Transcendent 2

by Bogi Takács

Once the papers are signed, she hands me a schedule of blood-work appointments, a small plastic bag with pill bottles and a paper handout with dosage times and amounts labelled in red letters. I take the pills and the appointment schedule, stuffing them into my bag, and back out of her office while thanking her for her time. She has returned to staring at her computer screen, absentmindedly waving me off and muttering about my contribution to the advancement of medical science. Screw that noise, I think, as I rush out of the research building and towards the subway. I don’t care about science. I just want to get through the next stage of my transition without any more problems.

  Then what, my mind asks, as I pass through the toll-collector station and return to the subway tunnels. I don’t know, I answer. The seats are all taken again so I stand by the doors, metal pole in the hand while people gawk at me. I don’t know at all. I can only take one step at a time towards another life in another body. I will still be me, but not the me that I’ve known. Closer to myself, farther away from the world and its pervasive expectations. I hope the hormones kick in quickly. I want to feel the calm which some transwomen have told me about, the slowing of testosterone and the influx of estrogen bringing peace. Almost there, I tell myself, almost at my stop for work and almost to the life I’ve been waiting for. I pop one of the pills into my mouth and swallow with a swig of water from the thermos in my bag. Womanhood, here I am.

  Work is a slow hell. Pointless meetings with midlevel managers who will never go any further, jockeying over positions and influence like drunk coeds trying to get served next at the bar. By three p.m., I’m nauseous and my makeup feels like Saran Wrap on my face. My final meeting of the day isn’t a meeting at all. It’s an Elder’s Teaching with an old wizened Anishinaabe woman from Serpent River First Nation. It’s supposed to be on the Seven Grandfather/Grandmother teachings, but she’s a real old-time Elder. She took twenty minutes to open up the teaching, smudging and thanking all the ancestors in Anishinaabemowin. The white office workers looked bored and uncomfortable which she spoke in Ojibwe. The other Indigenous staff looked euphoric at her words, as if she was the Pope blessing them at high mass and they were Jesuits. I doubt anyone else can follow anything she’s saying, given how few of us have kept our language.

  I know some, enough to understand her prayers, so I follow along in my head. The hormone pill is burning in my stomach. I didn’t check the information booklet to see if I needed to take it with food. The Elder is talking about responsibilities in communities now, male roles and female roles. She looks over at me whenever she speaks about female roles, smiling a wide Anishinaabe smile and nodding her head a little. It’s comforting to know there are still traditional people who know the place of Two-Spirit people.

  My family was Anishinaabe and Métis on both of my father’s sides, but we weren’t raised with the culture and language. Bushcraft, living off the land in Northern Michigan, was part of my grandparent’s lives, but they weren’t on reserve and didn’t practice any obvious culture. The most obvious sign of their heritage was the stereotypical Indian crap around their dilapidated farm house. There were dreamcatchers in the windows, little creepy Indian maiden ceramic statues, and a mantel clock with the famous “lone brave” artwork painted on the clock face. That was their contribution to keeping tradition alive.

  I liked the teaching though, despite the vomit feeling and the fact that it was running over its allotted time. People kept leaving the meeting room, saying “Sorry, I have another meeting” as they slipped out the door. The Elder just nodded at them in the unspoken disapproval style of all Elders everywhere and kept on speaking. When she reached the end of the teaching, the Elder lit up more sage and started another long prayer. This time, having reached the end of my mental reserves, I phased out and let her words flow over me.

  That’s the moment it started, the barely audible voices on the edge of my skin singing. They were singing a traditional song, the kind women’s hand-drum groups across the city sing, but I didn’t recognize it. It was like when my co-worker turned on the radio in her cubicle on the lowest volume setting to escape the detection of our bosses. The Elder prayed on and the other people in the room didn’t seem to notice anything, so it was definitely only happening to me. Something with the hormone pill, I reasoned, some weird acid-like side effect. I tried to ignore and look normal for the rest of the session.

