I Am Woman

DALIAH HUSU

I AM WOMAN

Surviving The Past, The Present & The Future

Copyright © 2016 Daliah Husu

Published by Mereo

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Edited by Jim Dodds http://its-your-story.weebly.com Cover image by Blume Photography

Book cover by Deranged Doctor Design Formatting by Deranged Doctor Design All rights reserved

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ISBN:

For you, Ruben, I wrote these words.

My sweetest love, my one true friend...

From all the places that I’ve been,

To all the things that I’ve seen,

I found a place, a thing of art,

Inside of you, your lovely heart!

In all creations high and low,

Nor in the universe that I know,

Exists a creature such as you,

For you're magnificent, and that is true!

My eyes are blessed from such a sight,

A sight of youth, beauty, and light.

Majestic creature from above,

You fill my soul with so much love!

Oh dearest love, sweet love of mine,

My heart awaits till it is time.

For your return I shall await,

Be it on earth or heaven’s gate!

—Daliah Husu

Author’s Note

The experiences, events, ideas, conversations, and opinions I share in this book, I express solely from my memory and point of view. My sincere intentions are to convey them with accuracy and truth, as I recall them. My recollection of these events are just my side of a bigger story, and the people featured within this book may have varied views of those events according to their perceptions. In order to protect individual identities, names have been changed and in some cases initials are used instead. The real names are used solely with the permission of the bearer.

As an expressive tool for content, I incorporated jargon and labels that are widely used among the LGBTQ community and other groups. These expressions and labels are not meant to offend or degrade anyone; instead, I applied them to exemplify my personal dealings with them. However, by no means do I encourage their use for stereotyping or slandering individuals or groups.

Furthermore, the unique set of events and circumstances I’ve lived, along with the actions I’ve taken throughout my life, are only representative of me and are not a general representation of trans women, or any other individual who identifies as such, nor of the LGBTQ community as a whole. Although I make note of many people, their actions, and their words, it is not their story I am writing—it is mine.

In conclusion, I hope that by reading this book you gain a new perspective and insight into the complexity of human behavior, thought, gender identity, sexuality, and any other area of human expression that your psyche attunes to. It is my genuine wish that through the telling of my love stories, fears, failures, and triumphs, I can impart some new knowledge for the benefit of all humanity.

November 2014

THE IDEA OF SPENDING A year of my life dressed in pajamas and writing a book in bed seemed like a commitment I would fail to keep. Yet, I succeeded given my circumstances. After being fired from a dead-end job, having my car repossessed for being two months behind on payments, and spending the last five hundred dollars in my checking account on rent, I hit rock bottom. I had nothing going for me, no savings, no assets, and nothing to show for all the years of hard work I’d put in in the past. I found myself in the middle of a crisis, broke, and clueless as to where my life was leading me. I was scared, but I wasn’t alone.

I was lucky to have Baby Boy by my side during those trying times. The two of us had just moved in together and we were beginning to work on our future as a couple. But the uncertainties we faced day after day daunted us, and when we took inventory of what we had, the reality of our circumstances became almost unbearable. All we had was each other and the 10’x10’ room we rented in a small trailer. I desperately needed a miracle, a heavenly intervention that would give my life a purpose and place me on the path to happiness, freedom, and success.

It was 3:00 A.M. when I sprung out of bed one early November morning. I sat on the edge of the mattress, restless and consumed by a feeling that I couldn’t explain: I needed to write. I was compelled to write my personal story because I believed that someone out there needed to know that they weren’t alone on this journey of self-discovery and truth. Someone out there, who was also struggling to survive, needed to know that it was possible to overcome the challenges and barriers they were facing that very moment. despite my own unfavorable circumstances, I knew I was a confirmation of hope and survival in a world that "appears" to hold little prospects for trans women and other marginalized individuals. I humbly had to share the love.

Baby, what’s wrong? asked Baby Boy, as I shook him and woke him from his deep sleep.

I can’t sleep anymore. I feel a strong urge to write a book, I answered.

He couldn’t believe I was up in the middle of the night, talking about writing a book. It was absurd! But I couldn’t contain the overwhelming impulse that drove me out of bed to fetch my laptop and begin writing.

