tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7727347203399088592024-03-19T05:42:59.771+02:00Transgender In and Out of StateThe Improbable Adventures of a Now Retired Transgender Foreign Service Bicyclist Across Time (Zones), Continents, and CulturesRobyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.comBlogger112125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-5952748703559180252024-03-17T20:14:00.002+02:002024-03-17T20:14:47.361+02:00Queer Diplomacy: A Transgender Journey in the Foreign Service<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-UVop-BTHf2uyGhVwoJmdn6ze1qGkaJwifees1dVmU3saZAKQy62LaYFuPrF9ISEsafUTJ9PVYqWfyRGjLjkv91cCKsOy16slDnmum5VTI6qnDNjgPeyfJVPHcGhaWMAY76UpvU7hIloh2FWXIBfHkH_ca92w3MjaCaDZwAuislLHkAvFiQ_bqhrWa5o/s1328/240301%20--%20Queer%20Diplomacy%20--%20cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="938" data-original-width="1328" height="226" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-UVop-BTHf2uyGhVwoJmdn6ze1qGkaJwifees1dVmU3saZAKQy62LaYFuPrF9ISEsafUTJ9PVYqWfyRGjLjkv91cCKsOy16slDnmum5VTI6qnDNjgPeyfJVPHcGhaWMAY76UpvU7hIloh2FWXIBfHkH_ca92w3MjaCaDZwAuislLHkAvFiQ_bqhrWa5o/s320/240301%20--%20Queer%20Diplomacy%20--%20cover.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-size: large;">After four years of writing, editing, re-writing, re-editing, and more query letter to agents and publishers than I care to remember, I am happy to announce that my book <a href="https://westphaliapress.org/2024/03/12/queer-diplomacy-a-transgender-journey-in-the-foreign-service/" target="_blank">Queer Diplomacy: A Transgender Journey in the Foreign Service</a>, was published by <a href="https://westphaliapress.org/2024/03/12/queer-diplomacy-a-transgender-journey-in-the-foreign-service/" target="_blank">Westphalia Press</a> last week in cooperation with the Association for Diplomatic Studies and Training (<a href="https://adst.org/" target="_blank">ADST</a>). It is available in both paper and e-book formats on <a href="https://www.amazon.com/dp/1637236395" target="_blank">Amazon</a>. It is my hope that readers of this web journal will find the book to be a distilled, improved version of some of the material I have written here over the years. It is aimed in particular at the those in the transgender and gender non-conforming communities who have an interest in pursuing a career in international relations. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>SPOILER ALERT:</b> <i>Being trans or non-conforming is not an obstacle to a career as a Foreign Service Officer with the U.S. Department of State!</i></span></p><p><br /></p>Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-8713802003586771872023-10-12T19:01:00.000+03:002023-10-12T19:01:12.777+03:00The Highs and Lows of Trans at State<span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">
<p>In 2022 I was asked to contribute a chapter to the compendium, <a href="https://www.survivingtransphobia.com/" target="_blank">Surviving Transphobia</a>. The editor understandably shortened my contribution, but I was never consulted on the edits until I was presented with page proofs in August 2023. Some of the edits are unfortunate, simplifying or making a muddle of the original text, and one glaringly inserts a word that makes me cringe. To be specific, in my opening fourth paragraph I quote Ambassador Bill Burns: </p>
<p><i>In the words of Ambassador Bill Burns, diplomacy is America’s foreign policy tool of first resort. </i></p>
<p>In the edited version this became: </p>
<p><i>As ambassador Bill Burns <u><b>notoriously</b></u> </i>[emphasis added] <i>wrote, “Diplomacy is America’s foreign policy tool of first resort.”</i></p>
<p>To be clear, I entirely agree with Ambassador Burns, and the insertion of <i>notoriously</i> distorts my meaning, giving it a negative connotation that I disavow.</p>
<p>Given this and other unfortunate edits, I am providing the original, unedited text here. The editor has promised to work with me on corrections in a second printing. In the meantime, I ask that anyone who may have purchased the book get out a black sharpie. There is nothing notorious about removing <i>notoriously</i> at the request of the author.</p>
<p><br /></p>
<p style="text-align: center;">* * * * * * * *</p><p align="center"><br /></p><p align="center">
<b>The Highs and Lows of Trans at State</b></p>
<p align="center">
Robyn
Alice McCutcheon<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote1sym" name="sdfootnote1anc"><sup>1</sup></a></p>
<p>I am contributing this article as a transgender American who served her country openly as a commissioned Foreign Service Officer (FSO) at the U.S. Department of State. For over fifteen years I lived
and worked in Moscow, Bucharest, and throughout Central Asia, not to mention in Washington, DC. At the time I retired as an FS-02 mid-level FSO in 2019, I held the diplomatic title of First Secretary, roughly the equivalent of a lieutenant colonel in the military
</p>
<p>“Whoa, Foreign Service? What in the world is that?” you ask. “Do you mean the French Foreign Legion?”</p>
<p>No, I did not serve
with a rifle somewhere in the deserts of Africa under a French flag.
The Foreign Service is that arm of the U.S. Department of State that
staffs our U.S. embassies, consulates, and other diplomatic missions.
Sometimes referred to as <i>America’s Other Ar</i><i>my.</i><i><a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote2sym" name="sdfootnote2anc"><sup>2</sup></a></i>
Foreign Service Officers (FSOs) are America’s diplomats.</p>
<p>I offer this thought to transgender Americans who want to serve the American people. Military service is not the only option. The old adage applies:
<i>The pen is mightier than the sword</i>. In the words of Ambassador Bill Burns, diplomacy is America’s foreign policy tool of first resort.<sup><a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote3sym" name="sdfootnote3anc"><sup>3</sup></a></sup>
Interests in languages, cultures, and international relations are a prerequisite, but being transgender is no obstacle. More than that, the Foreign Service may be one of the most welcoming
branches of the U.S. government for all colors of the LGBT+ rainbow.</p>
<p>Was it always that way? Of course not. The Foreign Service was a male bastion from its inception. Women were largely excluded, and women who married were required to resign as
recently as 1971. In the 1950s the Department rooted out all gay FSOs it could identify in the so-called <i>Lavender
Scare.<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote4sym" name="sdfootnote4anc"><sup>4</sup></a></i>
Careers were destroyed with tragic consequences. A few of the outed
gay FSOs committed suicide. The witch hunt lessened after the 1950s,
but it was still official policy as recently as the early 1990s to
revoke security clearances from gay FSOs. The reasoning went that
being gay and in the closet left an FSO open to blackmail.
Perversely, being gay and out of the closet was seen as giving
leverage that foreign intelligence services could exploit.</p>
<p>In 1992 a few brave FSOs stood up, declared themselves openly as gay, and founded <i>Gays
and Lesbians in Foreign Affairs Agencies </i>(<a href="http://glifaa.org/">GLIFAA</a>).<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote5sym" name="sdfootnote5anc"><sup>5</sup></a>
Several of the founders were dismissed when they came out openly, but the organization persisted. One of their greatest successes came in June
2009 when Secretary Hillary Clinton introduced a policy on Same Sex Domestic Partners (SSDP), under which partners of gay and lesbian FSOs were
granted all spousal benefits to the maximum extent allowed by U.S.
law. In 2017 Secretary John Kerry issued a formal apology for the decades of discrimination against gay and lesbian FSOs.</p>
<p>So
what about trans? Fuggedaboutit.
As far as anyone knows, there was no trans person in the Foreign Service into the first years of the 21<sup>st</sup> century. Indeed, the status of any trans person anywhere in the U.S.
federal government was at best tenuous, and I mean “at best.”</p>
<p>Dismissal for anyone coming out as trans was more the rule than the exception, and this only began to change when Diane Schroer filed suit against the Library of Congress in 2005. Why did
she file suit? Because the Library had revoked a job offered to her when she told her future supervisor that she would be reporting for work presenting in a gender different from the one in which she had applied.</p>
<p>With the help of Sharon McGowan from the ACLU, Diane Schroer won. On September 19, 2008, the United States District Court for the District of Columbia ruled that the Library had illegally discriminated against her. In its decision, the court found that discrimination stemming from gender identity or presentation is sex discrimination under Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964.</p>
<p>At about the same time the District Court handed down its decision, Dr. Chloe Schwenke, at that time a senior staffer at a contractor to the State Department’s sister agency USAID, announced she was transitioning. She was fired. After being let go, Chloe went to glifaa. Together they successfully lobbied to have gender identity added to the employee non-discrimination policies at State and at USAID. Secretary Clinton signed gender identity into Department policy in the summer of 2010, and President Obama appointed Chloe directly to USAID. Together with Amanda Simpson and Dylan Orr, Chloe became one of the first high-level trans appointees in the U.S. government.<sup><a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote6sym" name="sdfootnote6anc"><sup>6</sup></a></sup></p>
<p>So where was I in all of this? I can answer in four words: deeply in the closet.</p>
<p>Eisenhower
was in his first administration when I entered this world. When I
first heard a term to describe what I felt deep inside,
that term was transsexual. I don’t reject it even today insofar
as I did, ultimately, go for corrective surgeries. I have trouble
with the term transgender because gender is the one aspect of my life
that has never changed. I identified as something closer to female
from my earliest days. If anything changed, it’s in how society
views me. You could say that I transitioned society so that it sees
me as I always knew myself to be. I transitioned society and now
live – pun intended – in a TS world.<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote7sym" name="sdfootnote7anc"><sup>7</sup></a></p>
<p>What I really
thought in the 1960s and 70s was that I was insane. How could anyone
be transsexual? That was the stuff of tabloid headlines, something
to run away from even as I wondered when my breasts would start to
develop. I played with the other girls at school recess until
teachers made me go out to the sports field where I knew I wasn’t
wanted. Instead, I would go to the edge of the field and sit down
alone, usually with a book. What would people think if they knew
what was going on in my head?</p>
<p>Only in college when
I read Jan Morris’s <i>Conundrum</i> did I understand I wasn’t
the only one like me in this world. I reached out to gender clinics
and for nearly a year lived a double life, appearing as male to
friends and professors but as female at a solitary night job. I took
long bicycle rides through the countryside, trying to make sense of
my feelings and what I now knew to be possible.</p>
<p>In graduate school I
ran from the word, the <i>white noise</i> of feelings that could only
be drowned out but never entirely driven away. In academics and work
I found the socially acceptable drug to mute the feelings. A double
major in college, two Masters degrees, and an intense career in space
flight dynamics were only part of the formula. I threw myself also
into Russian and Soviet history, getting research grants, working in
Soviet archives, and publishing in academic journals. Along the way
I married a friend, herself a history graduate student, even though I
had never dated. A mutual interest in history and international
affairs is what brought us together.</p>
<p>Being a
round-the-clock activity machine can only get one through for so
long. The sand in my hourglass ran out in 1990. That spring I was
part of the launch and early mission support team for Hubble Space
Telescope. I also had a publication deadline for a major history
paper. On top of this, I was now a parent who was going through
on-the-job training with a year-old son.</p>
<p>I spoke the trans
word to my spouse for the first time that summer. I had been at the
University of Illinois with a writing grant to finish my history
article, but I found I was unable to work. It wasn’t writer’s
block. At the time of my greatest career successes and joy at being
a parent, the contradictions inside me were yelling, "Enough,
this can't go on!"</p>
<p>A day after speaking
the word, I found myself in a psychiatric ward at a local hospital.
My spouse declared me persona non grata and threw me out of the
house. The consequences of speaking the word were as bad as I
feared, even worse. I stood at the edge of a DC Metro station
platform and wondered if it might not be best to end it all instead
of facing the condemnation of family, friends, and co-workers. In
the end it was my own sister who took me to the hospital out of fear
I might put my thoughts into action.</p>
<p>This was my first
encounter with psychiatry. It was not a pleasant one. I don't
remember the name of my psychiatrist. I recounted to him my history
of gender-confused feelings going back to earliest childhood. He sat
stony-faced, never commenting. We met daily for a week. Only at the
last session did he pronounce his verdict, telling me, "What you
are is overworked and depressed." He was convinced there is no
such thing as gender dysphoria, so he prescribed an antidepressant.
He released me to the care of my spouse, assuring her I would be
fine. I went back to work after having disappeared for a week. No
one said a word about my unexplained absence.</p>
<p>Continuing
discussions with my spouse made it clear that I had to choose.
Pursue transition or take the pills. It was also clear that if I
went for the former, I would find myself divorced with no access to
our son. It was a stark choice. So I chose to stay married, be a
parent. I chose to ignore my own desires, to accept the diagnosis of
depression, to take the pills and go on for the good of all.</p>
<p>Our son grew. In
2004 I made a radical career change to the U.S. Department of State
as an FSO. Why? Well, why not? Hubble was using only the
mathematical part of my brain while I pursued my interests in Russian
language and Russian/Soviet affairs as a sideline.
</p>
<p>Transition? It was
not on the agenda. I thought it was too late, that I was too old. I
said nothing about gender issues when interviewed for a security
clearance. I lied through omission, and I feared that the secret
would come to light one day. But when? In 2000 a NASA scan of its
computer systems determined that someone at one of its Maryland
facilities had been visiting <i>pornographic</i> websites. A warning
went out to all staff. No one was named, but I knew it was me. The
warning identified a URL for a website with information about gender
transition as the <i>pornographic</i> site. What would the State
Department do if it found out about my gender-conflicted life story?</p>
<p>In my first year at
State I was a Political Officer on the <i>Russia Desk</i>. I had
jumped from being a respected, senior analyst on Hubble to being,
“Hey, you!” I was the most junior person on the <i>Desk</i> as
I concentrated on understanding Russian intentions vis-à-vis
Georgia.</p>
<p>A
year later the State Department sent me to Moscow. For the first
year I did visa interviews, cringing at the thought that I held lives
in my hands. In
my second
year I covered the Russian nuclear energy industry after
someone
realized that a <i>rocket engineer</i>
who had worked on Hubble could be put to better use. In the tumult of embassy culture and never-ending assignments from
Washington, I found my peace on a bicycle. On
weekends I would ride to the outskirts of Moscow to ride on the
bicycle track that had been
built for the 1980 Olympics. On one long summer weekend I bike-packed to
Borodino, camping along the way in woods where I hoped no one could
see me from the road.</p>
<p>In 2008 I moved on to our embassy in Tashkent, Uzbekistan, where the State
Department in its wisdom had assigned me to cover economic and
business issues. When I objected that I knew
next to nothing about either economics or business, the wry retort
was, “Neither do the Uzbeks. You are well matched.”</p>
<p>The fear that one
day my trans secret would come to light was realized in 2010. In
2007, with our son now in college, my spouse and I had moved toward
divorce. Conducted long distance from Tashkent, the divorce proved
to be messy. My trans history complete with my 1990 psychiatric ward
sojourn was woven through the discovery materials. It became a
factor in the property settlement agreement in which I gave up,
essentially, everything. Word got out. I was summoned for an
interview, more accurately an interrogation, with Diplomatic
Security. I found myself on leave without pay as my fate was
decided.
</p>
<p>I
expected the worst from
Washington, but I wasn’t
aware that the world for trans persons was changing. I
knew nothing about Chloe Schwenke. Although
I was stripped of a follow-on posting
back to Moscow, I was allowed to take what the Foreign Service calls
a <i>down-stretch</i> to a
position below my grade in Bucharest, Romania, as
an Information Management Specialist – i.e., as a data tech instead
of as a political officer.
As I watched the foliage change colors in fall 2010, it dawned on me that my
biggest issue was that I had a <i>secret</i>. What if I came out openly?</p>
<p>Lifelong
experience as a bicyclist had
taught me important lessons about visibility. I learned the
lessons of urban bicycling the hard way. I
hugged the curb, trying to stay out of everyone's way – which
resulted in repeated mishaps and injuries as
motorists pushed me into the gutter or off the road entirely.
As I gained experience, I learned that bicycle safety means taking one's rightful place in the
traffic lane and being visible. It is far safer to position oneself as a vehicle, taking as much of the lane as needed.
Motorists might not like seeing me in <i>their</i> lane, but they accept me as something that cannot be ignored and
pushed to the side.</p>
<p>Could these lessons from my two-wheeled life be applied to my life as a trans person? In college
I had gone forth as myself only in the shadows, scared to death what
would happen if anyone recognized me. In
my trans life I had hugged the curb, doing my best
to stay out of everyone's way. Now I applied the same,
hard-learned rule of riding a bicycle:
Be visible, be assertive, and join the traffic. I had as much right
to walk down the street as anyone. “Yes,
I am trans, and I don’t care who knows or what anyone thinks.”</p>
<p>That’s how it happened that at Embassy Bucharest on November 10, 2011, I
became the first FSO to transition gender while posted overseas. One
senior embassy official wanted me out of the country on psychiatric
grounds, but the State Department’s regional psychiatrist from
Budapest pronounced me sane, only trans. Washington fretted about how the
Government of Romania would react and instructed
the embassy’s Political Counselor to meet in person with the Americas’ Desk at
the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. The Department insisted on press guidance that
both the Embassy and the Department crafted late into the night on
the eve of the transition announcement. The guidance included the following potential question that it feared
could be asked by the press:</p>
<p style="margin-left: 1.25cm;">
The Department of State previously sent a gay Ambassador to Romania,
Michael Guest. Is the Department sending a message to Romania with
the appointment and now this transgender issue?</p>
<p>That question alone illustrates just how concerned Washington was that a
transition taking place at an overseas embassy could cause
embarrassment.</p>
<p>Washington’s concerns evaporated when the transition announcement caused barely a
ripple either within Embassy Bucharest or the Government of Romania.
Moreover, Washington quickly came to see me as an asset with access no
one else had to the Romanian LGBT+ community. Over the next two years I penned
numerous cables on LGBT+ rights in Romania with titles such as <i>Roma
and Gay: A Triple Stigma</i>, <i>Transgender Community Comes out of the Shadows but Remains a Fractured Minority</i>,
<i>Moldova Makes Progress on Transgender Rights</i>, and <i>Anti-LGBT
Protesters Win a Battle, Lose a War? </i>In 2012 and 2013 I organized the Embassy’s participation in the annual
Bucharest Pride march that had, in previous years, been subject to attack from anti-LGBT protesters.
</p>
<p>Moreover, my Bucharest apartment became a regular meeting place for the local community,
in one case after the release of several activists who had
been arrested for protesting in front of the Russian Embassy.
Olympia, a young trans woman who had been beaten by her non-accepting
father, took up residence in my guest bedroom.</p>
<p>In
2013 I returned to Washington for a one-year assignment at the
Nuclear Risk Reduction Center (NRRC) that oversees our nuclear arms
control treaties with Russia and
conventional arms treaties under the umbrella of the Organization for
Security and Cooperation in Europe.
That was the day job even if it was 24/7 shift work. The
highlight of the year, unfortunately, was Russia’s invasion and
annexation of Crimea, which for the NRRC meant having to produce in
rapid succession accurate translations of reports from Ukraine for
use by policymakers in the Department, the National Security Council,
and the Office of the Secretary of Defense.</p>
<p>The real job, however, was at glifaa, which had elected me president. An
entirely new glifaa board came into office with me. There were new vice presidents for State and
for USAID, a new communications director, a new social director, and a new secretary/treasurer.
Most importantly, Selim Ariturk came onto the glifaa board as policy
director. With a penetrating analytical mind, Selim was an excellent strategist, the
perfect person to craft policy. We often disagreed, but I admired the
way Selim’s mind worked. Over the coming year we discussed
and debated often, looking for consensus that satisfied us both and, we hoped, glifaa
members around the globe.</p>
<p>In September 2013 we convened a Sunday retreat of the glifaa board to discuss priorities and strategies. We chose
three issues to top our list:</p>
<ul>
<li>Post-DOMA strategy and the fate of SSDP, </li>
<li>Privileges and Immunities (Ps & Is) for spouses and domestic partners, and</li>
<li>Removal of the <i>transgender exclusion </i>from Federal Employee Health Benefit (FEHB) insurance plans.</li>
</ul>
<p>The first issue had been a sleeper surprise. The SSDP policy enacted by
Secretary Clinton in 2009 accorded family benefits to registered
SSDPs, but the Defense of Marriage Act (DOMA) put limits on what SSDP
could offer. Employee insurance and retirement programs still
excluded same-sex partners. FSOs rotating back to Washington could not bring partners who did not have
U.S. citizenship or residency.
</p>
<p>The nationwide LGBT+ community celebrated in June 2012 when the Supreme
Court overturned DOMA in United States v. Windsor. Same-sex couples
could now enjoy the full rights and benefits of marriage. Same-sex
<u>married</u> couples had achieved equality with opposite-sex couples in the eyes of the law.</p>
<p>The key word here was <u>married</u><i>.</i> FSOs live and work largely overseas, often
in countries that are unabashedly homophobic. What happens if an FSO finds a partner in
a country that does not recognize same-sex marriage? If this couple flies to the US to marry,
what happens when they return to post? Could the now married partner be subject to social
or legal retribution?</p>
<p>These were serious questions that worried gay and lesbian FSOs. The devil was in the details of how the Department
of State would interpret SSDP in the post-DOMA world. Our glifaa board urged the Department to go slow, to leave
SSDP in place until the details could be worked out.</p>
<p>The second issue, <i>Ps & Is</i>, followed from the first.<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote8sym" name="sdfootnote8anc"><sup>8</sup></a>
As far as gay and lesbian FSOs are concerned, the countries of the world are divided into three tiers:</p>
<ol>
<li>Those that wonder why the US had been so slow to recognize same-sex marriage;</li>
<li>Those that will never recognize same-sex marriage under any circumstances; and</li>
<li>Those that waffle in the middle, not recognizing same-sex marriage but, valuing their relationship with the US, are willing to grant some
form of status to FSO same-sex partners as long as it can be done quietly.</li>
</ol>
<p>Our glifaa board advocated for reciprocity, a policy by which the US would deny accreditation to a foreign diplomat’s family member if
that country had denied <i>Ps & Is</i> to the same-sex spouse of an FSO.</p>
<p>I personally put the <i>transgender exclusion</i> on the advocacy agenda.
Most of my glifaa board members didn’t know that an exclusionary clause dating to the 1970s
denied coverage of trans health issues to all federal employees, FSOs
included. Just as I was learning the issues facing my gay colleagues, they were now learning the
issues facing trans Americans.</p>
<p>
We wrote
white papers for each issue, building a lobbying blueprint for the
year. Lobby we did, meeting repeatedly with officials on <i>mahogany
row, </i>the power corridor where the Department’s top officials
have their office suites on the seventh floor of Main State. We went
all the way to Secretary John Kerry’s Counselor Heather
Higginbottom and Chief of Staff David Wade. We met repeatedly with
Undersecretary for Management Pat Kennedy and Acting Director General
Hans Klemm. These were the people who had it in their power to
change policy.</p>
<p>Selim set the agenda and tactics for each meeting. We decided early that I
would advocate for the issues affecting our gay and lesbian members.
