creative writing – Nicole Roy

November 1, 2022February 16, 2023

End

She came out in the summer of 2020, when it was no longer bearable to remain submerged in fake masculinity. She had grown unimaginably tired of the ever-increasing levels of effort it took to maintain that façade. To look at herself in the bathroom mirror in the morning and try not to cry at the sight of stubble and receding hairline, broad shoulders and square jaw.

So, bit by bit, she told her wife, her friends, her family and her colleagues. And then she changed her name.

The next summer, she and her wife got Blizzards at the Dairy Queen on Arapahoe Road, on a warm summer night. They feasted in the red smoky haze of the forest-fire twilight overlooking the city center from fifteen miles south. And then she saw it: A pulse of blinding light high above the core of the urban front-range, and she told her wife of the vision. She tried to put it out of her head.

She thought the whole process of transition would probably take about two years, and she was right.

Alone, in the winter night, in her hospital bed just south of downtown Denver, no wife and no friends by her side, IVs slowly dripping Vancomycin and narcotics into the vein in her right arm, she watched the news of the invasion on her iPad.

This evil old boomer is there on live TV, bashing her. Literally blaming what she is for his monstrous acts of war:

“Do we really want … it drilled into children in our schools … that there are supposedly genders besides women and men, and [children to be] offered the chance to undergo sex change operations? … We have a different future, our own future.”

She cannot believe what she’s hearing. She kept it inside for so long, and she only just became brave enough to show up as herself. It seemed like maybe the world was becoming more accepting. And then this.

She tried to kill herself in March, but didn’t want to make her family sad. She couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Months passed, more surgeries, more friends lost. The pandemic started to ease. She went to Europe for work. People smiled at her out in the world. She was only pointed at and called a “boy” by a few people that summer. She drove through Texas to prove to herself that the world wasn’t as scary as she had feared. It mostly went OK.

In August, she survived an attack and carjacking by a man wielding a knife. Physically unharmed, mentally obliterated.

Work was OK, almost all she had left, sometimes.

She went to a concert with her ex-wife, it was fun. Afterwards, she cried for two days about what she had lost. She asked to be put on antidepressants. And then more antidepressants.

At Christmas, she kissed a girl for the first time as herself. Held hands. Both hands. Stared into the eyes of this person and saw a soul staring back at her that she hoped would melt into her own. The two of them becoming one, slowly, over time. Learning from each other, sharing with each other. Adventuring together through the rest of their lives.

They were happy, these two women who had to fight for everything they had, had to fight to be themselves.

It was a sunny, July day in 2024, and they were out on the trail, they loved to run together. They were both pretty slow, but they didn’t care. As they crested the ridge overlooking downtown Denver, they both stopped to catch their breath, and to peer through the leaves. And then a bright light

And then they were gone.

December 16, 2013January 5, 2014

Nearly Winter In State College

Golden hued white against the gradient halfblue
Comet tails of the anthropocene
Jets arc up out of Baltimore and DC
The glint of their skins lost in the crystalline winter southern sky
Over the Appalachians
Altitude so great as to become an abstraction
Passengers plying their way to Chicago, Denver or Los Angeles
Christmas presents wrapped and boxed in the hold
And on earth, at my kitchen table
I look out on the snow-covered lawns, breathing deeply
Banana bread and coffee fill the air

October 13, 2013January 5, 2014

Different Soil

The land heaves to meet the sky
An arch of sandstone and limestone
Washed away by a quarter billion years’ rain

Among the scarred hilltops and ridged remnants
In a green valley in the wilds of Penn’s Woods
I sense the transience of my position

Where I come from I was certain
Of many things which are just as untrue
The words, clinging to the heels of my feet as I tread Iowa Avenue’s sidewalk

As you breathe, there, you feel them
Words pass through the membrane of your lungs
Dissolve in the blood and cross a barrier to saturate your being

Breathing here, the oxygen is the same
Knowledge and wisdom flow through the valley
But I miss the words

September 2, 2013January 5, 2014

Beginning of a Short Story

The coffee tasted expensive, not like the scalding watery mud you got at gas stations or donut shops. It was warm, dark, and when she swallowed it, the sides of the back of her tongue were left with a faint impression of chocolate and cinnamon. The beans were a perk from her job – her morning ritual was rooted in manually grinding them with an antique burr mill grinder she found at a flea market and cooking her coffee the Norwegian way, with an egg. Rain pounded the tin roof and swept down the double glazed plastic framed windows she had lifted from the trash bin behind a local home improvement warehouse. The firs and hemlocks she planted swayed in the wind outside, and her little house creaked. She started building the 400 square foot home on an abandoned lot purchased for $20,000, ten years earlier. It was hers in a way that money couldn’t buy. Her hands had touched every square inch of it, her hammer had pounded every nail.