You’re going to write a book? About what? he asked. Well…about my life, I explained, hoping I didn’t sound too egotistical.

Baby, I think it would be a great book. people will love to hear your story, he said to my surprise.

Those were the sweetest words of encouragement. At the time, I needed Baby Boy’s support more than anything, even if he failed to understand my motives. For him, it was valid enough for me to say that I wanted to write, and without any objections or scrutiny, he acknowledged the solemnity of my tone. silently, I got out of bed, brewed a cup of coffee, and began typing my first unedited words:

The most desired spiritual, emotional and mental states are love, happiness, and freedom. But truly being in any of these states requires doing some work. None of them comes easily because of our stubborn nature, yet they are ever present and available to us.

All it takes is a shift in our perception. If we let go of the unnecessary baggage that we carry through life, we can see just how easy it is to experience love, happiness, and freedom at a personal level. The baggage of greed, selfishness, self-righteousness, hatred, anger, lust, lies, addiction, and self-loathing is what hinders us from being truly happy in our existence.

My personal battle against these negative states of mind and emotions has been a lifelong process. At the age of thirty-four, I realized there was more to my life than wandering about and waiting for my circumstances to change on their own, getting high to numb the pain of my reality, drinking myself silly till I passed out, filling my day with mindless tasks that ultimately led me nowhere, and making money to acquire material possessions that made me feel good momentarily, but distracted me from the rest of the world and my duty to spread a positive message upon it. For too long, I was occupied with fleeting frills and personal gratification, but I never filled the void that dwelled within me, no matter how much I had or how high I got.

The biggest misconception I had was to do anything that was required of me for acceptance; it got me in a lot of trouble. I lived by the flawed belief that being part of a society, a community, or a social group meant doing things that were often harmful to me. It was my way of surviving and fitting in within the social system I knew. For many years, I lived my life making bad decisions just to be part of a community that was consumed by alcohol and drug abuse. But my need to fit in and feel part of something bigger than me originated with wanting my mother’s praises and acceptance.

Believe me when I say that praise was never expressed at home, which affected me profoundly from a young age and influenced many of the decisions I made when it came to choosing friends, lovers, and even work. There is nothing wrong with wanting acceptance, but when we are deprived of it by others and by ourselves, we can resort to doing things that we later regret. The atmosphere of punishment and fear my mother subjected me to as a child pushed me away from her and from home. Ironically, the punitive system she believed would straighten me out and make me a moral and productive member of society, instead hurled me out onto the streets in a quest to find my own answers and the love I so craved. Hungry for appreciation, I searched for acknowledgment in the wrong places and among the wrong people.

As a young adult, I was hot-headed, temperamental, always angry, and always feeling victimized. It seemed to me that I never had a fair chance in life and that neither my mother nor the world ever gave me an opportunity to express my emotions, talents, and capabilities in a way that was natural to me. The idea that it was not okay to be gay—and much less to be trans—was drilled into my head by the echoing tones of narrow-minded and judgmental remarks I heard at home, on television, in church, and on the streets. My anger towards the world built up and eventually motivated me to prove everyone wrong about who I was. I swore that someday I would show the world what I, a trans woman living in America, was really capable of achieving while being my truest self.

On many occasions, I thought justice was bound to prevail and rule in my favor, and it did. But it didn’t prevail in the retributive karmic way I envisioned then—by punishing the people who wronged me. Instead, it took its time to teach me a series of lessons on self-love, acceptance, and forgiveness. My transition period was probably the angriest and most violent time of my life. It was a time when all of my negative emotions and frustrations with the world boiled over. I became a tyrant when dealing with others because I thought I was certain of who I was. Mentally and emotionally, I gained a power and confidence that no one could take from me, and for the first time I felt in control. But, I misused that power in a way that hurt others. I called it justice at the time, but it was really retribution.