Selim, State VP Christopher Hoh, and USAID VP Jay Gilliam would take
the lead in advocating for removal of the <i>transgender exclusion</i>.
It was a strategy that cemented us as a board. The old adage is
true: the best way to learn a subject is to teach a course in it.
</p>
<p> Our results varied, but we did better than we might have expected. We
slowed Pat Kennedy’s rush to roll back SSDP in the post-DOMA world.
He heard us even if he often did not agree with us. Like the little
Dutch boy with his finger in the dike, we were able to keep the
edifice of SSDP in place for another year.<sup><a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote9sym" name="sdfootnote9anc"><sup>9</sup></a></sup></p>
<p>On <i>Ps
& Is</i> we finished the year as we started. Pat Kennedy feared
that reciprocity could lead to tit-for-tat visa wars.
Behind-the-scenes negotiation for individual cases remained the
official State position, but Pat Kennedy mandated that each post send
an annual assessment of conditions for LGBT+ families. He also
directed posts to advocate strongly with host governments on behalf
of same-sex FSO families, and glifaa assisted with a number of those
cases. <i>Ps & Is</i> remain a glifaa issue to this day.</p>
<p>Our most unexpected success proved to be elimination
of the<i> transgender exclusion</i>. <i>SSDP</i>
and <i>Ps & Is</i> depend only on the Department of State,
but the Office of Personnel Management (OPM) administers
FEHB plans. How could we influence the policies of an
agency entirely outside the Department?</p>
<p>Our answer was to use what openings we did have. Both Pat Kennedy at State and his counterpart Elizabeth
Kolmstetter at USAID agreed to send letters to OPM Administrator Katherine Archuleta laying
out the case for removing the <i>transgender exclusion</i>.
OPM
could ignore glifaa, but it could not ignore Pat Kennedy and Elizabeth Kolmstetter. OPM
wrote back that the issue was under study with no time frame for a decision. We expected this, but the letters gave us a
back channel.</p>
<p>The Foreign Service has its own union, the American Foreign Service
Association (AFSA). AFSA, in turn, has an associated benefits arm,
the American Foreign Service Protective Association (AFSPA) that
administers the Foreign Service Benefit Plan (FSBP), an
FEHB plan tailored to overseas FSO life.</p>
<p>We sent copies of the Pat Kennedy and Elizabeth Kolmstetter letters to AFSPA
and asked that it request OPM approval to remove the <i>transgender exclusion </i>from
FSBP. After all, this is <u>our</u> health insurance program for <u>our</u>
Foreign Service family, and the top management officials at State and USAID were
asking that the <i>exclusion</i> be removed.</p>
<p>Glifaa wasn’t alone in pushing to eliminate the <i>transgender exclusion.</i>
We reached out to LGBT+ employee associations at other federal
agencies. We worked in concert with the National Center for
Transgender Equality (NCTE) and with the Human Rights Campaign (HRC).
We all knew we had to keep up pressure from as many directions as
possible.</p>
<p>As winter turned to spring, we didn’t know if our back channel gambit
would bear fruit. Time was running out. The annual commemoration of
Pride was coming, and Secretary John Kerry would be our guest of
honor for this well-attended event that includes reporters.
As glifaa president, I would introduce the Secretary, and
that introduction gave me leverage. I allowed word to leak
out that if there was no progress on the <i>transgender
exclusion</i> before Pride, I would denounce this discriminatory clause -- in the
presence of the Secretary and the press.</p>
<p> The gambit worked. Less than a week before Pride, NCTE’s Mara Keisling
convened a conference call. OPM had relented. It would allow
individual FEHB plans to drop the <i>exclusion</i> on the condition
of no publicity. Mara said it was glifaa’s advocacy that had made
the difference. Instead of denouncing OPM at Pride, I thanked AFSPA
for its unfailing support of the Foreign Service family.</p>
<p>My overseas State Department career ended with a posting to Astana, Kazakhstan, in
2014-17 as the Regional Representative for Environment, Science,
Technology, and Health (ESTH). I, a trans woman, now ran my own
section with my own budget and travel that took me to all five
post-Soviet ‘stans covering issues as diverse as climate change,
water management, and global health security.</p>
<p>As in Romania, my apartment became a group home and a gathering place for the LGBT+
community. I added LGBT-related meetings when I traveled regionally. Unregistered,
below-the-radar interest groups existed
in Almaty. Bishkek was home to Labrys, an official NGO and the leading
organization for LGBT+ rights in Central Asia. I met with community
members in Dushanbe. In Tashkent I met with a transgender man, an
artist and actor who told me how the trans community survived in this
authoritarian country. In Turkmenistan it was more difficult, but I
did manage to meet with a woman activist in Ashgabat, the two of us
going on a long evening walk in a city park until she detected that
we were being followed. We separated quickly. Two women walking
together in Turkmenistan are suspect by definition.</p>
<p>These meetings usually happened in the evenings, on the margins of my official meetings and events. I
was conscious, however, that my duties as Regional ESTH Officer included the letter <i>H
</i>for health. There was overlap. I incorporated HIV/AIDS into my
reporting, meeting with state-financed HIV treatment centers when I
traveled.<sup><a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote10sym" name="sdfootnote10anc"><sup>10</sup></a></sup></p>
<p>I joined forces with the Embassy Astana’s human rights officer. Together we got funding
from Washington for a roundtable on trans rights that included representatives from the Ministry of Health and the
Republican Psychiatric Institute. Jamison Green, at that time president of the World Professional Association for
Transgender Health (WPATH), came to Astana as our U.S. expert on trans issues. That roundtable was the first small step in a dialog
that continues to this day.</p>
<p>As with Olympia in Romania, in Kazakhstan I found myself deeply involved in the fate of one individual: Sultana Kali. Her story and my role in it
illustrate the gulf between the hopes and the reality of a mid-level FSO’s ability to change the life of an individual in the country
where she serves.</p>
<p>I met Sultana in March 2016 at the welcome dinner I hosted on the eve
of the trans roundtable. She spoke at the roundtable the next day.
With poise and dignity, she told how she had been expelled from her
high school in Pavlodar in 2015 after coming out as transgender. She
had been only a year away from graduation.</p>
<p>Might it be possible to find a school somewhere that would accept Sultana? Surely there
must be at least one school in Kazakhstan that would accept a trans
student? I offered my help to Sultana and her mom Natasha, and we
set to work.</p>
<p>I was wrong. Through the summer of 2016 I found all doors politely
but firmly slammed in my face. That included the international
schools and the elite Nazarbayev University. No official would admit
to being transphobic. Instead, they alluded to administrative
problems and <i>traditional Kazakh values</i>. The admissions
officer at Nazarbayev University recommended that Sultana study
abroad. The director of an international school recommended an
American community college. That is what we decided to do.</p>
<p>I moved Sultana and her mom into my apartment. Natasha kept us fed through the winter of
2016-17 as we worked on college applications and fundraising. In the
end, Lane Community College in Oregon accepted Sultana and gave a
small scholarship for her essay, "I Just Want to Live an
Ordinary Life -- and Create a Revolution."</p>
<p>In June 2017 Sultana went for her visa interview. With a college acceptance and
sufficient funds for the first year, the issuance of a visa should
have been a given.</p>
<p>I was wrong again. After a three-minute interview, the Consular Section chief at Embassy
Astana refused the visa, saying Sultana didn’t have enough money to
make ends meet for four years of college in the US.</p>
<p>I assured Sultana that we could overcome this hurdle. Nothing in U.S. immigration law
says international students must demonstrate sufficient funds for
four years, but consuls are not required to explain their decisions.
Sultana submitted a second application. This time, I filled out an
<i>attestation of support</i> committing to cover expenses for all
four years.</p>
<p>Sultana went for the second visa interview in July. Refused again.
The vice-consul didn’t even glance at the additional documentation.
Not one to give up, Sultana tried a third time, this time after
Senators Tammy Baldwin, Ben Cardin, and Susan Collins had made
inquiries on her behalf. Denied again.</p>
<p>I despaired. There was nothing I could do internally. Department
rules forbid FSOs from intervening in visa cases. What, I wondered,
had the consular officers seen in Sultana as she stood at the
interview window, handing over forms, bank statements, and passport?</p>
<p>In 2017 Sultana still carried a passport bearing a male name and gender marker. Was
she rejected as an openly trans woman, someone whom consular officers
suspected would remain in the US illegally, an <i>intending
immigrant</i>? Under the law, that finding would make her
ineligible. Since I can’t ask directly, I will never know.</p>
<p>But I know this: Of 16 Kazakhstani students accepted by Lane
Community College between 2010 and 2016, Sultana was the first to be
turned down for a visa.</p>
<p>All I could do was make noise, not permit this visa denial to pass quietly. I
published several pieces in the HuffPost,<sup><a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote11sym" name="sdfootnote11anc"><sup>11</sup></a></sup>
going right up to the line of accusing consular officers of inherent bias. The Kazakhstani edition of <i>Esquire
</i>picked up and published the intentionally
inflammatory Russian language interview I had given to journalist
Botagoz Omarova.<sup><i><a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote12sym" name="sdfootnote12anc"><sup>12</sup></a></i></sup>
This forced Embassy Astana to respond, albeit with characteristically bland verbiage that privacy concerns prevented it from commenting on individual cases. I
wrote an internal Department <i>dissent cable</i> that earned me a meeting with the Deputy Assistant Secretary in the Bureau of Consular Affairs. Nothing changed.</p>
<p>I drafted a resignation letter and nearly sent it. With less than two
years until retirement, I had nothing to lose. So why not scream my head off wherever I could? Just as with gender
transition in 2010-11, I might as well go down fighting. To its credit, the Department
cleared each of the HuffPost articles. They were <i>not of official concern</i> even if I did
use fighting words.</p>
<p>If
there is a positive side to my failed attempt to get Sultana Kali
into college in the US, it is that Sultana landed well. On paper she
still has only an 11<sup>th</sup>
grade education, but she is better spoken in English than most
Americans. Today she is part of an LGBT+ project administered by
Columbia University and in 2019 traveled
to Estonia as a Kazakhstani representative to a regional conference.
She also became one of the first Kazakhstani citizens to succeed in
changing the gender marker in her passport, a success that stemmed
from the 2016 trans
roundtable.<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote13sym" name="sdfootnote13anc"><sup>13</sup></a></p>
<p>I am retired now. Being an FSO is one of the few careers left in the
US that has mandatory retirement for age at 65. After seeing more of
the former Soviet Union in my working life than I had of the US, I
finally have the time to discover my own troubled country.
In 2019 I celebrated retirement by bike-packing from Washington, DC,
to my home in Maine. Since then I have bike-packed across the US from
Atlantic to Pacific twice, and in 2023 I rode from Alaska to Montana.
As should be clear by now, the bicycle has been my instrument of inner
peace from the beginning of my life, the vehicle that allowed me to
survive decades of being closeted trans and then the pressures
of life as a diplomat.</p>
<p>That’s my story, the highs and lows of being trans at the Department of State.
I leave it to the reader to write the continuation. I joined the Foreign Service late in my
career. A young trans or otherwise gender non-conforming person taking the Foreign Service Officer Test today has the potential of
rising to the level of Ambassador.<a class="sdfootnoteanc" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote14sym" name="sdfootnote14anc"><sup>14</sup></a>
It is my ardent hope that I will still be here to shake his, her, or
their hand. Several trans Americans have already followed in my diplomatic footsteps, and
I know they are only the start.</p> <p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;">* * * * * * * *</p><p style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0cm; text-align: center;"><br /></p>
<div id="sdfootnote1"><p class="sdfootnote"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote1anc" name="sdfootnote1sym">1</a>Robyn
Alice McCutcheon is a retired Foreign Service Officer who served in
Washington, Astana, Bucharest, and Tashkent. Although Ms.
McCutcheon was employed by the U.S. Department of State, the views
expressed in this column are strictly her own and do not necessarily
represent the views of the Department of State or the U.S.
Government.</p>
</div>
<div id="sdfootnote2"><p class="sdfootnote"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote2anc" name="sdfootnote2sym">2</a>Nicholas
Kralev, <i>America’s Other Army:
The U.S. Foreign Service and 21st-Century Diplomacy </i>(CreateSpace
Independent Publishing Platform, 2015).</p>
</div>
<div id="sdfootnote3"><p class="sdfootnote" style="break-before: page; page-break-before: always;">
<a class="sdfootnotesym" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote3anc" name="sdfootnote3sym">3</a>William
J. Burns, “The Lost Art of
American Diplomacy,”<i> </i><i>Foreign
Affairs</i>,
May/June 2019; William J. Burns, <i>The
Back Channel: A Memoir of American Diplomacy and the Case for Its
Renewal </i>(Random
House, 2019).</p>
</div>
<div id="sdfootnote4"><p class="sdfootnote"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote4anc" name="sdfootnote4sym">4</a>See,
for example,
<a href="https://adst.org/2015/09/the-lavender-scare-homosexuals-at-the-state-department/">https://adst.org/2015/09/the-lavender-scare-homosexuals-at-the-state-department/</a>.</p>
</div>
<div id="sdfootnote5"><p class="sdfootnote"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote5anc" name="sdfootnote5sym">5</a>In
the years since, GLIFAA has become glifaa in lower case to emphasize
that it is no longer an acronym. On its website and in all its
literature, it is now <i>glifaa</i><i>, lgbt+ pride in foreign
affairs agencies. </i>The change
happened during my tenure as the organization’s president in
2014-15 and was adopted to reflect
inclusion of the full LGBT+
spectrum.</p>
</div>
<div id="sdfootnote6"><p align="left" style="break-before: page;">
<a class="sdfootnotesym" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote6anc" name="sdfootnote6sym">6</a>Chloe
eloquently chronicles her own life journey in <i>SELF-ish:
A Transgender Awakening</i><b> </b>(Red Hen Press, 2018)</p>
</div>
<div id="sdfootnote7"><p class="sdfootnote"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote7anc" name="sdfootnote7sym">7</a>Drawing
from the realm of classical physics, I used a transformation matrix
to rotate society to my own reference frame.</p>
</div>
<div id="sdfootnote8"><p class="sdfootnote"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote8anc" name="sdfootnote8sym">8</a>Diplomats
are granted privileges and immunities in the countries to which they
are accredited so that they can represent their home countries
without being subject to host country law. The Vienna Convention on
Diplomatic Relations (1961), which defines the framework for the
conduct of diplomatic relations, codifies international law on
diplomatic immunities and privileges.</p>
</div>
<div id="sdfootnote9"><p class="sdfootnote" style="break-before: page; page-break-before: always;">
<a class="sdfootnotesym" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote9anc" name="sdfootnote9sym">9</a>The
Department ultimately phased out SSDP in 2017. The phase-out did,
however, include a grandfather clause allowing new couples to stay
under the SSDP umbrella until the American FSO rotates through
Washington, at which time the couple is required to marry if they
wish to continue being recognized as a couple.
</p>
</div>
<div id="sdfootnote10"><p class="sdfootnote" style="break-before: page; page-break-before: always;">
<a class="sdfootnotesym" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote10anc" name="sdfootnote10sym">10</a>The
HIV crisis in Kazakhstan stems mainly from intravenous drug use, but
the percentage stemming from sexual contact of all kinds is growing.
At the HIV center in Karaganda, I asked the deputy director about
the LGBT+ community. He acknowledged there is a problem that is
heightened by stigma, but he said they were making some inroads in
the gay community. When I asked about transgender women and men, he
said there were none in his region. When I pressed, he took
umbrage, saying that of course he would know a transgender person if
he saw one.
</p>
</div>
<div id="sdfootnote11"><p class="sdfootnote" style="break-before: page; page-break-before: always;">
<a class="sdfootnotesym" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote11anc" name="sdfootnote11sym">11</a>HuffPost
articles: “Why Is The U.S. Denying This Young Trans Woman A
Student Visa?” ibid.; “<span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx">U.S.
Consuls Already Have The Tools To Discriminate In Visa Decisions<i>,”</i>
3/7/2018,
<a href="https://www.huffpost.com/entry/opinion-mccutcheon-visa-discrimination_n_5a9cc6e2e4b089ec353bee8d">https://www.huffpost.com/entry/opinion-mccutcheon-visa-discrimination_n_5a9cc6e2e4b089ec353bee8d</a>;
and “<span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx">A
Transgender American Diplomat Who Does Not Exist,”
11/10/2018,
<a href="https://www.huffpost.com/entry/trans-student-visa-kazakhstan_b_5a0a2626e4b0bc648a0d5569">https://www.huffpost.com/entry/trans-student-visa-kazakhstan_b_5a0a2626e4b0bc648a0d5569</a>.</span></span></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="sdfootnote12"><p class="sdfootnote" style="break-before: page; page-break-before: always;">
<a class="sdfootnotesym" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote12anc" name="sdfootnote12sym">12</a>The
Kazakhstan edition of <i>Esquire </i>does
not maintain an archive of older articles, but the Internet portal
Vteme.kz picked up the theme in “<span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx">ТРАНСнациональная
трагедия <span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx">[TRANS-natsional'naya
tragediya],”
11/21/2017,
<a href="http://vteme.kz/publ/analitika/ehnigma/transnacionalnaja_tragedija/34-1-0-133">http://vteme.kz/publ/analitika/ehnigma/transnacionalnaja_tragedija/34-1-0-133</a>.
Video of my Russian-language interview with journalist Botagoz
Omarova can
be found at “<span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx">Трансгендерной
девушке, ЛГБТИК+ активистке, Султане
Кали отказали в выдаче учебной визы в
США <span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx">[Transgendernoi
devushke, LGBTIQ+ artivistke, Sultane Kali otkazali v vydache
uchebnoi vizyv SShA],”
8/27/2017,
<a href="http://101tv.kz/video_news/723-transgendernoy-devushke-lgbtik-aktivistke-sultane-kali-otkazali-v-vydache-uchebnoy-vizy-v-ssha.html">http://101tv.kz/video_news/723-transgendernoy-devushke-lgbtik-aktivistke-sultane-kali-otkazali-v-vydache-uchebnoy-vizy-v-ssha.html</a>.
