Hi everybody. Well, by now you probably know that when I’ve been quiet in the blogosphere, that usually means a new book is almost done. This time, two books are almost done!
One is called Bazoomerangs and here’s the promo: An ex-hippie flower child still living like it’s 1969, a Buick-driving Trump supporter, and a 20 y.o. trans woman…all under one roof. What could go right?
The second book is called The Life of My Love, which is about finding the love of your life — something I’ve done very well.
BTW, that cover pic is me in my writing nest, being a little excited. Right now that lawn is green, but we did have snow falling randomly until quite recently. Here is the first chapter from Bazoomerangs:
Jaye
I always knew I was different. I guess maybe we’re all different—of course, we have to be…there’s no point in Life duplicating any one of us.
But I mean I knew I was really different. I grew up with the usual hopelessly hetero parents, hopelessly miserable as they were. They really tried—with each other and with me. I was a bit much for them, I admit.
My dad had had enough of my mom by the time I was ten and couldn’t see himself hanging in there for eight more years, much as he loved me. I also wasn’t the ideal son for him. Nowadays I’m not exactly the ideal daughter for him, either. Funny, I think he always wanted a daughter more than a son, and I would’ve loved to have been Daddy’s Little Girl. Go figure.
I wasn’t lucky enough to be born in a woman’s body. But at least I’m lucky enough to be born in an age where trans is a thing—and becoming a somewhat acceptable thing at that.
It’s pretty easy to be a guy—and I can say that, because I was one. But it takes power and grit to be a woman. And I can say that, because I am one.
I’m Jaye. My preferred pronouns are she and her. Most of my friends prefer they or ze and hir, but, hell, Baby, if I’m going to do this, I’m going to do this. No neutrality or fluidity here, like most of my friends. I’m all woman.
Alice
I always knew I was different. How could I have been born to such an airy-fairy, crazy person? She has her good points, but she’s…well…out there is putting it mildly. And why would my beautiful son want to become a daughter?
I didn’t ask for any of this. I didn’t ask to be conceived at Woodstock. I didn’t ask for a son who became a daughter. I didn’t ask for my husband to leave me with this…person…this person I thought I knew but ended up not knowing at all. How could life do this to me? God, what did I do to deserve this? I’ve done everything right. How could everything go so terribly wrong? Oh, why couldn’t he just be gay?
And you know what’s even worse than James—I mean, Jaye? My mother. My crazy hippie, wackadoo, flower-child mother who’s never gotten over the fact that the sixties ended.
She never held a steady job in her life, never had health insurance, and recently she had to move in with me. I’ve been responsible my entire life. I don’t think she’s been responsible for an hour in her entire life.
I’ll never forgive her for voting for Clinton—either time…let alone that Obama character. How am I related to this person?
And how could a child of mine not vote? How am I related to that person?
Oh, don’t even get me started on my child, again. How did this happen? Why me?
Starr
I always knew I was different. A tidy house in suburban Connecticut—hermetically sealed in a sepulchre of false perfection, as tight as my mother’s plastered-on, fake smile—was not my idea of Nirvana. But we come to Earth, pick up a body, live with these assigned parents, and then go about our lives.
My parents were, well, ridiculous. June and Ward Cleaver, they were. I was certainly no Beav. Mother—and, yes, we called her Mother—even wore pearls around the house sometimes, like Donna Reed.
And don’t even get me started on my daughter. How in creation did that happen?
Yes, she was conceived at Woodstock—specifically when Jimi Hendrix was playing “The Star-spangled Banner.” That might explain the patriotic proclivity she has going on. But why oh why couldn’t she have picked up on the whole cosmic thing instead?
Could’ve been worse, I suppose.
Wait…give me a minute…I’m thinking of how it could’ve been worse.
Jaye
My father is pretty hip, but still has his limits. When I came out to him about the whole trans thing, he said, “But your soul doesn’t have a gender. What does it matter?”
It does matter, though. Imagine living in a body that doesn’t feel like yours. Imagine seeing the body that you want walking around enveloping and encapsulating half the people you see. Why did they get that one and I didn’t? After I said that, he understood more. He gets it. Or at least he tries to, which is far more than I can say for my other parental creature.
Gram is so cool. I mean really cool. She really gets things.
Maybe supreme hipness skips a generation, though, because my mother, on the other hand…she doesn’t get much of anything—least of all me. She has her church and her work and her politics. Don’t even ask me who she voted for; I’m too embarrassed to tell you. But the bumper sticker on her Buick will tell you. It’s not that she loves the man. I actually think she has a thing for Mike Pence, and the other guy came with the deal. But she’ll back up her vote no matter how crazy the main dude gets. I’ll never forgive her for voting for that whackjob. How am I related to this person?
She likes her life wrapped up with a pretty bow, all the answers provided by some unreachable expert way out there…whether it’s God or politics or the minister or the man.
Nothing about me is part of that pretty bow or the box it’s sitting on. And nothing about me is a man, despite the body I was born into. I wouldn’t mind that pretty bow, though.
Alice
Oh, dear Lord—please give me strength.
Ten minutes later: Oh, dear Lord—please give me strength.
Four minutes later: Oh, dear Lord—please give me strength.
Starr
Yes, I was being flippant. My daughter could’ve been an arsonist or a whole lot of other things that are worse than what she is. She’s certainly not alone in being a Trump supporter. But no one else in my life is! I don’t go along with calling them a “basket of deplorables,” which was said and done in a very ill-advised moment. My daughter is not a “deplorable.” She’s something, though.
