Coming full circle with my long-ago desire to be like Cher in one particular scene in “Moonstruck.”
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Published September 1, 2018
Peace has too often eluded me, but I woke up from a powerful dream this morning with an unprecedented calm that feels like how I’m guessing a person at peace must feel.
I was at the house that our family moved into when I was a teenager. My parents, both gone now, were younger in the dream than when we lived there. They were complaining that I had broken a part of a doorway leading to the back patio. I had not.
“Let’s just blame Carly,” I said, angrily. “Everyone will believe she did it. Let’s blame her.”
That seemed to satisfy my dad, who got a beer out of the refrigerator and tilted the top of the unopened bottle in my direction as if air-clinking glasses with me for a virtual toast.
I’m laughing after typing all of that, because of course I am. I immediately knew that the point of the dream was not to be found in the particulars of what I had or hadn’t done.
Peace
That was just context, a setting. What has me at peace is that I referred to myself in the dream as Carly, and with female pronouns, to a mom and dad who gave me a different name that was put on a birth certificate that calls me a boy. I remember the spirit of my dad’s words better than I do the specifics, and taken together with his beer-bottle salute, it said, “OK.”
With me being well into my transition and life as a transgender woman, it felt like acceptance that I cannot get from him in the three-dimensional world I live and communicate in while awake. I have a new name, and a new gender identity, and I am beyond happy that my subconscious mind used them in a seemingly unrelated conversation with my parents.
I also have a new feeling, and a new tag on my growing list of blog post tags.
Peace.
Photo by lzf via Shutterstock
Published August 16, 2018
Danny had been on my mind lately. The reasons, like life, were a series of seemingly random events and circumstances that somehow worked together to point in a certain direction. Then, on Monday morning, I got the call telling me that he was gone.
Oof, as Danny often said. Oof, as if reacting to a body blow, a gut punch. That’s how it felt.
I’m writing this during my private candlelight vigil for Remy Daniel Miller II, whose funeral Mass is six hours (and two time zones) away as I begin this remembrance of the friend I met during our freshman year of high school. What would he think, I wonder, if he knew that my apartment building prohibits candles, forcing me to improvise with a battery-powered version and a Shutterstock image? My guess is he’d allow it.
Why had Danny been on my mind lately? For starters, two other high school friends — both of them one year my senior — visited me five weeks ago, stirring up memories that began flooding back a few weeks earlier when they told me they’d booked their flight. Flipping through yearbooks put a lot of names and faces back on my radar. And around that time, I reconnected with a classmate, the one who called me with the bad news Monday.
Published June 17, 2018
Lady Bird was released in December, but I didn’t get around to watching it until awards season, just before the Oscars. I meant to write something about it sooner, but life got in the way. I loved it enough to buy it, and I re-watched it this weekend.
Published May 3, 2018
My desire to see “The Post” owed mostly to my long career in newspapers, but motivations are often complex, and that was true about my interest in this movie. A believer in the role that newspapers have as watchdog, I felt an extra pull to view Tom Hanks as Ben Bradlee and Meryl Streep as Katharine Graham. Those characters, the editor and the publisher of The Washington Post at the time of the controversial public disclosure of the Pentagon Papers, have been well known to me for decades.
Published February 2, 2018
The mass shooting Wednesday in Parkland, Florida, and the public reactions from students who survived it caused me to think a lot about high school. During my four years, nothing remotely close to it ever happened. Until Columbine in April 1999, something like that occurring on a high school campus was largely unimaginable to me.
Published February 12, 2018
Earlier this month, I reconnected with a good friend from college. Conversation soon turned to movies, and she recommended “Housekeeping” (1987). Directed by Bill Forsyth, it is based on Marilynne Robinson’s 1981 novel. If you watch it in a mood similar to mine when I saw it a couple of weeks ago, you might be taken aback by the use of the word “comedy” in the opening of Vincent Canby’s November 1987 review for The New York Times. Taken in full, the description “haunting comedy” feels closer to the mark.
Published October 23, 2017
I thought we were gonna get television. The truth is, television is gonna get us.
Over the weekend, I watched the 1994 film “Quiz Show” again. Like a lot of movies, books, short stories, TV shows, documentaries and news stories I’ve revisited in the past year or so, it unexpectedly spoke to the ugly realities of this point in time.
