Passport

A friend recently called me "sentimental." I was, in fact, drunk at a wedding reception and probably telling said friend something I admired/loved about them. Despite this and other overwhelming evidence, I railed against the whole concept for a few months. "Sentimental" is not as sexy as, say, "mysterious." Like most things we buck against, I, of course, came to accept that it was true. I am, indeed, a sentimentalist. So it goes:

I like geography; and I like geographical metaphors. I like the idea of displacement, the feeling of suspension conjured by the mere idea of travel. I've spent a lot of time setting up camp in border spaces: gender borders and cultural borders; unfortunately, sometimes even rigid physical and emotional borders between myself and others.

When I was young, my father taught me that the world was a fractured, frightening, chaotic place. What I learned from him was how to lose myself entirely, how to see myself through someone else's distorted lens. I learned that borders are dangerous, that it's best to meld quickly and quietly into the nearest, most powerful thing. I've spent a lot of time mapping out the extent of this internal binary. Sometimes I find myself lonely and anxious, holed up on across the border from intimacy in the land of isolation. Mostly I've realized the value of moving between all kinds of space. Though sometimes it's difficult, my entire life is a testament to what it's possible to unlearn.

All of this is to say that people are endlessly surprising. In a crosscultural, crossgenerational, multigendered way, I have been supported in this surgery and in my metamorphosis as a person - just one person on one path, mind you - but I think we're all pretty good reflections of what's possible. At the risk of revealing the depths of my NorCal fruity self, the most stunning aspect of all of this encouragement, praise, offers to help, love, etc. is the wisdom of every person who gives it. From my close friend whose kindness and nonjudgement is unparalleled, and who is taking off work and flying across the country just to spend a week watching movies with me on my couch; to my girlfriend, who deserves more accolades than I can even conceive of, and who will drain my drains and face her own fears and who has taught me that love is a brave and brilliant force; to my sister, who is the best listener I know and whose respect and personal courage and commitment to witnessing others is buoying; to the friend who setting her life aside to come with us to the surgery itself; to my mother, who first told me about my "golden core" and who has always, in her heart, wanted me to be true to myself; to the wellwishers, now and always (who've appeared as ex-girlfriends, co-workers, schoolmates, or acquaintances) and who I've known for minutes or years, who've made it a point to stop a second and tell me that they see me, who've even helped me see me. All of these people and many more, in their sometimes fumbling and always well-intentioned ways, have helped me float.

It's the glimpse of evil - the evil my abusive father embodied - that has also given me an eye for the gradients of beauty each of you are capable of. If I am a sentimentalist, then I am lucky enough to be armed with a sense of gratitude more powerful than the worst harassment, abuse, shame, or prejudice I've been subject to. I guess I am a sentimentalist, and I'd like to think that this is part of what I get: not only a spectacular view of a veritable skyline of kindness, but the ability to name and recognize it. So, here's to you, World. Sometimes you're totally fucked up, but you're ultimately pretty amazing. Keep it up.