A Short Story
Who’s Fooling Who?
So, about the time I hit graduate school at the UofO the faculty is becoming excerised about drug use. For some reason, perhaps because my hair is a little long and I wear love beads they fix on me as a prime drug user.
Nothing can be more ridiculous as any sharp eyed judge of character can easily see, as I never use drugs, in point of fact being of the opinion that America is a drugged out nation. You see, I can’t figure out where these guys come from. I mean, you sit in class looking at these guys ant they are flashing green tongues at you, purple tongues, pink tongues and what have you.
Now, in 1966 we’re still pretty innocent about drugs, not meaning absolutely clean, but you don’t have to be an addict to know barbituate traces. Half these guys have got spittle between their lips that stretches with the opening of the mouth but never snaps. Drives you crazy.
Of course, these people do not think they do drugs because they have a prescription from a doctor while drug abusers get theirs on the street. That makes the street types dopers while they take ‘medicine’ to help them get through their very trying days. It’s the stress of living, you know.
One can’t talk to them about it either. I try on more than one occasion to tell them that America is a drug dependent nation. I mean, Americans believe in their drugs. You get a little nutty and they drug you to death. Pills are the only reality they can respect. You givethem a sugar pill and their mental outlook improves so long as you don’t disabuse them.
When Tuli Kupferberg says that America is insane; he knows what he talks about. For extra bucks I serve as a guinea pig over in the Psychology Department. If these people are not in outer space they are winging through the upper reaches of the ozone layer asking is there land down there. They have access to everything. Sometimes it seems like I talk to aliens from a transverse universe. That’s like a parallel universe except cross ways; makes it harder to jump back and forth.
Professor Laybont, an MD, psychiatrist, who runs the department is in open rebellion against Depth Psychology. He is a firm believer in chemical imbalances as the cause of psychological disorders. He rejects the notion of psycho-analysis. He does not tolerate any difference of opinion either. It’s like he takes so many drugs that he is in a perpetual rage, like his subconscious is a red spot in the middle of his forehead. His movements and gestures are always violent. He doesn’t walk he lurches.
For some reason he chooses to believe that psychic trauma have nothing to do with mental disorders; he believes that it is the cause of ‘chemical imbalances.’ I am not in the department so I can be a little freer in my comments. I always am of the opinion that if chemical imbalances do exist then cause is the psychic effect of the orginal trauma.
Maybe I am not clear as may be but I try to explain to him that first you have the trauma, the insult to the Animus or Ego, then you have the psychotic reaction. In order for the mind to create the affect in response to the trauma it is necessary for the mind to suppress the secretion of certain chemicals if in fact there are chemical imbalances.
Laybont fairly shouts at me gesturing in that violent way of his with his fist as though he poinds spikes through railway ties at one blow that it is not true because when you give patients drugs that restore the chemical balance the affects go away restoring the patient to normality.
I try to explain that the chemical drugs merely temporarily bridge the chemical deficiency but the patient is not returned to normal, that the effect is only a disguise, the mental trauma remains unaffected. When the drugss wear off the affect returns.
I mention Freud which he reads as Depth Psychology , this sets off his pile driving gestures again but I try to get through, as I am one patient guy, that if you exorcise the fixation that causes the affect that the chemical imbalance restores itself immediately and the affect disappears. I try to tell him that the chemical imbalance is a symptom not a cause.
‘Shut up!’ He thunders. He makes gestures to hammer me into the ground. ‘You are not even in this department. What can you possibly know? We do not want you around here anymore, you are no longer a subject. All your data is unreliable anyway.’
I lose some easy money as well as my respect for Laybont.
Boy, it does not pay to be an independent investigator anywhere at the UofO. Probably Laybont is laying for me because we have a major disagreement on the cause of homosexuality. For a guy who rejects Depth Psychology he has this silly notion that homosexuality is caused by the inherent bisexuality of the human. Naturally he thinks there are chemical imbalances which tend to either maleness or femaleness. Not male or female but -ness.
I try not to laugh, I put on my serious face, I try to tell him that homosexuality is a psychotic reaction to emasculation. Either a boy is molested as a child and reacts by becoming homosexual or that in a major confrontation with another male is defeated so that if one cannot compete as a male one tries to be attractive to males an an effeminate male.
He shouts violently at me that no that was the bisexual femaleness predominant. He says it is proven by the fact that when males are surgical emasculates and have chemical female hormone drugs they are actual women.
My serious face gives way at this inane remark because as I say to him genetics are against this idea. I argue that a woman is a woman because she has two X chromosomes while a man is a man because he has an X and a y. No amount of surgery or drugs can possibly alter this fact.
He looks me square in the eyes and says: ‘What about Christine Jorgenson?’
