One Never Knows

On the Appalachian Trail,

An Indian guide

Despite having

Some problems,

Comes highly prescribed

Never Knows

Will get you

From this place

To that,

Providing, of course,

He knows

Where he’s at

He’s known to leave

On a Monday,

A Wednesday,

Again on a Friday,

Before finding his way

On the next Sunday

More often than most

Will dare ever say,

He gets somewhat

Confused,

Goes completely astray

Six times

Took his party

For bears lean and spry,

Shot and missed

Being blind in one eye

Some days

No progress is made

They backtrack instead,

When his gimp leg opposes

The blind eye

In his head

He can’t tie a rope,

Pitch a tent

On the land,

Having arthritis

In fingers

And missing

One hand

But don’t judge

Too quickly,

Afford him some slack,

When days

May get lost

From the slipped disc

In his back

And should someone

Get hurt

And for help

Give a holler,

He’ll only appear

At the flash

Of a dollar

It makes no sense

For a hiker

Who goes,

To hire the guide

Called

Never Knows

But you’ll never know

Till all’s

Said and done,

Why everyone claims

He’s the best one

For fun

A pure paradox

Yet readily shows,

Dreams can be lived

As one

Never Knows

Chelle Munroe©

November 18, 2013

For The Good Times

While out shopping on a Tuesday afternoon a few years ago, I met an acquaintance of mine, Melody Agatha Paisley, a rather colorful person, and a genuine pain in the butt as well. True to her character, she was her usual self and came bubbling over to me with an equally bubbling smile and her pretentious schmoozing kisses.  I kept telling myself not to throw up and just smiled as amiably as possible.

Before I could say a word, she blurted loudly enough for half the world to hear, “Oh you have to come to my Holiday Dinner this weekend.  There’s going to be a lot of people there and I want you to be one of them.”

I knew this was a load of bull and that the only reason I was being invited was because she knew I had seen her and would eventually hear about the dinner and didn’t want to risk being portrayed negatively.  In addition, Melody just loved putting on airs and playing the “Most popular girl in town” role by filling her guest list with as many people as possible.  I felt bad for her husband Jack, who had voiced his hatred for the parties and the expense, while at the same time, I admired him for standing by her and supporting her.  Everyone knew that if it weren’t for Jack’s money, Melody would have been shopping at the thrift and consignment shops like so many others.

Truth be told, I, too, hated her dinner parties as well because to me, they were nothing short of boring.  Melody had a knack for inviting the dullest people around and when she did invite someone of interest, you couldn’t get near them because she would be draped all over them or parading them around the room like a trophy for all to see.  It was sickening if not painful to watch.

I was suddenly yanked back to the moment when I heard Melody saying, “See you Friday at seven.”  Without giving me a chance to respond, she dashed away in her whirlwind fashion. It was a minute or so later before I collected my thoughts and proceeded to do my shopping.

For the rest of the day my thoughts kept getting invaded with Melody’s words and I decided I would indeed attend her Holiday Dinner.  I had three days to pick out my outfit and had a pretty good idea what I was going to wear. I went to bed that night and slept peacefully.

I spent the next three days hunting down the items to complete my ensemble and when I laid them all out on the bed, I smiled with complete satisfaction.  I was like a kid filled with excitement when I went in the bathroom to shower, thinking, “this is going to be the night of nights”.

As it turned out, luck was running with me when I arrived at Melody and Jack’s house.  A couple I had never seen before were entering and I hurriedly got right behind them so I wouldn’t have to make a solo appearance.

When I walked into the large living room where all the guests were seated or milling around, they all stopped what they were doing to stare at me.  By the expressions on their faces, one would have thought that a demon had decided to possess me.  I smiled widely displaying a missing tooth, having skillfully blackened it with Halloween makeup.

But that was only part of it for I was sporting jeans with the bottoms cut-off and the knees ripped out; a black top with a copper bra on the outside that would have made Madonna jealous.  It was fashioned and shaped to look like metal and with hooters so pointed, I could easily have passed as the human version of the front end on a 54 Cadillac.  

