Pristine Angie’s Good Homemaker Adventures at www.d332.com

click here to read: Toms River NJ Schoolboard refuses to fire Lily McBeth

Similar to the swallows of Capistrano, it seems transgendered persons who are in the unenviable position to educate the general public return each year to attempt their luck at lifting the masses from ignorance. In all fairness, I try to put myself in the shoes of the opposition party and attempt to see it from their point of view. The first conjecture I inevitably arrive at is that penny loafers are to one’s soul what Manolo’s are to one’s ankles. I then think, perhaps, that kids in kindergaarten may not necessarily be in their prime to make light of transgender issues.

After all, a cursory glance of the transgender community itself will tend to show that even matured, educated, transgendered adults have trouble making light of transgender issues.

What makes a transgender teacher different from a gay or lesbian teacher is that the former wears her identity on her sleeves. To complicate matters, the chronological attempt to return in a mode contrary to the one previously experienced by the same student body can only result in prickly inquiries both at school and at home.

I consider teaching a form of mass communication. When one is attempting to reach the public, one needs the full arsenal of simulacra, assimilation, and symbolism to produce a sense of the familiar. The nagging issue of “passing” is no longer a personal choice, but a duty in accordance to the profession. In addition then, it’s probably necessary, depending on one’s age, to dress and look the part of a dowdy prim librarian to properly redirect questions towards the appropriate subject matter. Happily, I am available for advice on such issues!

I have provided several links to past attempts (and results) from transgendered teachers.

Community debates transgender teacher 1998

Transgendered music teacher in Blaine resigns 1998

Transgender Teacher Comes Under Fire 2000

Students Applaud Transgendered Teacher’s Return to School 2003

Of late, I have been getting reacquainted with the essence of luxury. Luxury is often sold to the masses by way of brand names. I suppose one can posit that extravagant comfort- which brand names often claim to provide- is luxury. At the same time however, a man sitting in his fire-engine boxer shorts snacking on greasy pizza and drinking malt liquor while watching porn, is rumored to be the no.2 entry for the definition of “luxury” in the upcoming American edition of the O.E.D. It reminds me of the theatre set in high school- who paraded around in loud Les Miserables t-shirts upon returning from a Broadway class trip- using taste as a simulacra for cultivation. It was the height of kitsch.

The luxury I have been concerning myself with involves the notion of aural luxury. One would be tempted to think in terms of high-end High Fidelity equipment when aural luxury is discussed. What I am referring to is not the quality of the reproduced sound, but the way the sound itself is put together. For example, I have an old King Pleasure record that has since lost its dust sleeve and album jacket. I’ve used this record for everything from a coffee table coaster under a hot plate of nachos, to a doorstopper, and an occasional bout of Frisbee with the neighborhood dog. And despite of years of neglect, sweet bright bouncy music snaps crackles and pops out from the speakers whenever I decide to take it on the record player for a spin. Remember those guys who can dance all the way down the block with just a cheap handheld radio to one ear? You know there’s music in the air.

I find I am able to do without many necessities - let alone “luxury items” in life, but when it comes to the essentials of aural luxury: a Brazilian bossa nova chord change, a squeaking faulty brake pad on a garbage truck at five in the morning, children screaming joyfully when at play, a throaty steam engine emission, two Tibetan finger cymbals meeting in the stillness of meditation, the blue hue of prison chain gang worksongs, singing birds at a monastery, a church bell in the afternoon, the unnamed staff between Western tonalities where Armenian douduks curl, Gail Moran’s priceless laughter at the end of a brilliant Mahavishnu Orchestra explosion, there’s not much substitute for true quality living.

Of course, that’s not to say that I won’t get swept off my feet by the man who shows up at my doorstep on Valentine’s Day with four 18 inch subwoofers and a pair of Crown 1000 watt bridgeable amps.