And yes, ashamed. How in the world did my country become so alien?

Prevarication may have had something to do with it.
________________________

Here’s a smidge of short fiction for relief:

I Became Jenny Harris

I was born in June, but I became me oh, about March. I didn’t know that this would be the best time of my life. More’s the pity if you can’t remember the gentle, reassuring warmth of the timeless sea rocking you. One with the world—no, the World itself.

We can all hear while still in the womb, but few are sufficiently fortunate to receive an early education through the pulsing walls of their mother, as she teaches her first grade students. I suspect it was her sprightly voice delivering my first knowledge base that helped sharpen my hearing.

What was fortuitous for me posed small problems for my family, because I was reluctant to talk. I wanted to think and absorb the daylight scene. I was busy absorbing and disinterested in verbally engaging. I already knew there were three people in my family: Annie Harris–Mom; Harry Harris–Dad, and brother Trisstan Harris. I soon learned to recognize my own name: Jenny Harris.

The information I took in visually, howevr, was brand new. I had to sort out colors first, having only heard my mother refer to a “black” board and a “red” apple. Although I was slow to learn my colors, I spent days absorbing my family’s features. Mom had lots of hair, and it was curly. Dad’s hair was short so I didn’t know if it was curly or not. Tristan’s hair was longer than my dad’s, and not curly.

For a long time I studied their eyes but not knowing colors I couldn’t label them. Their eyes were crinkly and reassuring, however. They were glad to see me, but later I caused problems for them. I gained weight and crawled as they expected, even walked and ran. But as the weeks passed and they peered at me expectantly, I didn’t talk.

Mom took me to the doctor regularly and finally told him about my not talking. He looked at me and smiled. “She can. There’s nothing wrong with her vocal chords.” He tapped his eyeglasses on his hand and said, “Can she cry?”

Suddenly Mom recalled my wordless howls when displeased, and laughed. “Can she ever!”

The doctor gave me a conspiratorial wink and said, “She will when she wants to, I ‘spect.” I knew he was my buddy.

Not long after that my family got a new member–a black and white kitten who came to visit and stayed. Mom thought she had been abandoned, which made me feel sorry for her, so I kind of mothered the kitten, I guess. Her lips were colored. I later learned they were pink, and Tristan named her Tulips.

While other children hug their blankies, I had my little Tulips to snuggle with.

Mom was intuitive, which means comprehending without being told. She could tell from looking in my eyes that I underwtood more than I let on, so from almost the beginning she began to read me stories. I sat in her lap and followed along, and that’s how I learned to read before I talked–painlessly.

We soon used up the story books left over from Tristan’s younger days, and so one fine sunshiny day Mom popped me in the stroller and headed for the library. Oh, that magnificent building! Mom sort of gave me a choice of books by holding several up until I pointed at one. Or two. (I was secretly reading to myself when Mom wasn’t around. Tulips would snuggle and purr, and I would silently read.)

Mom continued taking me to the library, and gradually I began pointing at books for juveniles, not infants. Intuitive Mom got the hint, and followed my lead in reading materials. So it was that one evening as I was in my third year as we were dining on spaghetti and meatballs, I said my very first word. It was not “spoon,” which I was reaching for, but “Meowr.”

I was half joking, but Mom became tense and said, “Don’t over react. We don’t want her to become mute again.”

They resisted handing me the spoon, however, until I said the word, and that worked so well that I was on the way to becoming an ever questioning pest until they taught me to Google. What fun!

Luckily my uniqueness was kept secret, even from the neighbors, who had no children. We just took me for granted, a blessing compared to what some special children are exposed to in the media. My dream was to become me.

I can remember back to when Tulips was “fixed.” I was horrified. I didn’t want to be fixed! What if my mother had been fixed? I knew Mom had enjoyed teaching school and I also suspected I was a bump in her road. As the family’s ever questioning pest, I asked her.

Her answer was reasuring, just a warm hug, a kiss and her dear smile. “We chose to have you. When you grow up you can choose what you want to do with your life.” That sounded pretty good to me, so I went back to Tulips and Google.

___________________

a poem:

NON-BINARY

What is your status quo?

This or that, yes or no?

Cisgender’s binary,

But on the contrary

how would it seem

if you fell in between,

not male or female;

but beyond the pale?

An archetype, that’s what.

Half man half woman but

how to think of yourself

dressed in power and pelf

like a queen or a king?

But yet…but yet…which

Be the son or the bitch

and really be neither,

a free-to-believer!

Now shut both of your eyes,

try to visualize

YOU! Choose neither one!

And not just for fun!

So don’t ask what I be

I be me! And free!

And non binary!?

….Nan 2025