I've done things in my life of which I'm ashamed — we all have. I'm fortunate that the gaffes that I remember were not hurtful to others, they merely reflected poorly on me.

For example, there was that night, during my freshman year of college, that I pounded on a young woman's door, demanding that she open it because I loved her.

I was drunk, of course.

I had little experience with alcohol when I started college, and little experience with women.

That fall, an older sorority member approached me and told me that her Little Sister (it's difficult for me to type that without snickering) had a crush on me. Would I be interested in being S.C.'s surprise date for a sorority picnic. Why sure!

I was dreadful company. I've always been timid in new, strange social situations, and the picnic was no exception. I turtled. I turned monosyllabic. Though I did not acquit my gender well, I was smitten with my date. S.C. was not smitten with me.

We saw each other once or twice after the picnic, but nothing ever came of it. For her. Me? As I say, I was smitten, and despite the short time we'd spent together, my heart was a little broken.

One night, under the influence of the dark and evil E. Alanna Malone (now there's a woman worthy of a dozen weblog entries), I consumed far too much alcohol. (Remember: I was new to women and new to alcohol. It didn't take much to get me plastered.)

"You should go tell S.C. how much you love her," E. Alanna Malone goaded.

So I did.

I marched up the stairs — her room was on the floor above mine — and stood before S.C.'s door.

"What time is it?" I wondered as I stood there, drunk, in the hallway. It was late, but I didn't know the exact time.

"What do I do now?" I wondered.

So I banged on the door until she opened it. S.C. was groggy, of course; she'd been sound asleep.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"I love you," I told her, though I knew, on some level, that it was the alcohol talking.

She stared at me, a strange and fiery stare that seared my brain and turned my stomach to molten flesh., but she didn't say a word. After a moment of silence, she shut the door, very quietly, and left me standing in the hall: an Asshole with a capital A.

Over the next three years, I saw S.C. many times. We lived in the same dorm the rest of our freshman year, and we had many mutual friends. She was always wary of me, and I could not blame her. I made a point to be on my best behavior whenever she was around, to be soft-spoken and gentle and kind. Yet I could never bring myself to apologize for my stupid stupid actions. I always hoped that she just knew that I was sorry.

---

At the end of my freshman year, I committed the act for which I am most ashamed, though it took weeks and months and years for the regret to build.

Willamette had a newish student-run café called The Bistro (this is the café that Kris managed during our junior year). At the end of each school year, new student managers were hired, and these managers selected their staff. When A.M., a friend from the dorm, was hired as one of the managers, I decided to apply for a job.

The interview took place on a rainy Sunday morning in late April, in a dark corner of The Bistro. A.M. and B.W., the other manager, sat across the table from me and we had a pleasant chat. The interview went okay. Not great, but okay. Then one of them asked me something routine like "How are your people skills?" or "Are there certain people with whom you do not get along?"

I imploded.

"Oh, I get along fine with most people," I said. "I'm pretty tolerant of all kinds of people, no matter there quirks. Things that bother other people don't bother me. Yeah. I can handle almost anybody."

I paused to think.

"Unless they're gay."

A.M. and B.W. each gave me a significant look, which I took as a signal to continue, so I elaborated about why I had a problem with homosexuals, how their actions offended me, how I was a Christian (because, remember, at this point I was still a Christian, though the seeds of atheism had certainly sprouted) and God hated gays, etc.

I didn't spend a lot of time on the subject, and the interview soon moved to the next question.

I was not offered a job in the Bistro, which made me sad, but it didn't occur to me that something I had said might have caused a problem.

Time passed.

I dated A.R., had a great time, spent most of my summer with her. A.R.'s mother had an hilarious friend, a friend who happened to be a lesbian. We had talks about it. A.R. asked me why it bugged me that this woman was gay, and I tried to explain, and A.R. helped to soften my homophobia. Then she left for Germany.

I sulked, but in the fall found solace when I pledged at the fraternity to which both A.M. and B.W. belonged. I became friends with K.G., who was dating B.W., because K.G. let me use her word-processor (an Amstrad personal word-processor that took irregular-sized floppy disks) to write my papers for class.

One day when I went to K.G.'s room to write a paper, she was crying. B.W. had broken up with her. "Why?" I asked, but she wouldn't tell me.

In time, B.W. and I became friends. At the end of the semester, I needed a roommate for my off-campus apartment, and B.W. was looking for a place to live. It seemed a natural fit. So we lived together.