‘Well, what about Christine Jorgenson?’ is the only reply I can make.
‘I’ve had the pleasure of making her acquaintance.’ He says with a grotesque wink. ‘I can tell you she’s all woman.’
I am not going to tell Laybont that if he makes it with a surgically altered male then I think he is queer but a little later something interesting happens. This is abou the time I end my academic career sometime in April, May of 1968.
Things change dramatically the next year when homosexuals come out after the Stonewall Riot but still in 1968 only the most psychically damaged openly demonstrate this state of being. Even the Doctrine Of Diversity is not well defined at this time; The Doctrine Of State Of Being has not yet even been defined. So-called transsexuality is burgeoning nonetheless. The legacy of Christine Jorgenson is growing at an exponential rate.
A couple of years earlier a pair of Mexican homos undergo that cruel cut together. They are significant others before who decide to undergo emasculation together so they can find greater opportunites as a pair in their manhunt. They like to do it at the same time with different men.
These guys call themselves transsexuals, I suppose as a euphemism, because they do not trans anything. Women genetically have two X chromosomes while men have an X and a y. The only way one can trans the sexes is if doctors can surgically remove your y chromosome to replace it with an X from a female donor who may be in need of a y. Even then that would have to be a spermatic X.
The X in a male is the passive ovate X of the mother so if you take an ovate X from the female donor giving a male two passive ovate Xs you have outdone Mary Shelley in creating a monster.
Imagine the monsters you create. Suppose you remove the ovate X from a male to replace it with another y then bound them together with female hormones. Wow, huh? Imagine if you put two y chromosmes in a female bound together with female hormones. It would be to watch the wolfman metamorphose from a human to a wolf. You can film the whole thing and have a non-pareil porn flick. The transformation is terrifically entertaining. You can give the Thing say, twenty or twenty-five thousand dollars as compensation for undergoing the operation and film it then put It on exhibit at twenty dollars a pop and make a fortune. Where are those sexual entrepreneurs when you need them.
But back to reality, such as it is. When you surgically mutilate a male removing this and those, replacing them with a tuck and fold job that will make an automobile upholsterer green with envy you merely have a male with a tuck and fold job. It’s sort of like putting a Chevy body on a Ford Chassis. You still have a car but neither one nor the other. When Laybont says that Christine Jorgenson was all woman that says more to me about his masculinity than Chrises femininity.
So, these two Mexican converts show up at the UofO in the Spring of ’68. There use no deceit in obtaining their employment. They are quite proud of their emasculation. They do insist that the UofO hire them as, not a pair, but a unit. Rhymes with eunuch, I think.
The absurdity that ‘pals’ go job hunting as a unit aside, a concession is made for their ‘State of Being.’ Now hirees they also allow these guys to determine the terms of their employment.
They are maintenance ‘its.’ They insist, get this, that they clean the men’s toilet, pisser, shitter, whatever you want to call it. The incongruity of women that clean the men’s toilet is indicated, they counter that as former men they are used to being in the men’s head. So these ‘women’ go to work to clean the men’s toilets.
You can take the homo out of the toilet but you can’t take the toilet out of the homo.
As I understand it they work all over campus but where I learn about it is at the library on the second floor. I do not participate myself, there are limits to my sexual liberation. Besides, the mystifying thing to me is the homosexual preference for the toilet. It’s not really mystifying, after all that’s where the boys are, all those swell masculine aromas of urine and feces. Umm, adds a piquancy to sex.
In the seventies after Stonewall when the insanity is growing like a fungus Homos take over public restrooms to make them hazardous if not dangerous places but pre-Stonewall some discretion is obligatory.
These two guys set up shop in the library toilet. Things do not so much as get clean as smeared around so that those deligtful aromas assault the olfactory sense with equal intensity from every part of the toilet.
Now, the question is if you avail yourself of the services of these two guys do you get it from a man or a woman. I mean these guys make any orifice available plus a couple of their own invention.
These guys, in this land of unparalleled opportunity as we see demonstrated here and there, create an ideal situation for themselves. More than ideal, they do not even try for female impersonation. A lot of these guys work really hard to impersonate women; these guys just clump along like a couple of navvies while they make no effort at a female tone or inflection. Where is the illusion of femininity; it is like a male with a plastic box between his legs.
As I am about to have my academic option lapse news of this paradise is officially kept from me but, you know, all you need is a pair of eyes.
So there I am up in the library watching a steady stream of my fellow graduate students and professors bound for the toilet door with that eager look and bound of a man who gets his ashes hauled.
While my fellow academics are denying me the pleasures of the toilet, as they think, I have a good laugh at their expense. Who was fooling who?
You know, Tuli Kupferberg was right. The inmates are taking over the asylum