I became a self-righteous person, entitled and incapable of ever being wrong, and always unapologetic. I thought I found freedom by becoming a woman, but I was still bound by the same fear and anger that was always there. My sex change united my mind and body, but it failed to set me free. It was a first step towards becoming whole, but the freedom, love, and sense of belonging I searched for was beyond any physical change I put my body through. It would take a deeper journey into my being, ending detrimental friendships and relationships, losing my job and material possessions, and even becoming homeless to finally find myself.

My volatile lifestyle, during and after transition, blinded me from seeing the truth because my rebellious disposition and physical senses were fueled and heightened by chronic drinking and snorting cocaine. For over a decade I partied as a local celebrity in Fort Lauderdale’s gay club scene. I was at the biggest parties, on every guest list, and I frequently received gifts from friends and admirers—gifts that mostly came in powder and pill forms. I thought I had reached the pinnacle, that life couldn’t get any better, that I would never come down from my prominent status, and that I had achieved the ultimate success because people liked me. Indeed, the world was an amazing place while

I was drunk and high with my beloved friends.

Being in Fort Lauderdale’s in crowd gave me the sense of belonging and acceptance I had craved for so long. But the crowd I followed—my drinking and druggy friends—were just as lost and emotionally scarred as I was. Many of them never made it out of this injurious lifestyle alive. It’s not in criticism or judgment that I mention them and their lifestyle but just to illustrate how easy it was for all of us to get caught up in the madness without realizing it. For some it was too late, and I watched them live and die in the grip of drug addiction, emotional and physical abuse, and the decay of disease.

After years of living in chaos and watching others destroy their lives, I began questioning my purpose on this planet. I needed to find answers to my questions free of religious opinions, free of stigmas, free of peer pressures, and free of drugs and alcohol. I needed a clear mind to reevaluate what was important to me. I came to understand that I wasn’t really seeking fame, riches, drugs, nor to be liked by everyone. What I craved was tapping into my soul, being mentally and emotionally stable, creating lasting and meaningful relationships, and engaging in something I loved. The reevaluation of my life brought me to this conclusion: I have to make tough choices and restructure the way I live by simplifying my surroundings and eliminating my connections to the people who bring me down. Ultimately, I needed to set fire to my old way of life and rise out of the ashes a new and empowered woman!

Those were the first words I wrote that morning, a summarized version of my life story. But my story was more complex and much deeper than those first paragraphs managed to explain. My life was a love story from beginning to end; it was a drama unfolding in many settings; it was an obnoxious comedy that at times made me think, Why did I do that? It was a "tearjerker" that touched even the coldest of hearts. And, most remarkably, it was a story of wit and survival, of beating the odds and keeping hold of a faith that tomorrow would be a better day. I had a lot to say, and I needed to say it as I remembered it—plainly and truthfully, from the beginning.

Part One

See me rise Up on my feet;

See me rise And beat defeat.

See me rise

And hear my voice;

See me rise

And drown the noise.

See me rise

And claim what’s mine;

See me rise

All in good time.

See me rise

Rejoice with laughter;

See me rise

For ever after.

—Daliah Husu

Chapter 1

I was born on October 7th, 1979 in the city of Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic. I was born male—a chubby baby boy. I had a mother, an aunt, uncles, cousins, a grandmother, but no father. He was never a part of my life, yet my mother named me after him: Luis Manuel. At the age of six, my grandmother told me a story. she said that my father refused to be a man and take responsibility for getting my mother pregnant or acknowledge me as his son. This was the only bit of truth anyone ever told me about my father.

That bastard never cared about anyone, said my grandmother. As soon as you were born, he went back to spain, never to be seen or heard from again.

What was he like? I asked, eager to form a mental picture of the man.

I don’t remember much, but he was fat and had a bad heart, she explained.

I pictured my father to be plump and jolly, with long curly hair like santa claus, and with an infectious laugh. But I was clueless, since I never met the man or saw a picture of him. My grandmother shared with me the few details she remembered about him—or so I believed. But a shroud of mystery surrounded the topic of my father, and everyone I tried to talk to avoided the subject like the plague. My father was a forbidden topic, a taboo subject that even my mother evades to this day.

