He always preferred women over men and has no idea why he feels so good when he crossdresses.
Do you ever look at something or someone, have an initial reaction, and then pivot to a different angle to take another view? At what point do judgments kick in? It might be clothing, the way people walk, or the way they hold their hands, or the way they cock their head.
One Sunday, I was in Johnson’s Pasture at the intersection of Burbank Way and Gale Mountain, a location I called my personal Wimp Point because this was where I parted ways with my younger hiking buddies as they continued into the Wilderness Park to finish the loop and I turned around and headed downhill towards home. I mentally practiced what I would do if anything untoward happened while I was alone: a bear, a bobcat, a fall, or someone cruising for trouble. I noticed I didn’t have cell service and wondered if I should bring pepper spray next time. Rounding a bend, I relaxed when I saw three congenial senior-ish-age people who had paused their hike and were chatting amiably. I smiled, nodded, and passed just as I realized that one of them was a person who had previously piqued my curiosity but I had never spoken to, and I would soon learn to know him as Mike.
During the pandemic, Mike intrigued me when observing fellow walkers became a serious hobby. He had a pleasant facial expression and could have been an aging athlete with muscle tone intact, square shoulders, and a strong back, but there was always something about his hips. They swayed. His femurs were attached to a pelvis wider than you usually see on a man, and he had a penchant for purple. I was further intrigued when summer came, and his cut-offs were cut off a tad higher than I wanted to look, revealing shapely legs.
As I passed him, I wanted to say, Gosh, your pendant and earrings are gorgeous. Are they Brighton? But I passed by without comment. Soon, however, as walks with small, elderly dogs often go, Carina and I took a moment to pause. She rested momentarily in my arms to watch a well-behaved but quite large hound saunter by calmly.
I glanced to my left, and walking towards me came the gentleman I’d been mentioning. You rarely see a former steel worker with nail polish, incredibly unique designs on three nails, one a bright red and opaque white two-tone, and a few striped like peppermints but with glitter glue-on, so I complimented him as he approached. He thanked me; I said this, and he said that, and soon we were conversing.
Mike’s wife of 27 years died five years ago and was ill for their last year together. He was her faithful caretaker, pushing her wheelchair from doctor appointments to the errands of everyday life, from chemotherapy to her nail salon. There, he learned to know her manicurist, saw what fun it was to have nice nails and now feels as if his spouse is smiling at him, enjoying that he is carrying on the ritual of bi-monthly manicures.
Mike was miserable as a teenager, interested in women, not boys or men, but he just liked to cross-dress, so he thought surely he must be a deplorable person. He told me he missed a lot of years of his life hiding from his secret and hiding with his secret behind the usual screens, drugs, alcohol, and self-destructive behavior. Still, eventually, he married and lived happily. His wife, of course, finally learned his secret, and although it took her some time, being a therapist herself, she had ultimately made peace with it.
I asked, and Mike said I could tell you his story. Although he still misses his wife, he is happy not to have to hide these days, and I’m glad to call Mike my friend.
So, the next time you meet someone you think a little odd, listen to their story and consider reaching out in caring while offering the generosity offered by this Buddhist meditation: may you be well; may you be happy; may you live with ease.
Great story! Give Mike my thanks for letting you tell his story.