echo and ride ya, but it’ll still want you when you go.”)

——— ***** THERE WERE SIGNS: ***** ———

But I have to continually remind myself that I’ve gone through things cisgendered people don’t go through. Like 30 appointments of laser hair removal and electrolysis, or having spent 1,000+ hrs reading up on how to transition, or just thinking about it as much as I have. That’s not intellectual curiosity.

And some of the signs of my transness were always there (super-sexist list warning, sorry):

– I was mistaken and asked if I was a girl a LOT while growing up.
– My favorite color was pink.
– I was self-conscious about my bits.
– I loved pantyhose and skirts and would run under them, not to check out the ladyparts, but because I liked the feel.
– I mostly emotionally attached to women when I was young. NOT men.
– I preferred to play imagination games more than building things and sports (though I love games, & still played baseball, bicycle games, and sometimes basketball)

– I was never handy with stuff (couldn’t change a tire until my 30s).
– I was never strong (still don’t know what a pull-up feels like, could never make ‘standard’ on anything).
– I despised sports & gym…. Greatly preferring home ec or art or music class.
– I’m not into cars and still can’t identify most of them.
– I have a poor sense of direction. (this is one of my sexist items, sorry)
– I was ALWAYS picked last in all-male gym situations — for co-ed gym situations, I would be picked only after all of the guys (and some of the girls).

– I’ve always chosen female characters when playing video games.
– I’d choose female usernames for anonymous online accounts.
– I spent time practicing crossing my legs like the girls in middle school. I told myself at the time it was just admiration.
– I often sat (and stand) in ways that most males do not
– I curl my body up in a ball instead of stretch out

– I’m not a romantic initiator — Guys are supposed to ask girls out, but all 4 of the significant women in my life (Jackie,Carolyn,Andrea,Beth) initially approached me, not the other way around.

– I lost my virginity to someone who had shorter hair than me, and was more sexually aggressive than me, and who was physically larger than me… Not a super-gendered thing, but, i must admit, these words probably describe a typical female experience more than a typical male experience, so I figured I’d throw that in there.

– I don’t mind playing around with girls without fucking them, sometimes not even taking up an open offer to do that. PIV (penis-in-vagina) sex just isn’t as high up on my agenda as it is with cisgendered males. It’s a good time, but it’s not the main goal of a play session for me, or the center of my sexuality.

– I’ve always loved My Little Pony (1st gen even) [4th gen My Little Pony accelerated my transition by years–not joking.]

– I have small shoulders.
– I have small feet.
– I don’t have large hands.
– I don’t have hairy hands or arms or butt cheeks.
– No back hair whatsoever.

– I’m a “social butterfly”, which, I had to have a dude tell me “you’re the only DUDE i know who is like this”. Never thought of it as feminine.
– I’m a diva.
– I can’t stand the hot. Or the cold. Just keep me inside out of the sun.
– I Can’t stand physical activity.
– I’m very emotional and moody (sorry some of this is sexist, it’s hard to have a list like this and NOT have it be sexist)

– Hell, At my last job, they “punished” me by moving me into a room that had only females in it. I didn’t realize it was supposed to be a punishment. I felt better there. The ladies fed me, were pretty, and I got to look at boobs & butts & legs & eyes & hair all day, every day. Punish me harder! Maybe you have a room with EVEN MORE WOMEN in it?! If I miss a deadline, will you send me to the playboy mansion?

>>>>>> So yeah. There were some signs. Nothing definitive enough in and of itself. I don’t feel strongly gendered in general, so it was hard to suss out and fully believe that I was trans. I thought I was just awesome. And I was right about that. Except for my dishonesty with myself.

>>>>>So there’s been a ton of feminine-gendered things about me my entire life. But everyone is a mashup of femme and masc traits, and your preferences don’t ACTUALLY determine your gender, and all genders are free to do ALL THE THINGS, so I always just wrote off these aspects as me being larger than life and having enough of a personality to cover both genders. That was part of my trans denial (I have a whole side-writing on denial to share later).