An English-language interview with the Kazakhstani LGB organization
kok.team can
be found in “<span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx">Robyn
McCutcheon: 'The dark times ushered in by Trump will pass,'"
10/9/2017,
<a href="https://www.kok.team/en/2017-10-09/robyn-mccutcheon-the-dark-times-ushered-in-by-trump-will-pass">https://www.kok.team/en/2017-10-09/robyn-mccutcheon-the-dark-times-ushered-in-by-trump-will-pass</a>.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p>
</div>
<div id="sdfootnote13"><p class="sdfootnote"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote13anc" name="sdfootnote13sym">13</a>A
2018 Russian-language TED talk given by Sultana Kali can be found at
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e2XT2uCb2qI">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e2XT2uCb2qI</a>
.</p>
</div>
<div id="sdfootnote14"><p class="sdfootnote"><a class="sdfootnotesym" href="file:///media/raid/Robyn/My%20Publications/220221%20--%20Trans%20Highs%20and%20Lows%20at%20State.html#sdfootnote14anc" name="sdfootnote14sym">14</a>https://careers.state.gov/work/foreign-service/officer/test-process/</p>
</div>
<p><span style="background-color: silver;">12 </span></p>
<p></p></span>Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-15743928918164636512023-03-30T22:44:00.001+03:002023-03-30T22:44:45.784+03:00Transgender Day of Visibility 2023<p><span style="font-size: large;">If a picture is worth a thousand words, than how much value is there to a video lasting more than fourteen minutes? It has been some time since I last posted to <i>Transgender In and Out of State, </i>the primary reason being that for the past three years I have put all of my eggs in one basket by devoting myself to writing a memoir. After three major rewrites and working with a professional content editor, I now have an agent, the <a href="https://adst.org/" target="_blank">Association for Diplomatic Studies and Training</a>. Thus there is hope we will find a publisher, but as of yet there is no guarantee. For more, do watch the video. I'll be happy to send a draft of the memoir to anyone who is interested.</span></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="266" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vdBVJBpNB48" width="320" youtube-src-id="vdBVJBpNB48"></iframe></div><br /><p></p><p><br /></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">In the video I urge transgender Americans with an interest in languages, history, and culture to follow in my footsteps as a Foreign Service Officer (i.e., diplomat) with the U.S. Department of State. Sign up for and take the test, the <a href="https://careers.state.gov/career-paths/worldwide-foreign-service/officer/fso-test-information-and-selection-process/" target="_blank">FSOT</a>. You have nothing to lose and perhaps a career to gain. The Department of State is one of the most welcoming government agencies for transgender, gender queer, and non-binary persons. In <a href="https://glifaa.org" target="_blank">glifaa</a> it has one of the oldest, strongest associations advocating for the rights of LGBTQI+ officers and staff.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">I also mention the weekly missives that I send to an e-mail distribution. If you would like to sign up for this, send an e-mail to me at msrobyn-alice@usa.net.</span></p><p><span style="font-size: large;">Now retired, I spend much of my free time on my Rivendell Atlantis bicycle. I call her <i>WoodsWoman</i>. Last year I bike-packed with her from the Arctic Ocean in Deadhorse, Alaska, through Canada down to Montana. For more on that and other bicycle adventures, see my alternate blog, <a href="https://attitude-maneuver.blogspot.com" target="_blank">Alice In and Out of State</a>.</span></p>Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-60549786842222524492022-06-12T19:08:00.001+03:002022-06-12T20:25:32.577+03:00 TransIAm: Wheeling Through Hard Times<p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><u>Introductory Note</u></span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I wrote this article by request for a compendium of articles on <i>how</i> trans folks survived through hard times. I sent it to the editor in October 2021. Two months later, the editor responded that they did not like it. Why? Because it sounded too much like a love story, the object of affection being a bicycle. It turns out that the editor wanted an article not on <i>how</i> I survived through hard times, but <i>what</i> it was that I survived. Signals thus uncrossed, I wrote a new article that will appear in the compendium that should be coming out in late 2022.</span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">That said, I still like the original article on <i>how</i> I survived and offer it here. It is unabashedly a love story, one that continues. My next adventure with <i>Woodswoman</i> will begin a week from today as I bike-pack south from Deadhorse, AK, on the Dalton Highway and onward through Yukon Territory, British Columbia, and Alberta to reenter the US near Glacier National Park. Stay tuned.<br /><br /></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">* * * * * * * *<br /><br /></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I call her <i>Woodswoman</i>. She’s my Rivendell Atlantis touring bicycle. To be precise, I have two Atlantis touring bicycles. One is <i>Woodswoman I</i>, and the other – surprise! – is <i>Woodswoman II</i>. The names are my homage to Anne LaBastille, the author of the <i>Woodswoman</i> series. Since Anne wrote four <i>Woodswoman</i> books, perhaps one day I’ll add <i>Woodswoman III</i> and <i>Woodswoman IV</i> to my collection?</span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrSJlsbo0_J37bADISBKqvdJ9-zmlpTTFCGBamyDyJVIoGxu6QVfz_BO-di4wzh-IXzoqlpi37aR3VLon28O6TpW2xKB6NytTBhb7rnFIrCNAmPKDd0A00w03IEXqUYJrJlYraJo8_tXK7s8nCLn3wMZ6Y44E5PZkGhuAZUeqZvtw4NU8oRm34EstM/s2592/DSC01588.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1944" data-original-width="2592" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrSJlsbo0_J37bADISBKqvdJ9-zmlpTTFCGBamyDyJVIoGxu6QVfz_BO-di4wzh-IXzoqlpi37aR3VLon28O6TpW2xKB6NytTBhb7rnFIrCNAmPKDd0A00w03IEXqUYJrJlYraJo8_tXK7s8nCLn3wMZ6Y44E5PZkGhuAZUeqZvtw4NU8oRm34EstM/s320/DSC01588.JPG" width="320" /></a></div><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Mine is a story of wheeling through hard times. I’m what you might call a traditional trans woman. Although I played with my sister’s dolls and loved it when they would dress me in their clothes, I was otherwise a pretty traditional child from a pretty traditional family. I was also a pretty traditional child cyclist, first on three wheels, then on a hand-me-down from my sisters, and then on my own Raleigh three-speed English racer when I was eight years old.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Eisenhower was in his first administration when I entered this world. When I first heard a term to describe what I felt deep inside, that term was transsexual. I don’t reject it even today. As I said, I’m pretty traditional.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">What I really thought in the 1960s and 70s was that I was insane. How could anyone be transsexual? That was the stuff of tabloid headlines, something to run away from even as I wondered when my breasts would start to develop. I played with the other girls at school recess until teachers made me go out to the sports field where I knew I wasn’t wanted. Instead, I would go to the edge of the field and sit down alone, usually with a book. What would people think if they knew what was going on in my head?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Only in college when I read Jan Morris’s <i>Conundrum</i> did I understand I wasn’t the only one like me in this world. I reached out to gender identity clinics and for nearly a year lived a double life, appearing as male to friends and professors but as female at a solitary night job. On my first ten-speed bike, a French Gitane, I took long rides through the countryside around Charlottesville, VA, trying to make sense of my feelings and what I now knew to be possible.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">In graduate school I ran from the word, the <i>white noise</i> of feelings that could only be drowned out but never entirely driven away. In academics and work I found the socially acceptable drug of choice to mute the feelings. A double major in college, two Masters degrees, and an intense career in space flight dynamics were only part of the formula. I threw myself also into Russian and Soviet history, getting research grants, working in Soviet archives, and publishing in academic journals. Along the way I married even though I had never dated. My spouse-to-be, also a historian, popped the question. Somewhere along the way in the 1980s, I put the bicycle away as I strove to be the perfect husband, professional, and owner of a fixer-upper house in the Maryland suburbs of Washington, DC.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Being a round-the-clock activity machine can only get one through for so long. The sand in my hourglass ran out in 1990. That spring I was part of the launch and early mission support team for Hubble Space Telescope. I also had a publication deadline for a major history paper. On top of this, I was now a parent who was going through on-the-job training with a year-old son.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I spoke the trans word to my spouse for the first time that summer. I had been at the University of Illinois with a writing grant to finish my history article, but I found I was unable to work. It wasn’t writer’s block. At the time of my greatest career successes and joy at being a parent, the contradictions inside me were yelling, "Enough, this can't go on!" </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">A day after speaking the word, I found myself in a psychiatric ward at a local hospital. My spouse declared me persona non grata and threw me out of the house. The consequences of speaking the word were as bad as I feared, even worse. I stood at the edge of a DC Metro station platform and wondered if it might not be best to end it all instead of facing the condemnation of family, friends, and co-workers. In the end it was my own sister who took me to the hospital out of fear I might put my thoughts into action.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">This was my first encounter with psychiatry. It was not a pleasant one. I don't remember the name of my psychiatrist. I recounted to him my history of gender-confused feelings going back to earliest childhood. He sat stony-faced, never commenting. We met daily for a week. Only at the last session did he pronounce his verdict, telling me, "What you are is overworked and depressed." He was convinced there is no such thing as gender dysphoria, so he prescribed an antidepressant. He released me to the care of my spouse, assuring her I would be fine. I went back to work after having disappeared for a week. No one said a word about my unexplained absence.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">My dad wanted to take over my finances since I was obviously <i>mentally disturbed</i>. Continuing discussions with my spouse made it clear that I had to choose. Pursue transition or take the pills. It was also clear that if I went for the former, I would find myself divorced with no access to our son. It was a stark choice. So I chose to stay married, be a parent. I chose to ignore my own desires, to accept the diagnosis of depression, to take the pills and go on for the good of all.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">But there was one bright spot in the person of a housemate from the group house where I had lived in the 1970s. We had not been particularly close. Our politics were too different. I was the progressive liberal while he was an arch, almost reactionary conservative. Still, we had managed to stay in touch. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">He came the day after my release from the hospital. We took a long walk, and I found the nerve to tell him my story. When I was done, he stopped, turned and looked at me. "Maybe this really is you," he said. "Maybe you really were supposed to be born a woman." I was stunned. The person I least expected to accept me was the one person who validated my feelings.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Lost in my thoughts, I almost missed it when my housemate friend suggested joining him on a group bicycle ride the next weekend. He thought the physical exercise would be a good release for me after the stresses of that long summer. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">A bike ride? My college bicycle was gathering dust in the basement, but why not? The next weekend I pumped up the tires, oiled the chain, and went on that ride. It couldn’t have been more than ten miles through the Maryland countryside. Thirty-six years old, I was woefully out of shape from a life that for a decade had revolved around office, libraries, archives, and family. I had to push the bike up many of the hills, but I made it.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">In the weeks and months to come, I kept riding. I started commuting by bicycle, marveling at the stars when I commuted home on winter nights. By now I was a senior pointing control analyst for Hubble, and I worked through many new algorithms as I pedaled the fifteen miles from work to home under the night sky. The rhythm of my legs and the quiet of the night road became a solace and a source of peace. The words from an old Gordon Lightfoot song played in my head: </span></p><p style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><i> Bless you all and keep you with the strength to understand,<br /></i></span><i style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> Heaven can be yours just for now.</i></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Soon I was riding over 5000 miles a year. Where psychiatry and its pills failed, the bicycle saw me through to a better day.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I also found refuge at a Potomac Appalachian Trail Club cabin in western Maryland. It’s there that I discovered the first volume of Anne LaBastille’s <i>Woodswoman</i> series in the cabin’s book collection. I couldn’t put it down. Here was a woman who in the 1960s defied convention by divorcing and then building a cabin on a remote lake in the Adirondacks. When I say she built a cabin, I mean just that. She built it with her own hands and lived there without electricity. There was no road. Going to town meant a canoe trip in summer or snowshoeing in the winter. Yet she thrived in nature and went on to become an Adirondack guide and an internationally recognized ecologist. I understood the peace she found. I felt it at the PATC cabin, on mountain hikes, and on long bicycle trips. I found it in my first bike-packing journey, all of 184 miles along the C&O Canal from Washington to Cumberland. I started to think of myself as an <i>Aspiring Woodswoman</i>.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Our son grew. In 2004 I made a radical career change to the U.S. Department of State as a Foreign Service Officer (FSO). Why? Well, why not? Hubble was using only the mathematical part of my brain while I pursued my interests in Russian language and Russian/Soviet affairs as a sideline. In 2007, with our son now in college, my spouse and I moved toward divorce.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Transition? It was not on the agenda. I thought it was too late, that I was too old. I said nothing about gender issues when interviewed for a security clearance. I didn’t know much about the history of gays and lesbians in the Foreign Service, but I knew it hadn’t been good. As late as the early 1990s any FSO found out to be gay would lose their security clearance. Transgender persons weren’t even on the radar. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I lied through omission, and I feared that the secret would come to light one day. But when? In 2000 a NASA scan of its computer systems determined that someone at one of its Maryland facilities had been visiting <i>pornographic</i> websites. A warning went out to all staff. No one was named, but I knew it was me. The warning identified a URL for a website with information about gender transition as the <i>pornographic</i> site. What would the State Department do if it found out about my gender-conflicted life story?</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I continued to ride. Through the 1990s I had ridden a number of garage sale Motobecanes and Fujis. I rode them until they could be ridden no further. One failed when the top tube snapped in two on my morning commute. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><i>Woodswoman I</i>, my first Rivendell Atlantis, entered my life in 2004 just as I was joining the State Department. I rode her that year as a daily commuter to Foggy Bottom and my first position as a Political Officer on the <i>Russia Desk</i>. I had jumped from being a respected, senior analyst on Hubble to being, “Hey, you!” I was the most junior person on the Desk. I could hardly find my way around the building, let alone navigate politics and policy. <i>Woodswoman</i> steadied me and saw me through on the morning commutes and on the late evening rides home.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">A year later the State Department sent me to Moscow. <i>Woodswoman</i> went with me. I was now an urban commuter in one of the world’s largest cities with traffic jams that made Washington look tame. For the first year I did visa interviews, cringing at the thought that I held lives in my hands. For the second year I covered the Russian nuclear energy industry when someone realized that a physicist/engineer who had worked on Hubble could be put to better use. In the tumult of embassy culture and never-ending assignments from Washington, I found my peace with <i>Woodswoman</i>. On weekends I would ride to the outskirts of Moscow to ride on the bicycle track that had been built for the 1980 Olympics. On one long summer weekend I bike-packed to Borodino, camping along the way in woods where I hoped no one could see me from the road.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">After Moscow I moved on to our embassy in Tashkent, Uzbekistan, where the State Department in its wisdom had assigned me to cover economic and business issues. When I objected that I knew next to nothing about either economics or business, the wry retort was, “Neither do the Uzbeks. You are well matched.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Again I found balance with <i>Woodswoman</i>. A 45-mile ride around Tashkent on the Ring Road, the city’s version of a Beltway, became standard for the weekends. I rode 100-mile century rides to the dam at Charvak. I rode the back roads for three days from Tashkent to Samarkand. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Another time I rode to Khujand, Tajikistan, in the process gaining both a rebuke and a reputation. Our political chief had loaned me out to Embassy Dushanbe to support a regional economic conference. Relations between Uzbekistan and Tajikistan were so poor that there were no flights between the capitals. The only way to get to Dushanbe was to go overland from Tashkent to Khujand and continue from there by domestic flight. In Tashkent no one believed me when I said I intended to bike the 100 miles to Khujand, but that’s exactly what I did. When I got back to Tashkent, our Regional Security Officer rebuked me and told me never to repeat such a <i>stunt</i>. Washington, however, viewed it differently, even as a positive for our relations. Along the way I had attracted crowds wherever I stopped. No one could believe that an American diplomat would ride a bicycle. Even the guards at the Uzbek/Tajik border wanted photographs with me.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">The fear that one day my trans secret would come to light was realized in 2010. My divorce, conducted long distance from Tashkent, proved to be messy. My trans history complete with my 1990 psychiatric ward sojourn was woven through the discovery materials. It became a factor in the property settlement agreement in which I gave up, essentially, everything. Word got out. I was summoned for an interview with Diplomatic Security and found myself on leave without pay as my fate was decided. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">In the fall of 2010 I took long rides as Washington decided my fate. With what little money that was left to me, I had bought a small camp in northern Maine that summer. It was there that <i>Woodswoman</i> <i>II</i> entered my life. I expected the worst from Washington, but I wasn’t aware that the world for transgender persons was changing. Although I was stripped of a follow-on posting back to Moscow, I was allowed to take what the Foreign Service calls a <i>down-stretch</i> to a position below my grade in Bucharest, Romania.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">As <i>Woodswoman</i> and I watched the Maine foliage change colors, it began to dawn on me that my biggest issue was that I had a secret. What if I came out openly? </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Life on two wheels had taught me important lessons about visibility. In the 1990s I learned the lessons of urban bicycling the hard way. I hugged the curb, trying to stay out of everyone's way – which resulted in repeated mishaps and injuries as motorists pushed me into the gutter or off the road entirely. As I gained experience, I learned that bicycle safety means taking one's rightful place in the traffic lane and being visible. One is far safer positioning oneself as a vehicle, taking as much of the lane as needed. Motorists might not like seeing me in <i>their</i> lane, but they accept me as something that cannot be ignored and pushed to the side.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">In Bucharest it dawned on me that these lessons from my two-wheeled life applied to my transgender life. In college I had gone forth as myself only in the shadows, scared to death what would happen if anyone recognized me. In my trans life I had hugged the curb, doing my best to stay out of everyone's way. Now I applied the same, hard-learned rule of riding a bicycle: Be visible, be assertive, and join the traffic. I had as much right to walk down the street as anyone. “Yes, I am transgender, and I don’t care who knows or what anyone thinks.” </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">In Embassy Bucharest in 2011, I became the first FSO to transition gender while posted overseas. A bike-packing trip in Transylvania that summer helped to ease me through the period when my gender presentation could at best be described as betwixt and between. I found a local endocrinologist and a local electrologist. One senior embassy official wanted me out of the country on psychiatric grounds, but our regional psychiatrist pronounced me quite sane, only transgender. Washington fretted about how the Government of Romania would react and insisted on press guidance, but in the end all loose ends were smoothed over. My coming-out was the annual Marine Ball on November 12, and I never looked back. Moreover, Washington now saw me as an asset with access to the Romanian LGBT+ community that no one else had. Over the next two years I penned many reports on LGBT+ rights and conditions for transgender persons in Romania. My Bucharest apartment became a regular meeting place for the community.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I continued to ride. In Romania I rode with dykes on bikes and with an elegant Scottish ex-pat who had lived in the country for over a decade. I found myself at rallies for bicyclist rights in Bucharest while also organizing events promoting LGBT+ rights. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">In 2013 I returned to Washington for a one-year assignment at the Nuclear Risk Reduction Center that overseas our arms control treaties with Russia. That was the day job even if it was 24/7 shift work. The real job was at glifaa, the State Department’s affinity group for LGBT+ foreign service, civil service, and locally employed staff overseas. I had been elected president. Still only a mid-level FSO, I now met regularly with John Kerry’s staff and other senior officials in Foggy Bottom as we worked through new policies on same-sex partners and trans-inclusive health insurance.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I was again a Washington commuter on <i>Woodswoman</i> in all weather and often at night. I lived that year in a basic, spare apartment less than a mile from the home I had owned for 25 years. On one rare snowy winter evening, I realized this spare apartment had become home. <i>Woodswoman</i> and I had just rolled out of Foggy Bottom sometime after 11:00 p.m. A light snow was falling. I pedaled up Virginia Avenue and then into Rock Creek Park. There was not a single car in sight on Rock Creek Parkway. A thin layer of white covered the roadway. What on most days was a busy car commuter route had become a silent, beautiful enchanted forest with wet snow hanging heavily in the trees. I pedaled as slowly as I could, wanting to make the moment last.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">When I finally arrived at my apartment, <i>Woodswoman</i> was dirty and snow-caked. There was no way I could bring her into my living room. I spent an hour bringing rags and buckets of warm water out onto the stairwell. When I finally rolled her inside, I looked around and said quietly, "This is home.” More than that, I was at home in the same area I had lived in during my former life. I was at home in myself.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">My overseas State Department career ended with a posting to Astana, Kazakhstan, in 2014-17 as the Regional Representative for Environment, Science, Technology, and Health. I, a trans woman, now ran my own section with my own budget and travel that took me to all five post-Soviet ‘stans covering issues as diverse as climate change, water management, and global health security.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Of course, <i>Woodswoman</i> was with me. I didn’t just cover environmental issues. I walked the walk. When I was invited to address a conference on ecotourism at a town 75 miles north of Astana, of course I went there on <i>Woodswoman</i>, thereby earning mention in the local newspaper as the American diplomat who lives the life she preaches.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I also <i>walked the walk</i> on LGBT+ life in Kazakhstan. My apartment became a group home and a gathering place for the community. We even got funding from Washington for a round table on transgender rights that included representatives delegated by the Government of Kazakhstan. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I am retired now. Being an FSO is one of the few careers left in the US that has mandatory retirement for age at 65. After seeing more of the former Soviet Union in my working life than I had of the US, I finally have the time to discover my own country. In 2019 I celebrated retirement by bike-packing from Washington, DC, to my home in Maine. In the Covid year of 2020 I rode across the US on a route known as the <i>Northern Tier</i>.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">2021 was my year to ride the <i>TransAm</i> from Virginia to Oregon with nine crossings of the continental divide along the way. The <i>TransAm</i>, known originally as the <i>Bikecentennial</i> route, was created to celebrate the U.S. bicentennial in 1976, a time when I was deep in my college struggles with gender identity. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">In Kentucky a young trans friend from Western Kentucky University joined me for a day and two nights. As we climbed the hills of Appalachia, Levi declared, “It should be called the <i>TransIAm</i> route.”</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">“How appropriate, how right he is,” I thought as <i>Woodswoman</i> and I pushed westward through the Ozarks with the Rockies and Cascades yet to come. The passes we climb in our <i>TransIAm</i> lives take all our strength and effort, but we all have what it takes to make it to the top. <i>Woodswoman</i> and I have climbed many passes together and will climb many more. Whatever passes life may yet have in store for me, I am ready for the climb. </span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">* * * * * * * * </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">You can find my day-to-day travel log of my <i>TransAm</i> adventure, complete with slideshows, in my alternate blog at:</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"></span></p><p><span style="color: #0000ee; font-family: times; font-size: large;"><u>https://attitude-maneuver.blogspot.com/2022/01/robyns-2021-transam-bikecentennial.html</u></span></p>Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-33515433683292031812021-01-23T21:53:00.000+02:002021-01-23T21:53:12.511+02:00No Trotsky on the Potomac<span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Retired and nearly a thousand miles from the Washington, DC, that I called home for much of my professional life, I am now a bystander to events taking place there. When I first moved to DC in 1978, it was no longer the sleepy southern city of pre-Kennedy days, but it had not yet become the metropolitan capital that it is today. The downtown area near the White House felt abandoned, not yet recovered from the aftermath of riots that followed the assassination of Martin Luther King in 1968.</span><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">At the same time, Washington was a wonderful walking city. One could approach quite near to the White House on the Ellipse side, and on the other side Pennsylvania Avenue was still a traffic thoroughfare. Every time I had a visitor from out of town, we would go to the Capitol, walking up the steps on the east side directly into the Rotunda. There were no metal detectors or barriers of any kind. </span><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">How times have changed. The barriers began going up after the Kansas City bombing in 199x and accelerated after 9/11. Each time I came back from overseas after 2004, I could feel the government buildings slipping ever further away, ever more distant from city residents and visitors. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">When a riotous mob stormed the Capitol on January 6, I thought back to my early DC days that now seem naively distant. Watching news coverage, I thought of another city that has played a major role in my life: St. Petersburg, Russia. Whereas pundits compared the January 6 mob with the mass events associated with the rise of fascism in Italy and Germany in the 1920s and 30s, I thought of something different: the storming of the Winter Palace in Petrograd on November 7, 1917. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">The genius of the Bolshevik coup that overthrew the Provisional Government is that its professional revolutionary core understood how to present itself as leading a populist cause. Since the abdication of Tsar Nicholas in March 1917, successive Provisional Government cabinets had remained true to Russia's commitments in World War I, putting off major reforms until elections could be held for a Constituent Assembly. The Provisional Government saw itself as a steward that would see the country through until that elected Assembly could take over. