The Difficulties of Attending College for Transgender Students

Being transgender has created so many difficulties for me in affording and attending college that I wouldn't have expected before my transition. I never even stopped to think about how difficult and anxiety-inducing it would be to find housing when you need to save money by living with roommates, and everyone expects that the living situation be segregated by sex. As a transfeminine person, this leaves me feeling either unsafe living with cisgender men in a conservative area, or feared living with cisgender women who don't understand my experience. While it is possible to find options, the extremely limited nature of them forces me to settle for much higher housing prices and much less convenient locations than I would in a less marginalized situation.

Another issue I have faced is with health care. Like many college students, my class schedule and internships force me to work multiple part time jobs rather than a single full time one. This means that despite the hours I work, I am not provided with health insurance benefits. This leaves me as a transgender person in great danger and inconvenience. Without a doctor to document my time on hormone replacement medications I will have to wait longer to receive surgeries that require proof patients have fully transitioned and maintained their medical regimen in recent years. This will leave me with years of dysphoria that could have been avoided with simply a slight investment in better health care. In addition, I fear that I won't be able to have my transition hormone levels checked regularly, creating fears both of side effects and of failures in my medications that will not be fully resolved until I am able to graduate.

Finally, college is difficult on a social and emotional level for transgender students. We are often misunderstood and left out of gendered activities. It is harder to make friends, and we live with long histories of people making fun of us or looking down on us for being who we are. I do my best not to let these things affect me, but it is difficult to have poor judgements and isolation from many of my fellow students enjoined with all of the economic difficulties I already face.

I hope that people reading this can understand better that there is bravery and power in transgender people seeking to further their lives through education. Even for myself, just writing this, I am better able to see just why it feels there is so much stress and sadness in my college experience. The challenges we face are immense and it's daunting to go up against so many challenges largely by ourselves. Despite all of this, I am excited about the fact that I am furthering my life, and I really do look forward to the opportunities I'm opening up for myself by completing my higher education.

The Last Payphone in Manhattan

The last payphone in Manhattan

has seen a thousand pretty girls

in a thousand little black dresses

and can tell you what their mothers cooked for dinner, or the fantasies of their 1947 Harry-Truman voting-boyfriends.

Those were the days of pastel and glass chandeliers hanging in the pinstriped streets that Joe DiMaggio forever owned.

Forever owned.

The city is still busy, but the last payphone doesn't host a line anymore.

A line that used to wrap around the block, quarters slipping and dropping and slipping and dropping just for the privilege of a few minutes.

Every "I love you" from the customary to the heart pounding firsts used to fly through that receiver in a single day

and it never got old.

Those were the days when the yellow pages were worn like a hat

and mid-pubescent boys giggled as they drew obscene geometry over the area codes.

Their giggles sounded like springtime in the winter.

Once, a twenty-something subway regular who used to draw those shapes on the way to school

shouted Italian curse words right through the mic,

hung up hard enough to make it hurt,

then turned around in shame to wait another twenty minutes in line and say I'm sorry.

The "I love you" at the end of that call, was among the most sacred ones.

That Italian kid grew up, dropping his quarters in a few times each week.

The payphone tried to add up how much he spent over a lifetime, just for fun

but every time someone dialed a number it threw off the count, so math became a dead language

and don't you know that's why memories are all the last payphone in Manhattan can speak in now?

A payphone without numbers is a payphone of memories.

If you try to make a call now, all that comes out the other end are wonderful memories, and we call them static.

Which means that soon, the last payphone will be gone as the rest.

As soon as someone bothers to report the trouble

to whoever these sorts of troubles are supposed to be reported to.

It could be a while.

So if you get the chance, make a call sometime.

Two quarters to spread the stories of Italian boys

West Coast wanderers

hopeful youth and every stage of the light in their eyes

short skirt princesses

burnout bureaucrats

sober dancers

and all the rest.

Manhattan's last payphone watched every one of them from the back of a subway station

and their I love you's

belong in every ear.

Even Though Daddy Offered

He was a midnight hitchhiker stowing away on trains even though Daddy offered gas money.
Because Daddy's money was found
and all he wanted was to be lost.