I capped it all off with large, gaudy gold plastic necklace and earrings and a silver wig.  Needless to say, I was quite the sight to see.  Once I let everyone have their fill of me, I loudly proclaimed, “Howdy, all!  Where’s the liquor?”

This was one time that I was thankful for Melody’s whirlwind actions.  Before I could take another step, she had grabbed me by the arm and immediately escorted me from the room, stuttering for words as we moved toward the door.  Jack had a smile on his face that, had Melody witnessed it, he would have heard about it for months afterwards.

I never received another invitation and, in fact, have never heard from Melody again.  I’ve seen Jack a few times and we laughed so hard, we had tears in our eyes. I asked him how the rest of the night went and he summed it up by saying, “Let’s just say I have seen happier faces at a eulogy."

   Chelle Munroe ©

    November 14, 2013

One of Those Moments

Have you ever had one of those moments where you get a doozy of a thought in your noodle and, for whatever reason, you just can’t let it go?  That’s exactly what happened to me one summer night. 

I was sitting at the kitchen table staring out the window at the fireflies dancing in and around the bushes and enjoying the magic of it all.  Even as an adult, it is fascinating to watch a firefly dart from one spot to another and it’s always fun when its light blinks out to try and guess where it will show up next.  Of course, the silly part of that thinking is that you can never be sure if it is the same firefly or not that appears.  It brought back memories from when I was a kid playing against an opponent and we’d swear on our lives that it was the same one and after minutes of challenging each other to prove it, which we never could; we’d simply laugh and continue on.

After awhile, when the action slowed, I thought I’d peruse the local paper and the supplements that came with it.  I flipped one of the pages, not really interested in it at all and was about to continue on when I caught a glimpse of a picture of dandelions and a honeydew melon. I thought it kind of strange to see the two together, but dismissed it thinking it was just a photo of summery things.

Some time later while washing dishes, I broke a fingernail and because it had broken so badly, I chose to clip it instead of using the emery board.  Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of one dandelion peeking up from the page at me.  “Keep spying on me,” I said, “and I’ll give you a clip you won’t recover from.”

Naturally, it didn’t budge so I held the clippers closer to it.  “Oh, so you’re a tough guy, huh?    Clippers don’t intimidate you?  I can fix that you know.”

I took the clippers and proceeded to clip all the dandelions out of the picture leaving just the  honeydew melon resting on the grass. I crumpled the flowers up and tossed them aside.  “How do you like me now?” I taunted.

This is where the doozy of an idea comes into play, as if the above wasn’t a bit overboard and strange enough in itself.  I had been thinking of making a meatloaf before I got entranced with the fireflies and now I had this crazy vision of a different kind of meatloaf.

What if I could get the meatloaf to have the taste of honeydew melon in it?  And if I could, how good would it be?  The more I thought about it, the more it appealed to me and the more it appealed to me, the more it beckoned me to try it. Needless to say, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to posit an answer to that query.  The big question was: How would I go about incorporating the honeydew melon, with it having so much water, into the mixture of meat that didn’t call for any water at all?

That question plagued me throughout the night and it was in the subconscious mind while I was sleeping that the answer revealed itself.  I awoke the next morning with a mission in mind.  “I was going to make honeydew melon meatloaf!”

I contacted Lynette, one of my best friends who, for awhile, had gotten on a real health food binge and bought herself one of those dried fruit, vegetable things where you can dry all types of foods and make your own snack packs.

When she answered the phone, I said, "Hi, it's Beth." Then I asked, “Lynette, can that dried food maker you have dry honeydew melon?”

“I don’t know.  I never tried honeydew melon.  Hold on Beth while I check.”  A moment later she came back on and said, “Yeah, I can do it.”

“Good.  I’ll be over shortly.”

 Before she could say another word, I hung up the phone and made myself a coffee, had breakfast, then showered, got dressed and headed for the market to get a honeydew melon.  At Lynette’s, she explained that it would take some time to dry the melon which was fine with me as long as it gave me what I wanted.  Two days later, I got the call.