Meanwhile, I began to date K.G., B.W.'s ex-girlfriend. It was a bit odd, yes, but manageable. (Now K.G. and I are married and have a great life together, a nice house with two cats. See how things work out?)

One day, near spring break, B.W. was sitting on the couch in our apartment, looking pensive. I was puttering around in the kitchen, making tea.

"J.D.," he said, "there's something I need to tell you."

"Okay," I said. I brought him a cup of Earl Grey and sat in my dingy green $10 thrift store easy chair.

B.W. looked me in the eyes, took a sip of his tea, and said, "J.D., I'm gay."

I was a bit surprised, but not much. It made sense, for a lot of little reasons. I'd suspected this for weeks. B.W. stared at me, as if he expected some sort of reaction.

"Okay," I said, nodding my head.

"Doesn't that bother you?" he asked.

"No," I said, and it didn't. It didn't even occur to me that just a year before I had sat with B.W. in a different room and spewed crap about how I couldn't stand gay people. In that short period of time, only eleven months, I had become a different person, at least in regards to sexual orientation. Homosexuality was not an option for me, but somehow, somewhere, I'd discarded my life-long hatred for gays.

In time, I was able to look back upon these two events — the Bistro interview and B.W.'s coming out to me — and was able to make the connection. Every time I do, my shame for what I said during that interview comes fresh to my mind. It seemed reasonable at the time, normal, honest, just. Now, though, it seems like ignorant bigotry.

(This is also an object lesson for those of you who have been hurt or offended by something another person has said: people change. The person who angered you with hasty words last year may be a different person now. Allow for that possibility.)

Why did I hate gays? Religion played a large role, of course, and socialization. My parents did not raise me to hate gays — I cannot remember them ever discussing homosexuality — but the attitude among my classmates here in rural Oregon was almost uniformly homophobic. Mostly, though, my attitude sprung from ignorance, from lack of exposure.

After B.W.'s confession, other friends began to come out to me. One of my best friends was bisexual, a member of my extended family was gay (but in the closet), a woman to whom I was attracted was a lesbian. And so on. These were people I knew and loved, normal people, people just like myself.

I am ashamed of the remarks I made during that job interview.

---

Now Dana, one of my best friends, is publicly out about being transgendered. Have I embarrassed myself this time, too?

Fortunately, no.

Dana first told me and Andrew about his desire to become a woman nearly four years ago (has it been that long?). It was a hot and sticky day in Minneapolis — as all summer days in Minneapolis tend to be — and we were sitting together in Dana's bedroom, looking at role-playing games, talking about computers. I remember showing them the Visual Basic program price quotation program I'd written for Custom Box Service. Somewhere during that time, Dana told us he wanted to become a woman.

I was taken aback, and my first reaction was "Give me a break". What he said, though, he said in earnest.

During our trip to Minnesota the following summer, Andrew and I got our first exposure to Dane as Dana. It's one thing for a friend to tell you he wants to become a woman; it's another thing entirely to actually be confronted with the friend as a woman. Andrew and I handled it poorly, but each in our own way. Andrew didn't want to be seen in public with Dana, but had no trouble accepting him as a woman. I didn't mind being seen in public with him ("What do I care if my friends dress up like freaks?" was my reasoning) but had more trouble accepting Dana as a woman.

Three years have passed since then, and both Andrew and I have slowly softened our positions, though we still feel a measure of discomfort. We're each coping in our own way. One of my coping mechanisms is obvious from this weblog entry: I call Dane Dana, as he wishes, but I use the male pronoun. (I tell Dana that I'll use the female pronoun when his plumbing changes. (Though, as the end of this article indicates, perhaps I ought to reconsider.))

Dana and I, at least, have exchanged copious e-mail regarding this subject. I've tried to explain why I think he's psychologically fucked up, and he's calmly explained that well, maybe he is, but the transgender stuff has nothing to do with it. (It helps that Dana appeals to my psychology training when he sends me links — putting it terms that I can relate to was a good idea.)

You know what?

As time passes, and I learn more about transgenderism, I'm beginning to believe that maybe he's right.

And I'm not ashamed to admit it.

On this day at foldedspace.org

2004 — Biding Time   Most of our stuff has been packed now. We've settled into a nervous, fidgety waiting state. We signed the loan documents on Friday afternoon, and we are scheduled to take possession of the new house on Thursday.

2002 — Too Darn Hot   It's midnight but I cannot sleep. The termperature is still near eighty degrees outside. It's so hot that Kris asked me to turn on the air conditioner in the bedroom.

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