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Lenin would have none of it. When he returned to Russia in the famed <i>sealed train</i> from Germany, he announced his April theses that emphasized an end to the war and agrarian reform. The Bolshevik slogan of "Peace, land, and bread" fell like rain on the fertile soil of Russia's working and peasant classes and on the common soldiers who had done most of the dying for the Russian Empire. The masses could not care less about the Marxist dialectic or the differences between Bolsheviks, Mensheviks, and Socialist Revolutionaries, but peace, land, and bread? "Why yes, we're for that!" </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn_NccYd83V-9nMxzwjlvzxkcVr6v3IlnzGrmsHCo9f4i-JOVhA6kPwz6AbAAEOYdBHBrOc6LTTsfNN3C_tMz-ztYtVJkZU-9qgTt5xxavzfJSDIfci90kP3A_wcFs82b2YWYMRJxyDok/s299/220px-%25D0%259B%25D0%25B5%25D0%25B2_%25D0%2594%25D0%25B0%25D0%25B2%25D0%25B8%25D0%25B4%25D0%25BE%25D0%25B2%25D0%25B8%25D1%2587_%25D0%25A2%25D1%2580%25D0%25BE%25D1%2586%25D0%25BA%25D0%25B8%25D0%25B9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="299" data-original-width="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgn_NccYd83V-9nMxzwjlvzxkcVr6v3IlnzGrmsHCo9f4i-JOVhA6kPwz6AbAAEOYdBHBrOc6LTTsfNN3C_tMz-ztYtVJkZU-9qgTt5xxavzfJSDIfci90kP3A_wcFs82b2YWYMRJxyDok/s0/220px-%25D0%259B%25D0%25B5%25D0%25B2_%25D0%2594%25D0%25B0%25D0%25B2%25D0%25B8%25D0%25B4%25D0%25BE%25D0%25B2%25D0%25B8%25D1%2587_%25D0%25A2%25D1%2580%25D0%25BE%25D1%2586%25D0%25BA%25D0%25B8%25D0%25B9.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">With continued battlefield disasters and attempted counter-revolutions in the summer of 1917, more and more of army melted away as the Bolsheviks gathered the disaffected under its banners. Trotsky led when the time came in November. Brilliant, ruthless, and a military genius, he melded together a small, armed Red Guard with the broader masses. Trotsky commanded, the Red Guard led, and the masses followed. Presented in Soviet history as a heroic </span><i style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">storming</i><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">, the occupation of the Winter Palace on November 7 was an anarchic but more or less peaceful affair in which the mob wandered the halls while the Red Guard searched for the room where ministers of the Provisional Government were meeting. When they found the room, they took the ministers prisoner. The Provisional Government was no more. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Still, it wasn't quite over. The one thing the Provisional Government has managed to do during its eight months was to organize the elections for the Constituent Assembly. The elections took place, and the Assembly met on January 18-19, 2018. The Bolsheviks did not have a majority. By this time, however, it was a simple matter for Trotsky to command the Red Guard into the meeting hall and disband the Assembly. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">From this time forward, it was <i>All Power to the Soviets!</i>, to the councils controlled by the Bolsheviks who soon declared all other political parties illegal. In short order true power was exercised not by the soviets but by the Central Committee of the Communist Party and by its Politburo. With a growing bureaucracy of its own creation, the Politburo needed a General Secretary who could handle the minutiae of running a government. Stalin, the grayest, least eloquent of the original Bolsheviks stepped forward to take up this thankless task. The rest, as they say, is history. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Ironically, in the reign of collectivization, industrialization, and terror that Stalin unleashed in the 1930s, he remained wildly popular among the mass population that saw him as more like themselves, less elite than the Trotskys, Bukharins, and Zinovievs whom Stalin eliminated one by one. When Stalin died in 1953, the country wept while more than a hundred mourners in Moscow died of suffocation in the thronging crowds. </span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Have I taken the parallel between Washington and Petrograd too far? Perhaps. Undoubtedly. If there is one lesson I take from this parallel that gives me hope, it's that there was no Trotsky in the Washington of 2021. The mob that stormed the Capitol remained a mob. When it succeeded in breaking into the hallways of power, it seemed lost at what to do beyond taking videos and selfies. Leaderless, the mob melted away. May it stay that way, and may Trotsky remain a figure of history.</span></div></div>Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-11910604081447352272020-11-19T21:19:00.001+02:002020-11-20T00:46:50.806+02:00A Bike-Packing Journey for Our Times <p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV93s42YlF_ZPS7ZS22jWd2UMAKprKOpHRv126Y1HS1jG5ognxkfK6Y5oA79NziZdnN_2CIuWGqQg47HNeYI1nmNKk2WVst9xUxuxkTKFVywmCyqC3rDFnMO0YQsB3xM9kPDjSy1sc-to/s2048/20200812_123731.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV93s42YlF_ZPS7ZS22jWd2UMAKprKOpHRv126Y1HS1jG5ognxkfK6Y5oA79NziZdnN_2CIuWGqQg47HNeYI1nmNKk2WVst9xUxuxkTKFVywmCyqC3rDFnMO0YQsB3xM9kPDjSy1sc-to/s320/20200812_123731.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lake Koocanusa</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Tears in my eyes, I had had enough. On two wheels crossing the upper Midwest, I was nearing the end of my journey. I had already been up the <i>Road to the Sun</i> in Glacier National Park. Nothing could be more difficult than that, could it? Lake Koocanusa in western Montana pulled the mask off my hubris. The road taking me down its eastern shore was hilly, and a strong canyon-funnelled wind slowed my forward progress to a crawl. </span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Six hours into the day's ride, my rear tire flatted. I never should have left Maine without new tires. I patched the inner tube but could not find the cause. Sure enough, the tire went flat again in less than five miles as the sun sank lower. There I was on the side of the road with the rear wheel off the bike and the tire in my hands. I squeezed every inch of it to find the cause, the tears in my eyes and the silent "Why?" screaming in my head making the task that much harder. . . .</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">How many times in my life have I patched bicycle tires on the side of a road? As readers of this journal know, riding a bicycle and being transgender are intimately related in my life. If not for the former, I might not have coped with the latter during the decades it took me approach and finally succeed at transition. I learned to be visible and assertive in my lane position on a bicycle, and those skills transferred directly to being visible and assertive when I transitioned at the U.S. Embassy in Bucharest, Romania, in 2010-11. Experiencing two flats in a row that day by Lake Koocanusa reminded me that our life journeys, whether on a bicycle or in asserting gender identity, remain unpredictable even after we have accumulated years of life experience.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Covid and Trump. It is ironic that without the latter's </span><i style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">leadership</i><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"> on the former, I never would have spent the summer of 2020 quite the way I did, on two wheels across 4000 miles of the northern US where Trump flags wave</span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">. </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">All through the winter of 2019-20, I had planned a cross-country bike-packing journey. Given that I live in northern Maine, I had designed a route across Ontario and Quebec that crossed back into the US at Michigan. From there I had planned to cross Michigan's Upper Peninsula and continue across the Northern Tier states to Anacortes, WA.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">Then Covid hit. The world as we know it went away. The Canadian border closed, and even Adventure Cycling urged its members to stay home for the common public health good. An unabashed northeast progressive, I complied and abandoned my plans. Instead, I set out on May 31 to bike only around the state of Maine. At no point would I be further than a few hundred miles from home. I told friends this was my Bike Around Maine or BAM, a wry allusion to the Soviet Union's Baikal-Amur Mainline railroad. I found myself watching YouTube videos of the controversial, tragically naive American folk singer Dean Reed playing his guitar and singing <i><a href="This Train" target="_blank">This Train</a></i> on top of a BAM railroad car in the 1970s. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">That was my reduced plan, but a funny thing happened as I passed through Brunswick, ME. I met up with a bike-packing friend who urged me to reconsider. After all, she said, "What could be more <i>socially distant</i> than riding solo on a bicycle 6-8 hours/day and then camping at night?"</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">I mulled that over for several days as I continued north to the Canadian border that I could not cross. I wasn't convinced at first, but the more I thought of the Trump administration's <i>leadership</i> in confronting Covid, the more I thought my friend had a point. Infection rates in the upper Midwest were low as we headed into summer. I might not be able to cross Canada, but I could strap <i>Woodswoman II</i> on the back of my car, drive to Michigan, and start riding west from there<a href="#1" name="top1"><sup>1</sup></a>. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">If there had been true national Covid leadership in Washington, I would have stayed home for the public good. With no national policy, however, I understood that the situation would become much worse in the fall and winter. The summer, on the other hand, still offered a more-or-less virus free route to the West Coast. I seized my chance.</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"></span></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8hAzZ1Pw0qbFGDtglvg4hD5WiyZqawrxgFIL3j3vw5vTLNRBYvsSqy0TrHINTWw_FRAob4ofkKq0RSWR36fQMuGkyeOf6JdC3UAdunNNrpK6NwATHjuKcXnTmbmBM84hGKfMhDNVKV4/s2048/20200823_113811.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhn8hAzZ1Pw0qbFGDtglvg4hD5WiyZqawrxgFIL3j3vw5vTLNRBYvsSqy0TrHINTWw_FRAob4ofkKq0RSWR36fQMuGkyeOf6JdC3UAdunNNrpK6NwATHjuKcXnTmbmBM84hGKfMhDNVKV4/s320/20200823_113811.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Crossing the Cascades</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">So it was that I rode forth from Marine City, MI, on June 24. Each day </span></span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">I rode 60-80 miles across grassland, prairie, and mountains. This retired Foreign Service Officer who has seen more of the former Soviet Union than she has of the United States finally got to see her own country. I had never been in Minnesota, North Dakota, Montana, Idaho, or Washington State. I rode through rain and heat and battled mosquitoes. I stayed at cheap motels and at primitive campgrounds where wading into a lake or stream was the only shower available. I climbed the <i>Road to the Sun</i> and four high mountain passes in the Cascades.</span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">People were kind. Camp hosts found a spot for me at campgrounds that were full. One campground host in Montana brought me a home cooked dinner. A retired Lutheran minister drove over a hundred miles to bring me a new front tire when I needed one. </span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">In Omak, WA, I took a day off to recover from the heat. I may have been the only person in that town to tune in to the Democratic National Convention to listen to Joe Biden's acceptance speech. Only after I had crossed the Cascades did the Trump/Pence flags thin out to be replaced by Biden/Harris 2020 yard signs, a sure sign that I was nearing my journey's end. I dipped <i>Woodswoman's </i>front wheel into the waters of Puget Sound at Anacortes, WA, on August 25.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">Like most progressive Democrats, I had hoped for a crushing repudiation of Trump at the polls on November 3, but I knew better. I had seen and felt the adulation shown to him through most of the rural northern Midwest and also in my rural part of Maine's 2nd Congressional District. When the race was called for Joe Biden on November 7, I'm certain I was the only person in my small town to go out on her porch and bang a pot in celebration. </span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">Come January 20, we will have a national public health policy. I'll do my part. If that means staying close to home for another year, so be it. I long for borders to reopen and to visit friends in Kazakhstan, Romania, Russia, and Uzbekistan. I look forward to other bike-packing adventures. In the meantime I will take solitary winter walks, read my books, and enjoy the beauty of a Maine winter. I will think back on the summer with a smile.</span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">It is ironic that I owe my summer journey to <i>leadership </i>from Trump's Washington. That irony turns to tragedy when I consider that f</span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">ive people in my circle of friends and family have contracted Covid. One has died from it. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">As memorable as the summer was, I would have preferred true leadership even if meant staying home. In New Brunswick, less than 100 miles away on the other side of a closed border, the battle against Covid has been so successful that life has returned nearly to normal.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">But let me return to that day along Lake Koocanusa. </span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">Getting control of my tears, I found the culprit that had caused my flats, a small piece of wire that had worked its way through the tire wall. I used eyebrow tweezers to extract it. A half hour later I pulled into a Corps of Engineering campground south of Koocanusa Dam. The first person I saw was a woman with her dog standing outside what turned out to be a school bus turned camper. She invited me to set up my tent next to her bus. She brought me cloths and a basin of warm water with which to wash away my day's accumulation of grime. With the sun now set, she invited me into her bus to warm my dinner on her stove, and we whiled the evening away with tales of our travels. I went to sleep that night with a smile. My new friend had turned my worst cycling day into one of my best.</span></p><p><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;"></span></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikoa-jQ90XQnI7eNNvk1Ot8lJiv4Z8MCOJWOpDkL0v9m_GjXmxtQlS_t92kEAVRLgCnaSUU2uYy5WLc4JTBDcxNfMXcbYQldq5rEDzKv3ew5azlxJfYhnWW683mPh-9gIt-qnfOUfowJo/s2048/20200825_154132.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEikoa-jQ90XQnI7eNNvk1Ot8lJiv4Z8MCOJWOpDkL0v9m_GjXmxtQlS_t92kEAVRLgCnaSUU2uYy5WLc4JTBDcxNfMXcbYQldq5rEDzKv3ew5azlxJfYhnWW683mPh-9gIt-qnfOUfowJo/s320/20200825_154132.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Journey's End at Anacortes, WA</td></tr></tbody></table><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">That is what I take with me from this summer's adventure. During three months of contending with physical challenge, heat, wind, mosquitoes, and storms, I had faded the political news into the background. As different as we may be in our politics, people are kind. People help each other. There is still inherent good in this country. As we head into 2021, may we all reconnect with that goodness.</span><p></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: times; font-size: large;">* * * * * * * * </span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;">You can find my day-to-day travel log from this summer's bike-packing adventure in my alternate blog at:</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: times;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://attitude-maneuver.blogspot.com/2020/11/robyns-2020-bikecentennial.html">http://attitude-maneuver.blogspot.com/2020/11/robyns-2020-bikecentennial.html</a></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p><br /></p>
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<a name="1"><b>1 </b></a><i>Woodswoman I & II</i> are my affectionate names for my two Rivendell Atlantis touring bikes and also an homage to environmentalist <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anne_LaBastille" target="_blank">Anne LaBastille</a>.<a href="#top1"><sup>↩</sup></a><br />
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Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-23956860222168575162020-04-24T21:16:00.001+03:002020-04-24T23:54:05.935+03:00Hubble's 30th Birthday: A Personal Memory from Ms. FHST<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Has it really been 30 years? I can think of nothing better than to reprint below my 25th anniversary reminiscence published in my companion journal <a href="https://attitude-maneuver.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><i>Alice in and out of State</i></a> in 2015. </span> <br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9uoXIDntPpmtlJH6CuNzZe82MyaSqChp2DzA7ZvbCzuWkTfD7RUdVT49yZxQ5x0INCnrTlASrKLMDndqUdkKM3-v1jpp354fglD8mQ0uy_WwcyA8cU0EW4ZKJUAPryIDVjnh2wzPemPU/s1600/20200423_135611.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9uoXIDntPpmtlJH6CuNzZe82MyaSqChp2DzA7ZvbCzuWkTfD7RUdVT49yZxQ5x0INCnrTlASrKLMDndqUdkKM3-v1jpp354fglD8mQ0uy_WwcyA8cU0EW4ZKJUAPryIDVjnh2wzPemPU/s320/20200423_135611.jpg" width="180" /></a><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">In honor of the day, I'm wearing my <i>Space Turkey </i>T-shirt. What I failed to mention in my 25th anniversary article is that this was our informal PASS project T-shirt dating from before Hubble's launch. It was an inside joke in that one of the engineers in our project loved to call out requirements, designs, and anything else that was not up to snuff a <i>turkey</i>. During the <i>Hubble Trouble </i>period of spherical aberration following launch, we put those T-shirts away for a several years, but a number of them are still carefully preserved, brought out for special days like this.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">What a different world we lived in 30 years ago. It is a tribute to all in the Hubble project that the mission continues to this day. My own involvement is one of the proudest episodes in my life.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>30-летие запуска телескопа им. Хаббла:</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><b>Воспоминания госпожи астроориентатор </b></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><a href="http://esquire.kz/2636-zapiski_diplomata_gospoja_astroorientator_ili_kak_ya_zapuskala" target="_blank">Записки дипломата: Госпожа астроориентатор или как я запускала телескоп Хаббл</a></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Под этим названием в 2015 былы опубликованы мои воспоминания о том, как я участвовала в запуске телескопа им. Хаббла в 1990. Не стоит нажать на ссылку. (</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">http://esquire.kz/2636-zapiski_diplomata_gospoja_astroorientator_ili_kak_ya_zapuskal)</span><b><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> </span></b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Увы, статью давно стёрли, и я сама потеряла текст на русском. Даже в машине WayBack не сохранялась. Приношу свои извинения, что внизу я перепечатаю только текст на английском.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Есть повод снова опубликовать эти воспоминания: сегодня, 24ое апреля 2020, мы отмечаем 30-летие запуска. Фотография показывает, как я надела особенную футболку в честь этого дня. Футболка <i>Космическая индейка </i>являлась шуточным символом проекта, в котором я работала специалистом по системам ориентации. Не знаю, сколько таких футболок сохранились до сегодняшнего дня. Их было не больше нескольких дюжин и тогда, но некоторые из нас их нежно сохраняют и осторожно надевают в круглые даты. Принимать участие в проекте Хаббл -- один из наилучших этапов в моей 40-летнем карьере. </span></span></span></div>
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">* * * * * * * * * *</span></span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><b>
Hubble's 25th Birthday: A Personal Memory from Ms. FHST
</b></span>
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Hubble
Space Telescope was launched by the shuttle Discovery (STS-31) on 24
April 1990 at 12:34 UTC. For those of us who worked on the project, the
inside joke that the “Hubble Constant is 2 years until launch” had been
broken. No longer was this a mission that we were working towards but,
rather, a mission that was about to become reality. The question in
all our minds was, “Will it work? Will all the years of hard work and
planning pay off?”</span><br />
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">I first joined the Hubble project in 1982. It hadn't even been named for American
astronomer Edwin Hubble yet. That was to
come a year later in 1983. When I
started, it was simply ST, Space Telescope.
I was a comparative latecomer to the project. For those who had been there at the beginning
in the 1970s, it had been the Large Space Telescope, the <i>Large</i> being dropped as budgets and the realities of operating a
telescope in space began to settle in.
Still, it was to be <i>Big</i> with a
capital <i>B</i>, a 2.4-meter optical
telescope that would operate above the distorting layers of the Earth's
atmosphere. It would be controlled
remotely from a control center at Goddard Space Flight Center (GSFC) in
Maryland with all science planning done at the newly established Space
Telescope Science Institute on the campus of Johns Hopkins University in
Baltimore. To those of us who worked
there, ST ScI would become known simply as the <i>'tute,</i> truly an
internationally-run observatory whose telescope just happened to be in orbit.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">My
own role on Hubble was a modest one. I had an MS degree in astronomy
with
specializations in celestial mechanics and in astrometry, the science of
positional astronomy that compiles positions of stars and other
celestial
objects. Thus it was no surprise that my
first assignment was to work on the attitude determination system that
would
use data from spacecraft sensors to determine Hubble's pointing to an
accuracy
of better than an arcsecond. The name of the project was PASS, an
acronym for POCC Applications Software Support, with POCC itself being
an acronymn for Payload Operations Control Center. Our often repeated
inside joke was that we had to be an acronym within an acronym in order
not to be a somewhat impolite-sounding POCCASS.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Hubble was to be controlled to an accuracy of 3 milli-arcseconds, finer than
any pointing control that had been attempted until that time. It was to be done using data from gyroscopes,
sun sensors, and star trackers. In 1978,
on an earlier mission, I had already made my acquaintance with the Fixed Head Star
Tracker (FHST). Hubble was equipped with
three of them, and they would be used to update gyro-based attitudes after
every spacecraft slew to a new target.
An FHST had a field-of-view (FOV) of 8-deg by 8-deg and could measure a
star's position to 20 arcseconds, good enough to go to the next step of
determining what stars were in the field-of-view of the telescope's main optics
and use them to determine Hubble's pointing to the sub-arcsecond level. Little did I know when I joined the project
that I was to become the most knowledgeable person on FHSTs, eventually
becoming known to many as <i>Ms. FHST</i>.</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvFlcrnlFINLl14LIH4w8QtuCV90BSiFrqLzMeMQnE_2eEmX0oOvdIeSWt1fX2VtNr3v5o-gUZdx0pkjwfQJRt6NV5gmtAn5_kwvk2uBqI8viFHBBRVyBhPHY2-UbeH4E_aQEbwmyMTTv7/s1600/fhst_cutaway.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvFlcrnlFINLl14LIH4w8QtuCV90BSiFrqLzMeMQnE_2eEmX0oOvdIeSWt1fX2VtNr3v5o-gUZdx0pkjwfQJRt6NV5gmtAn5_kwvk2uBqI8viFHBBRVyBhPHY2-UbeH4E_aQEbwmyMTTv7/s1600/fhst_cutaway.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Cutaway Diagram of a
Fixed Head Star Tracker</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Hubble was scheduled to be launched by the Space Shuttle in
October 1986, and we were all under pressure to complete the ground control
systems on time. The pace was frenetic,
and from one system audit review to the next, it was becoming clearer that we
would not be ready. But a shuttle launch
could not be changed without upsetting all of NASA's mission schedules. Senior managers began to think that we would
launch Hubble and let it sit in <i>safe mode in</i></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> orbit, a sort of minimum energy <i>cocoon mode</i></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">, until the ground systems could be finished and
tested.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">That went out the window on January 28, 1986, when the Space
Shuttle Challenger exploded 73-seconds after launch, killing all on board in
the most tragic space accident experienced by the US until that time. After the tragedy of the loss of all the
astronauts on board Challenger had sunk in, we began to realize that our own
problem now was not whether we would be ready for a launch in October 1986 but,
rather, whether Hubble would be launched at all. Would the Shuttle ever fly again? After a few months we were assured that
Hubble's launch would take place in 1988.
That launch date soon began to slip, however, leading to our inside joke
that we knew the true Hubble Constant<a href="file:///H:/Space/150412_Hubble_Esquire_article.doc#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference">[1]</span></span></a> to be “two
years until launch.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">For me the morning of 24 April 1990 was one of sitting in
front of the television and watching the launch and feeling the same thrill I
had felt at every launch since the early days of the space program. This time, however, the thrill was even
greater, for Shuttle Discovery was carrying a mission that I had a direct role
in.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">My own launch excitement in the sense of work, however,
began two days later on the morning of April 26. That afternoon the Canadian-built manipulator
arm was to remove Hubble from the shuttle bay and release it into space. Hubble's systems were being turned on
one-by-one and tested before the release.
I had just arrived at my office a short distance from GSFC when a <i>PASS </i>friend
and colleague called. I don't remember his precise words, but they
were something like, “Robyn, get out here. We can't identify what stars
the FHSTs are
seeing.” A chill went down my
spine. If Hubble were to be released
without the FHSTs being able to identify star patterns, Hubble would be
literally <i>lost in space</i>, locked into
its cocoon-like <i>safe mode</i> until engineers like me could figure out what
had gone wrong.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">An hour later I was sitting in front of a terminal in the
Space Telescope Operations Control Center (STOCC) at GSFC. My colleague and friend explained, “We've
been trying ever since the FHSTs were turned on, but no matter what we try, the
algorithms can't identify the star patterns.”
As calmly as I could, I asked, “Can you get me all the FHST telemetry since the
trackers were turned on? Let's start
reprocessing from scratch, taking it step-by-step and paying close attention to
detail.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJwaRp7-0Cd2gV5RT2RgS8UsMn7IwCu_7Ox1pjIewECaYYXer9R5S-MD4BtGalZ-2xDq3Xc_hOdum5pHDlmPyf982vns_Wa7wfyyYF3uXreRLuWLJyBgPHf_dEE8BCXUdFvDPSqUjkwMdj/s1600/STOCC.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJwaRp7-0Cd2gV5RT2RgS8UsMn7IwCu_7Ox1pjIewECaYYXer9R5S-MD4BtGalZ-2xDq3Xc_hOdum5pHDlmPyf982vns_Wa7wfyyYF3uXreRLuWLJyBgPHf_dEE8BCXUdFvDPSqUjkwMdj/s1600/STOCC.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The STOCC at GSFC</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">From my experience on an earlier mission, I already knew
just how temperamental FHSTs could be.
These were instruments from before the days of charged couple devices (CCDs). They used simple optics and an image
dissector tube, and they could observe only one star at a time. A controllable magnetic field was used to
cause the dissector tube's photomultiplier and photocathode to scan the FOV in
a serpentine pattern and lock onto any object brighter than a threshold
magnitude for 20 seconds before breaking track and continuing the scan. FHSTs had been known to track not just stars
but the Moon, planets, nebulae, other satellites, space debris, and even bright
cities on the Earth's limb. The trick
was to edit out all the <i>junk </i></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">so that only star tracks remained and then
massage those tracks into point images using gyroscope rate data that measured
moment-to-moment spacecraft motion.
Finally, these FHST-measured star positions would be passed into a
pattern match algorithm that would take the measured positions and compare them
with positions in a star catalog. That
pattern match algorithm required fine tuning in order to work reliably. All-in-all we had just a few hours to get it
right before Hubble would be released into orbit on its own.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">Slowly, as calmly as we could, we began reprocessing
telemetry from the start. We edited out
spurious objects. We adjusted the
editing parameters to get star images with the smallest possible <i>clump size</i>. As we worked, I became dimly aware of the big
screen that hung at the front of the STOCC.
There was Hubble, perched on the manipulator arm, as the solar arrays
began to unfurl, unrolling from their containers and glistening like
ever-lengthening, golden sails in the bright sun. Just as the second solar array finished
unfurling, we did it. We identified the
stars that were being seen by the FHSTs.
We did some hand calculation sanity checks to make sure we had
identified the right stars. We had. “Now let's do it again with another data
set,” I said. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwxiv7GkUBLQZZg1ae4-qYv53M1SbgEC_b7WDurjpBLURYCFweMczTYeFt_lKXSUndEbun6z19Ae3oUbIL4iH-j77HyRb3NVOeWCD6NcOz1BI_MHWeJhkIc4KV7JrdKjExweDs-eSbX7vs/s1600/Hubble_release.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="255" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwxiv7GkUBLQZZg1ae4-qYv53M1SbgEC_b7WDurjpBLURYCFweMczTYeFt_lKXSUndEbun6z19Ae3oUbIL4iH-j77HyRb3NVOeWCD6NcOz1BI_MHWeJhkIc4KV7JrdKjExweDs-eSbX7vs/s1600/Hubble_release.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Hubble on its Own, Released from the Maniupator Arm</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">One
data set after another, we repeated the process, making
further adjustments until we could identify stars correctly without
further
intervention from us. The algorithms we
had designed were working. A higher
level mission manager approached and asked, “Are we GO with the FHSTs?”