Doubts, doubts, and more doubts.

————-

——— ***** BACK TO THE SELF-IDENTITY DRAWING-BOARD: ***** ———

So….Yeah… Fuck these doubts. I can’t ignore this thing. It’s been going on way longer than I’ve realized. I’ve tried to steer clear of it, but it’s NOT fucking happening. I’ve been destined to be trapped under it. In avoiding this trap, I’ve unwittingly trapped myself anyway! (Devi lyrics: “For the last 21 years.”) Shit. Didn’t see that coming.

Although I’m mostly done figuring things out, but the process never actually ends. Everything, including the totality of this post, is subject to change. But it probably won’t. It probably fucking won’t. This is basically the conclusion of a 43-year experiment, and you’re reading the thesis.

So here I am. I’ve always been this way, but I just haven’t been able to fucking own it like I should. I didn’t even know about the option until I was a teenager. I wish I had. It could have saved my life. And now I’m embarrassed about having been embarrassed. There’s no elegant way out of this. I can never save my life; I can only salvage what’s left. There’s no repairing the wasted past. That cannot be saved. And that’s going to be most of my existence that was wasted — I’m 43. I am NOT living another 43 years, to age 86. Not with MY genes and lifestyle. All I can do is salvage the tiny piece that’s left. I’ve got like 10 years of beauty to milk.

—

So anyway.
I am transgender.
I am trans.
I am transfeminine.
I am a transwoman.

This also means I prefer female pronouns. Though they feel weird, like shoes that haven’t been broken in yet. (NoMeansNo lyrics: “But I’ll get used to it. I have to.”)

But “he” is starting to feel weird. And I’m starting to feel like I’m crossdressing when I’m wearing male clothes, instead of the other way around. And I never really expected that. But I got there so easily. And it’s wonderful. I just had to let go of myself.

It’s quite empowering to become my true self, but Clio will never make Clint’s salary… Not even for the same job. Clio will face an increased likelihood of having violence directed against her. Why become the marginalized Clio who can be fired & legally discriminated against just for who she is, when I can disguise myself as the cisgendered heterosexual white male apex predator Clint? I “shouldn’t” become the marginalized Clio. But I have to. One can’t just will this away. Believe me…. I’ve tried, and failed, for my entire adult life.

You can’t will away who you are — even if you’ve never actually gotten a chance to really be that person yet.

(Devi Lyrics: “This is a part of me. // It can not be separated. // Although it looks like a wound–it is not a wound.”)

“It’s only going to get worse.” They keep telling me that!

—

——— ***** SO MANY REGRETS: ***** ———

This is my path, my destiny. The road less traveled. My boulder [127 Hours reference]. The obscure macguffin in the movie of my life up to this point. The last stop on my traincar of personal hell. The {insert long list of additional histrionic dramatic phrases here}. I wish I’d figured this out earlier. Not today in Trump’s America. I’d give it all up to have another chance to do it right. But I fucked up my one chance to get this right.

I coulda been hella hotter with hormones at a younger age, but I lacked the self-confidence to believe this.
I probably wouldn’t have beat up my internal organs with alcohol so much.
I probably would have had a longer lifespan.
Maybe my autoimmune disease wouldn’t have developed.

I wish I hadn’t thought therapy was somehow representative of a lack of being able to solve one’s own problems. Such stubbornness truly made me my own worst enemy. But not going into therapy only fucked me up more. I had to wait for the “Youtube Therapy” era just to bridge the gap to real therapy. Ironically, by the time I finally went to therapy, I pretty much didn’t need it. It turns out that in like 20 years, you can slowly work out like an equivalent of 1 year of therapy on your own, hahahah. Think of the co-pays you could save by slowly wasting your life and solving your problems on your own! (argh!)