Her connection to the outside world consisted of an old cloudbook and a high speed mobile data puck which she kept powered up on an array of 12 volt storage batteries connected to PV panels epoxied to the roof. The property was cordoned off by a rusting chain-link fence which made the lot look both forbidding and uninteresting. She kept the gate padlocked. No one ever bothered her here. She worked at a coffee roaster down the road which specialized in importing shade-grown beans from Nicaragua and roasting them for a number of expensive coffee shops in Portland. She liked her privacy and the solitude provided by living in this edge city.

She finished the coffee and a plastic cup of Greek yogurt, pulled on a pair of well worn jeans, and layered a wool sweater and breathable rain jacket over her t-shirt. The keys for her 30 year old Volvo 240 station wagon were in her backpack. She took them out, zipped up the backpack, pulled the door to the house shut behind her and threw the backpack on the passenger’s seat. The car groaned to life, its agricultural four cylinder engine still working well after untold hundreds of thousands of miles. The heater even still worked. She pulled out of her lot after unchaining the gate. There was no one on the road at four in the morning – it was an easy and automatic drive to the roasting company’s warehouse five miles down the road. The wipers whipped furiously back and forth, really not doing much other than churning up the water on the windshield. The rain was coming down terrifically hard, but that wasn’t a problem, it was a straight shot to work and she could still see the colors of the traffic lights.

Burt shouted at her from the gantry far up in the brightly lit space, “I see you made it in through the hurricane this morning! I thought that boat of yours might float away!”

“It would probably sink first!” She shouted back. “How’s Mel doing? I haven’t seen you since you got back from Vancouver!”

“She’s doing. Asleep right now, this weekend was rough. She had a terrible bout after the last round.”

“Give her my love!”

“Will do. See you in 30.”

Burt always stopped by her station after his receiving shift was over to say ‘hi’. She had known him and his wife for five years, and they were probably the nicest people she knew. Burt had been laid off his old job working at an engineering firm, and was so thankful to get this job, he had invited the entire company to his place for a pig roast every year since.

July 23, 2012February 3, 2016

Bobs I Have Not Known

There are two Bobs who have shaped my life, and I have not really known either of them.

I was born in the center of the Adirondack Park in northern New York. It is, as far as I can tell, the largest state park in the United States. It has mountains, but not like the Rockies. These mountains have been smoothed away by the last bakers’ dozen million years of geologic time, so that they are now soft and round and green. They are not threatening or majestic. They are human-scale mountains. They welcome you home when you first see them peeking through the treeline on the way over from Tupper Lake on route 3.

I was born in these mountains on February 4th, 1978, one of the coldest recorded days in New York state history- three years after my grandfather, George Robert “Bob” Roy died of stomach cancer in a hospital in the city. When my family talks about it, they say he donated his body to science, a euphemism for “he was dissected by medical students.” What’s tangibly left of him is a stone at the old family camp site on First Pond on the Saranac River, hidden a bit back from the shoreline. It reads:

FOR BOB ROY
WHO LOVED THIS SPOT
FROM HIS FRIENDS

If you were to stumble upon this stone (say you decided that this particular spot on the river looked particularly appealing to tie up your boat and have a swim – a reasonable thing to do,) and you went back in the woods to discreetly relieve yourself. You might stub your toe on something and clear away the pine needles accumulated over the last decade (since the last time my family went to see the stone.) You might wonder, “who is this “Bob”? You would then feel a bit of the mystery I have felt my entire life. Who is this “Bob”?

—

November, 2008

I am in New Orleans, Louisiana, and it’s three years after Hurricane Katrina really put the hurt on this town. I’m here because of an Internet2 conference. “What the hell is ‘Internet 2′?” You ask, “I thought we were doing okay with Internet 1.”

