I live with a haunting reoccurring nightmare of not escaping self and failing in doing miracles of compassion. There are many nights of restless sleep and startled awakenings to cold sweats, and momentary episodes of not quite knowing where I am. Then realizing it was just another one of those night terrors about those two little homeless, parentless, destitute, and frightened children I failed to help because I was unable to free myself from my own shackles. This life I have lived of gender dysphoria is of the Beauty & the Beast, is of being trapped, suffocating, and there being no way out. It is a Helen Keller story but of different dimensions.
Some years well after the Romanian Revolution and after Ceausescu's blood had dried in Bucharest; I walked home in the cold on a dark winter's night. The lights were out in the shops that lined the vacant and partly frozen streets. There was a hollow sound to the empty street I walked. My steps seemed to echo in the silence on the wet cobble stones as I walked towards home to my apartment in Bucharest.
I come to learn & experience the suffering of the past and was not quite prepared to be taught about the present and even the future of Romania. It was Saturday night, and I was coming from one of the few existing Orthodox Jewish Synagogue left in all of Romania where I just shared in worship, friendship, and a sumptuous and bountiful meal with the members of the congregation. I come to learn of the history of these people and there suffering.
I continued walking in the cold, listening to the echo and rhythm of my steps, reflecting on the festivities and all I had experienced that evening. I walked briskly, bundled up with my head down, and staring at the street when a voice, out of nowhere startled me. It was a young, sweet female voice of a pretty and young beggar girl child. She was disheveled, dirty and wearing threadbare clothing. Her long black hair was uncombed spurned over her shoulders. She quickly and quietly, almost imperceptibly asked me if I wanted a little girl. I was startled and she caught my hesitation. Then she rephrased the question that included the price for a night's entertainment with her. Dazed and stunned by her offer, I quickly walked past her to my apartment several blocks from the Synagogue that I had rented from one of the members of the congregation.
The next morning it was brisk and bright along the neighborhood streets of my apartment in Bucharest. I got an early start and went out food shopping that morning. On my way to the grocers, I past two very young boys, one was about four and the other about six years old, standing in a store front door entrances fighting over a large peach. The older was attempting to take it from the younger. They were extremely dirty with dark smug marks on their faces. But, ho my, they were beautiful children. They both were wearing heavy coats and clothing that were little more than rags. I instantly, without thinking walked right over to them and took hold of their risks, as I crouched down in front of them in an attempt to speak with them. They both were some of the many of Romania's orphan street children. They were destitute and starving and had a fear of adult men, but for some reason, they seemed to know that I wanted to help.
I indicated to them, by hand jesters to my mouth that I wished to get them food to eat. They both then gave me beautiful child like smiles and nodded their heads. So, we walked to the local grocery store. As we approached the street comer the store was located on the two boys hesitated and became freighted and refuse to follow me into the store. So, I indicated to them that they were to wait for me outside until I finished shopping. I bought as much food as I could carry, and brought it out to them. My next thought was to go to my apartment and have a joyous feast with them. This was not going to work. They happily walked with me until we got to the front entrance of the apartment building. Much to my confusing and dismay the younger of the two boys began to cry uncontrollably as I indicated that we were to go up stairs to my apartment. Then I quickly collected my thoughts and put things together, and understood what was going on with the child. So, we had a pick nick brunch outside in the park located next to the apartment building.
At the time I had my own struggles regarding transitioning and making plans for further travel for sex reassignment surgery, and was quite emotionally depressed. But financial security, at the time, was not one of my fears. There was plenty, and I promised myself that I would, some day, do much more for these two children that I have never forgotten. But the struggles of surgical transition were much more than I anticipated and there have been many surgical setbacks that have forced me to abandon all hopes of ever helping these children, or for that matter, the many just like them. Gender dysphoria truly has been a Helen Keller experience for me that has been impossible to escape. If I simply could do a tinny fraction of what Mother Teresa has accomplished, I will feel it was all worth it.