We nodded yes. Shortly after we watched in real time as
Hubble drifted away from the arm and from the shuttle. We had done our
part. Hubble would not be <i>lost in space</i>.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">That
was my role 25-years ago. My day in the STOCC as the solar arrays
unfurled is one of those images frozen in my long-term memory. Hubble
didn't have an easy start. Soon the newspapers were joking about <i>Hubble
Trouble</i> when it turned out that the telescope's main mirror had been ground
to the wrong figure and suffered from <i>spherical aberration</i> that was
giving blurry images. My FHSTs were not
out of the woods yet either. Another part
of <i>PASS</i>, the Mission Scheduling System, was attempting to
use the FHSTs in a way they had never been used before by commanding them to
lock on to preplanned reference stars after each telescope slew to a new
target. The FHSTs were failing to find
the right stars one time out of three, each failure resulting in the loss of
science observations for a good part of an orbit. It was the second largest problem in Hubble's
early operations right behind the flawed mirror.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">As they say, however, the rest is history. Once the mirror's spherical aberration was
understood, it was possible to grind corrective lenses that were installed by
astronauts on the first servicing mission to Hubble in December 1993. Those corrective lenses were known by the
name of COSTAR, Corrective Optics Space Telescope Axial Replacement, and they
silenced the cries of <i>Hubble Trouble</i>, enabling Hubble to give the crisp images
that have become part of both our scientific and cultural lives.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">For my part, I was brought onto a team whose mandate was to reengineer<i> </i>the Mission Scheduling System. We
were known as <i>MSRE,</i> the Mission Scheduler Re-engineering team. We pronounced <i>MSRE </i>like <i>ms'ry</i>,<i> </i>and thus our inside gallows humor was “<i>MSRE</i> loves company.” My part of the mandate was the Pointing
Control Subsystem. Over the next several
years, working as a team, we improved the FHST reference star success rate to better than 99%. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The last effort I had a small hand in before leaving HST and PASS in 2005 was the design of what became known as the <i>Two-Gyro Science Mode</i>
that would radically change the pointing control algorithms in a way that had
never been attempted before. A gyro
gives information in one dimension, and thus three gyros are needed to know a
spacecraft's orientation in three dimensions.
Six gyros were installed on Hubble for redundancy and in the knowledge
that gyros are mechanical devices that eventually wear out and fail. Hubble's gyros began to fail within a few
years after launch, but they were replaced during servicing missions. After the Space Shuttle Columbia disaster in
2003, however, all future servicing missions to Hubble were canceled. Of the six gyros on Hubble, three had already
failed. It was only a matter of time
before yet another would fail and force Hubble into permanent <i>safe mode, </i>ending
its mission of scientific discovery.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">The idea behind this last effort on Hubble was to take me
back to my FHSTs. Gyroscopes give <i>rate</i>
information, whereas FHSTs give <i>position</i> information. But could we watch stars as they
moved in an FHST FOV? Could those <i>position </i>measurements be used to compute a <i>rate,</i>
effectively allowing the FHSTs to take the place of one of the gyros?
The answer was yes, they could. The newly designed control algorithms
were so
successful that NASA shut down the third of the three remaining
operational
gyros in August 2005, keeping it in reserve and thereby extending
Hubble's operational
life. Even after a final servicing
mission to Hubble was reinstated and six new gyros were installed in
2009, <i>Two-Gyro
Science Mode </i>has remained the primary control algorithm for Hubble.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">How long will Hubble continue to provide us with the
beautiful photos and ground-breaking science for which it has no equal? Current estimates are that Hubble will
continue to operate at least until 2018, when the next generation <i>James Webb
Space Telescope</i> is scheduled for launch.
It may continue in operation well beyond that as long as budgets allow and
spacecraft systems continue to function.
Not bad for a telescope that was designed and built with 1970s and 80s
technology and that many thought would not last for its original projected
lifetime of 15 years.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">If you're wondering by now how it was that this engineer
left the Hubble project to start a diplomatic career with the U.S. State
Department, the answer is that even in those days, I had something of a double
life. Outside of my <i>day job </i>on
the Hubble project, I was known as a historian of Soviet science. In the summer after Hubble's launch, I
published perhaps my most important history work on Soviet astronomy in 1936-37
during the height of Stalin's Great Purges.
When I left the Hubble project in 2005, in a sense I exchanged my hobby
for my career, my career for my hobby.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">But on this April 24th, on the 25th anniversary of Hubble's
launch, my mind will be back there, reliving the moments of frustration and
exhilaration and recalling the faces and names of so many colleagues and
friends from the PASS project who were there at the beginning.
And <i>Ms. FHST</i> will smile and feel an inner warmth to know that her
children-in-engineering, those three Fixed Head Star Trackers on Hubble, have
not missed a beat and continue to guide Hubble on to discoveries that take us
back ever further towards the dawn of our Universe. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5UDvAvlWXhP607Le8Vnm6qtaiRloamoiSAq6cs0Kr308ptWqh6pneAbKpAfQQ3lR9a8vqnSeMCtbdJ6yak1AWv8d1Y-CTOIKfJQx7wc95q1r_BsE4_6L64pYW7B7DFXYsRPPsQMxMnAMA/s1600/PASS_reunion.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5UDvAvlWXhP607Le8Vnm6qtaiRloamoiSAq6cs0Kr308ptWqh6pneAbKpAfQQ3lR9a8vqnSeMCtbdJ6yak1AWv8d1Y-CTOIKfJQx7wc95q1r_BsE4_6L64pYW7B7DFXYsRPPsQMxMnAMA/s1600/PASS_reunion.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">2014 Reunion Picnic with PASS Friends and Families</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;">
</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div>
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<a href="file:///H:/Space/150412_Hubble_Esquire_article.doc#_ftnref1" name="_ftn1" title=""><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span class="MsoFootnoteReference"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 10.0pt;">[1]</span></span></span></a> The actual Hubble
Constant is a measure describing the expansion of the Universe. The current best estimates are in the
vicinity of 71 km/s/Mpc, where Mpc is a megaparsec, a distance of approximately
3.3 million light years.</div>
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Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-84627842762104161682020-04-17T22:57:00.005+03:002020-04-18T03:17:14.121+03:00Квартирник -- Evening of Russian Music -- on WERU<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Знаю, что есть у меня русскоязычные читатели, и пора время от времени писать хоть несколько строк на русском. Заранее прошу прощения, если иногда получается неграмотно. Пользоваться не своим родным языком лучший способ сохранить ясность ума <i>в старости лет</i>. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Провела февраль-март в сочинении своих воспоминаний. Сейчас редактирую. То есть, как нельзя лучше провожу время всемирного карантина. Надеюсь, приведу рукопись в окончательную форму в течение ближайших месяцев. Раз занимаюсь рукописью, наверно буду редко писать в этом блоге.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">В течение молчания с моей стороны, позвольте представить вашему рассмотрению своего рода <i>квартирник</i> на радиостанции WERU в штате Мэн. Если хотите узнать, какую русскую музыку заслуженная Госдеповская пенсионерка предпочитает, можно слушать на YouTube.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Желаю всем беречь себя в это трудное время!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I know I have a Russian-speaking readership. It's time I write a few lines from time to time in Russian. I ask forgiveness in advance for anything ungrammatical. Using a language other than one's native language is a good way to keep the mind fresh in <i>old age</i>.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I spent February-March writing my reminiscences. I'm now working on edits. In other words, I'm spending this time of quarantine in about the best way possible. I hope to bring the manuscript into final form in the coming months. While working on the manuscript, I will be writing in this web journal only rarely.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">In the course of my silence, I invite you to my evening of Russian music on radio station WERU in Maine. If you want to find out what kind of Russian music a State Department pensioner prefers, here's your chance.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Everyone be safe in these difficult times!</span></span></div>
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Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-13618631177516517682020-01-20T20:26:00.000+02:002020-01-20T20:26:54.262+02:00The Quads of Hope<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">2020 has come. It arrived in the usual way on January 1 for most of the world that follows the Gregorian calendar, some 13 days later in the Old Style Julian calendar. There's no escaping it: 2019 is in the past. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">What 2019 brought us, however, is alive and well with all the continuity of a spline interpolation fit. The divisions in U.S. society are blooming in this winter as never before, something I now get to experience firsthand as I knock on doors in my conservative district on behalf of Democratic Congressman Jared Golden. It's winter in America with little sign that our national vision will approach the acuity implied by the year. Where will we be next November? I was in Copenhagen when election morning 2016 dawned with the shock of a new reality, a nightmare that has engulfed us ever since. Will this nightmare ever end?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">My personal reality in retirement also has not been the rosy future I expected. After one of the best month's of my life bike-packing from DC to Maine in September, my retirement was hijacked on October 4 by a legal issue involving my State Department pension. What at first seemed like a simple, easily corrected error in the computation of my annuity has evolved into a legal morass involving attorneys with no end in sight in the near future. For now, I am living on two thirds of the retirement income I expected. That's more than adequate for rural Maine, but all thoughts of traveling back to Romania and Kazakhstan are on hold. Moreover, October and November were consumed in their entirety by legal paperwork and the necessity of re-living some decidedly negative emotional episodes of my past.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The Quadrantids give me hope. A meteor shower named for a constellation, Quadrants, that no longer exists on modern star maps, the Quads are elusive. The peak lasts all of a few hours. If one is not in the right place at the right time with a good, dark sky, it will be as though the Quads did not happen. I remember a frigid January night in the 1970s with a friend on Long Island. We stood in an open field in a park, rubbing our hands together and hopping from one foot to another in a vain attempt to stay warm. Our hope of seeing even a single Quad proved just as vain. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The years and decades went by. I never seemed to find myself in the right place at the right time. I never saw a Quad. I thought I never would.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Then 2020 dawned. The peak for the Quads was predicted for about 3am EST on the morning of January 4. When I went to bed on the evening of the 3rd, the sky was completely clouded over with a forecast for the same through the 4th. Another year goes by, I thought, as I turned in for the night.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Heating by wood in a small home in rural Maine saved the day. I woke in my bed, feeling cold, and went downstairs to throw another log in the stove. As I did, I noticed the time: 3am. I looked out my window and with some surprise saw the sky had cleared. Still in my nightgown, I pulled on a long coat, hat, and tall boots. I stepped out onto my porch and looked up. Within a minute I saw my first dim, swift meteor. Then there was another much brighter one. I started to count slowly from 1 to 60, my estimate of a minute. Over 15 minutes I saw 15 meteors streak across the starry blackness of a Maine winter sky, the best count of meteors I have had since watching the Leonid meteor storm of 2001 with my son and friends. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">At a younger age I would have dressed even more warmly and headed out into my snowy field with a sleeping bag and reclining lawn chair. I remember many a teenage August night in a field in Michigan staying up for hours to watch the annual Perseid shower. Those days are in my past. As the cold started to seep through to my skin, I smiled to think that at last, I have seen the Quads. I went inside and returned to the warmth of my bed with a smile.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">These were my Quads of hope, both for my personal, unexpected legal battle and for my country. The wonder of a shooting star stays with us no matter what our age, who we are, or where we come from. May that wonder lead us on to a better place.</span></span></div>
Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-70053789563571387342019-12-25T01:08:00.000+02:002019-12-25T01:09:22.441+02:00Guest Blog: Comprehensive Statement for the Liberty of Gentle Peoples<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Today I wish to draw attention to the excellent piece written in Quora by Emma Gabriel, a young writer who holds an M.A. in philosophy and rhetoric from Georgia State University. <i><span class="ui_content_title ui_content_title--default ui_content_title--medium"><span class="ui_qtext_rendered_qtext"><a href="https://www.quora.com/q/queerquill/Comprehensive-Statement-for-the-Liberty-of-Gentle-Peoples" target="_blank">Comprehensive Statement for the Liberty of Gentle Peoples</a> </span></span></i><span class="ui_content_title ui_content_title--default ui_content_title--medium"><span class="ui_qtext_rendered_qtext">is, as it's title implies, a plea against violence, a plea for understanding. I highly recommend it to your consideration.</span></span></span></span></div>
Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-39515624697825985192019-10-23T20:52:00.001+03:002019-11-20T01:20:25.110+02:00Three Cheers for the Department!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have written my share of criticism of the Department of State on various issues, both <a href="https://www.huffpost.com/entry/opinion-transgender-american-diplomat_n_5bdcb5cce4b09d43e31ee9cd" target="_blank">policy</a> and <a href="https://www.huffpost.com/entry/trans-student-visa-kazakhstan_b_5a0a2626e4b0bc648a0d5569?y7c=&guccounter=1" target="_blank">personal</a>. State was a second career for me that I began in 2004 after 25+ years in private industry working on NASA mission support. Throughout my fifteen years at State, I often felt like <i>Alice in Wonderland</i>, marvelling at life in a government bureaucracy, alternately in awe at the good being achieved and aghast at the inefficiency and waste and at policies I disagreed with. My companion web journal <a href="https://attitude-maneuver.blogspot.com/" target="_blank"><i>Alice in State</i></a> has that name for a reason.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">The past two weeks, however, give me cause to raise my head in pride. It began with the appearance of Ambassador Marie Yovanovitch before members of the House Intelligence, Oversight, and Foreign Affairs committees. I raised my head higher still following the appearance of Deputy Assistant Secretary George P. Kent, but it was yesterday's appearance and opening statement by Embassy Kyiv </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Chargé d'affaires</span> Bill Taylor that has me yelling "Yes!" and glowing with pride.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><i>Washington Post</i> columnist Dana Millbank <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/opinions/2019/10/22/impeachment-diary-words-that-could-end-presidency/" target="_blank">described</a> Ambassador Taylor as "straight out of Foggy Bottom central casting." He's right. Ambassador Taylor even <i>looks</i> like many of the senior diplomats I have supported as a mid-level Foreign Service Officer (FSO). The haircut, the suit, the facial expressions, and the gait remind me of ambassadors, consul generals, and any number of Washington-based secretaries. Perhaps this, much as Ruth Bader Ginsburg's <i>dissent collar</i>, will become a style statement affirming conscientious professionalism and dedication to service and truth<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=772734720339908859#1" name="top1"><sup>*</sup></a>.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">As in any organization, colleagues and supervisors at State run the gamut from the bad to adequate to stellar. I was lucky during my fifteen years to work largely with the best. That goes back to the beginning with my year on the <i>Russia Desk</i> (EUR/RUS) as the officer responsible for Russian Federation external relations. Senior political officer <a href="https://cw.usconsulate.gov/our-relationship/consul-general/" target="_blank">Allen Greenberg</a> kept me sane during that year with his combination of cool professionalism and humor. I would not have made it through that career transition without his mentoring and support. He has deservedly made it into the Senior Foreign Service and is now the Acting Principal Officer at the U.S. Consulate General in Curacao.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">My lucky star placed me under <a href="https://carnegieendowment.org/experts/1014" target="_blank">Ambassador Bill Burns</a> at Embassy Moscow in 2005-07. I was only a 51-year-old, career-changing "Hey you!" junior officer at a large embassy, but Ambassador Burns knew me by name. I served as his notetaker at a number of meetings, in particualar at Rosatom, and marveled both at his command of Russian and his positive management of a relationship that was entering a time of change. He went on to become Deputy Secretary of State and, since his departure from State, has gone on <a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/561709/the-back-channel-by-william-j-burns/" target="_blank">to speak truth to power</a> as a critic of the hollowing out of U.S. diplomacy during the Trump administration.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Deputy Chief of Mission (DCM) <a href="https://www.usrf.us/staff/john-r-beyrle/" target="_blank">John Beyrle</a> did not lag behind Ambassador Burns by a single step and was just the right choice to become Ambassador in his own right when Ambassador Burns finished his Moscow tour in 2008. A career FSO with a long history in Russian/Soviet affairs, he was something of a folk hero because of his father <a href="https://www.penguinrandomhouse.com/books/177035/behind-hitlers-lines-by-thomas-h-taylor/" target="_blank">Joseph Beyrle</a>. Interned in a German POW camp that was liberated by the Red Army in 1945, Beyrle's father went on to fight in the Red Army through to the war's end. That wartime connection meant Ambassador Beyrle could open doors that others couldn't in a Moscow that was increasingly turning away from the US. President Obama's decision to replace him with Michael McFaul in 2012 ranks up there as one of the most questionable foreign affairs decisions made by a President I generally admire. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">I have a soft spot for <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richard_Norland" target="_blank">Ambassador Dick Norland</a> who had the unenviable task of saving something out of the ruins of the U.S. relationship with Uzbekistan following the <i>cold war</i> that followed the shooting of unarmed civilians by security forces in the Ferghana Valley in 2005. Embassy Tashkent felt like a ghost ship when I was there in 2008-10. The Uzbek government forced the Embassy to close all regional offices and refused to grant visas to most senior diplomats. With only four years in the Foreign Service, I served as acting head of the Political/Economic Office for several months when I arrived in 2008. I often accompanied Ambassador Norland and his DCM Duane Butcher to high level meetings and on regional travel. I don't begrudge Ambassador Norland that he sometimes used me as a secretary in the old fashioned sense. When he learned that I am proficient at touch typing in Russian, he would come to my cubicle and dictate diplomatic correspondence as he thought it through in real time.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Duane_C._Butcher" target="_blank">Duane Butcher</a>. I have a special place in my memory and in my heart for Mr. Butcher. He was my DCM in Tashkent and then again during my 2010-13 tour in Romania. Ambassador Mark Gitenstein was a political appointee and a good choice to manage the relationship with Romania, but it was Duane Butcher who actually ran Embassy Bucharest. Moreover, he oversaw my gender transition during my time there, setting just the right leadership tone to ensure that the changes in my life were accepted by both American and local staff. With less sure leadership, I doubt this first-ever transition-while-serving would have succeeded.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">Duane is a <i>Management Cone</i> FSO and is in the Senior Foreign Service, but if ever there was an example of someone who rose through the ranks almost too quickly, it is Duane. I mean that in the sense that ours is an up-or-out system, and promotion opportunities and choice assignments that lead to them become ever scarcer the higher one rises. At my FS-02 level, I could go on for a decade without worrying about my next <i>up-or-out</i> promotion, but at Duane's level, that window is much shorter. Moreover, it is rare for a <i>Management Cone </i>FSO to serve as Ambassador. DCM is normally about as high as a <i>Management Cone</i> FSO gets. Thus it was a great joy for those of us who worked with him that Duane got to serve as Chargé d'affaires in Bucharest for over two years after Ambassador Gitenstein's departure. It is my sincere hope that Duane Butcher will get to serve as a full-fledged Chief of Mission, as Ambassador, before his next promotion window closes.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">These were my senior colleagues, and there are others I am equally proud to have served under. Steeped in the tradition of the Foreign Service as modeled by George Kennan, the leading U.S. diplomat of the 20th century, they faithfully managed diplomatic relationships with foreign states under all Washington administrations that came and went, Democratic as well as Republican. It was an honor to serve with them, and I know any one of them would follow the courageous examples of the past week and speak up for diplomacy and truth when their country calls.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">The mists that shrouded what I sometimes called the Foggiest of Bottoms are lifting. State has found its voice and is standing up for sane, consistent foreign policy, for diplomacy, and for the truth.</span></span></span>
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<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="*"><b>*</b></a>I must wonder, however, if Ambassador Taylor does not sometimes dress down like some other senior colleagues, substituting a colorful bow tie for the traditional, conservative necktie.<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=772734720339908859#top1"><sup>↩</sup></a>
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Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-60538740832175846532019-10-14T19:31:00.000+03:002019-10-14T19:31:23.147+03:00Be Safe Out There?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">During my <a href="https://attitude-maneuver.blogspot.com/2019/10/two-wheels-out-of-state.html" target="_blank">month on two wheels</a> from Washington, DC, to Maine, people I met would again and again wish me, "Be safe!" </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have written before about the <a href="http://attitude-analyst.blogspot.com/2018/01/a-stranger-among-my-own.html" target="_blank">disconnect</a> between living overseas for most of the past fifteen years and the reality of life in the US today. Things change. I remember coming <i>home</i> on R&R in 2010 and looking for a Blockbuster store where I could rent a DVD. My favorite independent DVD store in Takoma Park, MD, had closed its doors. During my posting in Uzbekistan for more than two years, I had missed the collapse of DVD rentals in the US in favor of on-line streaming.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">After coming back from Kazakhstan in 2017, I was telling my sisters a graphic story about an unfortunate incident that had happened to me. One of them interrupted by saying, "That's TMI." I asked her to explain what <i>TMI</i> means. I had never heard the expression used in Central Asia.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Those are trivial examples. More substantive were the changes in political landscape in the US. <a href="https://attitude-maneuver.blogspot.com/2016/12/resistance-is-not-futile.html" target="_blank">I was at the U.S. Embassy in Copenhagen</a> for a conference on the day of the presidential election in 2016. The results were apparent as our conference got underway. Stunned silence reigned in the halls of the Embassy. Several of us went out that evening to drink our sorrows away in a jazz club. When the Marine Ball took place at Embassy Astana two weeks later, more alcohol was consumed than I had ever seen consumed at an Embassy function. We all wanted to forget even if only for a moment that our own country had changed in ways we never saw coming.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">A month on two wheels as I worked my way through Maryland, Pennsylvania, New York, Ontario, Vermont, New Hampshire, and Maine was the perfect way to let go. I had no time to follow the news. Even if I had, for much of the trip I was in areas without cell phone coverage. Life consisted of me and the road together with the morning and evening routine of breaking and setting up camp. News was to be heard only faintly from a radio or TV in the cafes and diners where I stopped to eat.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">"Be safe out there." I thought that a strange greeting when I first heard it. Then it was repeated again and again. At first I would reply, "Thank you," but later I changed that to "You, too, be safe out there." On continued thought I changed my reply again to "Be audacious and live fully!"</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Have we become a country in which safety is now Concern No. 1? Given the gun violence of the past several years, perhaps we have.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Still, in my estimate the chance that I will fall victim to a gunman are about the same as being hit by a meteorite or lightning. Of course it could happen, but am I going to live my life accordingly in a state of fear?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Or perhaps those who saw me, a single grandmother on a bicycle, thought I was doing something inherently dangerous? As someone who was certified as an instructor by the League of American Bicyclists some 20 years ago, I know the statistics are in my favor. Hour for hour, the chance of my being seriously injured on a bicycle are about the same as they are if I am behind the wheel of a car. The point is that one must know how to operate a bicycle as a vehicle with proper lane positioning and communication with other vehicle operators. Just like skydiving, operating a bicycle requires training. It is <i>not</i> what most think they remember from riding a bicycle in childhood.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The least of my fears was my safety as a bicycle driver. Perhaps the "Be safe" wishes were for my physical safety as a single older woman? That, too, leaves me scratching my head. Assault and rape do happen in this world. It has happened to me . . . at the hands of a policeman on a ferry from Georgia to Ukraine. The risks in my own country seem much lower than in many of the places I have served overseas . . . and I challenge any would-be assailant to keep up with me on two wheels.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Then there is gender transition. For anyone who has navigated this path successfully, is there anything left in life that rises to the level of danger and fear of what we passed through? I find there to be a good parallel between successful gender transition and effective, safe bicycle operation. Be visible, take your lane politely but assertively, and move forward. It's hugging the shadows during transition, hugging the curb when on a bicycle, that leads to danger and injury. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Can one be hurt while out and visible? Can one be killed? Of course one can. Just look at the homicide rate for transgender women of color. Still, I assert that the danger of being hurt while out and visible is far less than when one is hugging the shadows. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The same applies when operating a bicycle on roads. I have had no indicdent of any kind as a bicycle driver in Russia, Romania, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, and Kazakhstan. After those countries, I find conditions in the US to be refreshingly comfortable.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Forward I now go into retirement. It's too early to know where this new phase will take me. Whereever I go, I will remember my own greeting to others during my month on the road:</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><i>Be audacious and live fully!</i></span></span></div>
