Nick Blanchard and I were recently invited to a Swap Support Group in Canton, Ohio. It has been running since prior to the advent of the BISA or the Church run by Evelyn Trimble, and offers swapees a less formal medium to vent their frustrations at adjusting their entire lives. Small groups like these have cropped up all over the nation, loosely-associated and subtly but not expressly supported by BISA. They meet in church basements, community centres, rec halls, auditoriums, wherever they can rent out. Nick and I enter and are greeted quite heartily.
"Well hello," one young man, Cassandra Davis, a 14-year-old Ohio girl in the body of a 10-year-old boy, greets us, shaking Nick's hand first and telling her, "Wow, you're very lucky," he turns to me and says, "You were so pretty."
Nick blushes and explains that she and I are not connected in that way, the original occupant of her body just opted not to take the road trip (as Nick had yet to start her new job but Traci was getting used to his.)
There are ten people present apart from us. They encourage people to come with their swap-partners, but this isn't always possible. Shaun Speedman and Marie DiManno, two University Students, sit across from each other. Victoria Worth, a St. Paul, MN single mother who was swapped into the body of a Vancouver teen, came alone, as did William Trenton, originally from Oklahoma. Also present are Lew and Donna Frickman.
Darren Chau and Brad Eidelman, from San Diego, CA and Canton, OH respectively, set the pace of the meeting. They were swapped in December. Chau, a fireman, and Eidelman, a Kindergarten teacher, agreed to start running support meetings after discussing Chau's unfortunate inability to face fires the way he previously had, owing strangely to a recurring dream Eidelman had as a child.
"There will always be pressure, be it from your family, co-workers, even the BISA, for you to adopt the identity of the body you have been given," begins Eidelman, "But you can't forget it is you who dictates your identity. Not society, not a piece of paper, not the face you wear. What's under it."
There are rumblings of agreement as the floor is opened. Trenton stands first. Originally a high school student, he was swapped into the body of Melissa Belleville-Adams, a 29-year-old French/American widowed teacher just a week before his seventeenth birthday in March. After it happened, she tearfully explained, her mother, Noelle Trenton, was in dire need of gallbladder surgery, a procedure the lower-middle class family could ill afford. At her darkest moment, the younger Trenton nearly accepted a role in a pornographic film series, "New Confessions of a Window Washer" to pay for the procedure.
Belleville-Adams was a onetime contender for the title of Miss France before moving to the United States with her husband (a native of Louisiana,) and giving up modelling to become a teacher. Trenton was very afraid for her mother's life, but was disgusted at the proposition, saying her mother would never forgive her if she even knew the offer had been considered.
I watched Nick's face through that story. Having had some personal, physical and romantic adjustments to make for herself, it appeared to affect her. William Trenton never said whether she actually performed in the adult film, but sobbingly informed us that they did indeed raise the money needed for the procedure.
There was a bald older man with a goatee sitting in the corner playing with a cigarette throughout the story. He never introduced himself, and before I could ask him, he left the building. The meeting continued.
Cassandra Davis attempts to express his frustration at being a prepubescent male, but words appear to fail him and he doesn't seem to find the words he is looking for. So he re-takes his seat. Nick indulges in a few lighthearted anecdotes about living with his former body.
The meeting becomes more of a debate as the Frickmans expound the virtues of the Church of the Holy Redeemer, as they'd recently joined. Having thought enough about the Church that week, I stepped out, where the mystery man was waiting.
"Need a light?" he says, emerging from the shadows lit only by the orange bead of light from his Camel cigarette.
"No, I'm not here to smoke, I just needed some... air," I told him.
He chuckled and went back to the shadows.
"Who are you?" I asked him.
He asked me in return, "you're the news guy, right? From the website?"
"Yeah."
Again, he chuckled. "I think you'll find out soon enough."
"But... you've been swapped, right?"
He nods.
More than a little perplexed, I return to the meeting.
Speedman and DiManno are arguing, which often seems to happen. They share a common ground: DiManno, a studious girl, was a star on the University of Sydney Women's Basketball Team, and Speedman, originally an African-American, was attending the University of Alabama on a basketball scholarship. however, as University of Alabama does not have a women's basketball team, Speedman has met difficulty and may not return to the school next year. There is, you might imagine, some hostility between the two.
Speedman, who in DiManno's body dresses like the gangsta she once was, looks somewhat ridiclous in the baggy jeans and chains. Having grown frustrated with her current life, Speedman, in contrast to many swapees, has become aggressively sexual toward both genders. DiManno, meanwhile, dresses like a proper gentlemen and retains an Aussie accent, and seriously disapproves of Speedman's actions.
Chau and Eidleman break the argument off as best they can, telling people that an hour is about up and they can check the website if they want to come to another meeting. Speedman leaves in a huff, DiManno exits the other way. I get contact information for as many people as possible.
I remain most curious, however, about the smoking man. He told me I'd find out soon enough. I don't think I can wait that long.
Friday, April 27, 2007
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Nick: Getting it on
(Written Sunday night.)
To start off with, it's hard enough getting used to a new city, let alone a new physiology. I've been tossing and turning on the couch most nights. It would be more convenient (and plainly sensible) for Traci and I to just sleep together - not do anything, but sleep in the same bed - because it's hardly like we've got anything to hide from each other.
The other night, I was kept awake, as I often am, by the general city noises that float up and penetrate the window, when I heard a scream. A woman's scream, not a block from my place. Suddenly I can't sleep at all. Suddenly I don't ever even want to leave the apartment, because it dawns on me, that I can't be safe walking by myself anymore, a confidence I had, rightly, taken for granted. Not that men are never victims, just that they rarely consider themselves such. Suddenly, this woman's scream will haunt my every moment, at least at night. Toronto seemed like a nice place, but like any city, it has its dangers.
Traci tried to allay this fear by handing me a can of mase to carry in my purse. It's a sensible tool, yeah, but having it around just reminds me - "You're small and weak now, Nicky-boy. This is all you've got."
Fortunately, I don't go out much anyway.
The good news is - I got the job!