Published October 1, 2017
Today is my birthday. In a sense, it’s also Carly’s. Hi. I’m Carly.
I am a transgender woman, and I’d like for you to use she and her when you refer to me. Mine is a journey from trying to live as a man toward an acceptance of the authentic self that has been wanting to come out for a long time. I’m excited and relieved to be telling you a little bit about her.
It’s challenging to find the words to share how I came to this realization and turning point in my life. Much of it has been painful, and that pain came from the failed efforts to live the way I’d imagined the world expected me to live. There is joy in saying to you now that the pain is giving way to happiness, a liberation of a secret that no longer feels like it must be a secret.
This coming-out story is a collection of moments, memories that retrace parts of the narrative without necessarily sharing specifics about the work and heartache that came with mining those moments. They are threads from a tapestry.
You could stop reading here without missing the main point — that I’m trans. There is no “reveal” beyond what I’ve said. The rest is a curvy revisiting of those threads as I process an important transitional birthday the best way I know how.
The intersection of St. Peter and Bourbon streets was a blur in a different way on the night of Feb. 7, 2010, and into the early-morning hours of Feb. 8 as the French Quarter filled up within minutes of the New Orleans Saints winning the Super Bowl. (Joseph Sohm / Shutterstock, Inc.)
Postcard from the French Quarter:
(With my heart going out to those affected by tornado damage Tuesday in New Orleans and other parts of Louisiana, here’s a look back at one of the best night’s in the Crescent City’s history. Originally posted at 3:21 a.m. on Feb. 8, 2010, on a blog long since shuttered.)
NEW ORLEANS — Super Bowl Sunday has become early Monday morning, almost imperceptibly, and this afterglow of the Super Bowl victory by the New Orleans Saints still feels like something that might forever be called Lombardi Gras.
The fusion of the NFL’s championship trophy with the Carnival atmosphere in the Big Easy in February 2010 seems inspired now, almost fated, as I sit and rest tired feet while younger, more energetic revelers continue to party in the French Quarter. Now we know why the Big Game had to creep from January into February over the years.
Some of the passersby look at me as I type notes on my BlackBerry, and based on their comments, they think I’m texting someone. In a way, I suppose I am. I’m texting you.
In no particular order, except the free-flow way I typed them, here are notes of the sights, sounds and smells of my walk from near the Convention Center down to Jackson Square and deep into the Quarter:
Minutes after the game, euphoria.
There’s never been a feeling like it.
New Orleans empties onto its streets.
Car horns blare.
Strangers high-five strangers.
“Who Dat!”
Tonight, no one is a stranger.
We’re all trying to wrap our minds around it.
“The Saints, NFL champions!”
The streets fill with cheers, and thanks to go-cups, “cheers!”
There are no words, really, but we’re all trying.
“Boom, chaka laka laka! Boom, chaka laka laka!”
More high fives, swarming like flies.
“Big guy, Who Dat!”
We pass Harrah’s, where a crowd has gathered.
“Who Dat!”
The flow on Poydras seems headed toward the Superdome.
Let’s veer off into the Quarter.
You can see more of the street surface than usual.
That won’t last.
Got time for a celebratory Lucky Dog, Ignatius?
Someone’s walking under huge black-and-gold balloons.
Music is blaring from car stereos.
Car horns are approximating Mardi Gras songs.
Black-and-gold-umbrella dances.
More high fives.
Right there, smiling children who can’t possibly grasp the moment like their parents can.
Big-drink-in-hand high fives.
Cell-phone-hand high fives.
A single boot on the ground across from Café du Monde.
Let’s play kick the boot!
A solitary woman snaps a photo of St. Louis Cathedral.
Your blogger sits and types his notes.
“Who Dat sitting on the phone, texting!” a girl yells.
“He Dat!” her boyfriend chants.
Me Dat, your blogger thinks.
Drew Brees jerseys everywhere.
Reggie Bush jerseys almost everywhere.
A Deuce McAllister jersey catches the eye.
Café au lait, then another, at Café du Monde.
Powdered sugar and jubilation floating in the air.
Around Jackson Square, tarot card readings.
Candles burn, lighting a dark corner.
Nothing beats the smiles of a young stoner couple.
Beads, beads, beads.
A Jeremy Shockey jersey, filled out like I’d never seen, stumbles over to Who Dat and high-five me.