</div>
Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-25998491231428120862019-10-11T18:21:00.000+03:002019-10-11T18:21:16.572+03:00Two Wheels Out of State<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This web journal has <i>Foreign Service Bicyclist</i> prominently in its title, and thus it should surprise no one that I chose to celebrate my official retirement on August 31 by setting out on my longest bicycle tour to date. I left Washington, DC, on August 31 and arrived at my retirement home north of Bangor, Maine, on October 2. It was a journey of just over a month and 2495 km (1560 miles). </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Since it is somewhat off-topic for <i>Transgender in State</i> -- as of today renamed <i>Transgender Out of State</i> -- I have posted the day-by-day journal I kept along the way in my companion journal, <i>Alice Out of State</i>. It is a chronological account focused on the technical, physical aspects of the journey and may prove useful to others who set out on such a long tour: </span></span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://attitude-maneuver.blogspot.com/2019/10/two-wheels-out-of-state.html">https://attitude-maneuver.blogspot.com/2019/10/two-wheels-out-of-state.html</a> .</span></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">If any of my readers are interested in bicycle touring, I look forward to hearing from you!</span></span></div>
Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-42569661185945547032019-07-31T22:22:00.000+03:002019-07-31T22:22:56.212+03:00July 19, 2019<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The Sun is descending over the hills of western Maryland, and I watch from the observation car of the Capitol Limited, bound from Washington, DC, to Chicago. It is July 19, 2019, and I am celebrating.<br /><br />It is the fiftieth anniversary of Apollo 11. The 19th, as I recall, is when Apollo entered lunar orbit. The 20th will find me in Chicago, wandering a city I have not been in since 1990. The hour of the Moon landing will find me ducking into a movie theater to watch the new Apollo 11 documentary.<br /><br />It's not just the Moon landing anniversary that I am celebrating. Some time ago I chose July 19, 2019, as the last day of my Foreign Service career. Even in this 21st century world, we have mandatory retirement for age. I reach that age in August. I have had my farewell in our Office of Global Programs; Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights, and Labor. It has been a very good year, a year for which I am indebted to NLL, BL, and UCB. Without them, I would have resigned a year ago. IW, an impressively talented young woman, is fully trained and takes over for me on Monday. My office life, a life that began on the Monday after Thanksgiving in 1978, is over.<br /><br />Has it really been over forty years? If this is a life changing moment, it can't be retirement. It must be high school graduation. Nixon is still in office, isn't he? Watergate is only on the horizon, and scarcely anyone outside of Georgia has heard of a certain peanut farmer named Carter. My life is still ahead of me, a life full of promise but clouded by a secret for which I scarcely had a word in 1972 America.<br /><br />The choice of watching the sunset from the Capitol Limited on this July 19, 2019, is intentional. It was after another space first that I watched the sunset from this observation car in August 1990. Hubble Space Telescope had been launched in April, and I like many on the project had been working <i>all out</i> with launch and early mission support as we struggled to get beyond <i>Hubble trouble</i>. With that as backdrop, I had applied for and received a one week research fellowship at the University of Illinois to complete my Slavic Review article on the <a href="https://attitude-analyst.blogspot.com/2011/09/purge-or-so-how-far-back-does-this-go.html" target="_blank">1936-37 purge of Soviet astronomers</a>, the second career that had consumed my non-Hubble hours for six years, in the process giving me a way to run from myself by being fully occupied all the time. It was on the train to Chicago that I came to grips for the first time with the reality that I could no longer run from myself. I had to tell my long-suspecting spouse and my family. That decision led to the deep, dark valley of a psychiatric ward with many more peaks and valleys to come.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I watched the 1969 Moon landing from the home of my aunt and uncle in Michigan. It was the space program of the 1960s that led to my first career as an <a href="http://attitude-analyst.blogspot.com/2011/07/always-attitude-analyst-shuttle-musings.html" target="_blank"><i>attitude analyst</i></a>. It was my inner secret that gave me a lifelong love of Russian literature, culture, and history. In the days of the Soviet Union, Russian society differed entirely from the one I had grown up in, an <i>other</i> that was as different from U.S. reality as my outer, public face was different from the inner face I kept carefully hidden. <br /><br />Watching the 2019 sunset from the Capitol Limited is an entirely joyous experience. Thanks to that decision taken with such trepidation in 1990, I have made it through. I have become myself, no longer with inner secrets. I have had a second career and have traveled and lived in almost all the Russian-speaking world.<br /><br />A new phase is beginning. The 1969 Moon landing and high school are both behind me now. With, I hope, many more sunsets to come, I turn my thoughts to where this next phase may lead.</span></span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Hp7vPYerwRQIH4ppJ0ndt-pgAhlMyicHLX_bnsAIqh9cYm8iWB2lRuoOLwF0bJSlKi69Tm-6LAbxQ_KUAAEsYJz9a_1y5aCQ9dnIFDKLM8SonlK-djWBltwRSBkCH3BkPZeG1h7lkxg/s1600/20190719_172703.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7Hp7vPYerwRQIH4ppJ0ndt-pgAhlMyicHLX_bnsAIqh9cYm8iWB2lRuoOLwF0bJSlKi69Tm-6LAbxQ_KUAAEsYJz9a_1y5aCQ9dnIFDKLM8SonlK-djWBltwRSBkCH3BkPZeG1h7lkxg/s320/20190719_172703.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Harper's Ferry from the Capitol Limited</span></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-10796483456994713532019-05-25T17:49:00.000+03:002019-05-25T17:49:17.778+03:00A State-less Pride<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The guidance came on May 16: "The Department will not transmit an ALDAC for IDAHOT and LGBTI Pride Month this year."</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I think most people reading this journal know that LGBTI stands for lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and intersex. <i>LGBTI</i> is the official formulation at the Department of State. IDAHOT, of course, is the International Day Against Homophobia and Transphobia that is observed every year on May 17. In countries where lgbt+ persons are most subject to discrimination, IDAHOT is often the most important commemoration of the year. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">For those who do not regularly walk the halls of Foggy Bottom, let me explain that <i>Department</i> is shorthand for Department of State. ALDAC stands for <i>All Diplomatic and Consular</i> posts. Left out of the guidance was the implicitly understood word <i>cable</i> following ALDAC. All official communication between Washington and embassies and consulates around the world takes place in the form of <i>cables</i>. A <i>cable</i> is little more than a for-the-record e-mail to which State-specific meta-data have been added, but the Department of State is nothing if not tradition-bound. What was sent 50 years ago using the world's telegraph network is still called a <i>cable</i> in these 21st century Internet days.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Having parsed the preliminaries, let me get to the meat of the May 16 guidance: the Department of State will not be sending a cable encouraging U.S. Missions to engage in outreach to lgbt+ communities on IDAHOT or during Pride Month this year. The guidance continued that despite the lack of a cable, there has been no change in policy. Posts are expected to use all tools available to them to advocate for the human rights of all persons, members of lgbt+ communities included. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Why is this significant? As an FSO who has spent most of the past 15 years at U.S. embassies in Russia, Romania, Uzbekistan, and Kazakhstan, I can attest that <i>cables</i>, especially <i>action cables</i> directing an embassy to do something, receive attention. General statements that "existing guidance stands" receive much less. If an embassy or consulate does not have staff with a passion for a particular issue, in the absence of official direction from Washington it is quite likely no action will be taken.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Moreover, a U.S. embassy is not a democracy. All embassy staff come under Chief of Mission (COM) authority. That's usually the Ambassador. In the case of IDAHOT or Pride, even passion on the part of lower-level embassy officers may not be sufficient unless the COM approves. A case in point, I can point to our commemoration of IDAHOT in Kazakhstan. In 2016 the Ambassador declined my request to display the Pride flag <b><i>inside</i></b> the embassy. In declining my request, he averred that he could only authorize <i>official</i> flags even though he personally understood the significance of Pride. Thus we were unable to display the Pride flag in 2016.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Fast forward to 2017. That winter I contacted the drafters of the annual Pride ALDAC and asked if it would be possible to include a statement in the 2017 cable to the effect that COMs are authorized to display the Pride flag. They did include such a statement, and in 2017 I renewed my request to the Ambassador, pointing to the ALDAC cable that gives him the authority. The flag was displayed prominently in the embassy atrium throughout the day on May 17.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">So that's why an annual IDAHOT/Pride ALDAC is important. It empowers lower level officers at U.S. missions to take action even when a COM is not initially enamored of the project. Without such an ALDAC in 2019, I can only wonder how many initiatives will not come to fruition.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Where did the decision not to send an IDAHOT/Pride cable come from? I feel certain the staff responsible for writing the annual cable are just as committed to lgbt+ human rights around the globe today as they have always been. I believe the decision came from higher up, perhaps from the very top. That would be consistent with what we have been seeing overall since the 2016 election. Day by day, a death by a thousand cuts, our rights as lgbt+ Americans are being eroded with the removal of a guidance here, the rewriting of a policy there, or just the quiet disappearance of a web site. It should come as no surprise that this erosion would happen also at the U.S. Department of State.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Happy Pride. . . .</span></span></div>
Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-50920996271726125232019-04-23T05:24:00.001+03:002019-04-23T05:24:10.736+03:00Overtime<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I began my official full-time work career on the Monday after Thanksgiving in 1978. The week before I had packed my few graduate student possessions in a rented van and, with help from my Mom and Dad, had moved from New Haven, Connecticut, to a group house in Silver Spring, Maryland. Thanksgiving itself was spent with my oldest sister and her family, and on Monday morning I walked through the doors of 8728 Colesville Road in Silver Spring. In those days that was the headquarters of Computer Sciences Corporation, System Sciences Division. CSC, known lovingly by those of us who worked there as Cheap Sciences Corporation, was the major contractor providing orbital and attitude systems support for NASA scientific satellites controlled from Goddard Space Flight Center. I recall that first disorienting week being in my shared office and computing with pencil and paper just how many days make up a normal work career. At the time that number seemed to stretch out to such a distant horizon as to be something one should not think about.</span></span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV24NUnXVb2OS_ufOWWr2JB434fIAK_HhD32buESKrec27K3lU1WQh_RcpHtVPq0Lfe_VhgYl4PdhJy29MmdNeMMRwSxWMHwQtd6T2YkXyW27A4d-MgXVLxTFsArWxJWdlYAWzm858vd0/s1600/Overtime.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1068" data-original-width="1600" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV24NUnXVb2OS_ufOWWr2JB434fIAK_HhD32buESKrec27K3lU1WQh_RcpHtVPq0Lfe_VhgYl4PdhJy29MmdNeMMRwSxWMHwQtd6T2YkXyW27A4d-MgXVLxTFsArWxJWdlYAWzm858vd0/s320/Overtime.jpeg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">On the Monday after Thanksgiving 2018, I celebrated my 40th anniversary in the world of work. A date that in 1978 seemed impossibly distant had arrived in the proverbial blink of an eye. I am not retired yet. That date comes on August 31 of this year year, but with the passage of Thanksgiving 2018, I find myself in a time that I've come to think of as overtime. With the budding of the trees that is taking place now in April 2019, make that double overtime. May 1 marks the 15th anniversary of second career as a Foreign Service Officer at the Department of State.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I am struck by both the similarities and difference between 1978 and 2019 and in my Washington lifestyles. 2018-19 have found me again living in a group house just as I did in 1978. Both then and now it's a way to economize while getting through a bridge period. In 1978 I was sure I would work for CSC for only 2-3 years, not the 25+ years that I spent there. Now, in 2019, I know for a fact that I have just over four months left living in DC before taking up my life as a retiree in Maine and a citizen of the world.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Both then and now I have few commitments outside of work. Family came in the between years, and love my son and granddaughter as much as I do, they are independent of me today. In 2019 as in 1978, I look to spend my time outside of work with friends and taking advantage of DC's theaters and museums. The difference is that I have many more friends than did the introverted <i>attitude analyst</i> of 1978.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The 40+ years have gone by in the blink of an eye, but that very number of years gives me weighty pause. 1978 may feel like yesterday, but things have changed dramatically during those years. One of my first duties at CSC was to be punch card librarian for the attitude system we were building to control Magsat, an Earth resources satellite that launched in 1979 on the fiftieth anniversary of the stock market crash. Our software ran on an IBM 360-95 computer at GSFC. If we kicked everyone else off the machine and had it for our sole use, we could revel in 650K of core memory. When I got my first TSO (time sharing operations) terminal and a 300 baud acoustic modem in 1980, I felt I had entered an entire new age. Imagine not having to punch cards! We mere mortals had no concept that the Internet would change our world in just another 15 years.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have to remind myself when talking with younger colleagues today that they have little concept of my world as it was in 1978. Cultural references from then are lost on them even as they smile to an older respected colleague. If someone has started talking to me in 1978 about life in 1938, I would have thought of them as ancient. After all, 1938 was before World War II. The Great Depression was still underway and FDR was still in the White House!</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I also watch day to day as my past, so to speak, catches up with me. Several years ago I wrote a small Fortran program (!) on my Linux systems that tells me each time I log in how many days remain until my retirement. It also tells me what the calendar date was an equivalent number of days in the past. For every day I get closer to retirement, <i>my past</i> catches up with me by two days. It's now nearing the end of 2018.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">But for all these mind games, I still feel young even if I do have to acknowledge that I had more energy 40+ years ago. I'm still active and in good health. Not operating a car for most of the past 15 years either in the US or overseas has helped in that. Biking and walking are still my main modes of transportation. When I do retire, I plan on a long bike trip home from DC to Maine.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Career overtime as precursor to the beginning of an entirely new phase in my life. Let's not call it retirement. If anything, I feel I am getting ready to graduate from high school all over again. New adventures wait just over the horizon.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-77925548591253475642019-04-03T05:00:00.000+03:002019-04-03T05:00:00.011+03:00An Uzbek Guide to Surviving a Government Shutdown<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have published three Op-Eds in the HuffPost since leaving Kazakhstan. If you are interested and haven't seen them, here are the links:</span></span><br />
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<li><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/trans-student-visa-kazakhstan_us_5a0a2626e4b0bc648a0d5569?y7c" target="_blank">Why Is The U.S. Denying This Young Trans Woman A Student Visa?</a></span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/opinion-mccutcheon-visa-discrimination_us_5a9cc6e2e4b089ec353bee8d?yzd" target="_blank">U.S. Consuls Already Have The Tools To Discriminate In Visa Decisions</a></span></span></li>
<li><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><a href="https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/opinion-transgender-american-diplomat_us_5bdcb5cce4b09d43e31ee9cd" target="_blank">A Transgender American Diplomat Who Does Not Exist</a> </span></span></li>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I have to give this to the Department of State: all three Op-Eds were cleared for publication. Despite my deep disagreement with State and, in particular, Consular policies expressed in two of these Op-Eds, I am proud to work for a Department that has a place for dissenting views.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Alas, my HuffPost chapter ended with the closing of its Opinion section in early February. I wasn't even aware other than for the silence that greeted my most recent submission as we were still looking at the threat of another U.S. government shutdown. My final submission is now published instead here. It's a dark humor look at what government workers could learn from their counterparts in Uzbekistan when it comes to learning how to survive a shutdown. Enjoy.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">If anyone has a suggestion for an outlet replacing the HuffPost Opinion section, do let me know!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><b>An Uzbek Guide to Surviving a Government Shutdown</b> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">We've been through it, a full month of government shutdown. A federal worker myself, I was one of the victims, first on unpaid furlough and then called back to unpaid, excepted work before the Trump White House finally caved and re-opened the government. In my office I've struggled to dig us out of the accumulated work and missed deadlines, and I know I'm not alone in that. Hanging over us all is the threat that this might happen again, soon at that.<br /><br />We learned many survival techniques in January, and our helpful Departments and Agencies suggested useful ways we could cope without paychecks. Yard sales, pawn shops, unemployment compensation, and explanatory letters to creditors together with food banks became part of the mix. The White House saw no big deal for coddled federal workers who no doubt could make do with less. In the worst case, rich fathers or uncles could see us through, couldn't they?<br /><br />This was all well and good, but January showed we are for amateurs when it comes to shutdowns. Why not learn from other countries that have been through this all before, not just for a month but for years on end? Why not learn from Uzbekistan? Government workers there are professionals when it comes to surviving shutdowns.<br /><br />Uzbeks owe their professional shutdown survival skills to President Islam Karimov. A former Communist Party Secretary who became President after the Soviet collapse, Karimov espoused a policy of Make Uzbekistan Great Again. Within a few years most ethnic Russians who could get out did get out as Karimov allowed nationalist passions to ignite. Uzbekistan was now for the Uzbeks. Down came the statues of Lenin and Marx, and up went statues of Amir Timur, better known in the West as Tamerlane, the new symbol for Uzbek statehood. Terrorist bombings by the Islamic Movement of Uzbekistan in 1999 led to a total crackdown on dissent of any type. Even benches were removed from parks so that people would not linger and, horror, talk about life with friends and neighbors.<br /><br />Karimov introduced trade barriers that effectively cut Uzbekistan off from the rest of the world. No McDonalds or Burger Kings here. The policy was import substitution to encourage Uzbek business and industry even as uncompetitive Soviet industrial towns shut down and came to resemble U.S. rest belt towns. Uzbekistan even withdrew from the unified Central Asia electric grid to keep all electricity generated within its borders, well, within its borders.<br /><br />The economic picture for Uzbekistan was nothing but rosy . . . according to official Uzbek government figures. Any source contradicting those figures was news of the most fake variety. The GDP was grew at a slow but steady pace, and the world financial crisis of 2009 scarcely touched Uzbekistan. Karimov’s book The global financial-economic crisis, ways and measures to overcome it in the conditions of Uzbekistan called on the rest of the world to follow the Uzbek example to achieve abundant peace and prosperity. It was pointless to tell any Uzbek official that of course the Uzbek economy had not collapsed. How could it when it had never risen off its knees in the first place?<br /><br />The White House could learn much from the Uzbek example that would allow it to pursue its agenda more effectively, but U.S. federal workers also have much to learn from their Uzbek colleagues. It was normal for government workers in Uzbekistan not to receive salaries for months on end. When salaries were paid, it was often in kind. I have Uzbek friends whose balcony was knee-deep in potatoes, their salary in lieu of cash for a month. When Russia put high tariffs on auto imports from Uzbekistan, the traffic in Tashkent exploded as government workers were given the chance to soak up the overproduction at next to no cost. (The Chevrolet Matiz, assembled at a facility in the Fergana Valley, sold for only about $5000 in 2009.) When the government began paying salaries electronically, employees became used to banks telling them there was no cash on hand when they went to make withdrawals. When pensioners started receiving their pensions on debit cards, they would stand at registers in high-end stores frequented by foreigners and ask that they be allowed to pay with their debit cards in exchange for cash they could use at the food markets.<br /><br />Somehow or other, Uzbek workers lived on and even thrived after a fashion. Barter was the name of the game. “How many kilos of potatoes are needed to buy that Chevy Matiz?” The old Soviet model, “You pretend to pay me, and we pretend to work,” continued to apply. Life happened on the side in spite of a government that was, in effect, shut down for more than 25 years until death came for President-for-life Karimov in 2016.<br /><br />So take heart, federal workers of America. Ask your Department or Agency to work out a deal with American farmers who have lost their market in China. Just think what you could do with a balcony knee-deep in soy! Snip newspaper coupons and offer your services to private sector employees. You can reduce their weekly food expenses in exchange for a percentage in cold hard cash. One day you may be able to buy a car from Detroit that no longer has a market outside U.S. borders. A month’s salary in American whiskey that is no longer competitive in Europe may ease your pain. <br /><br />Through it all, ponder that you are helping to level the playing field for government bureaucracies everywhere through your understanding of the Uzbek experience. One day, perhaps, we may cast off our chains as we realize there is more uniting than dividing government workers in all countries. In the meantime, <i>Xo'p mayli</i>. That’s Uzbek for <i>Good</i> or, sometimes and perhaps more to the point in this context, <i>Whatever</i>. . . .<br />_________________________________________________________________<br /><br />Robyn Alice McCutcheon is a Foreign Service Officer who has served in Uzbekistan, Kazakhstan, Russia, and Romania. Although Ms. McCutcheon is employed by the U.S. Department of State, the views expressed in this column are strictly her own and do not necessarily represent the views of the Department of State or the U.S. Government.<br /> </span></span></div>
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Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-85506124226085304922019-03-25T01:42:00.000+02:002019-03-25T01:42:19.159+02:00Waters of March: Reprise<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br />I sit in my home office in Maine. As I look at the window, I see the waters of March. They are dripping off my roof, the solar panels, and the trees as a fog rolls in and thickens. When I arrived home a week ago, deep winter still reigned. On Monday the temperature bottomed out at -18C, and I could almost feel I was back in Kazakhstan. But winter comes to an end everywhere. In this part of rural Maine, it's coming to its end this week. Perhaps there will be another deep freeze or two, but by early April mud season will be in full swing, some 2-3 weeks earlier than it would have been in Astana.<br /><br />This is a reprise. Two years ago I wrote <a href="http://attitude-maneuver.blogspot.com/2017/03/the-waters-of-march.html" target="_blank">Waters of March</a> as my impending departure from Kazakhstan was beginning to feel real. I had long told friends and adopted family in Astana that as long as there was snow and ice, I wasn't leaving. As the first days of above freezing temperatures came upon us, I knew my time was growing short.<br /><br />So it is now. I have just 24 weeks left until retirement. I go back to DC on Monday and have those 24 weeks ahead of me, but as temperatures rise and the Maine snows melt, retirement is no longer a distant mirage.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The Washington ride of the past 18 months has been rough at times. I'm a transient in DC, living out of a suitcase with friends who had a guest bedroom for rent. (At $500/month, I expect I have the cheapest rent of any Foreign Service Officer in Washington.) Weekends are spent with friends, my sisters, or my son and family. Every other month I come home to Maine for the feeling of being in my own home and sleeping in my own bed.<br /><br />As anyone who has read <a href="https://attitude-analyst.blogspot.com/2018/07/out-of-muck.html" target="_blank">Out of the Muck</a> knows, I am ending my career in an office different from the one where I expected to. I owe deep thanks to those who got me out of the <i>Muck Operations Center</i> and into an office that is dealing with human rights programs around the world. I am ephemeral in that office on what is known at State as a 1-year <i>Y tour</i>, but the energy of an office of committed young people is infectious. My job is the comparatively simple and administrative one of making the bureaucratic wheels turn so that these young people can do their jobs with minimal impediment. In Kazakhstan and before that in Romania, I have been on the receiving end of some of their human rights grants for lgbtqi+ organizations. I know the good work that this office is doing even at at time when the administration in power at the White House seems intent on turning back much of the progress we have made on human rights. It makes me want to do a better than a just adequate job in this final year. I have fired up the after burners on this 40+ year long career, infected as I am by the enthusiasm of the people around me.<br /><br />For indeed it has been 40+ years in not one but two careers. Make that three if you add my years of research and publishing as a historian. More on that at another time.<br /><br />For the moment, however, I'll just end as I did two years in Astana. As the waters of March fall, they remind us of the promise of life in our hearts.<br /><br /><span id="goog_1560984478"></span><span id="goog_1560984479"></span></span></span><br />