Starting monday, I will be working in the PR department of Toronto's BISA chapter. It looks like it will be a steady gig, which is what I need, since my life hasn't exactly been steady lately. It feels good to finally be getting on track. In fact, it's more on track now than it was when I was a man.... which is just a little sad, to me.
Traci, in a rare showing of appreciation for me living in his body/apartment/life, suggested we hit the town and celebrate. I was leery - read: uncomfortable with the world seeing me attempt to "cut loose" in this body - but his insistence and my hidden desire to enjoy myself won over. I wanted to prove that all those fearsome elements of the city at night were nothing to me.
Traci, for his part, has been taking a very casual approach to the situation. He's turned me (my old body) into some kind of metrosexual icon, a woman's dream project. I guess that's fine - I have'nt given her body the same treatment, because dressing how a man would like to see a woman is a different matter, and hardly appropriate, let alone comfortable.
After changing my outfit about three times (and I may never get used to the idea that I have "outfits," but that's comparatively small I suppose) and going with a regular tee (well, one of those deals with the sleeves that barely pull over the shoulders, and lets the navel area peek out) and a pair of jeans (minus back pockets - I never got that.) He hands me a purse - something I have forgotten at least three times a week when leaving the house - and we head down to this Irish Pub, Monahan's.
It was a saturday night, and so it was fairly hopping. I was hoping to just sink into the corwd, get a nice buzz on, have a laugh, and stumble home. Traci, for his part, had other ideas.
We ordered a few drinks and some bar food. I had a beer, he had a rum and coke. "Dude," I told him in a voice not used to using that word, "Rum's a drink for women and pirates."
He looks at me, smiles, winks, and says "Yarr, matey!"
We drank a toast. "To new beginnings!" he cheered. I clinked his glass and felt uneasy. New beginnings indeed. I saw his eyes dart around the room.
"Looking for someone?" I asked him.
"I guess so, yeah..." he kept looking.
Eventually, he spotted a table of girls and told me that, after "another one of these things," (meaning drinks,) he was going to go talk to them.
"What, you mean talk?"
"To start, yeah," he grinned and a little blush came over my old face.
"You're not serious!" I cried out. "There's no way you are going to do that. I wouldn't even have done that when I was you!" the girls were gorgeous.
"I can't help it," he reasoned, "Ever since, well, I saw the way you looked in my skirt... it's done something uncontrollable to me. I can't stop myself. More importantly, I can't stop your... thingy..."
"Stop right there," I told him, "No need to explain. Just be careful. Those things can do as much bad as good."
"Believe me," he sighed, probably remembering something from his prior life, "I know."
With this sudden revelation shaking me to the core, I didn't drink so fast anymore, and began to nurse my pint of (whatever the local beer is, Molson something.) If Traci was ready to start being a guy, did that mean I should start being a girl? I sunk low and slouched my shoulders. If I was real quiet, maybe nobody would notice me.
Eventually, however, that wasn't the case. I was bored, having been foresaken by my drinking buddy on his chase for bar chicks, and started to roam the place, eventually coming to the billiards table.
"You play?" some guy asked me. If I'm about 5'3, (I don't know for sure,) he looked to be maybe 6'. He had a goatee and an earring, and wore a dress shirt with black jeans.
I didn't acknowledge him at first. He repeated, "Do you want to play a game?"
It was a fairly obvious come-on, but the implication was innocent enough. I like pool, I don't suck at it, I'll give it a go. "Sure," I told him, as I thought, crap, what am I getting myself into?
I kept the game friendly, um, as in platonic. We only made small chit-chat between shots. He asked where I was from, I told him I was new in town. Don't ask why, but I was reluctant to admit I was a swapee. I know the counsellors say to be open, but this didn't seem appropriate. So I played the role of mystery girl, all the while wary that I might fall too far into the roll.
He won the game - pretty handily actually, which in the end didn't surprise me. He asked if he could buy me a drink. I didn't want another one. "I think I'm gonna head home, soon."
"Well, look, let me walk you home," he says. I don't want him to, but I keep thinking about the scream.
"Fine."
I wanted to tell Traci, except I couldn't find him. So I grabbed my coat and purse and let this guy take me to the subway.
"I think I can go from here," I told him.
There's a pause. I'm waiting for him to say goodbye, or, uh, something, when he starts to lean in.
I step back. "Er, no. Sorry. I'm really sorry." (I wasn't, but I felt bad.) "Maybe if you got to know me, you'd decide..." I can't find the words. "You wouldn't want to."
"I doubt that," he shrugs. "Can I at least call you?"
This is probably the worst situation I've ever been in, by this point. Finally I tell him, "Maybe I'll call you." Maybe. Huuuge maybe.
He gives me his number, and as he walks away and I'm getting on the subway, I crumple it up and shove it in the purse.
"But you didn't throw it out?" asked Cherie the next day. I decided I wanted a more professional look for my new job - short. Not boyish, because I don't think that looks good, and while I'd like my masculinity back, not having it makes the whole affair seem pointless. So I want my hair to just go down to my chin. Think Lisa Miller on NewsRadio (does anybody remember that awesome show?) Before it started thinning out, I had my hair about that length in high school (it was, after all, the grunge era.) I just wanted to stop having to pull it back.
"Well, no, I didn't," I told her, my hair dunked, neck resting on the sink. "That would be rude."
"But are you going to call him?" she asked.
"Probably not," I said it more for my own benefit than for hers. "But I'll tell you, if I don't get some soon, I'm gonna explode. I just have to figure out what it is I want!"
"Well," she started to say, in what was probably supposed to be comforting, "Don't tell any guys I said this, but you should know. When they do it right, it feels amazing."
Flatly, I tell her, "That doesn't help."
"So, whatever happened to Traci?"
"Oh, that's the worst part," I tell her, "I wake up this morning and he's got some girl using our shower! I can't believe it. Already. And in my body. My body, which hasn't been with a woman in... frankly, I'd rather not say how long. And he looks all proud and tells me, 'Well, looks like I'm a man, now.' I tell him, 'Great. That makes one of us, I guess.'"