He wouldn't admit it,
but all he wanted was to be lost.

Because tears are the stuff that oceans are made of
and the North Star
was always the most boring one.

So he hopped the C train east expecting the underbelly society hiding in that empty caboose.
That empty caboose.
Daddy held out his wallet the whole time, but hitchhiking train hopping hilarity was always free.

He traveled a continent without letting sentimentality sink in
Daddy held out his wallet the whole time
his arm withered and groaned holding it there so long.

All he really wanted was his son
but they never communicated well
and the world always ran more on schedules than sunsets according to him.

Freedom and Fathers
Schedules and Sons

They never did seem to fit.
Not for them.

Sunsets

I was trying to write a poem
about how lost our generation is

when I went outside
and saw the most beautiful sunset
since yesterday.

The kind with purples so deep they could be oceans,
reds so raw roses must be wilting on Mars.

And every generation has these sunsets.
I don't care what wars we've fought,
or meaning we've failed to find.

We can only be so lost,
as long as we have these sunsets.

Conclusions on Nothing

I just woke from a dream

in which I lost a friend

who meant a great deal to me.

And now I'm trying to figure out what it meant.

I'm no sage,

I'm no monk,

but I have to conclude nothing.

It means only that I had a dream.

It is in and of itself,

and nothing ever seems to have meaning 

in and of itself.

But now, look,

the damn thing has inserted itself

into a poem

and into my thoughts.

So once again

I have to conclude

that nothing I know of

is ever in and of itself.

Art & Armistice

The most useless things in the world

are poems promoting peace,
And books that believe in humanity
even when it's inconvenient.

They're the most head-hanging

idealistic

simple examples of defeat.

And yet here, I pray,

that these useless things

never stop redeeming us.

Probable Future

If the earth were to give us the last of what it had

and we threw it in an internal combustion engine to wither and die

then we could all finally be happy.

Because the earth would know it gave us everything it had

and we

would have nothing left to fight for.

The Pawn Massacre

War was a backyard game for presidents and kings

who knew that in the end, they would still be friends financially.

And they would have a few more heroic war stories,

movies

and songs
that would somehow be enough to make their people cheer.

So they played

and played.

And their people

grew up

to be corpses.

4G LTE

We don't want freedom, we want bars with beer and bars with 4G LTE.

Liberty never price matched so it can come after we open a few grocery stores,

and the pursuit of happiness ended with universal television and cheap porn.

So go, celebrate, we've finally won.

But remember,
Jimmy Fallon is on at ten

and those divorce papers are due soon.

Swings and Siblings

All he wanted to do was fly off the swings, cape flowing behind him-spandex uncomfortable though it may be-

He wanted to fight villains and save the city all before snack time.

Because that was right.

And that was noble.

And that was his purpose.

But the villains never showed up.

Only people, trying to do the best with what they'd been given.

Just like himself.

And what purpose was the hero without a villain?

That was the question he couldn't answer.

So he flew off that swing set, ever so lonely,

searching always for the villain

who never came.

And on the playground, he left behind his little sister.

Who just wanted her big brother

to push her on the swings.

Enough

I remember when the whole kindergarten class played kissing tag every recess.
Most of us secretly wanted to lose.

I remember fighting every lunchtime in fourth grade to prove I was a man
and never winning, but still growing up to be a man at the same rate as everyone else.

I remember when mom sang for our family talent show.
The music was malfunctioning as if performing didn't make her nervous enough.
Dad was on his phone
and I didn't know how to clap loud enough to tell her how much I loved it.

Highland Elementary, Pokemon, Blockbuster, and getting in a sword fight with Captain Hook at Disneyland because I dressed up as Peter Pan.
They're all still there.
Going to a Yankees game with dad the year Jeter retired was mainstream and didn't change the world but I love it just the same.

I remember too many best friends and not enough about what happened, but it's okay.
I remember the days before love, happy, lonely, mourning, humor, hope and so many other words meant so much. And I know they'll mean more in the future.
I remember when Billy Joel was the closest company I had and I can't forget a word from greatest hits CD.

I forgot so much
but I remembered enough for a poem
nostalgia
and a little learning.

And I wouldn't ask for more or less.