My mother was eighteen when she gave birth to me, just a young girl trying to find her way and place in life. Her name was Grace. But I called her Nana, and the name stuck with me since. she was very beautiful, with dark brown eyes that sparkled fiercely and a surprisingly white complexion by Dominican standards. At first glance you wouldn’t think she was my mother, since I had darker skin, a wide nose, and thick lips—features I inherited from her black father—while she had features that I naively associated with white europeans, a small nose and thin lips. Her nappy hair, which she also inherited from her father and wore proudly in a perfectly rounded afro in those days, was the only trait that gave away her mixed ethnicity.

For the first eight years of my life I knew very little about my mother, because she left me in my grandmother’s care while she searched for a better life in the states. Although her visits to the Dominican Republic were rare, they always stirred an excitement within me that grew as her arrival neared. In my mother’s honor, my grandmother prepared an elaborate feast consisting of a roasted chicken, boiled yucca, and the Dominican staple of rice and beans. she laid out her best porcelain china on the green Formica tabletop, covered the beds with the finest linens, and scrubbed the house on her hands and knees until it was spotless. Everything had to be perfect, including the way I looked. Go wash up and come back so I can dress you, my grandmother would say to me whenever an important event was taking place. she would then delicately clean the dirt from underneath my fingernails, trim them if they were too long, wipe the inside and back of my ears where I always failed to clean, and finally brush and style my short, bristly hair to one side, after scooping up a glob of Vaseline and smearing it all over my head. she was precise when she groomed me, and she prided herself in that.

When my mother finally arrived, she found me and the house flawlessly clean and everything neatly in its place, as she liked it. Along with the perfect setting, the cleanliness, and the feast, my grandmother invited our closest neighbors as the welcoming committee. everyone sat around my mother as she opened her suitcases and handed out gifts. Within those suitcases, which smelled like a mixture of new leather and sweetness, were toys, candies, lotions, soaps, and clothes—treasures that came from another land. of course, I mostly looked forward to the candy, of which Wrigley’s Gum, Hershey Kisses, pez, and snickers Bars were just a few of my favorite treats that couldn’t be found in santo domingo’s Colmados (the dominican convenience store).

For a poor Dominican boy living in the most dangerous barrio in santo domingo, I had a decent life. Capotillo, was a neighborhood where people got mugged, robbed, and murdered daily. It was a scary place for a child to grow up in, yet we lived well within the protection of my grandmother’s house. each month, my mother provided for us by sending money, food, and medicine, necessities that most other families in the neighborhood lacked. Typically, houses in the neighborhood were built of thin, loosely nailed plywood sheets and cardboard, covered by a rusty tin roof. But our house was a fortress made out of cinder blocks and concrete, although it wasn’t always so. Before our house was renovated, it was an old pile of pale blue boards held together by a few crooked nails and covered by a tattered roof, which leaked whenever it rained, turning the dirt floors in the house into a mud puddle and slipping hazard.

In an effort to plug the holes on our roof, my uncles chewed Chiclets, stuffed the pliable pieces of gum into the tiny holes, and waited for them to harden, creating a watertight seal. They did this on dry days, but if it rained before the job was completed, the only option was to place pots and pans under each leak. I remember my grandmother’s comical dance on those rainy days, as she picked up a pan full of water from under a leak and replaced it with an empty one, only to run to the door and dump the water out and then reposition the emptied pan under a different leak. she did this for hours, until the rains stopped.

Behind the main house stood a small rotting wooden shack, which served as our bathing and toilet area. The concentration of flies, mosquitoes, and methane and ammonia gases trapped within the outhouse made it hard to breathe, and I would wrap a t-shirt around my face for protection against the insect infestation and noxious gases. once I finished performing my bodily functions, I poured a bucket of water in the latrine, which washed the waste down into the septic pit beneath the outhouse. Toilets didn’t exist in our neighborhood because no one had running water.

The only source of running water in town was the government controlled water pump a few blocks down the road from our house. one day a week, just before sunrise, water was rationed to the residents from the pump, and my grandmother would wake us from our sleep, rush us out of bed, and hurry us down to claim our share. "Get up, get up! We need to get to the pump before the water is shut off! Grab a