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Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-15329896015712216262019-01-21T05:29:00.003+02:002019-01-21T05:30:47.335+02:00Shutdown but Out in Maine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Three weeks of <a href="https://attitude-analyst.blogspot.com/2018/12/furlough-di-furlough-da.html" target="_blank"><i>Furlough-di, Furlough-da!</i></a> are coming to an end. Funds were mysteriously found last Thursday with which to pay State Department employees, and thus my young friend Catriona and I are in her Land Cruiser somewhere between Bangor and Augusta, ME, as we make our way back to DC. We’re supposed to report to work on Tuesday, but who knows? We’re racing a winter storm. The sky is sunny here, but it won’t be for long. We’ll overnight in Hartford, CN, and indications are that we’ll wake in the morning to more snow and ice than we may be able to handle. What will be will be. There are worse things in life than an extra day in Hartford.<br /><br />Sigh. I’d be returning to DC whether or not funds had been found. Last Wednesday I was re-classified as <i>excepted</i> (<i>essential</i>) and told to report to work without pay. At least now we know we’ll get some pay, even if it’s unclear how long the mysterious funds will hold out.<br /><br />Three weeks at home in Maine. That’s the longest stretch I have been able to spend at home since NN came with me on R&R from Kazakhstan in 2016. Three weeks is just long enough to feel one has settled in at home, not merely come for a quick visit. I had been scheduled for a week of vacation at New Year’s, but the government shutdown took us all by surprise. I decided to stay put at home and canceled my return ticket. Catriona, also on furlough, drove up to join me mid-way through my second.<br /><br />Maine is the one place on the East Coast of the US that reminds me of both Romania and Kazakhstan, the countries that came to feel the most like home to me while I served overseas. The hills and mountains of Maine are like those in Romania, as is the maple syrup. The snow and wind are like Kazakhstan. January temperatures down to -18C are normal in my part of the state. A patch of brown earth would be worthy of shocked surprise. I love winter. I love snow. I love my home in Maine.<br /><br />How did I spend my time? I couldn’t get Hillary, my 1991 rear wheel drive station wagon, out of the driveway, and thus I stayed close to home. I arrived in Bangor by bus on December 29 and did my grocery shopping before paying a princely sum to a Lyft driver to take me all the way home from Bangor. I easily had food for a month, and my little town’s general store supplies the daily needs of bread and milk.<br /><br />On other visits home I would drive to Baxter State Park or to Katahdin Woods and Water National Monument for my hiking or winter snow shoeing. Not getting there turned out to be a blessing in disguise, as it forced me to look for alternatives right where I live. To my happy surprise, I discovered Maine’s Interconnected Trail System (ITS) for ATVs and snowmobiles. One of the main routes passes through my town, and during the work week there is no one on it. I could snowshoe for as long and as far as I wanted and not meet any person or any vehicle. The woods and hills were just as winter quiet and beautiful as those I usually drive to get to. I was thrilled to find that I have this outdoor resource treasure right at my doorstep.<br /><br />I also have my own 32 acres, the front 7-8 acres of which are partially cleared. I clipped on the cross country skis that I brought with me from Kazakhstan. I have a long way to go before I qualify even as a novice, but I am able to push myself around on the skis, not to mention get a good aerobic and upper body workout as I do it.<br /><br />I set my own time at home in Maine. I mean that not only in the sense of doing what I want when I want but also in the sense of choosing my own time zone. With a deferential nod to those who determine boundaries, my part of Maine has no business being in Eastern Standard Time. If the zone boundaries were drawn without reference to borders, we’d be in Atlantic Time with the Canadian maritime. That’s the time zone I choose to live in while at home. It lets me see the January sun set at 5pm, not 4pm. I love nothing better than to sit on my porch even in January and watch the sun go down through my trees.<br /><br />Evenings were for music, reading, movies, and serials. Even in Maine I enjoy watching Russian serials, if not Russian news, and after Catriona’s arrival we would take turns choosing what to watch. She introduced me to <i>The Terror</i>, a fictionalized account of Franklin’s ill-fated 19th century expedition to find the Northwest Passage. What better place than Maine to watch a serial about explorers locked in ice and eternal winter? I rejoined by playing Stan Roger’s <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fx3iK_KGy54" target="_blank"><i>Northwest Passage</i></a>, a song that both Sultana and my son love.<br /><br />Shutdown but by all means out in the great outdoors: those were my three weeks in Maine. Only 32 weeks remain until my mandatory separation for age, an event that I look at more as high school graduation than retirement. Maine is now home, and I feel a pang of regret as we leave. I want more time in the Maine woods, but if there is a plus to our return to DC, it is that we will be able to participate in person in whatever protests are being organized. I’ve already appeared in protest once in front of the White House. There undoubtedly will be more such appearances.<br /><br />We’re nearing Augusta now. The sky has already darkened as we head south to the equally dark politics of Washington.</span></span><br />
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Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-8882606939012717132019-01-02T01:04:00.001+02:002019-01-06T00:41:34.604+02:00Breaking up with Facebook Is Hard to Do . . . but Worth the Effort?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;">I've had an uneasy feeling about remaining on Facebook for some time now. For others there might have been specific events that prompted them to raise the #DeleteFacebook flag. Perhaps it was the ever growing saga of how Facebook sees user data as a commodity? Perhaps the Cambridge Analytica scandal in early 2016 was the turning point? Many of us on the progressive left were sickened by the irresponsible role Facebook played in the 2016 election as a source of disinformation and as an outlet for Russian propaganda. I know I was, and I was just as much disturbed that such disinformation found a ready audience.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Like many in the baby boom generation, I first opened a Facebook account some ten years ago as a way of staying in touch with my son. He had stopped using e-mail, and Facebook was all the rage for his age group. The irony is that he has long since moved away from social media.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I became a large scale user of Facebook after gender transition in 2010-11. I was in Romania at the time and had become well known in the Romanian lgbtqi+ community. Everyone was on Facebook, and before long I had more Romanian Facebook friends than I did American. When I left Romania in 2013, Facebook remained a window into the lives of those I had left behind in Romania. The same has been true of my friends in Kazakhstan. For a foreign service officer, Facebook allows at least a glimpse into the lives of those we have known and sometimes loved in the countries where we have served.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">But does that glimpse have substance? I lost count of how many Facebook friends I have a long time ago, but I believe it is now in the 1000 range. How many glimpses do the Facebook algorithms give when the number of <i>friends</i> has grown that large? Where do the glimpses that populate our news feeds come from? I can search for a friend and find out what she or he is up to, but when one comes down to it, isn't it also possible to do that by a simple e-mail to that friend?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">If there was a specific time when my relationship to Facebook soured, it was in the crowd tuition funding campaign we undertook for Sultana Kali. During that campaign we collected more than we had any reason to expect, but almost none of the contributions came via <i>Facebook friends</i>. The bulk came from outside the social network, a network that turned out to be hollow.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: large;">Facebook played a foul role in our 2016 election, a role made all the more foul by its attempts to cover up or belittle Russia's use of social networking as a means of dividing us as a people by playing on our worst instincts. Without Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and other social networking platforms, perhaps we would not live in a world today where the occupant of the White House is dangerously unhinged and the U.S. role in the world is in rapid decline?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Anyone who has followed me on Facebook knows that I have published little there since leaving Kazakhstan in 2017. At most, I spend perhaps 5-15 minutes a day on the platform to glance at the news feed and look for any personal messages. Even as a messaging platform, I have found Facebook wanting. WhatsApp is a better way of staying in direct touch with specific individuals and groups of friends. Kazakhstan as a country seems to run on WhatsApp. More recently I learned that Telegram is a better, more secure messaging platform not under Facebook control, and I plan to move there.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">That brings me to my 2019 New Year's resolution to move off Facebook. I deleted my Twitter account months ago, and I've never really been a user of Instagram.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Am I cutting off my nose to spite my face? Will the loss be worth the gain in control over my own data and a clearer conscience? I don't know. I've toyed with this decision for months, dancing around it without coming to a firm yes or no. In the end I've decided that the only way to know is to try. Rather than deleting my Facebook account outright, I'll deactivate it for a half year and experience what life is like without Facebook. If the loss outweighs the gain, I can reactivate the account.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I did say New Year's resolution, didn't I? Let's make that Old New Year, the beginning of the new year by the Julian calendar, January 14 in our Gregorian system. That will give those who wish to stay in touch with me time to copy my non-Facebook contact information, which is:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">e-mail:</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">msrobyn-alice@usa.net<br />robyn.aja.mccutcheon@gmail.com</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: large;">WhatsApp: pegged to my Kazakhstani telephone, +7 771 164-0368</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: large;">I also pledge to write more often in this web journal, perhaps not much more at first due to work and travel schedules, but more with time as we move into the year. I am also still on LinkedIn. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">As an experiment I've also opened an account on Diaspora*, a decentralized open-source social networking platform. There are not many people on Diaspora* yet, but perhaps we can change that together? If you want to follow me there, you can sign up at https://joindiaspora.com/ and look for me as robyn_alice_mccutcheon@diaspora.dev.facil.services.</span><br /><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">That's my #DeactivateFacebook challenge to myself for 2019. Forward I go into a time before Facebook existed. Happy New Year, С Новым Годом, and Happy New Networking to all!</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-33368751268728859052018-12-31T23:43:00.001+02:002018-12-31T23:43:52.548+02:00New Year's Tidings of Passport Cheer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">To say 2018 was not been a good year for the T of the U.S. lgbtqi+ community would be to put it mildly. Between the Trump administration's push to expel all transgender members of the military, a leaked memo detailing a plan by the Department of Health and Human Services <i>to erase</i> us, and the recent deletion of the Office of Personnel Management's guidance of transgender persons in the U.S. federal government -- the news has been unrelenting and almost never good. With each executive branch step to remove transgender protections, the surface area of the island on which we stand shrinks. Allies who say not to worry as protections are stripped away sound at times like climate change deniers who don't see hurricanes, tsunamis, and wild fires as portents telling us that time is running out.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Another worrying development this year were edits to the U.S. State Department web site regarding changing gender markers in passports. Ever since Secretary Hillary Clinton simplified the procedures for changing that marker, a U.S. passport has become the ID of choice for most transgender Americans. Rather than documentation of invasive surgeries that had been required in the past, only a letter from a certified medical provider that the bearer is receiving "appropriate clinical treatment" is needed when applying for a new passport.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">Those worrying web site edits included replacing <i>gender</i> with <i>sex</i>, a change that for many of us harks back to the old days of <i>sex reassignment surgery</i>. Did this reflect a change in procedures? The rules that Secretary Clinton simplified could be changed by a simple stroke of the pen by a subsequent Secretary. Were the web site changes a harbinger of changes to come? Adding to the worry, there were several reports from the field that people who had changed the gender marker in their passports a decade or more ago were being asked to provide documentation of their gender transition when they went to **renew** their passports. The fact that additional factors may have been in play for these persons did little to allay fears.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">The National Center for Transgender Equality (NCTE) went into action quickly by requesting a meeting with the State Department's Bureau of Consular Affairs. Other organizations also requested meetings, and I was involved behind the scenes in a couple of preparatory phone calls. The report back from those meetings was not to worry, that nothing had changed other than an unfortunate, ill-prepared edit to the passport web site. Nationwide, however, there was a rush on the part of many to renew passports sooner rather than later lest those soothing words be replaced by another executive tweet that would change everything.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I should know. Despite being a Foreign Service Officer, I also worried that things could change and not for the better. I hold a diplomatic passport with five years' validity and a tourist passport that would expire in 2021. I had already had some trouble using the tourist passport on its own in that my hair style, hair color, and some facial features had changed since the passport was issued in 2011. Far better to renew the passport now, I thought, before I retire next summer and surrender the diplomatic passport. Also, if anything were to go wrong with the renewal, I
would rather it happen now while I'm still employed at State and can
work the back channels to raise a ruckus. So it was that in the first weekend of December I dropped into my corner mailbox an envelope containing my application, old passport, new photo, and letter explaining my request for early renewal. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFfYBfuMu50XejoMg6TkOaXT4jum629y0ZMrK1PD7S5BJ96gZ7lWI6HW9ZJ-QcBXn5sB0viOuNs8oaFzFaF2Gdin35XqmDOI5WzXu5nyWTlhmOchClvNm6LNpM0N38Q7hoaiFpIfjW8cw/s1600/20181231_125715.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFfYBfuMu50XejoMg6TkOaXT4jum629y0ZMrK1PD7S5BJ96gZ7lWI6HW9ZJ-QcBXn5sB0viOuNs8oaFzFaF2Gdin35XqmDOI5WzXu5nyWTlhmOchClvNm6LNpM0N38Q7hoaiFpIfjW8cw/s320/20181231_125715.jpg" width="240" /></a>All of this brings me to those good tidings of New Year's passport cheer. I arrived in my little Maine town last Friday evening and went to the post office to retrieve my mail on Saturday. There it was, mixed in with two months' bulk mail: my new tourist passport. It was issued on December 21 with full ten year validity. No questions were asked. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times,"Times New Roman",serif;">I now join my voice to the soothing words from NCTE and elsewhere: the procedures established by Secretary Clinton are still in place. To this I add my pride in my own organization, the Department of State. Sane minds are still in contril. For the first time since the debacle with the denial of Sultana Kali's student visa in the summer of 2017, I applaud my colleagues in the Bureau of Consular Affairs. They are doing the right thing.</span></span></div>
Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-68197768670673650502018-12-29T23:14:00.000+02:002018-12-29T23:14:17.468+02:00Furlough-di, Furlough-da!<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Yes, I'm on furlough, one of those 380,000 or so <i>non-excepted</i> federal employees who have been told to stay home. I went to my office the day after Christmas to do my <i>orderly shutdown</i>, which for me consisted of tying up some loose ends and writing notes for the one deputy in our office who is designated <i>excepted</i> and who, without pay, is charged with handling any emergencies that arise.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">As a <i>non-excepted</i> federal employee on furlough, I am not permitted to do anything related to my job, not even as an unpaid volunteer. <i>Excepted</i> employees, some 420,000 of them, are required to go to work and do their jobs, but they will not be paid. Neither status is enviable, and I do wonder to what extent the average citizen will ponder the fact that TSA agents conducting security at airports are not being paid. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">I took the <i>do no work</i> instruction at face value and headed home to Maine two days after Christmas. I will stay here for the duration. From all signs the duration will be at least through the first week of January. I, for one, expect it could go longer, perhaps much longer.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlUWw5zmrqGQFLvudCk0zzRYZM51fkhtFwM6MHXYAOT-ZM70Jnf-_TAuGlc4L7ptgSt6UsgJWmX8kBOMzFm54bKdH1Ds33a0sJanZlA-iGI7ndd7isKdNPMZu_hT-DtlQCvfSOC6UFAJE/s1600/20181229_164632.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlUWw5zmrqGQFLvudCk0zzRYZM51fkhtFwM6MHXYAOT-ZM70Jnf-_TAuGlc4L7ptgSt6UsgJWmX8kBOMzFm54bKdH1Ds33a0sJanZlA-iGI7ndd7isKdNPMZu_hT-DtlQCvfSOC6UFAJE/s320/20181229_164632.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Evening View from my Maine Porch</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">I make no secret of my Northeast, urban, progressive views, and thus it is easy to guess where I come down in the debate over a border wall. I believe the November mid-term election shows a plurality of the U.S. population has come down on the same side of the debate. On this issue, as on many others, increasing numbers can no longer abide the current occupant of the White House who is coming to look more and more like a sore loser, even a cry baby who believes a tantrum will get him what he wants. I hope that the coming weeks will finally disabuse him of that notion.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Much of my life both in and outside of federal service has involved support for improved human rights around the globe. That's where the funding should go, not to the construction of a physical barrier that has never proved effective for those countries that have tried them through human history. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Did I describe myself as someone of "Northeast, urban, progressive views?" Make that more a "European style social democrat" who at some level believes Marx was right. Ending mass migrations across national borders means, in the long run, raising living standards on a global scale. In a perverse sense globalization has been a step in bringing U.S. workers down to the level of workers in other countries. The golden age of the U.S. worker in the first two decades after World War II was a fluke brought about largely by the circumstance that the US was the only major nation where industry had not been flattened. It was just a matter of time before the Japans, Germanies, Chinas, and Koreas of the world would make themselves known. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: large;">The great failure in the US during the post-War decades was, in my view, its failure to invest heavily in education and retraining. Those who want should be able to attend college for free or nearly so, and those who don't should have programs available that train them in the skills needed to work in a modern, information economy. In this failure I include myself and most of my urban, progressive friends, all of us focused on our own lives and largely blind to a middle America that was coming to resemble the post-Soviet Russian landscape of abandoned, rusting, non-competitive factories surrounded by factory towns with no future.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">That's my view, and it's more than just words. I have been writing my letters since the election of November 2016. I have been making my monthly donations. I have canvassed door-to-door for the progressive candidate in my district. My own efforts have been meager, I know, compared to those of others, but they are a start that I hope to expand after my official retirement next August.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">In the meantime, as on this day, I'll look out the window of my small home at the beauty of a sunset and a snowy Maine landscape of white. Unlike young federal friends who have mortgages, car payments, and families, I've got savings to weather the financial seas when my next paycheck does not come on January 11. From what I know of many of those young, progressive friends, however, they too look at this as a key moment to stand firm. To steal from a classic Beatles song,</span><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Furlough-di, Furlough-da, furlough's on, girl!<br />Democracy it must go on!</span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif; font-size: large;">Let that be our tune as we cross over into 2019. </span>Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-66905418303931654052018-10-17T05:23:00.001+03:002018-10-17T05:23:37.774+03:00 Three Little Orleans Log Book Entries<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The Potomac Appalachian Trail Club (PATC) (<a href="http://www.patc.net/">www.patc.net</a>) is a volunteer organization that has existed, I believe, since the 1930s and has responsibility for maintaining the Appalachian Trail (AT) and other blue-blazed trails in the Virginia-Maryland area. I have been a member for at least 20 years, even if I regret to report that I’m what you would call only a “cabin member.” You see, PATC also maintains a network of cabins ranging from primitive hike-in cabins to a Victorian house in Harper's Ferry, WV, and many of them are open only to members. I’ve stayed at a number PATC cabins through the years, but the one that has come to occupy a special place in my life is in Little Orleans (LO), MD, just off the C&O Canal to the west of Hancock. It’s an in-between cabin in that it has electricity and running water but has an outdoor privy as a toilet. There’s no Internet and no cell phone coverage. I have spent several critical days of my life here, in particular a week in April 2004 just before I joined the Foreign Service and another in 2007 when I was first grappling seriously with the question of divorce that would lead to my fourth and finally successful transition attempt just a few years later. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Those weeks of seclusion and “coming to terms” with key life changes mingle with joyous memories of being here with my son for the Leonid meteors in 1999 . . . or was it in 2000? I was here again just last June when I was coming to the conclusion that I must resign from the Foreign Service. I used my quiet time here to finish my letter of resignation, a letter that, thanks to several close FSO friends, I did not have to send. Now with less than a year to go until my mandatory retirement date, I plan to come back to LO several times. I was just here for the Columbus Day weekend, and I used the opportunity to look back at old log books (always a favorite pastime at LO), copy out my log entries going back to 2014, and contemplate the unexpected paths that my life has taken in just these past four years.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<u><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">August 15-16, 2014</span></span></u><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOPQXJZFXoJAo0lEv38QoeL7M3hTGtXC_UB6Z3lgB04q6z0SemG9Wx7whljlMnXKDm4kwe275389Osj7kUQtyT1U-_Hcax70KNnzJf2UnDkFyn2MxCErd7S4HjNJmwmtqeBd-AA5iKIyM/s1600/20180611_104432.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOPQXJZFXoJAo0lEv38QoeL7M3hTGtXC_UB6Z3lgB04q6z0SemG9Wx7whljlMnXKDm4kwe275389Osj7kUQtyT1U-_Hcax70KNnzJf2UnDkFyn2MxCErd7S4HjNJmwmtqeBd-AA5iKIyM/s320/20180611_104432.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I arrived at 6pm for just a one night stay at Little Orleans, my favorite PATC cabin. I was taken aback by the imposing new gate at the road until I realized it was not locked. I was also surprised by the padlock on the LO gate itself. Has vandalism become a problem in the area?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The cabin is in the same perfect condition as always. There have been some good upgrades such as the grill since my last visit. I rather miss the stars on the ceiling of the sleeping loft, but I imagine re-paining is one of those «musts» through the years. The kitchen range, which I remember when it was brand new, now looks old.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Yes, I’ve been coming to LO for a long time. I believe my first visit was around 1996. I will never forget being here with my son and others from his boy scout troop to stay up all night and watch the Leonid meteors in 1999. Or was it in 2000?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I had rather hoped to read our log entries from those earlier visits, but I gather the older log books have been removed for safe keeping. Mine is the first entry, however, in log book 9 from August 22-28, 2007. Unfortunately, all I write about there is how I cleaned and painted the privy. (I remember C contacting me afterward to say thank you.)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">This may be my last visit to LO. I work for the State Department Foreign Service and am about to head overseas. Nearing retirement age, I do not expect to live in the Washington, DC, area again.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">LO occupies a special place in my life, and it inspired me to build an LO of my own in the lake region of Maine. (In fact, that’s where I’m headed now on the road less traveled.) LO has been my retreat, a refuge where I was able to grapple and come to terms with the issues of my life. I am a much happier and, I hope, a better person for the decisions I made during past visits. My return for this one night was in joy and in memory of those past visits. I give great thanks to C and all the overseer family for making Little Orleans the beautiful refuge that it is.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Robyn Ann McCutcheon</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">PS – Filled hummingbird feeders and put out bird seed. Borrowed one book, <b>Woodswoman</b>, but will return by mail to PATC. (FWIW, I'm the one who left the Garrison Keilor tapes some fifteen or so years ago!)</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<div class="" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"></span><u><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">August 19-20, 2016</span></u></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2USUTtXXLEbAFKXKfMEKdPhZrC4k9NI9RRY6mruqhy5G8X-SvstGSu5ie_3tJFVn9bYnnbOcym7TFFnCs7ZIF0NfIkTvaayOQf4I7HJE1oE2PVj52i7Pgh1Hrb3DRvRWImVCpLqmHOJ4/s1600/20180611_104851.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2USUTtXXLEbAFKXKfMEKdPhZrC4k9NI9RRY6mruqhy5G8X-SvstGSu5ie_3tJFVn9bYnnbOcym7TFFnCs7ZIF0NfIkTvaayOQf4I7HJE1oE2PVj52i7Pgh1Hrb3DRvRWImVCpLqmHOJ4/s320/20180611_104851.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Never say never. On August 15-16, 2014, I
wrote in log book #10 that “this may be my last visit to LO.” I was on
the eve of a 3-year assignment to Kazakhstan and did not expect to come
this way again.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Well, here I am, this time with a young Kazakh
friend who is visiting the US for the first time. I’m on my annual
R&R vacation. We departed Astana early on the 19th, transited
through Frankfurt, landed at Dulles, and came straight here. We’re in
LO for just the one night, but what a beautiful way to come home before
moving on to the big city. We just spend the day walking on the towpath
and lying on the hammock, resting and enjoying the peace after a day in
airplanes.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Only thing to report is that the cabin had a very
musty smell when we arrived. Things improved after we opened all the
windows and turned on fans, but a bad smell lingers in the kitchen.