  It got worse through the day. By the time I’d taken my second dose, I was having full-on visual hallucinations. While walking down Bloor Street, I saw a woman in a jingle dress at the intersection with Yonge Street. She stood on the corner, staring into the distance. At first, I thought it was a contemporary art piece by one of the Indigenous activists I know. There is an old burial ground at the intersection, so it would be the ideal place for a reclaiming piece. When a business-suited man strode through her without any effect, I knew it was the damn pills.

  I dreamed the strangest dreams that night. In one dream, I was spinning just above the tree line in the bush. All I could see was a grove of winter birches beneath me and a flat, grey skyline. The singing was there as well. If I was another kind of half-breed, more traditional or a ceremonialist, I would have put down tobacco. As it was, I just wanted it to stop. After the last dream of a rummaging bear in low brush, I promised myself I would call the research study lead in the morning. Girl has no time for this bullshit, I told myself, I’m just trying to become myself, not get into any mystical drug-fuelled cultural stuff.

  When I called from my office at work, ten minutes past nine a.m., the research lead wasn’t in. The admin passed me to her voicemail. I left a message explaining I was having unusual symptoms and gave her my office line. I went to work, routing emails and filtering the endless stream of drivel from my co-workers. When my phone rang an hour later, I rushed to grab the receiver. It wasn’t the research leader, but the Elder from the other day. She wanted to ask if I had heard any feedback from the session and when her honorarium cheque would be mailed out. I answered her questions politely but tried to get her off the phone. I didn’t want to miss when the research lead called back. The singing was still present and was getting on my nerves.

  After winding down about her honorarium and the teaching, the Elder suddenly switched gears and asked me what I thought of the teachings about the roles of women. I froze on the phone, letting out a long “ummmm” while my mind frantically tried to make up a neutral response. “It was interesting. Very informative?” My voice trailed up on the last word, making it a question. I hoped she would jump in and go off on a new “sacred teaching.”

  Instead, she went right for the jugular. “You know, it’s important for you as an Anishinaabe kwe to know your teachings. And the medicines and all that.” She paused at the end of her statement, waiting for me to respond.

  “Yes, it is important. I’m not really a very traditional kind of woman,” I said, certain this would finally end the conversation. In my mind, I imagined hundreds of missed call notifications from the research lead. The Elder didn’t leave it there.

  “Really? You seemed like one of the only ones who was listening to me yesterday. I could tell you knew some Anishinaabemowin by how you paid attention when I was praying. Where are your people from?” Great. She is one of those Elders, the kind that get off on reconnecting people to their roots.

  “Yeah, I know a little bit. We’re half-breeds from Lake St. Clair.” I used the word half-breed, not the more politically correct word of “Métis,” because I figured it would throw her off.

  “Well, that’s good then.” She paused for a second before adding, “I am conducting a sweat next Saturday up at Anishinaabe Health. You should come.”

  Time to end this conversation. I had been as polite as I could and I sure as hell was not going to anyone’s sweat. “Thanks for the offer, but like I said, I don’t really do ceremony anymore. I have a lot of other priorities going on my life right now.”

  “You don’t need to go to ceremony to be in ceremony,” she sn
orted. “I know what you are. What do they call it now, a transition?” She didn’t wait for me to answer before continuing onward, “You know, back when we all had our language and culture, we had our own ceremonies for becoming a woman. There was a way we went about bringing you into the world as a woman. Not all the drugs and surgeries they use now.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m expecting another call. I’m really glad you came out and provided your teaching yesterday. Hopefully we can have you back soon.” I willed myself to hang up if she didn’t accept this final closing sentence.

  The Elder sighed on the line. “Girlie, you aren’t listening to me. You must be Bear clan, so stubborn. Being a woman isn’t about your body. It’s about your spirit. You need ceremony to help with that, not pills.” She sighed a second time, this time a little tired. “Look, your ancestors are going to find you, one way or another. Call me when you are ready to talk to them again.”