“Halftime (Stand Up & Get Crunk)” fills the cold air.
Improvised percussion. A small parade starts.
Ghetto booties follow.
There are few, if any, street performers out here.
And yet, everyone out here qualifies, in a sense.
Cars roll by as people stand through the sunroofs.
Moonroofs?
What came first, those or Texas Stadium?
Glassy eyes.
Trucks roll by as people stand in the flatbeds.
A jazz band parades past us.
Broken glass.
Handheld cams.
Spills.
Yep, this is what the Quarter smells like.
A lot of black and gold.
A little purple and gold.
Pretty girls.
(Many of them female)
A Saints Tailgating Crew mini-bus.
Cops on horseback.
Shirtless guys standing on the roof of a moving Suburban.
Does everyone out here have style and rhythm? Sure seems that way.
“Let’s repeat!” he says, and then he high-fives your blogger.
A man and his son ride their bikes through the craziness.
A blue hula hoop gets a workout around more black and gold.
A “When the Saints” parade breaks out, punctuated by Who Dats.
Group photos. Say “Brees.”
Group photos that from a distance, in the dark, resemble team photos.
A young woman announces she must soon relieve herself.
A split-second later, she Who Dats me, then high-fives me.
Her boyfriend slaps my hand, but it doesn’t feel like a high five.
Cat in the Hat hats in Mardi Gras colors near Pat O’s.
A single glove on the ground at the entrance.
The streets have fewer people on them than you’d think.
Five are making the noise of 10.
Ah, and then I turn onto Bourbon.
Five hundred make the noise of 1,000.
Garbage is fast piling up against the curbs.
Balcony parties.
Lip lock.
A Manning jersey — Saints, No. 8.
No sign of the Manning jersey — Colts, No. 18 — from this afternoon.
“Livin’ on a Prayer” sung twice in two blocks.
Bourbon is crowded.
And then some.
The girl pushing against me wants me to back up.
I can’t.
“Get the heck off me,” she says.
Except she doesn’t say “heck.”
She can’t grasp the force pushing me into her.
Or the force pushing her into me.
The Bourbon Street crowd is a little more surly.
This has crowd surge written all over it.
It’s probably a good time to duck in for beignets and elbow room.
Everyone seems to want to high-five the guy by himself.
There’s joy, disbelief and catharsis everywhere.
And no riots, fires or looting, at least not where I can see.
I’m cold, and it’s a long, long walk to where I left my car.
I hope it’s still there.
I’m glad I came. This was the place to be when the Saints won the Super Bowl.
The Saints won the Super Bowl. Mardi Gras may never end.
Lombardi Gras has a pretty respectable momentum itself.
Time to give the thumbs a rest.
I might need them to hitch a ride if I can’t find my car.
⚜
Seven years later, I’m struck by how many references there are in this play-by-play account of French Quarter revelry that a person would struggle to understand without having some familiarity with: a) New Orleans culture; b) the Saints’ many losing seasons; c) Super Bowl history; d) Mardi Gras; and e) the allowance of open containers of alcoholic beverages on the streets of New Orleans.
The sense of connection, in scope and in fervor, was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. All of us were part of a community, even if you didn’t know anybody else on the streets that night. We were all friends. We all knew what that championship, something many thought we’d never live to see, meant to post-Katrina New Orleans and to people who remember what the city was like before Aug. 29, 2005, the day the hurricane came ashore.
Seven years after that Lombardi Gras night, instead of being able to enjoy the anniversary, New Orleans was busy picking up the pieces from another destructive strike from nature. That nearly convinced me not to repost this old blog piece. But, at a time when it’s almost impossible to imagine the kind of togetherness I felt on the streets with thousands of strangers, I’ve been revisiting good days in America, good memories. This qualifies.
Published February 8, 2017
Lucky Dog photo by Lori Monahan Borden via Shutterstock.
St. Louis Cathedral photo by Natalia Bratslavsky via Shutterstock.
Café du Monde photo by Andriy Blokhin via Shutterstock.
Drew Brees photo by Action Sports Photography via Shutterstock.
Note: Yep, no camera that night. Just the BlackBerry. So even though these photos are from different days in New Orleans history, they help, I hope, paint a more colorful picture than just the many words I pieced together with my thumbs on that wild night seven years ago.