Anyhow, getting back to the cornstarch story and tidbits of my experiences with Morgan's gender transition. Oh, and a bit about pronoun use. I say "she" when I am talking about Morgan before his transition, and "he" afterwards. It was really tough to break the "she" pronoun, but I must say that I was pretty stellar at correcting other people.
One of the first things I asked Morgan after the transition news, was "are you going to get the surgery?" Which peeps, for the record, is a super lame thing to say to a transgender person. Its like if some one tells you they are pregnant you say "congratulations, that's fantastic!" NOT "was this planned" or as I once very awkwardly asked someone "is that a good thing?" Foot. In. Mouth. If anyone ever comes out trans to you, say something much more eloquent, like that you are happy they are going to feel more comfortable in the world, or that you admire their courage, etc.
OK, so I'm happy for Morgan as are all of our mutual friends, and things just keep rolling. Now, I consider myself fairly liberal. Honestly, I don't really care what other people want to be called or with whom they share their bed. As long as no one is being victimized, what's the difference to me? None. In fact, I (along with most of my CU cohort) was much more shocked when Morgan told me he was switching to cultural anthropology. It was like "you're a dude? No s*&t, but cultural? Wow." No offense to my cultural colleagues, of course.
But then, one day when I came home from school (recall that Morgan and I shared an apartment in CO) there was an enormous container of cornstarch on the kitchen counter. Morgan does not cook. At all. And contrary to what he thinks, microwaving cheese doesn't count as cooking. "What's with the cornstarch?" I asked. His response "you don't want to know." OMG, now I am scarred. Why wouldn't I want to know? I am pretty difficult to offend, would this cornstarch secret offend me? Is it something illegal? Should I call the authorities? Why why why don't I want to know??? What I actually envisioned was some sort of underground illegal high-stakes girl on girl wrestling ring, in one of those tiny blow-up kiddy pools, in the center of the living room. What if I came home to early? Would I be sold into this world of underground illegal high-stakes cornstarch wrestling?
Well, I think I'll leave you with that cliffhanger today. Next time, I'll spill the beans on the cornstarch and my coming to terms with having a male roomie.
Happy Labour Day!
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