  “Okay, thanks. Goodbye!” I clicked the phone down and stared out the window. Everyone was an expert in my transition and wanted to tell me how to do things right. They would tell me the right shoes to wear, the perfect lipstick, skirt length, stockings, and where the best place to get my nails done was. It was helpful and supportive, but incredibly frustrating. No one seemed to understand that this was my body and my journey. I didn’t need constant reminders of what I was doing wrong, especially from an Elder who knew nothing of my family or me.

  The phone rang again. I stared at the call display, worried it was the Elder calling me back. It was the research lead. I grabbed it on the second ring and after dispensing with the politeness of the “Hello, how are you?” launched into a description of my symptoms. The research lead listened patiently but then cut me off as I started describing more of the visual side effects.

  “Look, maybe you aren’t a good match for this study. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but you aren’t in the estrogen control group. You are in the placebo control group, so whatever is happening is not related to this study. Maybe you should contact your primary-care physician or some mental health supports?” She said the last words like I was the most insane person she had ever encountered.

  “Oh. All right. Thanks for letting me know.” I wasn’t sure what to say next, so I just hung up. When the phone clicked down, the sound felt like it echoed through my office. I reached up and touched the space above my upper lip where a few hairs of my beard still resisted permanent removal. Outside my window, I could see a falcon dive and twist between office towers. Every day I watch the falcon hunt for pigeons in the parking lot, but today, it felt different. As if it was a messenger from the universe or my long dead grandmother.

  The Elder’s words came back into my mind. Your ancestors will find you, one way or another. I hate predestiny but what choice do I have? If I wasn’t in the hormone study, I’ve have to go on the older drugs with the higher side effects. I was not going to tell my primary doctor about the hallucinations or I’d end up having to delay my transition even further when they made me do psych evaluations. But the last thing I wanted to do was to hang out with a bunch of traditional people talking about the way things used to be.

  The singing chose this moment to return. The same low voices as before, but the feeling of familiarity was stronger. I knew these voices even if I didn’t understand them. I looked at the phone, still sitting silently from when I had hung up. My eyes ran across my bulletin board until I found the Post-It note with the Elder’s contact information. I reached for the phone receiver and moved my hand over to the keypad to dial. Womanhood, here I am. Again.

  This Is Not a Wardrobe Door

  • A. Merc Rustad •

  Dear Gatekeeper,

  Hi my name is Ellie and I’m six years old and my closet door is broken. My best friend Zera lives in your world and I visited her all the time, and sometimes I got older but turned six again when I came back, but that’s okay. Can you please fix the door so I can play with Zera?

  Love,

  Ellie

  Zera packs lightly for her journey: rose-petal rope and dewdrop boots, a jacket spun from bee song and buttoned with industrial-strength cricket clicks. She secures her belt (spun from the cloud memories, of course) and picks up her satchel. It has food for her and oil for Misu.

  Her best friend is missing and she must find out why.

  Misu, the palm-sized mechanical microraptor, perches on her seaweed braids, its glossy raindrop-colored feathers ruffled in concern.

  Misu says, But what if the door is locked?

  Zera smiles. “I’ll find a key.”

  But secretly, she’s worried. What if there isn’t one?

  Dear Gatekeeper,

  I hope you got my last couple letters. I haven’t heard back from you yet, and the closet door still doesn’t work. Mommy says I’m wasting paper when I use too much crayon, so I’m using markers this time. Is Zera okay? Tell her I miss playing with the sea monsters and flying to the moon on the dragons most of all.

  Please open the door again.

  Ellie, age 7

  Zera leaves the treehouse and climbs up the one thousand five hundred three rungs of the polka-dot ladder, each step a perfect note in a symphony. When she reaches the falcon aerie above, she bows to the Falcon Queen and asks if she may have a ride to the Land of Doors.

  The Falcon Queen tilts her magnificent head. “Have you not heard?” asks the queen in a voice like spring lightning and winter calm. “All the doors have gone quiet. There is a disease rotting wood and rusting hinges, and no one can find a cure.”