>>>My own pride at being independent has held me back so much that, in truth, it caused me to *lose* my ability to be independent. Oops! There’s NO FUCKING WAY I could live without Carolyn right now. This isn’t a remark about sweetness, it is a remark about co-dependence and not knowing how to be a fully functional person on my own.

Our house is messier than ever. I’m no longer doing a lot of productive things. I deliberately haven’t worked a job in 2 yrs, with no aspirations or plans whatsoever at the moment. I’ve slowed down in most endeavors to give myself more time to process things to a point of understandingness. To take time for self-care. To take time to work this fuckin’ shit out. I’ve gone back to the egg to regenerate.

It’s a fucking lame feelfest over here, guys!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Nobody — not even me — wants a part of this bullshit, lol!!!!!!!!!
I feel like all of this can be a fast process with trans people who have strong gender dysphoria. The poster-child strong-dysphoric transperson feels trapped in the wrong body, hates looking at themselves in the mirror, suffers strong depression about it as a child, knows what the fuck they want at a young age, and does something about it. I am not trying to forget or erase their struggle, but merely point out the path to take is more clearly laid out for them. Most transwomen actually have it wayyyyy harder than me. They don’t have supportive partners, they have intolerant family, friends, bosses, they aren’t financially well off, they have jobs they can lose, they have more strongly-gendered faces or bodies than me, they live in less tolerant areas of the world or country. Their struggle is way more than mine, and I respect and want to help that. But at least they know what direction to point themselves–I did not. My weak dysphoria simply prolonged the process, and added extra depression over waiting too long, never knowing what the fuck to do with myself, and wasting my life. That’s so, so bad.

I’ve had to learn about “gender euphoria”, and how some transpeople don’t hate their assigned gender, but simply flourish much better in their true gender. I’ve had to learn about “secondary dysphoria” — problematic behaviors one might not realize have been caused by gender identity disorder. I had to really do some soul searching to get in touch with myself.

But there ARE good things about my weak dysphoria. It let me at least have a pretend male life long enough to take advantage of male privilege, and establish some kind of life for myself, to create enough stability for me to finally transition now, without taking as much of a risk as most transpeople have to take.

The coward finally has her stage, in front of her pre-purchased audience. She can do her little jig without any risk whatsoever.

———–

—

——— ***** RECOGNIZING YOUR OWN SELF-DECAY: ***** ———

>>>>>>>>I wish I had told people earlier. I wish I had come clean a long time ago. To myself. To Carolyn (well, she’s been privy to all my feelings in these matters for like 17 yrs of our 25 yrs together, but I can’t tell her I’m explicitly transgendered if I don’t explicitly realize it myself until 2016/2017). I wish I had not gone off and lived a closeted sheltered life. It’s only made it harder to connect with people. It’s only increased the distance between us. It’s only made this situation a harder pill for everyone else to swallow–including myself. It’s only eroded my person, and chipped away at the core of my very being, to where I don’t even recognize myself anymore.

>>>>>>>>I remember who I was once. And who that is…. That is not who Clint ended up being. Clint ended up being someone who, one day recently, I realized — I do not even RECOGNIZE as myself anymore. Not my original, TRUE self. Who was he? / Who was she? I’d lost him. / I’d lost her. It’s weird, when you start to become a stranger to yourself. It’s very weird. It’s an incredibly complex set of feelings that is hard to put words to. “How the fuck did I get here?” “Who am I, really?” It didn’t occur to me until 2016 or 2017 that I couldn’t remember myself.

(The Church lyrics: “They say that he’s famous, from the waist down, but the top half of his body is a corpse. His gold won’t buy him sleep, his poverty runs so deep–in winter he cracks, in summer he warps.”)

