A Seat At The Table

Invitations, pronouns and the last ride on the carousel

Photo by Luis Alberto on Unsplash

It was warm June evening all the way back in 2005. My wife, Lynn, and I walked downtown to our favorite restaurant/bar for some drinks with hopes that friends would find us there. We were taking part in an unspoken ritual in a small college town; on the first (maybe the second, third and fourth as well) warm day after the mass exodus of students the locals would reclaim their chosen drinking establishments. There was much rejoicing.

We found seats at the bar and started the evening in style. A Cosmopolitan (with Absolute Citron and Cointreau) for the lady and a Bombay Sapphire and tonic for myself. Lynn and I stepped out on the back deck to enjoy a cigarette and watch the river roll by. As day turned to night, mixed drinks gave way to draft beer and wine. We made our way back into the bar area to see some familiar faces had arrived; neighbors, local business owners, college professors and couples who, like us, were in their early thirties (or late 20’s) and without the constraints of young children at home. We played a game of darts and ordered another round of drinks but left the games behind when an invite came to join a group in the dining area. Several friends, some familiar acquaintances along with a few new faces had claimed the largest round table in the dining room; we stole chairs from another vacant table and squeezed them in as everyone shimmied theirs over slightly to make room. The night was filled with laughter, lively conversation and of course copious amounts of alcohol. If you stepped away from the table to visit the bathroom or went outside for a smoke, it was given that your seat would be unavailable when you returned. It was also a given that there was an open seat somewhere else or, at the very least, room to squeeze in one more chair. By closing time our wallets were as light as our spirits so after a few hugs and kisses on cheeks we stumbled home. Lynn teased with a question, “Did you notice that we were the only straight couple at the table?”

It wasn’t that I didn’t realize, it just didn’t seem like an issue. Even as the anomaly of the group, I didn’t feel out of place. That seemed remarkable for a reformed homophobe like myself and it felt like progress. If I had said something insensitive or inappropriate (there’s a chance I did), they gave me the benefit of the doubt.

I replied to Lynn “Yeah, but you’re bi so I guess that means I was the token straight guy at the table.” We both had a good laugh - until I stumbled and nearly face planted on the concrete sidewalk.

In June of 2025 I joined Medium. When I first rolled in, my intention was to read a few articles, ones that required a membership, and then cancel. I paid my $5.00 and created a profile using only my middle name, no preferred pronouns, and a 1985 image of the carousel from Roseland Park (taken not long before I had my last go-round, the park closed forever and the owner torched the carousel for the insurance money).

Slowly I began following authors and publications, often saving articles to a reading list for future reference. Occasionally I dropped a comment here or there and was pleasantly surprised by how willing authors and other readers were to engage in friendly discussion. That was a welcome change from the usual argument and vitriol so readily found on the internet. When I discovered how easy it would be to submit my own writing, ideas started turning in my head. Medium suggested an article from author/editor Erika Mustermann in which she called out for contributions to a new publication called Lost In Transitions. I wasn’t sure about the ‘transition’ business yet but the ‘lost’ part sure hit the nail on the head. I took it as an invitation and pulled up a chair to the table. At first I was hesitant to engage but when the personal stories of others resonated so strongly I could not resist joining your conversations. I don’t know if I came across as a bit aloof or out of place. Perhaps my tone was a little off or even ignorant to the struggles so many of you face. In any event, members extended the benefit of the doubt. Eventually I put together a piece of writing that I felt let readers know what drew me here in the first place. It was much to my surprise when more than a dozen people read it (1k and counting). The community of writers and readers here on LiT and Medium didn’t just listen, they leaned in.

You leaned in.

I lacked concern with personal pronoun choice when I first stumbled into this space but nothing moved me more than when so many people in this community responded to my personal coming out story using the inclusive plural pronoun — ‘we.’

The feedback and support I’ve received from all of you here on Medium has been comforting and the stories you’ve shared were enlightening, but I’m afraid there was a fly in the ointment. Over time, reading accounts of others reaching new milestones and sharing their experiences only underscored my inability to manifest meaningful change. I felt like a fraud, like maybe I didn’t belong here after all. Even though I mused about seeing a female self in old photos, the mirror only reflected a late middle aged man. Finasteride and minoxidil have failed to reverse years of hair loss and hopes of straightening my janky teeth only begat one referral after another. With little progress to share I struggled to find positive words to write. I cancelled my subscription, deleted the app and… stepped away from the table.

Many days I tried to avoid thinking about anything transgender related. I know you know that doesn’t work, it didn’t work for me either. Revisiting past coping mechanisms offered little relief. The topic became a proverbial ‘third rail’ for any conversation with my wife and I could not find a way forward. The whole “trans thing” (her words) didn’t sit well with her but I had to remind myself that I came out seeking openness and understanding, not asking for permission. After a lot more self flagellation and procrastination I called a therapist and set up an appointment.

In the interim between coming out and seeking counseling I had thought she was in denial. That wasn’t really the case though, it was I who was in denial; In denial that she wanted to understand, that she would approach this with an open mind, and that she could acknowledge this is not just some sort of delusion.

After several months in therapy and a few testy conversations with my wife I came to some sort of conclusion that felt right.

I once made a joke that I was 49% girl and maybe there was more truth in that statement than I realized at the time. Now I’m just looking to tip the balance the other way and make it 51%.

That came to me the day after my wife screamed at me out of desperation, sadness and anger to “fix yourself”. I don’t think she would have said that if she understood what the fix was. The next day I scheduled a consultation for hormone replacement therapy.

That’s where this piece originally ended. It was my intention to submit the story for publication after a scheduled appointment at a nearby Planned Parenthood clinic. Just days before the hormone consultation was supposed to happen, my wife accused me of already taking estrogen hormones. Even though this was not the case I felt terribly guilty for not yet telling her about the upcoming appointment. She tells me that my body hair seems to be thinning and she wishes I would grow back my mustache, not a set of tits. “Hormones are a dealbreaker,” she exclaimed. I tried to remain calm when I said, “You know, that’s how a lot of trans people figure out if transition will fix them,” using her word ‘fix’ for emphasis. That opened up a floodgate for Lynn, it turns out the experience of coming to terms with her own sexuality and identity was a lot messier than I had previously understood. As much as I would like to explain that in greater detail, it is not my story to tell. We agreed on one thing though; this would have been a lot easier to deal with about 15 years ago. “Believe me,” I stammered, “I wish I knew then what I know now.” It was the most productive conversation we’ve had about the whole ‘trans thing’ in a year.

The HRT consultation has been postponed and I’m looking for a different path forward. For the time being maybe 49% is enough, or maybe there’s another way to find the other 2%.

As for the Roseland Park carousel; It was damaged but not destroyed and eventually restored to its former glory. The carousel now resides at the Destiny USA shopping center in Syracuse, NY. Last I knew it was still there and still in operation. I failed to grab the brass ring back in 1985 but now, more than ever, I think about going back for one last ride on the carousel.