“You can get your honeydew melon,” she blurted as soon as I answered.

“I’ll be right over,” was all I said and was out the door excited about this new idea.

Lynette was waiting for me when I got there and as soon as I stepped into the house she hugged me and said, “I’m so happy you decided to get healthy.  You’re not going to believe how good it’s going to make you feel.  Trust me; you’ll be a new woman in no time flat.”

I wanted so much to tell her what I was up to but my desire to surprise her was greater and I kept my intentions to myself.  I also wanted to run out the door and head home to make the meatloaf but I had to do the right thing and visit a while.   I love Lynette to death but there are times when she could talk a dog off a meat wagon.

Two and a half  hours later I finally got home and started right in putting all the ingredients into a bowl, mixing it up and putting it in the dish.  My oven, though fairly new, seemed to be heating so slowly at that moment, that I felt like I could have cooked the meat faster with a match. Then, after checking it for the umpteenth time, it was ready.

The moment had arrived…the results of my efforts had come to fruition.  As if I were handling the most precious jewel in the world, I removed the baking dish from the oven and set it on the cooling rack.  I grabbed a plate from the cupboard, a knife and fork from the drawer and with all the reverence I could muster, I cut a slice of meatloaf and gingerly worked it out of the baking dish onto my plate.

Then I lifted a piece on the fork and blew on it with hurricane force winds to quickly cool it off before putting it in my mouth.  I’m not certain what it was I tasted on that first bite because there was no distinctive flavor to it.  Figuring it was due to it being too hot, I waited a minute or two before trying another piece.  That got my attention.

I’m not sure but I think I had asked God to forgive me for wasting so much food about a thousand times that day and somewhere deep inside I had the strangest inkling that God had something to do with it because it was God-awful.  After that second bite, I set the fork down and walked out of the kitchen afraid to even look at the “thing” I had created.  Out the window went all my dreams of becoming rich for inventing a new dish that would sweep the country.  Instead, I found myself wanting to sweep it into the garbage bucket.  Even that caused me anxiety because all I could picture was some poor pig eating it and getting deathly sick from it and the FBI tracking me down like some terrorist for poisoning the country’s food supply.

Luckily, the FBI didn’t come looking for me and I found peace once again staring out my window watching the fireflies flit about my backyard.  I also decided to leave the new recipes to the Betty Crockers of the world.

   Chelle Munroe©

   November 11, 2013

Change and Invisibility

 Personal Essay

   Throughout my lifetime, whenever the subject has come up about a person's orientation or gender, I have heard people say, "I don't know what the big deal is all about because all they have to do is choose not to be that way.  It's easy." That statement and others like it still amaze me.                                                                                   

  In today's society with the vast amount of  testimony given by the psychiatric, medical and social services communities that a person's orientation or their gender identity is not something that is chosen but is the way a person is born, I find it difficult to fathom how that fact can still be ignored.

     On a number of occasions I have responded with: "Being as it is so easy and a choice, why don't you become a man/woman for a day?"

     Of course, they reply with "But I don't want to change."

     So I've asked, "But could you if you wanted to?" That usually gets a variety of looks. Some look puzzled; others seem confused; while others huff or sigh and remark that I'm just being foolish.

     Some have even expressed, "No, I can't just change like that. Besides, I wasn't born that way."

     Now you would think that with such a definitive answer as that, the light would go on and they would realize and understand the import of their words, yet for some strange reason, they don't. Even when I have commented and said, "So if you can't do it because you were born the way you are, what makes you think others can?"

     I won't waste your time by writing the numerous or offbeat answers I've gotten by that question. For those of you who are transgender or personally know a transgender person I would believe it to be a safe guess you have heard some or all of these things as well.

     For those of you who are just visiting my blog and are not familiar with transgenderism, I hope this posting will at least give you food for thought to be open and accepting of other people's way of life. For those of you who are unfamiliar with what a transgender person can go through, I will share some of the things from my life.