I was just the outside exterior skin of myself, slapped onto a rotting interior. I looked the same on the outside, but I was rotting out on the inside. I’d only known someone well enough to have seen what that looked like in detail exactly once before, and only recently: In Andrea. Andrea gifted me with the most unfortunate, but useful, perspective. The ability to understand how someone’s personal problems can cause them to diverge from their native personality. She was most definitely and assuredly was NOT the same girl everyone talked about at her memorial services. They were all full of shit, is how it felt to me. But without a doubt, their stories were true. She had just diverged from the awesome person she had meant to be, and had become filled with a decay that infected her entire person. It was about the worst thing I’ve seen in my entire life. And I, too, had diverged from the person I had meant to be.

Someone (Mocos Locos) wrote, “I’m not the man I used to be” on facebook, and I suddenly replied that I knew exactly how that felt, even though I had no idea how HE felt. The words resonated with me perfectly. I’m NOT the man I used to be. (It’s also a Ween lyric.) Even the “man” part resonated with me.

>>>>>>> When you look into your own mind, and remember what “you” felt like, and know that the original “you” doesn’t feel like the current “you” — at all. And that the current “you” is suffering in comparison, and is not as good as a person as the former, true “you”….. and is beaten up, hurt, angry, impatient, unable to connect, unable to BE…………..

…………..When you look into your own mind, and you realize that who you are is actually a stranger, because you are no longer the original you…………….

…………..that you’re kind of a husk………….
…………..that you miss yourself………….

You cry for your past self.

Every time you think about this, you cry for your past self.

Every time.

Every time you read these words, you cry for your past self.

Every time.

>> “Let me out! Let me out! This is not a dance!” (Rick & Morty reference that is actually extremely appropriate.) (Levity needed. That was absolutely the hardest part for me to write.)

For other reasons, I’ve cried the hardest of my adult life in these past 2 years. I’ve broken my life-adult cry-record, broken it again, broken it again, broken it again and again. I’ve lashed out. I’ve done things that should have gotten me divorced, or arrested (fortunately not both at the same time). These behaviors are in the process of being exterminated (Exterminate! Exterminate!). My tears nowadays are tears of regret, tempered with joy — gradually turning into tears of joy, tempered with regret. That’s about as good as it’s ever going to get, and that is an incredible improvement.

The complex web of interdependent issues has been nigh fucking impossible to sort out. I’m still not sure it ever will be fully sorted out! I’m still not sure of anything. I never will be. That’s my fucking problem. That’s why this took so long. There’s no “easy button” for this!

The only way out is through. Break on through to the other side. {I’m seriously slipping a lot of song titles and lyrics into this post, they inspire me.}

–*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-
–*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-
–*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-*—-

——— ***** WHAT’S NEXT?: ***** ————–

Fuck if I know. My scumbag brain, and my scumbag body, they do what they choose to do. My consciousness is just along for the ride, often feeling like a helpless rider on a roller-coaster with no seat belt, hanging on for dear life, just trying to survive.

My consciousness has had a fucking beating and a half. A lot of it from myself, and a lot of it from others. I’m damaged. I’m broken. I’m hurt. That’s not ever going to change. I’ll carry a heavy heart with me forever. You can smooth out the paper and get it flat again, but those creases are never going to go away. I’ll never be that same, original, uncreased piece of paper.

But hopefully my brain starts treating my consciousness better. I know that treating my body better–diet and reduced alcohol consumption–has already helped a lot of things. I’m not in constant pain when I sit! Not at first, anyway. Lol

I was disintegrating as a person for years. Now I’m finally re-integrating again. As a new person who is both the same person I’ve always been, and yet a different enough instance to still be different.

The parts of me that feel good haven’t felt this good since the 1900s.
The parts of me that feel bad are losing their sway and being forgotten.

There were times — and more recent than I’d care to admit (because it was the Prius) — when I half-seriously considered hopping in my car and just driving away — alone, even without Carolyn — to Mexico — leaving everything and everyone behind, not even telling people where I was going, because I couldn’t take the various pains of existence anymore. It’s a common trans theme, wanting to move away, changing your name, telling no one.