She laughed at that little bit of self-deprecating humour, and then sighed, "Oh honey, don't worry." Women always say that. "It'll all work out."
Hmp. As she starts to dry me off, I muse, "I just can't believe he went through with it."
After she was done - and mde me, quite honestly, gorgeous, we took a lunch and browsed some of her favourite stores. I didn't take an interest. In light of what happened last night, it's never been more obvious to me that I just don't fit in this body, even if Traci seems to be fitting into mine.
-Nick
To start off with, it's hard enough getting used to a new city, let alone a new physiology. I've been tossing and turning on the couch most nights. It would be more convenient (and plainly sensible) for Traci and I to just sleep together - not do anything, but sleep in the same bed - because it's hardly like we've got anything to hide from each other.
The other night, I was kept awake, as I often am, by the general city noises that float up and penetrate the window, when I heard a scream. A woman's scream, not a block from my place. Suddenly I can't sleep at all. Suddenly I don't ever even want to leave the apartment, because it dawns on me, that I can't be safe walking by myself anymore, a confidence I had, rightly, taken for granted. Not that men are never victims, just that they rarely consider themselves such. Suddenly, this woman's scream will haunt my every moment, at least at night. Toronto seemed like a nice place, but like any city, it has its dangers.
Traci tried to allay this fear by handing me a can of mase to carry in my purse. It's a sensible tool, yeah, but having it around just reminds me - "You're small and weak now, Nicky-boy. This is all you've got."
Fortunately, I don't go out much anyway.
The good news is - I got the job!
Starting monday, I will be working in the PR department of Toronto's BISA chapter. It looks like it will be a steady gig, which is what I need, since my life hasn't exactly been steady lately. It feels good to finally be getting on track. In fact, it's more on track now than it was when I was a man.... which is just a little sad, to me.
Traci, in a rare showing of appreciation for me living in his body/apartment/life, suggested we hit the town and celebrate. I was leery - read: uncomfortable with the world seeing me attempt to "cut loose" in this body - but his insistence and my hidden desire to enjoy myself won over. I wanted to prove that all those fearsome elements of the city at night were nothing to me.
Traci, for his part, has been taking a very casual approach to the situation. He's turned me (my old body) into some kind of metrosexual icon, a woman's dream project. I guess that's fine - I have'nt given her body the same treatment, because dressing how a man would like to see a woman is a different matter, and hardly appropriate, let alone comfortable.
After changing my outfit about three times (and I may never get used to the idea that I have "outfits," but that's comparatively small I suppose) and going with a regular tee (well, one of those deals with the sleeves that barely pull over the shoulders, and lets the navel area peek out) and a pair of jeans (minus back pockets - I never got that.) He hands me a purse - something I have forgotten at least three times a week when leaving the house - and we head down to this Irish Pub, Monahan's.
It was a saturday night, and so it was fairly hopping. I was hoping to just sink into the corwd, get a nice buzz on, have a laugh, and stumble home. Traci, for his part, had other ideas.
We ordered a few drinks and some bar food. I had a beer, he had a rum and coke. "Dude," I told him in a voice not used to using that word, "Rum's a drink for women and pirates."
He looks at me, smiles, winks, and says "Yarr, matey!"
We drank a toast. "To new beginnings!" he cheered. I clinked his glass and felt uneasy. New beginnings indeed. I saw his eyes dart around the room.
"Looking for someone?" I asked him.
"I guess so, yeah..." he kept looking.
Eventually, he spotted a table of girls and told me that, after "another one of these things," (meaning drinks,) he was going to go talk to them.
"What, you mean talk?"
"To start, yeah," he grinned and a little blush came over my old face.
"You're not serious!" I cried out. "There's no way you are going to do that. I wouldn't even have done that when I was you!" the girls were gorgeous.
"I can't help it," he reasoned, "Ever since, well, I saw the way you looked in my skirt... it's done something uncontrollable to me. I can't stop myself. More importantly, I can't stop your... thingy..."
"Stop right there," I told him, "No need to explain. Just be careful. Those things can do as much bad as good."
"Believe me," he sighed, probably remembering something from his prior life, "I know."
With this sudden revelation shaking me to the core, I didn't drink so fast anymore, and began to nurse my pint of (whatever the local beer is, Molson something.) If Traci was ready to start being a guy, did that mean I should start being a girl? I sunk low and slouched my shoulders. If I was real quiet, maybe nobody would notice me.
Eventually, however, that wasn't the case. I was bored, having been foresaken by my drinking buddy on his chase for bar chicks, and started to roam the place, eventually coming to the billiards table.
"You play?" some guy asked me. If I'm about 5'3, (I don't know for sure,) he looked to be maybe 6'. He had a goatee and an earring, and wore a dress shirt with black jeans.
I didn't acknowledge him at first. He repeated, "Do you want to play a game?"
It was a fairly obvious come-on, but the implication was innocent enough. I like pool, I don't suck at it, I'll give it a go. "Sure," I told him, as I thought, crap, what am I getting myself into?
I kept the game friendly, um, as in platonic. We only made small chit-chat between shots. He asked where I was from, I told him I was new in town. Don't ask why, but I was reluctant to admit I was a swapee. I know the counsellors say to be open, but this didn't seem appropriate. So I played the role of mystery girl, all the while wary that I might fall too far into the roll.
He won the game - pretty handily actually, which in the end didn't surprise me. He asked if he could buy me a drink. I didn't want another one. "I think I'm gonna head home, soon."
"Well, look, let me walk you home," he says. I don't want him to, but I keep thinking about the scream.
"Fine."
I wanted to tell Traci, except I couldn't find him. So I grabbed my coat and purse and let this guy take me to the subway.
"I think I can go from here," I told him.
There's a pause. I'm waiting for him to say goodbye, or, uh, something, when he starts to lean in.
I step back. "Er, no. Sorry. I'm really sorry." (I wasn't, but I felt bad.) "Maybe if you got to know me, you'd decide..." I can't find the words. "You wouldn't want to."
"I doubt that," he shrugs. "Can I at least call you?"