Perhaps there’s a dead mouse underneath?</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Onward! I have one more year left in Kazakhstan. LO may see me yet again.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Robyn McCutcheon</span></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;"><br /></span></span></div>
<u><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">June 10-13, 2018</span></span></u><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEq_1VJgTtg0K7AllQNfIcn1rhowuuRSMZmof4xNEXcuRvvwUNaVNxFukeUfxcZkwaSkicFV-qtVtxRlthCRbN9IuVKDNs95BFxqcOZYBzX4326PvRqiOOd4gnM3u301XYMdEkYj3_9MY/s1600/20180611_115449.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEq_1VJgTtg0K7AllQNfIcn1rhowuuRSMZmof4xNEXcuRvvwUNaVNxFukeUfxcZkwaSkicFV-qtVtxRlthCRbN9IuVKDNs95BFxqcOZYBzX4326PvRqiOOd4gnM3u301XYMdEkYj3_9MY/s320/20180611_115449.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">To jump right to the practical side of things, I arrived Sunday afternoon to find Little Orleans in as beautiful, immaculate shape as I remember from my first visit some 22 years ago. BUT: Something has happened with the water supply. In both the kitchen and wash room, the water flows only at a trickle at best and 95% of the time not at all. My suspicion is that the well pump (submersible?) has died. This must be very recent, as dishes in the dish drainer left by the previous renters were not yet dry, and the dish clothes were still damp. Given the amount of rain we are having, it can’t be that the well has gone dry. So much for my hopes for a good shower. I’m filling every pot and bowl with that water that does sometimes flow from the tap and will be washing dishes (and myself!) as I would on a camping trip. I’ll call PATC as soon as I leave and have cell reception.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Which brings me to the delight of being here again in LO: no cell reception and no Internet. PATC should begin listing these as positive amenities for those of us who come to LO in search of retreat, a place just to be and find peace both in nature and, through nature, in oneself. On this visit I may not even turn on the recorded music on my phone or the music system in the living room. Sitting on the porch and listening to the sounds of the birds, insects, and falling rain is sound enough.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">If the rain continues – (I write on Monday morning) – sitting on the porch may be all that I do. I came equipped for biking and day hiking, but the quiet is what I really came for this time.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">For anyone who looks back at my log entry from August 2016, I am pleased to say that my young Kazakhstani friend NN has gone far in improving her English, has started graduate school, and may go for a semester of study in Poland this fall.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">If you look further back to my log entry from August 2014, you will know I am a Foreign Service Officer with the Department of State. So why am I at LO on a Monday morning rather than being hard at work in Foggy Bottom? I’m here to decide if the time has come for me to resign. I have only a year to go until my mandatory retirement age, but too many circumstances and political changes have piled up. Even taking a financial hit by leaving early, I may be at greater peace with myself if I go.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">And so to J, C (to whom I owe a long-delayed letter), and all the LO overseers, thank you for the love, care, and labor that you put in to make Little Orleans such a special spot where we can be at one with ourselves and find peace</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">Robyn Ann McCutcheon</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">PS — Rain over and sunny weather on Tuesday. Rode bike up Oldtown-Orleans Road to the Lookout. Had forgotten just how steep the hills are here.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The water situation has improved a bit. I went to the well and could hear that the pump is working just fine. The «but» is why. None of the faucets in the cabin were open. As an experiment, I turned the pump off at the breaker box (breaker Nos. 8/10) when I left for my bike ride. When I returned 3-4 hours later, I turned the pump back on. Eureka, I had good water pressure! What joy it was to take a shower and wash my hair. The water didn’t fail again until I was rinsing off.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">I have a two part theory. First, I suspect the previous renters had all taken showers just before leaving. (The shower area was still wet.) Second, there may be an underground break in the water line somewhere such that the pump is working even when no water is being used in the cabin.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">The moral and the workaround? CONSERVE WATER. Believe the signs telling us to conserve. Second – but pending concurrence from the overseers – turn off the water pump using breakers Nos. 8/10 when going out for the day to allow the well to fill.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Times, "Times New Roman", serif;">With this I end my three page novella. I have an appointment with the hammock.</span></span><br />
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Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-20647652851741217502018-07-09T20:05:00.000+03:002018-07-14T05:05:56.201+03:00Out of the Muck<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">This could have been titled, "How I Survived my Near Career Death Experience." Other possibilities include "Finding my Inner Raging Bitch" or "Me Too at State." </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">After my experiences at the end of my three years in Kazakhstan, I did not have much fight left in me. With two years to go until mandatory retirement for age, I chose to return to an office in Washington where I had once served <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">a number of years ago. To provide some cover, let me call this the Muck Operations Center or MOC, a <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">nod to friends with w<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">hom I wo<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">rked on NASA missions for so many years.</span></span></span> J<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">ust as<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> at NASA, this MOC functions 2<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">4/7, 365 da<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">ys a year<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">. </span></span></span></span></span></span>It involves shift work and working on holidays, but it's the type of work that one leaves behind at the office. It's what I call "good, honest operations work" at a time when a progressive liberal like yours truly is best staying away from policy if only in the interests of preserving one's sanity. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">In this MOC it's the Muck Officers (M<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">O) who do the lion's share of the work. They are the one<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">s on the line doing the 24/7 <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">muck processing support. As to me<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">, I </span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">returned as Senior Muck Officer (S<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">M</span>O). When I had served there previously, there had been only one S<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">M</span>O who was nothing more than the first of equals among the Muck Officers. The S<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">M</span>O did all the same work and pulled all the same rotating shifts.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Things had changed since then. Now, it turned out, there are two S<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">M</span>Os, both of whom function more as supervisors than as <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Muck</span> Officers. I was surprised at the change, but so be it. All I needed to do was ride out two years. Surely I could do anything for two years, couldn't I?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">After settling back into this office, I came to realize that the S<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">M</span>O position was somewhat superfluous, a buffer between the Muck Officers and the front office management and frequently a mouthpiece for directives coming from management. It's the <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Muck</span> Officers who continue to do the real work.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">If there was one thing I remembered from my time as a <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Muck</span> Officer, it was that the work is labor intensive with much repetitive manual processing. Even then I had put on my IT hat and thought that much of the work was screaming out for automation. With 25 years behind me as an analyst and programmer on NASA projects, I had a vision for a software design that could save a Muck Officer as much as an hour or more of valuable time during peak shifts. Just think of it, an entire hour <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">that a human being does not need to <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">be immersed in muck! </span></span>Now back as S<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">M</span>O, I decided the time had come to turn that vision into reality.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">By December 2017 I had put together design and build plans and had developed a beta version for my own testing. I held a meeting that included the front office. I was given the go ahead to proceed. An external review by State IT personnel would take place sometime in the spring, but in the meantime I had a blessing to deploy the software system to those Muck Officers who were willing to be beta testers. Between January and April I progressed through several beta releases, updating and distributing documentation at each step, and I had almost all Muck Officers clamoring to be beta testers. I found myself staying after hours and coming in on non-work days to push the work forward. I saw this effort as my gift to an office that had been good to me in the past and that had given me a haven at this difficult political time.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">But in mid-May I was rudely awakened from this idyllic view. I had been away for two weeks for medical reasons. I was working the evening shift on my first day back. Not surprisingly, my first task was to dig out of two weeks' worth of accumulated e-mails. At about 8pm I came to the message that changed my life. It was a "Mandatory Guidance" issued by the other S<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">M</span>O and signed by the front office. It instructed <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Muck</span> Officers to return to manual methods pending an investigation of the methods developed by S<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">M</span>O Robyn McCutcheon.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was stunned. I searched in vain to see if there had been some attempt to contact me to prior to issuance of this "Mandatory Guidance" or to explain to me afterward why it had been issued. There was nothing, not a word of explanation to me. Moreover, the guidance had been issued just two work days before my return.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">A suspicion that had been lurking in the back of my head jumped to the foreground. From the beginning, the other S<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">M</span>O had professed again and again that he did not have time for me to bring him up to speed on the design and development. He had always averred to being too busy. "Some other time" was the refrain. And now he had convinced the front office of the necessity of issuing this "Mandatory Guidance" with no warning to me.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The suspicion crystallized: I had a colleague who, even in the area of muck, seemed to have issues working with intelligent women. Isolated instances over the months now strung together in my mind, not all of them involving me directly.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I took my concerns to front office management and was equally stunned by the response. Within days I was cast as the trouble maker and was being ordered just to do my job, shovel the muck, and not contest the "Mandatory Guidance." I responded that under the circumstances, I no longer wished to work in the office. Once voted "<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Muck</span> Officer of the Year" and recipient of a Meritorious Honor Award for my efficient<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> muck </span>work, I had torn off my smiley face and revealed the inner bitch with whom I was quickly getting in touch. I opened an EEO case even knowing that proving anything in such circumstances usually goes nowhere. It's a case of "he said -- she said" in which I would be told by my soon to be erstwhile colleague that there was nothing related to my gender in the crafting and issuing of the "Mandatory Guidance."</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">So as my front office started talking about disciplinary action, I began writing my letter of resignation from the Foreign Service. I had wanted to resign last August after the refusal of Sultana's visa and had only stayed at the behest of colleagues and friends and to maximize my pension. I already knew I had enough to live on if I were to throw in the towel. Why not?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I almost did. This is where my hymn to cisgender gay friends begins. One in particular stopped me. I followed his good guidance, finding a therapist who supported my application to use Family Medical Leave Act (FMLA) in order to get out of an increasingly tense office situation and use the time away from the muck to plan my future calmly. It gave me time to throw out a request to Foreign Service friends in hopes someone might know of an office with an immediate need. I began interviewing, and in the end, I found such an office that needed someone for a year's tour as quickly as possible. We shook hands on the deal.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Still, nothing is automatic in the Foreign Service. To get out of the Muck Operations Center, I had to submit a request that would be reviewed by a "curtailment panel." Given that I knew my MOC management would oppose, I didn't think the odds were in my favor. I had my resignation letter written and ready to go just in case, and I made sure the "curtailment panel" knew it. The panel met two weeks ago, and I was as surprised as anyone when the panel approved my request. I start working in my new office in mid-Ju<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">ly</span>.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">So what do I take away from this experience?</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">First, being taken seriously as an intelligent, capable woman at State is as difficult as being taken seriously as a woman anywhere. I don't think anyone had even bothered to read the stream of design and user documentation I had been issuing regularly since December. The only people who cared were the Muck Officers themselves who were the ones with the most to gain. (I also now look back with gratitude to the many talented women engineers and managers I worked alongside during my years of NASA work.)</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Second, after my rape experience on a ferry from Georgia to Ukraine while returning to the US last year (<a href="http://attitude-analyst.blogspot.com/2017/12/my-journey-home_11.html" target="_blank"><i>My Journey . . . Home?</i></a>), I <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">am thin skinned, to put it mil<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">dly, when <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">my fate is being <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">decided by men who treat me as though I'm not there.</span></span></span></span> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Third</span>, I may not have the fight left in me to go against an entire bureau that has decided I'm a trouble maker, but I do have the strength to make principled demands and, if they are not met, not to compromise. In this case I had demanded the rolling back or, with my help, revision of the "Mandatory Guidance." When it became clear that this was not going to happen, I made the decision to leave. With help and support from friends and colleagues, I was able to do this without resigning outright. They know who they are, and they have my deepest thanks.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Finally, living by one's principles does have a price. In my case it's a month of leave without pay while I was on FMLA. Also, the position I'm going to comes with a somewhat lower salary, but the salary is lower for a good reason: no shift work and <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">no more muck!</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I regret that the <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Muck</span> Officers I worked beside will not benefit from the automation I was giving them, but I leave with my dignity intact and hope that I will be an example to other women at State. There are times one must stand on principle no matter what the career consequences may be.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">* * * * * * * *</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The ending words from <i>Kiri's Piano</i> written by Canadian singer-songwriter James Keelaghan describe beautifully my feelings at the end of this difficult period:</span></span></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Kiri knew what I did not that if we must be free,</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Then sometimes we must sacrifice to gain our dignity. </span></span></div>
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Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-772734720339908859.post-72395306669876671262018-01-26T06:02:00.000+02:002018-01-26T07:41:54.296+02:00A Stranger Among My Own<span style="font-size: large;">This post could be subtitled "When the World Doesn't Care." For those who have become accustomed to upbeat articles from me, this will be an exception.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">For the first time in over a decade, I greeted the New Year alone. Not that I've ever been a party woman on New Year's Eve. Far from it. It's usually been a quiet holiday for me, but to spend it alone? How different this New Year was from the past three when NN and I would wait up, usually watching an old movie, and go out on our balcony to watch the fireworks over Astana at midnight. Last year BP joined us. We watched the Truffaut movie version of <i>Fahrenheit 451, </i>taking a break only to view the midnight spectacle explode above the Esil' River, the presidential palace, and the endless white of the steppe. On New Year's Day we would go out into the park and throw ourselves into the snow, making snow angels in the -20C and sometimes even -40C cold.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I'm not really the type of Foreign Service Officer that the State Department wants. I <i>went native</i> in Romania, and I went even more so in Kazakhstan. A year ago I had Sultana, her Mom, and NN living with me, sometimes with the addition of BP or whatever guest stayed late into the night. Ours was a family. It was the family I had always dreamed of but could only have after transition. Although I did my job for the U.S. Embassy and am proud of several of my achievements there, it was family that made Astana special for me.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Sultana's triple visa denial was just as devastating for me as it was to her. I felt as though my colleagues, the State Department, and my country as a whole had turned against me. I still feel that way. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">So here I am, back in the US. Alone, a stranger among my own. Of course, there are compensations, important ones at that. I get to see my grown son and my granddaughter whenever I want, not just once a year. Same goes for my sisters. I did miss them overseas, and watching my three-year-old granddaughter open her Christmas presents was something I wouldn't have missed for the world. But this was different from being a head of household, in fact a surrogate Mom or older sister, for my family in Astana.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">More generally, I have landed in the country of Trump and Pence, a country where I must fear that my rights are under threat. Trump's attempt to bar transgender persons from serving in the military was turned back by the courts, but does he even realize that there are transgender diplomats? I doubt it. I wonder what would be his reaction if he knew? Given his low regard for the State Department, perhaps he wouldn't care. Or would he?</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">In the aftermath of the election in November 2016, I like many progressives jumped into the fray, writing letters and making phone calls, not to mention increasing my monthly contribution to a number of organizations. Then Sultana together with her college and visa quest took over only to be followed by disillusion and heartbreak.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I've already written at length about my disillusion with my own colleagues in Astana, most prominently in my article <a href="https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/trans-student-visa-kazakhstan_us_5a0a2626e4b0bc648a0d5569" target="_blank">Why Is The U.S. Denying This Young Trans Woman A Student Visa?</a> in the HuffPost. The <a href="https://esquire.kz/kakovo-to-v-bty-diplomatom-transgenderom/" target="_blank">Kazakhstani edition of Esquire</a> picked up and printed in Russian the interview I gave about Sultana to journalist Botagoz Omarova, and another Kazakhstani news portal reprinted much of the <a href="http://vteme.kz/publ/analitika/ehnigma/transnacionalnaja_tragedija/34-1-0-133" target="_blank">HuffPost article in Russian</a>. And of course, I have written in this web journal.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Those articles have changed nothing. The Embassy in Astana has hidden behind Sections 214(b) and 222(f) of the Immigration and Naturalization Act (INA). Together, those two sections of the INA can serve as cover for whatever a Consul decides no matter what the basis for the decision. Being a Consul means exercising great power over the lives of others. If a Consul is homophobic or transphobic, s/he can incorporate that prejudice into visa decisions without ever having to justify the decision to anyone. It is my view that the job of Consul could be an excellent choice for a petty tyrant who doesn't have what it takes to become an authoritarian on a larger stage.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbJEKwdMearQ1J_J63eK7GGbUG1jTi8CtI-2NUrqoIgccnNR2RDFLdODWAWuaeCAH9Yn-kVpDx1tNZp8u21G5_ncITGmyeVPdYem5pll8SuxCmZdklA_MX-24iHwWwe7ho49lrjE57vBs/s1600/Esquire.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="892" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbJEKwdMearQ1J_J63eK7GGbUG1jTi8CtI-2NUrqoIgccnNR2RDFLdODWAWuaeCAH9Yn-kVpDx1tNZp8u21G5_ncITGmyeVPdYem5pll8SuxCmZdklA_MX-24iHwWwe7ho49lrjE57vBs/s400/Esquire.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">No one cares that the decisions in Sultana's case amount to a human rights violation. Certainly my former colleagues don't care. No one at the State Department in Washington seems to care either. When I nearly resigned after the third visa refusal, a few supporters within State urged me to stay, telling me that inside the State Department I have a voice. I don't. I can write as many articles and have as many meetings as I like at Main State. No one cares. I'm just an upper mid-level officer making noise. More than that, I'm a woman making noise, a transgender woman at that.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My disillusion extends also to those in the LGBTQI and progressive communities. The disillusionment began slowly when I realized that there weren't many who were ready to contribute even a small amount to Sultana's tuition crowd funding campaign. People whom I expected to jump in did not.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">That disillusionment deepened after the visa refusals. Those who I thought would care aren't ready to do more than give a shrug and say that Sultana needs to improve her ties with Kazakhstan to overcome paragraph 214(b) of the INA that puts the onus on visa applicants to prove that they are not <i>intending immigrants.</i> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Pardon me? 14 out of 15 students accepted by Lane Community College from Kazakhstan received visas and only Sultana did not? Is anyone going to seriously believe that Sultana alone out of 15 applicants was the only one who did not have <i>good ties</i> to Kazakhstan? I will say until my dying breath that she was refused because she is transgender. The only way she could convince consular officers that she has <i>good ties</i> to Kazakhstan would be, somehow, <i>to not be transgender</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I think of those LGBTQI and progressive allies, I find the song <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SFz26RhIqbU" target="_blank">Easy To Be Hard</a> playing in my head.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have also found that the authority and respect I thought I had earned as the State Department's first openly transgender diplomat and as president of the State Department's LGBT+ association GLIFAA in 2013-14 was an illusion. The people and organizations I worked with actively in earlier years don't respond when I write about Sultana's plight and the transphobic refusals of her student visa. Last year I was included in a list of <a href="https://www.lgbtqnation.com/2017/01/top-50-successful-transgender-americans-know/" target="_blank">The top 50 successful transgender Americans you should know</a>. Missing in the title of that list was the word <i>influential</i>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have also discovered that the liberal, progressive media I had thought would care about Sultana's case don't care at all. The use of INA 214(b) and 222(f) as a screen for prejudice doesn't rise to the level of public interest when the person targeted by the prejudice is transgender. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Perhaps this has all been a needed personal reminder whispered in my ear as in Roman times that <i>glory fades.</i> What success I had as an activist in the US was limited to one year. I'm better known today in that capacity in Kazakhstan and Romania than in the US. It is good to remember, in the end, that I am mortal, just one person no more deserving of respect than any other.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">More optimistically, <u>there have been supporters</u>, several of who have asked to remain behind the scenes but who have been there with me at even the hardest moments. My gratitude and my heart go out to them. They donated money for Sultana's tuition. They wrote to senators and representatives on her behalf. They helped me get the word out to those few mainstream publications that were willing to cover Sultana's plight. The National Center for Transgender Equality expressed interest, and there have been other words of support from a handful of human rights defenders.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And so I go forward. I'm still at the State Department. For what? Yes, I'm here for the money. I have a year and a half to go until mandatory retirement at age 65, and the way pensions are computed, I need to stay until the mandatory date if I wish to maximize the pension. Each day I wonder if this is the day I will throw in the towel, but I tell myself that if I wish to help the family I have known, there is good reason to have that larger pension. I have found myself a very non-political, operations job in a good office with good people. In their company, I believe I can go forward.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Or not. Perhaps this flea one day will bite the elephant too hard, and the elephant will respond in the way an elephant would respond to a flea that bites. And yet forward I go with the words of <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2C5EPmR7YdY" target="_blank">Percy's Song</a> ringing in my head:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Bad news, bad news came to me where I sleep</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Turn, turn, turn again</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Sayin' one of your friends is in trouble deep</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Turn, turn to the rain and the wind</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A young woman has been denied an education in her own country, and the transphobic decisions of my erstwhile colleagues in Astana are complicit in furthering this violation of human rights.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">And I played my guitar through the night to the day</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Turn, turn, turn again</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And the only tune my guitar could play</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Was, "Oh the cruel rain and the wind"</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I will continue to fight even if no one listens, no matter the cruel rain and the wind.</span>
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Robyn Ann Jane Alice McCutcheonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05710633551468843276noreply@blogger.com3