     Imagine yourself being invisible and no one can see you or hear you and no matter how much you cry out, no one knows you are there. Imagine those people you love looking right at you but never seeing you for who you really are.  This is what it was like for me growing up. And I'm not the only one.  Many transgender people have experienced the same thing, including Lana Wachowski, famed film producer -- notably the "Matrix" trilogy.

     From the time I was five years old and told my parents I was a girl and got a whack for being so stubborn about it and told never to mention it again, I was essentially invisible to them, because they had refused to see the real person in front of them, I felt isolated and disconnected from their love. I knew they loved me but I never felt their love embraced the whole me. Thankfully, the only things that helped me to get along without feeling totally dejected was my not understanding what I was feeling or why.

      The problem I faced with the inner confusion only worsened as I advanced into my teens. I still had no idea why I felt as I did and it became increasingly difficult to overcome the feeling that I was a freak. It wasn't until my friend Michael on his sixteenth birthday showed up dressed as a girl and told everyone that from that point on he wanted to be called Michelle. When the guys on the corner spit at her, called her every derogatory name there was and threatened to beat her up, I kept my mouth shut for fear that they would do the same to me. Inasmuch as I could relate to what she was going through, I refrained from having contact with her for months afterwards. I so much wanted to be in touch with her but was having a hard time trying to deal with my own ambiguous feelings. We finally did work things out which I will share at another time, but I brought this up because it reflects on the one aspect of the problems I and many others faced and continue to face--that is, bigotry and discrimination.

     One of the most difficult things a transgender person can go through is the isolation; the feeling like being on an island and disconnected from everyone and everything. This includes family and close friends because it is so difficult to tell them about how you really feel and how you want your life to be. In a sense, it is like asking them to accept the death of the familiar you and accept this new you. What most people do not realize is that when a person announces he/she is transgender, every single relationship they have changes, even if it is only the dynamics of the relationship. Every single relationship is put into jeopardy. Because of that fear of losing those relationships, many transgender people keep it quiet until it cannot be contained any longer. It is not a choice. We cannot change. We are who we are.

     In fact, many transgender people who, in an attempt to fit into society's "norm”, get married and have children. Many get married in an effort to quell the feelings that rage inside of them in hopes they will decrease and fade away. For most, the opposite is true. The desire and need to live as the opposite gender from which they were born becomes increasingly stronger with time. It is such a compelling need to be fulfilled, to be complete that some have breakdowns and others have committed suicide because they just couldn't face rejection. Everyone wants to be accepted.  For many, the fear of rejection, especially from family and close friends, can become so overwhelming that they see no hope of living happily or peacefully and thus resort to drastic measures.

     From those early days of childhood, well into my teens, I felt the deep hurt of being invisible. Every time I wanted to tell someone how I felt I would cringe inside at the thought of the outcome that such exposure would cause. For the longest time, I couldn't tell anyone because I didn't know what it was that I was feeling or going through and therefore couldn't explain or defend my feelings. That is a frustration that haunted me day and night.  I was never at peace with myself. There were conflicts inside of me that I neither understood nor was able to resolve; conflicts that multiplied and amplified with each passing day until I couldn't tell if I was going crazy or was already crazy.

     There were two times during my teenage years that I was visible. One of them was a positive reality when I was fifteen and the other was something I believed to be because of a purely negative experience that happened when I was fourteen years old. The negative incident at fourteen was when I was raped by three older teens. I honestly believed it happened because I had been visible to them; that somehow they knew I was really a female -- the "weaker sex".  That caused me to hate myself for many years afterwards and, as much as I wanted to be visible, I did the opposite and went way out of my way to hide my true self.

The other incident occurred when I was fifteen. It happened on the night Michael came out as Michelle. That night was the beginning and after three months of shunning her, I finally revealed myself to her and thus was visible. From that moment on, I craved to be visible to the world. I needed to be me. I needed to be free. I needed to be seen and loved for the real me. I still do and until that day comes when I can be complete, I will be still somewhat invisible.