This is probably the worst situation I've ever been in, by this point. Finally I tell him, "Maybe I'll call you." Maybe. Huuuge maybe.
He gives me his number, and as he walks away and I'm getting on the subway, I crumple it up and shove it in the purse.
"But you didn't throw it out?" asked Cherie the next day. I decided I wanted a more professional look for my new job - short. Not boyish, because I don't think that looks good, and while I'd like my masculinity back, not having it makes the whole affair seem pointless. So I want my hair to just go down to my chin. Think Lisa Miller on NewsRadio (does anybody remember that awesome show?) Before it started thinning out, I had my hair about that length in high school (it was, after all, the grunge era.) I just wanted to stop having to pull it back.
"Well, no, I didn't," I told her, my hair dunked, neck resting on the sink. "That would be rude."
"But are you going to call him?" she asked.
"Probably not," I said it more for my own benefit than for hers. "But I'll tell you, if I don't get some soon, I'm gonna explode. I just have to figure out what it is I want!"
"Well," she started to say, in what was probably supposed to be comforting, "Don't tell any guys I said this, but you should know. When they do it right, it feels amazing."
Flatly, I tell her, "That doesn't help."
"So, whatever happened to Traci?"
"Oh, that's the worst part," I tell her, "I wake up this morning and he's got some girl using our shower! I can't believe it. Already. And in my body. My body, which hasn't been with a woman in... frankly, I'd rather not say how long. And he looks all proud and tells me, 'Well, looks like I'm a man, now.' I tell him, 'Great. That makes one of us, I guess.'"
She laughed at that little bit of self-deprecating humour, and then sighed, "Oh honey, don't worry." Women always say that. "It'll all work out."
Hmp. As she starts to dry me off, I muse, "I just can't believe he went through with it."
After she was done - and mde me, quite honestly, gorgeous, we took a lunch and browsed some of her favourite stores. I didn't take an interest. In light of what happened last night, it's never been more obvious to me that I just don't fit in this body, even if Traci seems to be fitting into mine.
-Nick
Friday, April 20, 2007
Nick: Foreseen problems
Let me just say that I firmly believe that, whatever gender you belong to, sex is supposed to feel good. But, for the first time since I was 12, I don't want any.
The reason should be obvious. Mentally, I'm still a guy, even though the tampax under the bathroom sink suggests otherwise. I don't know what sex feels like for a woman, I don't know when I'll find out, if ever. It's not even that I have a problem with the notion of some force invading my female parts. The problem lies in determining when, under what circumstances, and most importantly with whom.
As a man, I would have given Traci a good look walking down the streets. A lot of other guys feel the same way, and that's something I've noticed as time goes on and is bothering me more and more. At first I shrugged it off, but it's getting really irksome because it reminds me what I present to the world now. Simply put... I hate guys.
I've had exactly one sexual experience since being in this body, and it was a minor one. I wasn't even sure what it was until days later. It was during my first appointment with Cherie, the hairdresser Traci sent me to. She had my neck bent over the sink, soaking my hair, and her breast brushed up against me.
I havn't been with a woman in a very long time, and I'm talking about before I became one. Since that incident, I've had plenty of contact with breasts, not all of it sexual. The female body is becoming commonplace for me, I'm falling in to a sort of non-sexuality. I can't date guys, I can't screw girls.
I hadn't even thought about my romantic predicament because I'd been so busy working, trying to get my personal life in order. I had an interview for a PR position today, and I wanted to look nice. Traci seemed to think I accomplished it.
"Whoo, are those my legs?" he cheers before seeing my leave this morning, wearing a knee-length skirt, my first time in one. It's really warm today and my thinking is, it'll breathe well, plus make me appear professional. My hair's done up in some kind of ponytail with strands falling down the side of my face. I even got the make-up kit out.
My appointment was with the BISA Toronto, who were looking for swapees to staff the centre. It's not great pay, but I at least have a leg up. Ever since I told Traci's co-workers about what happened, I've been really eager to get out of there.
Traci, meanwhile, has been working in the mailroom of the office, so we commute together. We don't see one another during the day, though, so it's not that awkward. After all, we have to hang out at night, and it's already incredibly, incredibly awkward. I'm not going to lie, he's taking the swap way more easily than I have. I guess that's just some peoples' lot.
-Nick
The reason should be obvious. Mentally, I'm still a guy, even though the tampax under the bathroom sink suggests otherwise. I don't know what sex feels like for a woman, I don't know when I'll find out, if ever. It's not even that I have a problem with the notion of some force invading my female parts. The problem lies in determining when, under what circumstances, and most importantly with whom.
As a man, I would have given Traci a good look walking down the streets. A lot of other guys feel the same way, and that's something I've noticed as time goes on and is bothering me more and more. At first I shrugged it off, but it's getting really irksome because it reminds me what I present to the world now. Simply put... I hate guys.
I've had exactly one sexual experience since being in this body, and it was a minor one. I wasn't even sure what it was until days later. It was during my first appointment with Cherie, the hairdresser Traci sent me to. She had my neck bent over the sink, soaking my hair, and her breast brushed up against me.
I havn't been with a woman in a very long time, and I'm talking about before I became one. Since that incident, I've had plenty of contact with breasts, not all of it sexual. The female body is becoming commonplace for me, I'm falling in to a sort of non-sexuality. I can't date guys, I can't screw girls.
I hadn't even thought about my romantic predicament because I'd been so busy working, trying to get my personal life in order. I had an interview for a PR position today, and I wanted to look nice. Traci seemed to think I accomplished it.
"Whoo, are those my legs?" he cheers before seeing my leave this morning, wearing a knee-length skirt, my first time in one. It's really warm today and my thinking is, it'll breathe well, plus make me appear professional. My hair's done up in some kind of ponytail with strands falling down the side of my face. I even got the make-up kit out.
My appointment was with the BISA Toronto, who were looking for swapees to staff the centre. It's not great pay, but I at least have a leg up. Ever since I told Traci's co-workers about what happened, I've been really eager to get out of there.