And—wouldn’t you know it—she calls me…Mother! Ack! I can’t even stand it. She knows I hated calling my mother Mother. She probably does it simply to drive me berserko.
Oh, hell’s bells—maybe it was the chicken coop. How was I supposed to know that a couple of years in a chicken coop would do this to her? I didn’t mean to ruin her life. But then I didn’t mean to get pregnant either. But I did, so I ran away from home to California, gave birth to her at a friend’s house, and then moved into said friend’s chicken coop. We lived there for her first five years. I thought it was great. I don’t think she’s ever recovered from it.
I tried to give her everything I could, but everything I gave was pushed back to me. I do love her, but that love is thrown back in my face with a sneer of disdain.
How could she vote for Trump? That feels like my most miserable failure of all. How am I related to this person? And how did my mother vote for Nixon? How am I related to that person? Maybe sanity skips a generation.
Oh, well. It’s her journey, her life. It’s up to her. But what she’s doing to Jaye, well, that’s not up to her.
Maybe it’s a block in her second chakra. And her first…and her third…and….
My mother never understood me—not one minute. First of all, I never wanted to be a son. Second of all, how could she wall herself in so much? She had the walls of her church, the walls of her politics, the walls of her hospital job, and the walls she created. Wouldn’t she expect any child of hers want to break down all those walls?
Of course, she didn’t have any walls as a child, and she longed for some. I understand how that created her…well…pathology.
I didn’t find power in her God. More about where I found power later.
Alice
My mother never understood me—not one minute. I didn’t want the rainbow glitters or the back-to-the-land life. I remember a lot of people coming and going from an early age.
She found a nanny job in San Francisco, and I had an automatic friend in Chloe, the girl she took care of. Funny how she was supposed to take care of her, but somehow taking care of me wasn’t on her roster.
Well, it was, but it wasn’t.
Starr
My mother never understood me—not one minute. I didn’t fit into her perfectly ordered life. I never wanted to inherit her pearls. It was 1968 and the Beatles and Beetles were an enigma to her. So was I.
We had this picture-perfect home that no one ever seemed to visit. Well, maybe some did, for Betty Crocker cocktails and hors d’oeuvres.
I’m never having kids. Once I’m totally better, I’m not having a mom anymore, either.
Alice
What no one ever tells you—or no one ever told me, anyway—is that when you have a baby, your insides are ripped out of you. And then your insides are out there walking around the world. I’d say it’s like having my heart walking around out there, but it’s more than that, even. They (those crazy insides of yours) can be out there doing unconscionable things sometimes—like becoming a transgender Socialist—but you love them (those crazy insides of yours) anyway…darn it all. It’s just what you do. No matter how much of a mess they make of their lives…and no matter how often they tell you that you’re the cause for the mess they’re making of their lives.
You hear so many stories about mothers and daughters being best friends. Yeah, that’s not what this story is about. I don’t even wish for that. One of us would have to be a completely different person.
Starr
What no one ever tells you—or no one ever told me, anyway—is that when you have a baby, your insides are ripped out of you. And then your insides are out there walking around the world. I’d say it’s like having my heart walking around out there, but it’s more than that, even. They (those crazy insides of yours) can be out there doing unconscionable things sometimes—like becoming a Born-again Christian and voting for Trump—but you love them (those crazy insides of yours) anyway…darn it all. It’s just what you do. No matter how much of a mess they make of their lives…and no matter how often they tell you that you’re the cause for the mess they’re making of their lives.
You hear so many stories about mothers and daughters being best friends. Yeah, that’s not what this story is about. I don’t even wish for that. One of us would have to be a completely different person.
Jaye
“Your mom drives a Buick?” a boyfriend once asked me. “I didn’t think people did that anymore.”
Alice
One time Dan, my ex, asked me what my mother made of me. “She’s never known what to make of me,” I answered.
“But isn’t she’s a hippie living in a van?” he queried. “Thirty years” (at the time of this conversation) “after Woodstock?”
“Right. But somehow I’m the odd one out.” I waited a minute. “Um, about Woodstock….”
Starr
“Your daughter did what?” my best friend asked me after the 2016 election. I just cried.
Jaye
“My mother is fucking crazy,” was my answer.
Alice
My mother is (imagine me putting my hand over mouth, screaming quietly) crazy.
Starr
My mother was crazy. But my daughter is even batshit crazier. (Loud sigh.)
Alice
And my son—I mean, my daughter. Oh, dear Lord. Oh, the hell with it. He’s not here. My son is (imagine me putting my hand over my mouth, screaming quietly again) crazy.
Jaye
My mother is a (picture me screaming really loud for a few seconds) walking explosion. Everywhere she goes, she explodes over everyone…lavishing her crazy on all to have and to hold.
When I get out of here, I’m going to show this woman how to really live a life. None of this half-assed pseudo-living stuff.
Alice
Right. That’s what I said, too.
Starr
Funny, I seem to remember saying the very same thing. For the most part, I did pretty well…I could say I lived out loud way before doing that became just what we do, thanks to social media.
Jaye
Fuck this shit.
Alice
Oh, dear Lord—please give me strength.
More prayers, more devotions. Love the sinner, hate the sin. More prayers, more devotions. Love the sinner, hate the sin. More prayers, more devotions. At least all of these prayers and devotions are helping me if not my mother and child. Oh, just imagine what a basket case I’d be without them!
Oh, dear Lord—please give me strength. Please help them find you.
Starr
And just what would we do once we found him? She wasn’t happy I asked her that question after giving me her let-him-into-your-heart line for the thousandth time. Actually, I know the answer to that, but she wouldn’t understand my version of things.
Ann Crawford 