This is a sampling on what it is like to be transgender for me. Of course, my being transgender encompasses so much more but it is my sincerest hope that these words will give you food for thought and help you to understand and be compassionate to those of us who suffer from GID – Gender Identity Disorder. Thanks for allowing me to share this with you.

   Chelle Munroe©
   November 9, 2013


 

Reminders

Angela tilted her face toward the warm sunshine gleaming through the bus window. It felt good to finally be able to close her eyes and lean her head against the glass. It was a dream come true riding in a vehicle without a steel mesh barrier guarding the windows.

Ten long years she had existed in and survived the state prison system. It seemed a lifetime ago that she’d been convicted of manslaughter for killing her pimp. After numerous beatings from him, she had reached a point of no return. The case should have been dismissed, but a seedy career; an overworked public defender; and a zealous, newly appointed District Attorney, got her a ten year stretch; so much for the justice system.

Unlike many of the women who went home when released, Angela chose to travel in the opposite direction. Going home would have been nice, but after seventeen years, having run away at the age of fourteen, and her parents dead, she knew her brothers wouldn’t want the embarrassment of explaining her when she unexpectedly showed up on their doorstep. Besides, they were more like strangers now than family, which made her decision to stay away that much easier to make.

She opened her eyes in time to see a herd of cows out to pasture and smiled. A flood of memories washed over her. She shook her head thinking of those days of youth and innocence and rides in her father’s car. She thought of the many farms that were dotted along the road and the laughter and fun she shared with her family. She sighed. That was another life. Seeing the cows made her feel as though time had stood still for a brief moment. If only.

Angela averted her eyes and stared at her callused hands. The calluses were a gift from prison. Only this gift she didn’t feel bitter about because she had earned every one of them. They were her badge of honor and she was proud of them. The calluses represented the many hours of hard labor she put into making changes in her life. They were symbols of her future and reminders of where she’d been.

She checked her watch and calculated that less than two hours away she would be giving back by putting her newly acquired carpenter skills to the test – building homes for the New Jersey hurricane victims.

  Chelle Munroe©

  November 5, 2013

The Ugly Truth

Personal Essay

The ugly truth; how many times I have had to face that reality about myself, but none more so than when I was just a kid.  Kids, as we know, can often times be cruel.  It doesn’t matter if it is today or from years ago, it is just a fact of life and not a pretty one at that.  Sadly enough, I cannot say that I was any different.  I know I wasn’t as bad as some of the others, but I also know I wasn’t as kind as some of the others either.

One situation, especially, comes to mind when I think about such things.  I was in fourth grade the first time such ugliness within me reared its head.  A girl, new to the school, came into the classroom and almost immediately, some began to snicker and laugh at her behind her back.  She was quite different than the rest of us which is why she stood out so much.

What made this girl different was a large reddish-purple birthmark on one side of her face that started at her eyebrow down to her chin and from the edge of her nose to almost her ear.  To further make her appearance a target for insults, she suffered from a severe case of acne.  Naturally, the girls in the classroom gave her condescending looks of disgust and turned their heads away to openly shun her and I pretty much did the same. As for the boys, well, the boys hurled many insulting and cruel remarks about her looks.  They weren’t said directly to her but were shared loud enough for her to hear.

These taunting remarks went on for a couple weeks, all of us waiting for her to break down and cry or just not show up one day.  To our surprise, she did neither one.  Not seeing a collapse, one of the girls decided to talk to her to discover what she was about.  I’ll never forget what transpired after that and how it changed my whole attitude and my views of others in a way that, although my parents and teachers had taught me the same, affected me for the rest of my life.

The birth defect and dark pigmentation of the girl’s skin was caused by a problem her mother had suffered while she was pregnant; and it not only affected the daughter, but also her twin brother, who died two years after birth from an irreversible birth defect.  The girl’s mother had also died five years later, but before she died informed her daughter about the cruel remarks other kids were probably going to say about her and that she would have to learn to ignore them and to remember that her mother would always be with her to give her the strength to forgive them and love them just the same.  