Traci, meanwhile, has been working in the mailroom of the office, so we commute together. We don't see one another during the day, though, so it's not that awkward. After all, we have to hang out at night, and it's already incredibly, incredibly awkward. I'm not going to lie, he's taking the swap way more easily than I have. I guess that's just some peoples' lot.
-Nick
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
New Church Sings Swap Gospel
Confusion and fear are among the more prominent after-effects of a swap. Many swapees devoid of direction are turning to an alternative establishment founded by a swapee who goes by the name of Pastor Evelyn Trimble.
Evelyn, a roundish, salt-and-pepper haired lady in her mid-40's was, until earlier this spring, working as a janitor for a chemical company based in Dallas, TX. The man who was born Charles von Erich "Erik" Trimble found himself lying, dressed in rags, outside a church in Mobile, AL.
"I was an alcoholic, a loser, a worthless peon," Trimble explains. "I'd squirrelled away a small fortune for the purpose of gambling, but when I found myself outside of Our Lady of Mercy, I was inspired."
Trimble, who took her swap as a cue to completely reform her life, spent her few thousand dollars on a small chapel outside of Macon, GA where she could gather with fellow swapees.
"I wanted to share with people my revelation," the Pastor explains, "It's about helping people understand what has happened do them, or learn what may happen to those who have not yet been blessed."
The Church of the Holy Redeemer preaches that the swaps are a form of divine intervention. "We are all sinners, and in our ow way, we are all destitute, wanting for a path," Trimble says in one of her sermons. "Whether we understand or not, our holy moment comes to show us a path we ca nfollow, a way we can make ammends."
Trimble says there is not a trace of the old Charles in her. She does not gamble, imbibe alcohol, or "consort with whores" the way Charles von Erich Trimble did. She speaks of him in the third person as though he were a past acquaintence.
"Charles did not know where he belonged," she notes the one picture of her former self in her office. She gave me a tour, dressed in a conservative blue dress-suit, with her hair tightly wrapped in a bun, pale red lipstick on her lips, wearing matching heeled shoes. She is exceedingly matronly in her demeanor, which is surprising compared to the roguish bounder von Erich Trimble's acquaintences describe.
According to one of Trimble's ex-wives, who asked not to be named, when they were married he would often disappear for days at a time. "Sometimes he'd come back after losing a fortune, sometimes he'd try to convince us to all come out for pancakes to celebrate, even though he wouldn't tell us what. I couldn't stand living with the man."
The person who inherited Trimble's body, Faye Reingould, has been living quietly in Mobile, and asked not to be interviewed.
"She's very uplifting," says Donna Frickman, who has attended many sermons with his wife Lew. "We also enjoy the camraderie of our fellow swapees."
The Bureau for International Swap Affairs does not necessarily approve of Trimble's sect. "Though her sermons are often uplifting and healthy, we're very leery of her motives, and the information she spreads is not scientifically-based at all," explains Dr. Arthur Gulf of BISA Maryland.
Sources who knew Trimble explain he often remarked of his desire to start a church, according to one former friend, "Like that L. Ron guy." However, the Pastor insists she has changed her ways.
She tells a congregation of swapees, "The soul is a commodity, like any material in the universe, even like your body. You would recycle a bottle, or a can, or paper, to save these resources, and your souls are no different. The body it was housed in was no good to it, and it had to be recycled. Science cannot explain it, because it is bigger than science. It is redemption within this lifetime of ours, and you must seize this second chance and make it better than your first. Amen."
Thre is no charge to join the church, although donations are welcome. Services are held on Saturday nights and Sunday Mornings.
Evelyn, a roundish, salt-and-pepper haired lady in her mid-40's was, until earlier this spring, working as a janitor for a chemical company based in Dallas, TX. The man who was born Charles von Erich "Erik" Trimble found himself lying, dressed in rags, outside a church in Mobile, AL.
"I was an alcoholic, a loser, a worthless peon," Trimble explains. "I'd squirrelled away a small fortune for the purpose of gambling, but when I found myself outside of Our Lady of Mercy, I was inspired."
Trimble, who took her swap as a cue to completely reform her life, spent her few thousand dollars on a small chapel outside of Macon, GA where she could gather with fellow swapees.
"I wanted to share with people my revelation," the Pastor explains, "It's about helping people understand what has happened do them, or learn what may happen to those who have not yet been blessed."
The Church of the Holy Redeemer preaches that the swaps are a form of divine intervention. "We are all sinners, and in our ow way, we are all destitute, wanting for a path," Trimble says in one of her sermons. "Whether we understand or not, our holy moment comes to show us a path we ca nfollow, a way we can make ammends."
Trimble says there is not a trace of the old Charles in her. She does not gamble, imbibe alcohol, or "consort with whores" the way Charles von Erich Trimble did. She speaks of him in the third person as though he were a past acquaintence.
"Charles did not know where he belonged," she notes the one picture of her former self in her office. She gave me a tour, dressed in a conservative blue dress-suit, with her hair tightly wrapped in a bun, pale red lipstick on her lips, wearing matching heeled shoes. She is exceedingly matronly in her demeanor, which is surprising compared to the roguish bounder von Erich Trimble's acquaintences describe.
According to one of Trimble's ex-wives, who asked not to be named, when they were married he would often disappear for days at a time. "Sometimes he'd come back after losing a fortune, sometimes he'd try to convince us to all come out for pancakes to celebrate, even though he wouldn't tell us what. I couldn't stand living with the man."
The person who inherited Trimble's body, Faye Reingould, has been living quietly in Mobile, and asked not to be interviewed.
"She's very uplifting," says Donna Frickman, who has attended many sermons with his wife Lew. "We also enjoy the camraderie of our fellow swapees."
The Bureau for International Swap Affairs does not necessarily approve of Trimble's sect. "Though her sermons are often uplifting and healthy, we're very leery of her motives, and the information she spreads is not scientifically-based at all," explains Dr. Arthur Gulf of BISA Maryland.
Sources who knew Trimble explain he often remarked of his desire to start a church, according to one former friend, "Like that L. Ron guy." However, the Pastor insists she has changed her ways.
