Three weeks on and nothing. The investigator of the Chingeltei police department called me yesterday to tell me she had not been able to get the asshole who fractured my skull to come to the police station for questioning. Like WTF?! And she asked if I knew his address, which of course I didn't. Extremely disappointing. If this is really it, I will have to think of other options to get justice because this time I am not leaving it to karma.
Etc. It'd been over two and a half years since I met my School of Foreign Service classmates because I was hurt by the lack of moral health on most of their part that evening in September 2009: lack of taking a stand, which showed a lack of conviction, a lack of understanding about the right and wrong. As Einstein said: "The world is a dangerous place to live; not because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it." This time I had to, as a classmate (who joined our class after I left, but who I became friendly with years on through my classmates and another friend, now estranged, who happened to be his aunt) had passed away. He was only a few years older, but looks like he was suffering from incredible amount of stress and distress related to his work (tenureship, and even salaries owed to him by the university), something I can empathise due to my own ordeal at the UN, but look at the outcomes. One thing that keeps eating at me is that it was days before his body was discovered. I pray the death was not painful, or as dark as the last few years of his life: oum ma ni pad me hum. After visiting his father to pay respect to T.'s memory, my classmates scattered to do their own thing until that evening when they would gather back at the 100%. Promptly they came by, and I seated them in the main room which we usually reserve for the LGBT folk, but I wanted them to see my community, the people I care about most, the people I love most. I was the only queer sheep among their midst forever, but they were the minority in the bar that night. They were already informed about my transition. They never commented on it, not much, except for one guy who had a chance to observe me for longer than the rest. When such a fundamental shift occurs, people either deny, or accept, but can't help question their assumption of everything they knew about someone who is doing something so radical, in their minds. As was the case with that guy. He kept insisting that it was me, truly, all those years ago that he remembers. Sure enough, that was me, but me trying to do my best to be who I felt deep inside I never was. He bumped me, showing me how guys relate to each other, but hey, although my essential experience as a man may not have been the picture-perfect "born male, raised male, living male", my reality has been, is that of a transman born in the wrong body, suffering every day of consciousness, but now, at the long last trying to right the facts. And even then, the eventuality of the final outcome is uncertain at this point. What he didn't know was that I never, ever tried to articulate those feelings about my own personhood, how wrong I felt in my then-female body, in my then-female mode, not to him, not even closer friends, but only to two people. Right then, during that period that he referrred to. I swept it all under the rug until 2004, when I finally met my first transman in Japan, and was sure, finally, that it all was possible, and that I was not a mental case for having those persistent thoughts, feelings, depressions, premonitions, dreams. What really touched me, to the point of tears, was he offered to contribute to my upcoming surgery. Not that I would accept any money from him, however needy I may be, but the gesture itself was worth a thousand thanks. He touched me deeply twice in the 17-18 years I've known him, and this was the second time. A trooper. Someone I'd always been proud of, and someone I love, for his humanity. For one thing, I will try to see them from now on whenever they gather.