Amazons, Nose-Job, and Varicose Veins
This prompt will most likely inspire certain people to say something like, “I did not know I was gay until I was 50 years old or 60 years old.” To many people, that reaction sounds unbelievable and preposterous. I am from New York City, but I do believe these people. Our society used to keep telling us that gay people do not exist. Women never kiss women, and certainly men never kiss men. So many people assumed that that must be true. That is why large numbers of gay people used to go through life not really knowing who they were, as fantastic as that may seem.
Personally, I did not have that option. When I was in the 8th grade in elementary school and a year later as a freshman in high school, although my parents had no idea, certain street people knew I was gay. If you went to any high school in those days in New York City, you were not safe unless you had protection from a gang. I was approached by the head of the girls’ gang who told me something like, “You’re a faggot so you are going to be constantly assaulted by the toughs. Join our gang, and you will not have to worry. We know how to fight.” They called themselves the Amazons and they prided themselves on their really long fingernails that they painted meticulously with vivid red nail polish. They told me that those were their weapons. They did in fact assault and neutralize a large number of male toughs. I was safe.
I occasionally had to attend Amazon meetings. I am proud to say that, once, when they said they wanted to assault a bookish Jewish boy, I pleaded with them not to, and they didn’t. On another occasion, they wanted to assault a pretty, extremely passive, soft-spoken girl named Monica. I pleaded with them not to. So they didn’t.
So, to survive, I had to accept who I was at an early age.
About 12 years after that, I was applying for a job that required me to get interviewed by a psychologist who happened to be a woman. I spoke with her for a few minutes before she read my application. After a while, I told her yes I was gay, and I wondered if she could tell by talking to me. She said she could not tell, in fact she would not have guessed so. The psychologist assured me that she was not the one doing the actual hiring and that their company did not have an anti-gay hiring policy so that I need not worry. I did not get the job, gee I wonder why.
My point is that, if you contrast what the Amazons knew about me right away, right off the bat, and what the trained psychologist could not even guess at, what is going on? I guess sometimes street people are just more insightful in judging people than the so-called professionals.
Two examples of what I did not accept about my own body. When I was say 12 years old, a high-flying baseball came right at my face and hit me in the nose. I bled, but my parents did not take me to the doctor. That is one reason I am not a baseball enthusiast, never will be. I would prefer a sewing class any day. I had a bruise on my nose for a while, but a few years later I realized my nose was off-center, and I had to breathe through my mouth.
I was being harassed at the office, so I said to myself this is a good time to take a month or two off and get a nose job. I went to the Plastic Surgery Department of New York Hospital, and made an appointment. I had to go two or three times in advance to make sure I was physically a good candidate for surgery. They said I was. When I was talking privately with the nurse, she told me I lucked out. My plastic surgeon was going to be a famous Italian plastic surgeon who has reworked the faces of several Hollywood actresses and actors.
On the day of the surgery, I took the anesthesia, but, when I woke up, I barfed. I only stayed a day or so longer in the hospital. I had large dark purple bruises that covered my nose and the areas around my eyes. I looked like a raccoon. I could not go out in public, so I stayed with my brother Charlie in Flushing New York. After about a week I bought a pair of sunglasses with enormous lenses. When I wore them, I could go out and resumed my daily routines.
After that surgery, I was able to breathe through my nose and was more aware of my septum and sinuses. Where there used to be bone and cartilage, now there was a large, comfortable cavity.
About 15 years ago, I noticed I was getting a lot of varicose veins on my left leg. I thought to myself, don’t pregnant women get varicose veins when they are having some medical problem? Why me? Men do not get varicose veins. After the embarrassment phase was over, I went to the cardiovascular department of New York Hospital, got an appointment for an evaluation, and they said yes to surgery.
This consisted of me lying on my right side with a sort of leaden blanket to cover me up above the waist and my right leg. They anesthetized my left leg so that it was numb, then they zapped me with an electric current in several different locations, i.e. they stuck in needles to conduct the electricity. A couple of weeks after the surgery all the varicose veins were gone. Amazing.
So now with my nose job and my freedom from varicose veins, I accept myself.
P. S.: New York Hospital, unfortunately, no longer has the liberal policy of letting any one walk in to their buildings to set up medical procedures such as surgery. What if an elderly person wanted a varicosectomy operation in Denver? What happens?
© 7 December 2016
About the Author
I was born in 1944, I lived most of my life in New York City, Queens County. I still commute there. I worked for many years as a Caseworker for New York City Human Resources Administration, dealing with mentally impaired clients, then as a social work Supervisor dealing with homeless PWA’s. I have an apartment in Wheat Ridge, CO. I retired in 2002. I have a few interesting stories to tell. My boyfriend Kevin lives in New York City. I graduated Queens College, CUNY, in 1967.