She tells a congregation of swapees, "The soul is a commodity, like any material in the universe, even like your body. You would recycle a bottle, or a can, or paper, to save these resources, and your souls are no different. The body it was housed in was no good to it, and it had to be recycled. Science cannot explain it, because it is bigger than science. It is redemption within this lifetime of ours, and you must seize this second chance and make it better than your first. Amen."
Thre is no charge to join the church, although donations are welcome. Services are held on Saturday nights and Sunday Mornings.
Friday, April 13, 2007
High school records unusual amount of swaps
Because of the relative rarity of swaps, most public institutions have not bothered to educate its faculties or, in the case of schools, student bodies, about the matter. Many students at Algonquin Memorial High School in upstate New York had unanswered questions and unassuaged fears when the first swap occurred among their ranks. What they didn't know was that it wouldn't be the last.
Bret Turnbull and Harvey Kidman were not very close. Both 15, Turnbull was known to be a tormentor of smaller students like Kidman. On a February day, Kidman was forced to hide underneath the track bleachers while Turnbull sought to terrorize him. though Turnbull had been reprimanded for his behavior on various occasions, it was no deterrent. It was a classic case of bully and victim, until the swap.
When, during a fourth period lunch session, Turnbull found himself sitting across from a chess board, he knew something was amiss. To his own personal shock, he had been swapped into the body of his favourite victim, whom he had nicknamed "Worm."
"I hate this," said a mournful Kidman, sitting in the shoes of a much larger but more physically agressive body. "I don't believe this was the only way the bullying could have stopped. He probably would have stopped picking on me if I'd turned into someone else. Anyone else. now I have to live with his face."
Kidman has reportedly been quite depressed since the incident, and has sought counselling, something he wouldn't even do when he was the target of Turnbull's scorn. Turnbull, for his part, seems to have settled down, but has been demoted to a benchwarmer on the school's baseball team, on which he was once a starting pitcher. It should be noted that, if one more serious incident had been reported between him and Kidman, he would have been removed from the team altogether.
The two were used as an example, sitting beside one another on the auditorium stage in front of all of their peers, to present an information package provided by the Bureau for International Swap Affairs. As the principal went over the details, that it could happen to anyone and was in fact happing all around the world, one student had his mind on other things.
Paul Derrien, 17, had one thing on his mind that day, like most days, and that was Kayla Aronson, 16. A grade below him, she had captured his imagination when they met briefly in the library. She was, however, dating another boy in his grade, Mike Hadley. That was to change one mid-March afternoon.
"It was actually the Friday before March Break," explains Derrien. "I was in math, I had just written a test when I felt like I was falling asleep. And that's not unusual I guess because I was pretty bored. And the first thing I sense is, like, the smell of sweat, and I get really warm. I hear all these voices around me echoing and footsteps running. It was like I had sleep-walked down to the gym."
It took a moment for Paul to realize what had happened. The girl had to catch her breath, bolting breathlessly from the gymnasium to the principal's office, where she was met by a famiiar face.
"She looked at me," Kayla recalls, "And I think she almost broke down in tears. And I almost did too."
"To suddenly be confronted, in this public place, with what has happened to you, it's a lot to take on," she recalls. "And at that time, you don't even grasp exactly how your life has changed. No, it takes a few days of walking around in someone els'es shoes before it starts to set in... this is different, and scary, but I can do it."
Kayla and Paul (now commonly referred to by students as "Kyle and Paula" despite the BISA's preference for not changing names,) were seen often in public together afterward. They say that at first, it was mostly for support, because not everyone has the advantage of being in close proximity to their body's prior owner.
"There were other advantages," Paul explains, "Because Mike [Hadley] wouldn't leave me alone for almost a month after the swap. and being seen with Kay in my old body, that gave people the idea that we were, you know, together."
In reality, Paula explains that was never the intention. "The last thing any teenage boy wants to see in the mirror is a pair of breasts, and the last thing he needs is to be gawked at or even hit on by guys incessantly. We were there for each other."
"And be for long," Kayla adds, "I thought, Paul makes a pretty nice girl. And I stopped looking at her as some guy in my old body, but as one of my closest friends."
It was, however, a shock to their friends when Kayla and Paul first kissed in the cafeteria.
"Paul used to have this wicked jumpshot," explains friend Dale Karlov, "We played basketball a lot. And now he's a girl, kissing boys. we haven't, um, talked a lot since."
"At first, I thought it was gross," says Melissa Kelown, a classmate of Kayla's, "But things change."
The change she describes echoes her own. Kelown was sitting at home reading on her bed one night when she felt feint and decided to lie back.
"And when I woke up, it was like the worst dream ever."
While Kelown did not have to address the same type of change Kayla and Paul did, the swap she found herself in was in a more serious situation.
"I was due after the end of the semester," explains Darla Montgomery, 29, a physics teacher at Algonquin Memorial. "[My fiancé] Bryan and I were very busy buying baby things and planning our finances. He'd already gone to bed and I was still awake, and then it happened."
Kelowna, in a body almost 6 months pregnant, now must face the unwilling duty of acting as a surrogate mother to her teacher.
"I feel so bad that she has to live with this," laments Mongomery, "Being pregnant isn't something you can just live with and get on with your life. It affects everything around you, especially at this late stage."
Kelowna, optiistic, says that she is grateful for the amount of leeway she has been given with her studies. "I don't think this is, like, an ordinary teen pregnancy," she jokes, adding "And when this is over, whatever body I'm in, I don't think I'll be having sex for a very long time."
Officials are concerned this matter could touch off perhaps the first-ever 'maternity' suit for the courts to argue over, but Kelowna is not looking to make herself the child's mother.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm doing all the work and hopefully I get something in return, but I don't want to, like, keep their baby hostage or anything. They're totally the parents. I'm just, like filling in."
Bertrand Mosses, the vice principal of Algonquin Memorial High School, has observed that three separate swaps have occurred, all concerning members of the faculty and student body.