The girl’s mother had taught her to not be judgmental of others and to always look for the beauty in someone else no matter the circumstances.  The girl in the classroom started spending more and more time with her and they soon became best friends.  Not long after, other girls began gravitating toward her and, before long, they too, had become friends with her.
   

The school put on a small play and the students had to learn lines for acting parts, or words to songs to sing and some to dance.  I was chosen to dance and was told to select a partner.  I can’t explain why but I chose the girl with the birthmark on her face.  It took only a few moments for the boys in class to start ragging on me about my choice, but I shrugged it off. 
  

As it turned out, dancing with this girl was one of the best things I had ever done as a kid because I learned what a beautiful person she was and I felt so sad for her that her mom had died before she got to see such a beautiful daughter growing up.  When I shared this with the girl, she simply nodded and told me that her mom hadn’t missed one moment of her life because she was with her every single day in her heart.
  

I learned about what was truly ugly and what was truly beautiful and am grateful for having learned to shed the ugly and embrace the beautiful.  She moved away the following year but I’m positive she has grown to be one of the most beautiful people in the world.

Chelle Munroe©

November 3, 2013

 

A Distinct Click

On his way home from closing a case, Cal Brent passed an alley and noticed a man forcing a woman into an abandoned building. He cussed himself for having left his cell-phone at the office, knowing by the time he got to a phone and contacted the police, the girl could be dead.

He needed to do something and quickly. Swerving the Mustang to the curb, he retrieved the Smith & Wesson from the glove compartment, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it; yet sensing the opposite in his gut. Fifteen years as a private detective taught him to trust his instincts.

Pitch-black impaired his vision upon entering the building so he closed his eyes to let them adjust. He opened them slowly and was able to make out a hallway and followed it. Every few feet, Cal paused to listen for sounds. After what seemed hours and miles, he spotted a dim light spilling into the corridor from a point up ahead and stealthily inched his way to the door. He took a deep breath and cautiously peered into the room.

The woman was strapped to a chair with her back to him about midway; her muffled sobs seeped into his ears. To the left, a shadow flickered back and forth and until Cal knew what he was up against, he was forced to remain out of sight. Her sobs suddenly changed to anxious groans as she writhed and struggled in vain to free herself. Cal’s gaze shot up and saw a figure standing a few feet away in front of her, smiling. He didn’t appear to have a weapon.

“You’re not too good for me now, are ya?” he taunted her.

Cal made his move. “Step back!” he commanded, pointing his gun at the man’s chest.

Startled, the guy jammed his hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a weapon. Cal squeezed the trigger and the kidnapper was knocked backward, his gun clattering to the floor. He swayed then toppled over.

Cal moved into the room and kicked the weapon out of reach. He turned to the woman and discovered she was just a young lady about twenty years of age. He bent down to loosen her bonds.

A maniacal laugh erupted behind him. The girl’s wide eyes reflected the horror within. Cal spun around to see the guy pushing a button, then clearly heard a distinct click from something on the side shelf where a digital clock began counting down. Before Cal could move, the room burst into flames.

Having no time to fuss with the bindings, Cal stooped and hoisted the chair and the girl up to his shoulder and trudged out of the room, the flames licking at his heels. In the corridor, numerous explosions hurled flames and debris in back and in front of him and he had all he could do to rush through them.

Between the awkward weight of the girl and chair and the heat and fumes sucking the air from his lungs and burning his eyes, Cal staggered into the walls a number of times. Just when he thought he couldn’t make it, he spotted the door and pumped his legs harder.

He slammed the chair legs into the door and stumbled out into the alley where he lost his footing and they crashed to the ground hard. The jarring impact caused both of them to grunt. Cal glanced over at her. She was conscious and for a moment, they just lay there staring at each other, grateful to be alive.

  Chelle Munroe©

  October 31, 2013