Well, yes and no. The Internet, as it exists today, is a piece of 40 year old technology built from a beautiful concoction of luck, human trust, extreme skill and forethought. It mostly works today, when the inherent trust that one network researcher had for all the others on the network at the time of its creation, has been swept aside by the billions of people on the net, because the bad guys need it to work in order to do their jobs. Internet2 is an organization funded by the big US research universities (mostly) in order to do advanced Internet research – to make the existing Internet gradually better. A friend of mine who’s a CIO in higher ed characterizes this work as “replacing the engines on a 747, one by one, in flight over the Pacific.” It seems an accurate metaphor.

So I’m in New Orleans, and I’m doing my career thing, which is that I work on the part of the Internet, at my day job at a big research university. I do “identity” stuff, which is pretty much “who are you on the Internet, and how do you prove it?” This is a new career path for me – I’ve always been interested in electronic identity, but never had a real reason to do much with it in my career until I took a job doing it six months ago. So now I’m at the big conference, hoping to make connections and learn the trade.

I check in – the site of the conference is one of those semi-characterless megahotel conference centers in downtown NOLA (they try to make them have local flavor by naming all the conference rooms things like “Magnolia” and “Bordeaux”,) right across the street from the French Quarter. There are a lot of dudes in Hawaiian shirts with gray beards milling around in the lobby, talking to each other in hushed but spirited tones. They clearly know each other. I’m guessing these are the people who know what’s happening at this conference. They have been here before, many times. Apparently they are all named Ken, Steve, Bob or Keith – they blur together in my head, I can’t keep the names and faces straight.

The next morning – the first day of the conference, I go to a workshop on a particularly interesting piece of identity technology. There’s a ton of these guys in the room – I must be in the right place. The session gets started, and it’s extremely interesting. I start furiously taking notes on my black Macbook. I wouldn’t even know what questions to ask, or where to begin. There’s one of these old guys in the back of the room on a ThinkPad, and he does not talk until the very end, when someone else asks a question. This guy – his name tag says he is RL “Bob” – gets up and speaks about three sentences that are powerfully overloaded with extremely dry wit, powerful metaphor, and seem to magically answer the 20 or so embryonic questions I had about this technology. Who is this RL “Bob”? I need to try to meet this guy.

—

I stole my grandfather’s World War II pilot logbooks from my parents’ house. I spent hours looking at every entry in them.

20 June, 1945 – 20 hours Midway to Tinian Hop

He was on the island where they launched the Enola Gay on its mission to destroy Hiroshima.

His logbooks had the numbers of the units he was assigned to in them – things like VPB-11. I did Google searches for days, trying to find out who else was in VPB-11 – who might know him. It looked like that unit has been disbanded for a long time, and they had stopped having reunions 10 years ago. Who might know him or know about him?

My dad had good and bad stories about him, but they were mostly shaded with his apparently ill temper.

My dad, as a child, had lost a stuffed bunny rabbit out the car window. My grandfather had refused to stop the car to pick it up – he would teach my dad a lesson about carelessness and consequences.

He got so mad at a chainsaw one day, cutting wood, that he did something stupid and terribly inured himself, while caught up in his anger.

But his family and friends had cared – deeply – about him, had put this stone in the mountains he loved. His spirit was there, they knew it and wanted him to be at peace.

—

2010

Who is this “Bob”?

That’s what his personal web site opens with. It is a collection of links to a whole series of different “Bobs” with interesting, short questions asked about their true identities. One of the links is to his blog. I click on it. In the last two years I have learned an enormous amount from “Bob” and his fellow Kens, Keiths and Steves. I am not part of the group – not yet experienced. I am a sophomore in the true sense of the word. I don’t know what I don’t know, but at least I don’t know it. I have no shame. That’s how you learn.

They are all guides in the wilderness of electronic identity. Maybe they can tell I’m one of their kind, or at least I really care about it. They get my boss to somehow agree to allow me to host conference calls and give feedback on policy documents that they’re working on for the community. I love this – I am learning more than I ever thought I could. I’m drinking from the fire hose.

“Bob”‘s blog turns out to be about his ongoing struggle with cancer. I learn that he was recovering from his first round of treatment the first time I saw him in NOLA. His blog is also laced with his amazing skill at metaphor and his dry sense of humor, with common threads of baking bread, watching soccer matches on TV, his wife and daughters and their dutch Kooikerhunde dog. This is a guy with a life. I try to reconcile this with his seemingly endless output of nearly prescient ideas in identity stuff and the fact that he seems to know, be friends with and constantly talk to everyone in the business, and constantly attend conferences in the US and abroad. What is his secret? How does he not burn out? I go home at the end of the day, nearly every day, satisfied but mentally drained and physically exhausted (how? I do IT stuff – this shouldn’t happen.) I’m exhausted and I don’t have cancer. How does he do it? I want to be like him, some day. If I can be a tenth of that, I’ll be amazed.