"I don't like it, and it seems very odd," he scratches his head as he says, "It's as though somebody's targetting my people and I don't like it at all. The swaps seem totally random but this sort of thing doesn't happen when it's random."
No one can say for sure when, where or why a swap will occur, but Mosses is keeping a close eye on his school until the answers are divined.
Bret Turnbull and Harvey Kidman were not very close. Both 15, Turnbull was known to be a tormentor of smaller students like Kidman. On a February day, Kidman was forced to hide underneath the track bleachers while Turnbull sought to terrorize him. though Turnbull had been reprimanded for his behavior on various occasions, it was no deterrent. It was a classic case of bully and victim, until the swap.
When, during a fourth period lunch session, Turnbull found himself sitting across from a chess board, he knew something was amiss. To his own personal shock, he had been swapped into the body of his favourite victim, whom he had nicknamed "Worm."
"I hate this," said a mournful Kidman, sitting in the shoes of a much larger but more physically agressive body. "I don't believe this was the only way the bullying could have stopped. He probably would have stopped picking on me if I'd turned into someone else. Anyone else. now I have to live with his face."
Kidman has reportedly been quite depressed since the incident, and has sought counselling, something he wouldn't even do when he was the target of Turnbull's scorn. Turnbull, for his part, seems to have settled down, but has been demoted to a benchwarmer on the school's baseball team, on which he was once a starting pitcher. It should be noted that, if one more serious incident had been reported between him and Kidman, he would have been removed from the team altogether.
The two were used as an example, sitting beside one another on the auditorium stage in front of all of their peers, to present an information package provided by the Bureau for International Swap Affairs. As the principal went over the details, that it could happen to anyone and was in fact happing all around the world, one student had his mind on other things.
Paul Derrien, 17, had one thing on his mind that day, like most days, and that was Kayla Aronson, 16. A grade below him, she had captured his imagination when they met briefly in the library. She was, however, dating another boy in his grade, Mike Hadley. That was to change one mid-March afternoon.
"It was actually the Friday before March Break," explains Derrien. "I was in math, I had just written a test when I felt like I was falling asleep. And that's not unusual I guess because I was pretty bored. And the first thing I sense is, like, the smell of sweat, and I get really warm. I hear all these voices around me echoing and footsteps running. It was like I had sleep-walked down to the gym."
It took a moment for Paul to realize what had happened. The girl had to catch her breath, bolting breathlessly from the gymnasium to the principal's office, where she was met by a famiiar face.
"She looked at me," Kayla recalls, "And I think she almost broke down in tears. And I almost did too."
"To suddenly be confronted, in this public place, with what has happened to you, it's a lot to take on," she recalls. "And at that time, you don't even grasp exactly how your life has changed. No, it takes a few days of walking around in someone els'es shoes before it starts to set in... this is different, and scary, but I can do it."
Kayla and Paul (now commonly referred to by students as "Kyle and Paula" despite the BISA's preference for not changing names,) were seen often in public together afterward. They say that at first, it was mostly for support, because not everyone has the advantage of being in close proximity to their body's prior owner.
"There were other advantages," Paul explains, "Because Mike [Hadley] wouldn't leave me alone for almost a month after the swap. and being seen with Kay in my old body, that gave people the idea that we were, you know, together."
In reality, Paula explains that was never the intention. "The last thing any teenage boy wants to see in the mirror is a pair of breasts, and the last thing he needs is to be gawked at or even hit on by guys incessantly. We were there for each other."
"And be for long," Kayla adds, "I thought, Paul makes a pretty nice girl. And I stopped looking at her as some guy in my old body, but as one of my closest friends."
It was, however, a shock to their friends when Kayla and Paul first kissed in the cafeteria.
"Paul used to have this wicked jumpshot," explains friend Dale Karlov, "We played basketball a lot. And now he's a girl, kissing boys. we haven't, um, talked a lot since."
"At first, I thought it was gross," says Melissa Kelown, a classmate of Kayla's, "But things change."
The change she describes echoes her own. Kelown was sitting at home reading on her bed one night when she felt feint and decided to lie back.
"And when I woke up, it was like the worst dream ever."
While Kelown did not have to address the same type of change Kayla and Paul did, the swap she found herself in was in a more serious situation.
"I was due after the end of the semester," explains Darla Montgomery, 29, a physics teacher at Algonquin Memorial. "[My fiancé] Bryan and I were very busy buying baby things and planning our finances. He'd already gone to bed and I was still awake, and then it happened."
Kelowna, in a body almost 6 months pregnant, now must face the unwilling duty of acting as a surrogate mother to her teacher.
"I feel so bad that she has to live with this," laments Mongomery, "Being pregnant isn't something you can just live with and get on with your life. It affects everything around you, especially at this late stage."
Kelowna, optiistic, says that she is grateful for the amount of leeway she has been given with her studies. "I don't think this is, like, an ordinary teen pregnancy," she jokes, adding "And when this is over, whatever body I'm in, I don't think I'll be having sex for a very long time."
Officials are concerned this matter could touch off perhaps the first-ever 'maternity' suit for the courts to argue over, but Kelowna is not looking to make herself the child's mother.
"Don't get me wrong, I'm doing all the work and hopefully I get something in return, but I don't want to, like, keep their baby hostage or anything. They're totally the parents. I'm just, like filling in."
Bertrand Mosses, the vice principal of Algonquin Memorial High School, has observed that three separate swaps have occurred, all concerning members of the faculty and student body.
"I don't like it, and it seems very odd," he scratches his head as he says, "It's as though somebody's targetting my people and I don't like it at all. The swaps seem totally random but this sort of thing doesn't happen when it's random."
No one can say for sure when, where or why a swap will occur, but Mosses is keeping a close eye on his school until the answers are divined.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Nick: Trying to find a place
On the day I admitted to Traci's co-workers that I was a swapee, I had accidentally walked into the men's room.
That's not when they figured it out or anything, it was just really embarrassing for me. I'd had Traci's body since two weekends earlier, and nobody had figured it out. Even though she was well-liked at work, nobody knew much about her. I even found out, after the fact, that more than one guy had a crush on her, and was unsure of her situation (she was, in fact, single.) not that I would have accepted.