(Ween lyrics: “I couldn’t believe… She wanted to leave” … “So go fetch a bottle of rum dear friends, and fill up my glass to the rim. For I’m not the man I used to be. Now I’m one of them.”)

Well, it turns out… Things aren’t so bad after all. Not for me. And I don’t need that glass filled to the rim, either. Now I’m one of them — in this case, women. Still too strange for words.

————–

>>>>>>It has been said that you get 2 lives to start with.
The 1st, you’re born with — Your parents, your upbringing, what’s imprinted upon you before you gain your own, true, free will.

The 2nd, you make for yourself, when you individuate, grow up, and function as your own, free adult.

The 3rd? You usually don’t get one. But I’m atheistically-blessed with a 3rd life, based off not living a lie anymore. I’m so lucky that this is possible. I’m so lucky that I’ve found the will to be increasingly doing the things that are needed to address my situation. I’m so atheistically-blessed (gonna keep using that phrase, I think). This brings tears to my eyes every time I think about it.

—————–

—– ***** WHAT’S HAPPENING RIGHT NOW? ***** —–

>>>>>>I started hormone replacement therapy on 8/1/2017.

A leap of faith, as my sureness level never really “got there” until AFTER I started taking the hormones. I do things backwards, like buy a house before I get married, or have someone move into our bed before we get to know her. This is just another example. Trial-by-fire is one of my preferred methods of determining if something is a mistake or not. And it wasn’t.

50mg spirolactinone 2X a day as an anti-androgen to stop testosterone production and most likely (75%) end male sexual function in the long run. Yikes. It’s not like in the pornos, y’know. When you realize you’re willing to do that, yea, you might be trans. (Though there may be hormone tweaks around that, it’s probably not gonna be part of my newsfeed haha.)

2mg estradiol 1X day. That’s estrogen. Which I take sublingually, against dr’s advice, because I think I know better than her. She’s all concerned about clotting because of my pro-clotting mutation discovered by my 23AndMe genetic sequencing. But the liver creates most of its clotting agents during first-pass liver metabolizing, and taking things sublingually bypasses first-pass liver metabolism for a good 50% or more of the pill, while also granting higher average blood serum levels….. So I don’t know why my endocrinologist would tell me to “not believe the rumors about taking it sublingually”. I honestly don’t know why anyone would want to deal with the estrogen spikes of injectibles, because when your estrogen is super-high, your body can convert the overage to testosterone. But some say they give better breast feminization. But what about progesterone? (Yes, I know a lot about this shit, and I’ve been researching it since before you ever knew it existed. And probably before you knew how to research things online, too.)

Breast growth in just 5 weeks. That’s a good sign. Sooner means bigger, bigger is better. Thanks, Mom! I don’t want a boobjob, but I’ll take the free ones Carolyn’s work offers, if the administrative hoop jumping isn’t too circus-like.

The hormone regimen has created a habit that is making me finally take all those other vitamins and supplements that I’ve meant to take my whole life, but never do. Some of these bottles were bought 10 yrs ago, a lot bought this year. My vitamin D levels are within healthy range for the first time since I ever started caring. And of course the Truvada that makes it 99% harder to transmit HIV (and costs us ) is never missed. But I’m even doing fish oil and baby aspirin. It turns out that increasing self-care in one area makes you increase self-care in other areas. I now take like 25 pills a day — and only 3 are for my gender.

>>>>>>I’m finishing up / slowing down on the talk-therapy.