Jesse Kristin

Jesse Kristin is the blog of Gretel Beal, and  if you know Gretel at all you've probably noticed she has an amazing skill for cheering others up. So it's not surprising that her blog spreads that same happiness too, through her writing. Gretel, I've loved reading all your posts, but one in particular that I chose to help myself out was your "To Do List".

From cleaning my room to calling old friends Gretel's advice has improved my life with each task on the list. Tomorrow I'll be sharing how each one specifically helped me out.

Thanks for the challenge and advice, thanks for making the world happier, thanks for being you Gretel.

Little Girl, Nothing Wrong

Yesterday my little sister asked me why we're alive, and I had to pretend not to hear her.

I still think I handled it wrong.

But she's just a little girl with nothing wrong, and even when we hold hands, we're both still alone in a world where headlines will always take priority over life. In a place where sanctity is measured in soundbites,
at a time when I haven't existed for 2 hours because that's how long my phone has been off.

I still think I handled it wrong.

I'm sorry, I just couldn't find enlightenment on billboards
like I was supposed to.

But Brianne, the leaves are all but gone this December, and not even our undying evergreens have an answer to that question.

Brianne, my signature will mean something in 10 months, 2 days, nine hours and forty-three minutes, my leaves are all but gone too, and I still can't answer your question.

So I'll keep ignoring God because He can't keep my attention as long as the words "I don't know."

 I'll keep screaming at the sun to show itself because we deserve at least that much, then curse the blue sky when it finally comes and there's no answer hiding behind the clouds.

And on my gravestone maybe some graffiti artist will be kind enough to etch the words endlessly,

"I don't know I don't know I don't know"

because I can't ask my family to do it for me.

Brianne, I promise I heard you, and see you, and for what it's worth, love you.

But tomorrow we'll be gone as the leaves

evergreens will keep looking for their answer, more alone than ever

and I'll still think I handled it wrong.

i'm

The closest I ever came to a fist fight was in fifth grade when my little brother told our carpool that my middle name was Kelsey.
Because that was my biggest secret.
Because Kelsey was a girl's name.

So I guess this is full circle.

These words were a search for redemption in the form of dim computer screens and blood soaked graphite, pounding out of my heart in the hope that they would mean something to someone outside myself.

Here was sanctuary where sarcasm couldn't kill the blue bird.

Turns out blue birds can sing.

Turns out people can listen.

If only to a sentence,

you listened.

And you don't know how much it means.

So let's dance in the streets of Paris tonight, because whatever else may have happened,

We came

We saw

We cared.

And we broke a few self-indulgent stereotypes of people who can't sign waivers for themselves in the process.

If you really knew me, I'd have a lot of questions.

But I know enough to say,

no matter how much sentimentality and forced hugs can make me squirm

I do feel

I do love

I am human

and I always was

and I always am

and I always will be

Trevor Knorr.

The Orchestra

Young boy caught up in the orchestra, doing his silly little dance.

And when the crescendo comes
he is so scared.

The piano keys are black and white.
Black and white.

He doesn't understand when his father promises
he'll see gray someday too.

Mother calls her boy sweet 

his heart soars.

And it will always be between them,
because the beautiful orchestra?

It plays on.

And the flutes are so loud.

Human caught somewhere between the grips of boyhood and maturity;

Steps up for his chance to compose 

when the music goes quiet.

The flutes pay him no mind, and violins fight for attention in the chaos.

He never stands to compose again,

instead supports the presidential candidate 

who will fix it all.

Girlfriend breaks up, and of course nothing stays between them.

But the beautiful orchestra?

Relentlessly, it plays on.

Man sees his presidential candidate step out of office

eight years

three scandals

two recessions

and one war later.

The keys are all gray.

The piano too.

Waitress says he is sweet

and it doesn't stay anywhere meaningful at all.

Because the waitress? She has other orders to take.

And sweet? Sounds like an insult.

The ruddy orchestra plays on,

and he watches the silly little dances.

Just far enough away

that no one will think to pull him onto the dance floor.

Just Let It

A rural mom told me to fill my heart with warmth.

An urban dad said to cram it with tears.

