One week ago a tall, slender, middle-aged woman in a nice dress approached my desk at the library. Her hair was a dull, doll's hair brunette. She wore heavy makeup on a long, strong-jawed face. She spoke to me in a quiet falsetto. Can you show me where the self-help books are? There was vulnerability all over her.
I knew immediately. I knew that she... had once been a he. As we walked in silence, past Fiction, past Graphic Novels, past A to B, to BF, to Chicken Soup for the Soul, to Joel Osteen, to Seven Habits of Highly Effective People, it didn't matter. It--the undefinable It--was not the only thing that made her her.
Sometimes my prejudices are surprised out of me. I am not comfortable with them. I don't even like admitting that I have them.
But I do. And I like it when I meet Others, and my prejudices--unacknowledged or otherwise--are blown out, gently, like a candle.
And I am filled with understanding.