The 3 I saw have helped me…some…but not as much as I can help myself by just sitting in front of my computer, reading and writing about things myself (like this document). The 3rd one was finally interactive enough that I didn’t feel like I was just talking to myself. 2 of them were trans. The 3rd one was trans and poly and kinky and a burner, well, some of you know her, it turns out. But none of them are going to say “Don’t do this, Clio. Don’t.” It’s almost annoying that they won’t, because I WANTED somebody to save me from the inconvenience of this, haha. I was bouncing from therapist to therapist hoping to find a devil’s advocate who would tell me that I’m doing this for the wrong reasons, and that I should not do this. None will say that. The main blocker has been… ME! I’m the only one who can save me from myself. My enemies (and others) always told me I was my own worst enemy. And they were right. But only by dumb luck; not wisdom. I was my own worst enemy, because I allowed myself to holding myself back. The magic was within me all along.

>>>>>> I’ve almost finished my replacement wardrobe — in some ways the hardest work of all. Changing clothes in a hot dressing room while having a headache and sweats from starving from dieting is about as physical of an activity as I can stand! If you can get even 3-4 clothes in one shopping session, you done good But I’ve gotten about 115 in person, plus the whole year of buying stuff on aliexpress. But for casual / non-party / work / “real-life” girl clothes, you kinda need to go to a thrift store. And hit the sales. I had to make up for a lifetime.

I keep typing “Cliont” because I don’t know if I’m typing Clio or Clint.

I’m starting to work on my voice. I’m absolutely terrified of the concept of voice coaching. I might Dr. Girlfriend it for quite awhile (Dr. Girlfriend is a sexy female character from The Venture Bros., who has a deep male voice). But then, my voice isn’t *that* deep.

>>>>>> “I’m trying to accept and let go of who I thought I was and who others think I was and am, and who I wish I was, and who I might have been.” -Twig, really nailing it with the timing

——— ***** ADVICE FOR PEOPLE: ***** ————–

Most of this advice is, unfortunately, not positive.

I’m sorry.

I’m scared.

Some of this has already happened to me.
Some of this will happen to me in the future.
Some of this happens to other trans people, so it will happen to me.

So I have some advice…

ADVICE:

1) My first advice to you is that I am not soliciting advice from you! I don’t need to hear about why I should not do this, about why I should think it through more, or the laughable “consider Carolyn’s feelings” response. (Oh wow we didn’t know we could talk to each other about feelings! That changes everything! Thanks! We just changed our mind about everything!) In general, now is NOT the time to make this about YOUR advice, what YOU think, or casting YOUR doubts. This is my time. Unless you are supportive, step back and let me have space to breathe.

-*-

2) Use female pronouns. If you mess up, just correct yourself. Don’t stop and apologize and interrupt the flow. It’s okay to use male pronouns & names when recalling past memories of me, for now. But I’ve already starting to feel my first pangs of annoyance at misgendering when I’m en femme. If you do that to me, it’s going to damage our relationship.

-*-

3) Say hello to Clio. Please make a real personal connection with me — with Clio — before I erroneously start to feel that you are part of Clint’s past life, and not Clio’s future life. I am way too sensitive, way too emotional, way too over-analytical, way too aggressive, and have waaaay too much social anxiety to deal with the taxing energy of decrypting people’s silence. Silence is alienation. Silence is othering. Silence is friendly ghosting. I probably already feel hurt by you. I’m one big sore spot. This will now amplify. I don’t feel safe. I need friends and always have. Friendship is a participatory two-way street. I don’t want to feel like I’m just here for your entertainment. If the traffic doesn’t flow both ways, I assume I am unwanted. I remove myself from situations where I assume I am unwanted. All I hear is uncomfortable laughter behind my back. I give up. I recuse myself. Via defriending. Then I feel guilty that they might feel bad that I defriended them. Then I feel persecuted that they might think me bad for defriending them. But really, I just wanted to stop being reminded of the hurting.

-*-

4) After my Facebook/Legal name changes, “Clint” will eventually become a dead name. But it will awkwardly continue to exist in my URLs for my websites, in my photo captions (even in new uploads, as the past pictures are still going to be pictures of Clint) so… I’m sure someone will think it is hypocritical for me to use the name “Clint” in uploads, but ask other people not to use it.