—

We got in a fight over Thanksgiving dinner – my grandmother was at my parents’ house and could not stop talking about how similar my dad was in voice and action to my grandfather.

I had heard almost nothing from this part of the family about him, over the years, except bad things. He got angry very easily. He slapped people, got into fights, got out the belt.

This was not my dad. My dad is one of the kindest, gentlest people you could know. He is a giant teddy bear.

This slandering of my father made me angry – terribly angry in a way I could not control. I’m not terribly dumb, so I figured out that this rage must have skipped a generation, and now it was boiling up in me. Who was really the just target of this comparison with my unknown grandfather? Probably it was me. This made me even angrier. I pointed at my grandmother across the turkey – “You never say anything nice about him! Well he’s not here to defend himself, so let’s just shut up about him! Screw this, I’m out of here!” I ran out the front door into the park across the street. I sat down at a picnic table in the cold November air, the vomitous orange glow of a sodium vapor light despoiling the terrific darkness around me.

After five or so minutes, my mom sat down next to me.

“I never saw that side of him, you know. He was always kind to me.”

“Thanks – I think I’m too much like him.”

“You’re not like him in the way you think.”

—

2011

I friend “Bob” on Facebook – it’s the kind of thing a teenage girl would do – friend a bunch of people she only kind of knows.

At the fall conference that year, “Bob” does an amazing talk for a packed room on the subject of social identity – the relevance of identity from places like Facebook and Google. That morning, after several months of not accepting my friend request, he accepts it. In the talk, he looks at me and says something like,

“Some of the people on Facebook we know, and some we only just met.” He looks directly at me as he says this last part. I grin back, stupidly.

—

I’m getting married – I have become calmer, I might be starting to see the tip of the iceberg of the things I don’t know about life, poking through the surface of existence. The parts of me that I rightly or wrongly attribute to my grandfather, I suppress. Somehow I know that attributing them to him isn’t fair. He’s a ghost and he can’t defend himself. I got my pilot’s license some years back. The FAA pilot examiner who tests me flew P38 Lightnings in the war – he signs my temporary airman’s certificate with a barely legible, shaky hand.

I’m getting married in three months, and “Bob”‘s cancer is back. His blog says:

Just to clear this up, for all you computer people.

Last time was “re-install OS and restore from backup”.

This time is “install a different OS”.

Next time is “migrate to the cloud”.

Got it?

His wit has not been dulled by the cancer.

She helps me, my wife-to-be. I know I love her because the parts of me that I don’t like, now I don’t blame them on my grandfather and try fight them. I don’t have to fight them – I really try not to do those things around her because I love her and they are ugly. Sometimes I fail and she’s scared by the anger, I know. I feel terrible when that happens, but I’m getting better all the time.

“Bob” is honored and celebrated by his friends and family at the spring Internet2 conference in 2012 – a month or so before my wedding. I suspect I won’t see “Bob” again, it’s a terrible thought but it feels that way. Family is important, I know that and he does too. I decide not to attend the meeting to help prepare for the wedding.

Our wedding day comes and I think of nothing else but my wife and my family. At the last minute, I look at “Bob”‘s blog – he’s been admitted to the hospital after a particularly evil round of treatment. He says: “I’m still alive.” It doesn’t sound fun. I worry about him but the worry is short lived. We have a great wedding and a fun party with friends and family.

There are no more blog entries from “Bob”

A few weeks after our wedding, I find out that he’s died through one of the many identity groups he started. They start a web page where you can leave memories of him. I fumble for words to say what I think he meant to me, but they end up clumsy and kind of embarrassing. Many others knew him so much better. I wish I had known him, too.

My cousin is getting married, and my wife and I get in the car and head out to the Adirondack mountains to visit family and attend the wedding. We will rent a boat and I will show her the stone that marks my grandfather’s existence. As we drive over the bridge on the Saranac River, not more than a few thousand feet from his stone, I roll down the windows. Balsam fir floods the car with its sweet tingle. I pilot the car over the winding road, this scent filling my nose. My heartbeat slows. I let my foot off the gas a bit. We’re in no hurry here.