They told me so many times 

what to do with my heart,

eventually

at a certain point

I just let it sit empty.


And nobody was mad.

It Poured

My windshield wipers are doing the only thing they'll ever do as I pull into whatever gas station has the lowest prices lately, 
because that comes closest to the dream politicians send people to die for.

Or more likely
because that comes closest to the monthly budget.

The early morning weatherman says something over the radio like, "God's tears are pouring down here in Happy Valley"

And I wonder just how much orange juice you have to drink 
over a lifetime 
to convince yourself to wake up 
and say shit like that every weekday.

I pour the gas, 
ready to use it for another late-night canyon drive that's supposed to make me feel.

Or something.

Then I walk in the gas station 
buy a bottle of orange juice to pour down my throat.

Wondering how many of these I'll need 
to convince myself to wake up 

every weekday morning.

                                            

How to be an Air Traffic Controller

At 13 I was disappointed to learn how important responsibility is, considering I have so little.

I get it, you're not here for disappointment, I'm supposed to teach you how to be an air traffic controller. 

Trouble is, they hired the wrong trainer, because I don't have a clue what to tell anybody about consistency, reliability or the altitude of your flight.

Do I let you in on the fact that they wear those neon vests because planes are big, people are little, and if you're not running around demanding attention or humbly wearing your bright vest they just might run you over?

Should I suggest you never let it get in your head when pilots and passengers rocket past at hundreds of miles-per-hour,

leaving you to walk back to base slowly without a goodbye?

See, we're all pilots, and we're all passengers, and we're all air traffic controllers.

But the first of those is the only one that ever seems to make us proud, and the second is the only place where we can relax.

Who can blame most of the airport for heading home by the third?

But you're still here, 

so if you really want to know how to be an air traffic controller, here it is.

Something kids don't dream of having in their eulogy, but only the best are honored to be remembered for.

The boring secret that never got on prime time news.

The unglorified truth that could have saved us from every plane crash and too many tears.

Just find your job,

and do it.

Recall Reason

I'm scared of turning into my parents and I think my parents are scared I'll vote for Hillary, but I've got smaller things to worry about than worldwide whirlwinds too big for 2 eyes that never had time for my microscopic heart.

I know the last 14 years haven't erased what happened in September, but despite the tears and eulogies 

trickle-down-depression hardly affects three Mountain West cities already soaking in it.

I hear a boy in first period talk about how his dad just texted him happy birthday,

three weeks late.

I see girls lose friend groups and don't ever know why,

the relentless rhythm goes on.

I feel stories I don't know circulating as quietly as the blood in our veins.

And I can't help wondering,

is this what the world really is?

At 7 I was sheltered.

At 11 I contemplated ending it, and maybe that's too young, but so is eighty.

At 12 I cried in mom's arms for the last time because it was all so different.

And at 17 I won't pretend I get it all, but I'm starting to understand some people.

One of which is myself.

Emotions revolve like my favorite doors from childhood, but that isn't necessarily the nightmare people make it out to be.

There's give and take to most everything.

Maybe all our names were in the history book at one point, but it got recalled for lack of love.

We've got each other now,

and no recall.

I like to think there's a reason for that.

It Meant

I remember looking out the airplane window into a bright white blank slate.

And maybe in the end all it meant was there too many clichéd Hollywood effects stored away in my brain, but for a second I swear it meant we were all dead.

Maybe I knew, deep down, that we'd emerge from that logical product of condensation perfectly alive.

But for a second, we were all dead together.

First-class passengers still closed their business deals, those girls in front of me kept checking out that boy, and he kept pretending not to notice.

The Avengers on my neighbor's iPad kept saving New York, but despite the Hollywood effects, no one wrote a hero into our movies.

Not a single one.

We were just more extras grounded into the screenplay's ink and forgotten before the popcorn ran out.

And maybe that was okay.

So sometimes I try to love them all like their mothers would. 

I'm no good, but sometimes I try just the same.

Because we're all heroes,

or at least the main characters,

in our own movie.

And I'm not saying every movie wants to be a box-office hit or Academy Award winner,

but I think every movie wants to be watched at least once.

And I think every movie would have a fan, 

if someone took the time to watch.