Let me just say — we have situations in our society where only certain people are allowed to say certain words, or else it’s socially unacceptable. (Please don’t make me point it out.) This is a similar situation to that. Just because you might catch me calling myself “Clint” doesn’t mean it will be okay for you to do so. Sorry. There’s already a ton of people who ONLY know me as Clio anyway. Dropping the old name will actually make things LESS confusing.

-*-

5) Please DO NOT grief & guilt me for not sharing this earlier. Now is NOT the time; That’s not supportive. Put your grievances in a backpack so they can all be in one place.

I’ve already had multiple people privately get on my case and give me flak for me not sharing private aspects of myself. It’s such a height of privilege for people who don’t live in a closet to tell the people who do live in a closet that their feelings were hurt by that closet. Oh I’m sorry? Did my hiding hurt you? Was I oppressed in a way that hurt your feelings? Do you deserve to know everything about me? I thought I already shared more of my personal self than just about everyone else anyway! What more do you need, my blood?

First, I had someone else tell me that I had to block her profile on Fetlife — because I saw her profile, and didn’t friend her. I wasn’t comfortable sharing aspects about my transness and gender identity with someone whose profile said very little besides that they liked sex. It was a vanilla profile compared to mine, in my perception. But because I saw her, and didn’t send a friend request, therefore, I am a bad person. Or something. It didn’t matter what my preferences or consent about sharing information about myself was. Carolyn & I later both got put into her facebook jail without ever doing anything. We finally did the defriending ourselves, because who the fuck wants to be friends with a restricted profile? This person had written about trying to be inclusive to transpeople while unwitting doing the opposite. Even people in the community make asinine assumptions.

Another time in the past, I was also mocked for not knowing my blood type with “i can’t imagine any reason why you can’t give blood”, and yea, I originally couldn’t give blood because of a heart valve defect, but it’s true that it had healed. But I still couldn’t just go out and donate blood. Why? Becuase I’d had sex with a man once in the past 6 months! I didn’t want to say I’d had sex with a man on my facebook. So I had no current-day defense for not being able to give blood. I got put on the spot and mocked and it escalated to Carolyn chewing that person out and us not being friends. It was another case where, well, not my transness, but my queerness, hurt a relationship due to someone else not being able to understand holes that I was not willing to explain. I didn’t expect that.

SO AT THIS POINT, I’M KINDA SENSITIVE TO BEING GUILTED FOR NOT SHARING SHIT. MULTIPLE FRIENDS GAVE ME PRIVATE FLAK IN PRIVATE MESSAGE after coming out as crossdressing. Not because they didn’t support it, but because it was about THEIR feelings being hurt because I hadn’t told them before. Jesus christ. I’ve carried some anger over how self-centered I can be. It’s okay. Had a falling out with one of them anyway, over unrelated stuff.

Applaud people for coming out, don’t fucking grief them by private message.

-*-

6) If you use this situation to suddenly try to fuck Carolyn, like now she needs your penis or something? Wow, just wow. You’re really not understanding your role in the slightest. She’s NOT my property, but she IS my fucking wife. Figure out what the fuck that means.

-*-

7) FIGURE THINGS OUT YOURSELF.

I’m not here to educate you beyond my personal perspective. I’m going to use words, terms, and concepts that you do not understand. If there is something YOU don’t get, take it upon YOURSELF to Google some articles. I will not answering the same dumb questions over and over. Nobody wants to do that. Basically, don’t ask me things you can google.

Know that AMAB stands for assigned male at birth
Know that AFAB stands for assigned female at birth.

Normals seem to think they are owed explanations by everyone who is not normal. What a hypocritical load of crap.

If you can comment, you can google things.