  Misu shivers on Zera’s shoulder. It is like the dreams, Misu says. When everything is silent.

  Zera frowns. “Hasn’t the empress sent scientists to investigate?”

  The Falcon Queen nods. “They haven’t returned. I dare not send my people into the cursed air until we know what is happening.”

  Zera squares her shoulders. She needs answers, and quickly. Time passes differently (faster) on Ellie’s home planet, because their worlds are so far apart, and a lag develops in the space-time continuum.

  “Then I will speak to the Forgotten Book,” Zera says, hiding the tremor in her voice.

  The falcons ruffle their feathers in anxiety. Not even the empress sends envoys without the Forgotten Book’s approval.

  “You are always brave,” says the Falcon Queen. “Very well then, I will take you as far as the Island of Stars.”

  Hi Gatekeeper,

  Are you even there? It’s been almost a year for me and still nothing. Did the ice elves get you? I hope not. Zera and I trapped them in the core of the passing comet so they’d go away, but you never know.

  Why can’t I get through anymore? I’m not too old, I promise. That was those Narnia books that had that rule (and they were stupid, we read them in class).

  Please say something,

  Ellie, age 8

  Zera hops off the Falcon Queen’s back and looks at the Island of Stars. It glows from the dim silver bubbles that hang thick in the air like tapioca pudding.

  She sets off through the jungle of broken wire bed frames and abandoned armchairs; she steps around rusting toys and rotting books. There are memories curled everywhere—sad and lonely things, falling to pieces at the seams.

  She looks around in horror. “What happened?”

  Misu points with a tiny claw. Look.

  In the middle of the island stands the Forgotten Book, its glass case shattered and anger radiating off its pages.

  LEAVE, says the book. BEFORE MY CURSE DEVOURS YOU.

  Gatekeeper,

  I tried to tell Mom we can’t move, but she won’t listen. So now I’m three hundred miles away and I don’t know anybody and all I want to do is scream and punch things, but I don’t want Mom to get upset. This isn’t the same closet door. Zera explained that the physical location wasn’t as fixed like normal doors in our world, but I’m still freaking out.

  I found my other letters. Stacks of notebook paper scribbled in crayon and mar
ker and finger paint—all stacked in a box in Mom’s bedroom.

  “What are you doing with this?” I screamed at Mom, and she had tears in her eyes. “Why did you take the letters? They were supposed to get to Zera!”

  Mom said she was sorry, she didn’t want to tell me to stop since it seemed so important, but she kept finding them in her closet.

  I said I’d never put them there, but she didn’t believe me.

  “We can’t go there again,” Mom said, “no one ever gets to go back!” and she stomped out of the kitchen and into the rain.

  Has my mom been there? Why didn’t she ever tell me? Why did you banish her too?

  What did we do so wrong we can’t come back?

  Ellie

  Zera’s knees feel about to shatter.

  “Why are you doing this?” Zera grips an old, warped rocking chair. “You’ve blacked out the Land of Doors, haven’t you?”

  YES, says the Book. ALL WHO GO THERE WILL SLEEP, UNDREAMING, UNTIL THE END.

  Zera blinks hard, her head dizzy from the pressure in the air. “You can’t take away everyone’s happiness like this.”

  NO? says the Book. WHY NOT? NO ONE EVER REMEMBERS US THERE. THEY FORGET AND GROW OLD AND ABANDON US.

  “That’s not true,” Zera says. “Ellie remembers. There are others.”

  Misu nods.

  Zera pushes through the heavy air, reaching out a hand to the Book. “They tell stories of us there,” Zera says, because Ellie used to bring stacks of novels with her instead of PBJ sandwiches in her backpack. “There are people who believe. But there won’t be if we close all the doors. Stories in their world will dry up. We’ll start to forget them, too.”

  WE MEAN NOTHING TO THEM.

  Zera shakes her head. “That’s not true. I don’t want my best friend to disappear forever.”

  Gatekeeper,