-*-

8) Here are some links for allies dealing with people coming out:

* So Your Trans Friend Is Transitioning And You Want To Be Supportive – Here Are 6 Ways How – everydayfeminism.com/…/how-to-be-ally-to-trans-fri…/

* Your First Trans Friend – A Beginner’s Guide – www.huffingtonpost.com/…/your-first-trans-friend-a-b…

* Family Members especially are encouraged to read this: web.archive.org/…/20060103152219/http://w…/index.php… – it has a clickthrough at the bottom to “Do’s” and “Don’t’s”, which I will also link here: web.archive.org/…/20060102231752/http://w…/index.php…

* Also, this one is a great explanation of the genderqueer concept, which is how I used to identify. It’s not how I identify now, but it’s kind of how I present at this stage in my transition. Mostly, it’s funny, and has some insight – I Am Genderqueer (And What the #@%! That Means) – www.youtube.com/watch?v=0hmULQc5jIw&app=desktop

-*-

9) I hope you all can accept me for who I really am, to the same level that Carolyn and Beth have. I could not have done this with without their support. Thank you both. I love you.

Beth, your additional support in embracing who I am as a person, your love, wisdom, patience, tolerance, understanding, experience, graciousness, companionship, leadership, and generosity have helped make 2017 one of the best years of my life, and I couldn’t have done it without you. You are an amazing person. Thank you. I love you.

Carolyn, seeing your eyes light up at finally understanding just what we can be together fills me with amazing joy. I want to be your wife, and I’m sorry I kinda blew off the vow-renewal thing you talked about in the past. I wasn’t ready to renew my vows then, but I am now. Your insane level of literal financial support, your tolerance of MY insane level of bullshit, anger, rage, abuse, depression, impatience, obsessiveness, aggressiveness, criticalness, laziness, and so many other bad traits…. There’s no reason I even deserve the life I have now, and I couldn’t have done it without you and your undying love. Thank you. I love you.

I’d also like to thank Devi McCallion. You don’t even know me, but your music changed my life more than all other music combined. Your brutal emotional honesty, your willingness to express yourself, your willingness to go so far out on a limb that you actually become embarrassed and remove your music. And then your bravery to put it back up. To know that you really feel the things you are expressing to such an extent that the emotions are more important than the music. To taste your very real pain, and realize that it also came from within myself. To empathize with a complete stranger more than any person I’ve ever known; when I have so little empathy that I have some anxiety over whether I am a sociopath a not. To show me how to feel. To let me feel. To let me know what it’s like to be who I am, by seeing it in you. Even your non-transy pony songs got me through my first days at work after a 4 year break, by filling me with happiness. Then I discovered your non-pony music, and that was that. I was home. Please don’t ever stop. You are the stranger most responsible for helping me take the direction in my life that I need to. (For some people, that’s jesus, lol. Not me.)

—

Anyway, I hope you all can accept me for who I really am, even as I am just getting to know that person.

If you don’t accept me for who I am, this FUN diva ain’t got time for your shit.

Love me or leave me — Clint is finishing up, and Clio is here to stay.

Sincerely,
Claire James “Clio” L.

P.S. Handy Conversion Chart:

*** “Clint” => “Clio”
*** “Clent” => “Cleo”

*** “J. Clinton” => “Claire J.”
*** “ClintJCL” => “ClioCJL” {primary name will come first instead of being a middle name like with James Clinton}

*** “he” => “she”
*** “him” => “her”
*** “his” => “hers”

*** “Clint & Carolyn” => “Carolyn & Clio” {now it’s her turn to be first, plus, Carolyn’s name is the familiar one}

*** “Clarolynt” => “Cliolyn” / “Clairolyn”
*** “Clarolyntopiastan” => “Cliolyntopiastan” / “Clairolyntopiastan”

*** “straight married couple” => “gay married couple”
*** “couple” => “lesbian couple”
*** “those guys” => “those girls”
*** “husband” => “wife” / “spouse” / “partner”

*** “wears annoying amount of black all the time” =>
“wears annoying amount of color all the time”
*** “talks in a stupid low voice” =>
“talks in a stupider less low voice”