Like I said, I'd kept up the ruse okay. I was just holding place until we could get Traci in my body up to Canada, not really living her life (or mine, for that matter.) I didn't have much time to be confronted by the fact that I was a man in a woman's body... I was just a plain-looking quiet receptionist who went home every night, kicked the heels off, put on the sweats, had a beer and watched hockey. On this day, I was having a conversation with a male co-worker when I needed to go to the washroom; as did he, so we walked and talked. I pushed through the door and nearly approached the urinal when I realized, "Wait, that doesn't feel right... oh yeah." I blushed bright red and flew out the door like a flash. It was set to become a private joke between him and me. I decided it wouldn't.
"Listen, I might as well get this out there," I said, muttering under my breath, not looking at him, "I was swapped a few weeks ago, I'm not really Traci. I'm Nick."
It was a huge weight off my shoulders, but it hung in the air around him and some of the other co-workers who now wouldn't talk to me unless they had to. After a week, during which I thought I was going to have to resign, he finally broke the tension. The curiosity was overwhelming.
"Is it better? The body?"
I looked at him, kind of in quiet shock that he just smashed through the awkwardness and got that sentence out. I was afraid of what was on his mind. Then of course, I had to answer his question, which took a lot of thought.
"It's not worse," I told him with a shrug.
He kind of laughs. "I know that if I got swapped, and looked like that, I'd really miss it."
I sigh. "I try not to think about it too much. If I spent all my energy worrying about not having a penis, I'd never get anything done. And I kind of need this job, for now." Ironically at the time, I was typing up my resumé.
I wanted to appear strong, like a man who grins and bears it.
Until this point, the only person I'd told outside my immediate point was Cherie, Traci's hairdresser. I kept to myself for the first couple of days after the swap, but Traci demanded I go see Cherie. I didn't see any reason to keep it quiet, so I admitted to her that it might be a very long time before she would see Traci again.
I've been out with Cherie for coffee a few times. She's been my guide to Toronto. It's a little like Chicago, I guess, not that I miss that city (it was never very good to me personally.) She insists on dragging me into clothing stores, but I tell her Traci gave me plenty of clothes, most of which seem too complicated for me to even try (hell I didn't even wear a real bra for almost two weeks.) Plus I'm not making much money at her job, so I don't think a new wardrobe is in order.
"Well you'd look great in this..." she tells me, holding up a black skirt. It's not like, by this point, I haven't worn a skirt (sorry dad) but I'm not comfortable buying that stuff.
Living alone in someone else's apartment, wearing her clothes, seeing her face in the mirror... it's like having your own little escape, like riding the rollercoaster after the park is closed. There are times when I get very excited jsut to play around, and I almost forget what I'm missing.
That all changed one Thursday afternoon when the doorknob turned and in he walked. Unshaven, carrying nearly a half dozen suitcases over his shoulder, grunting like an ape. Until I got a good look at it, I had no idea how much shorter I now was. The top of my head doesn't quite reach my old chin.
I was startled, and not totally dressed, in pajamas. "Nick, right?" He smiles, holding out his (freaking giant) hand. I felt like I was sinking through the floor.
He was walking with confidence, suddenly it felt like he had a much better handle on what was going on than I did. I gave him a limp handshake, stunned into silence. "Hi Traci."
"This is totally awkward, isn't it?" he asked me. "I should've called, but I got the first flight in I could, there wasn't much time. I'm sorry."
I was still speechless.
He started to say, "I didn't expect... I mean..." his words stumbled. "You're... really me."
"I tried not to think about it... I've never seen myself this way, obviously." Suddenly I was shy, folding my arms across my chest, looking down, backing against the couch. He groaned an awkward laugh.
So now I live with the woman who is in my body. Because it's Traci's apartment, I'm on the couch, although he's considering staying with a friend (since I have no place else to go.) The apartment isn't really a two-person setup, unless those two people are.... well, ick.
Living with a stranger in a city I don't know doing a job I don't like and am not particularly good at... missing the one piece of anatomy that defined the first thirty years of my life. Yeah... life's great.
That's not when they figured it out or anything, it was just really embarrassing for me. I'd had Traci's body since two weekends earlier, and nobody had figured it out. Even though she was well-liked at work, nobody knew much about her. I even found out, after the fact, that more than one guy had a crush on her, and was unsure of her situation (she was, in fact, single.) not that I would have accepted.
Like I said, I'd kept up the ruse okay. I was just holding place until we could get Traci in my body up to Canada, not really living her life (or mine, for that matter.) I didn't have much time to be confronted by the fact that I was a man in a woman's body... I was just a plain-looking quiet receptionist who went home every night, kicked the heels off, put on the sweats, had a beer and watched hockey. On this day, I was having a conversation with a male co-worker when I needed to go to the washroom; as did he, so we walked and talked. I pushed through the door and nearly approached the urinal when I realized, "Wait, that doesn't feel right... oh yeah." I blushed bright red and flew out the door like a flash. It was set to become a private joke between him and me. I decided it wouldn't.
"Listen, I might as well get this out there," I said, muttering under my breath, not looking at him, "I was swapped a few weeks ago, I'm not really Traci. I'm Nick."
It was a huge weight off my shoulders, but it hung in the air around him and some of the other co-workers who now wouldn't talk to me unless they had to. After a week, during which I thought I was going to have to resign, he finally broke the tension. The curiosity was overwhelming.
"Is it better? The body?"
I looked at him, kind of in quiet shock that he just smashed through the awkwardness and got that sentence out. I was afraid of what was on his mind. Then of course, I had to answer his question, which took a lot of thought.
"It's not worse," I told him with a shrug.
He kind of laughs. "I know that if I got swapped, and looked like that, I'd really miss it."
I sigh. "I try not to think about it too much. If I spent all my energy worrying about not having a penis, I'd never get anything done. And I kind of need this job, for now." Ironically at the time, I was typing up my resumé.
I wanted to appear strong, like a man who grins and bears it.
Until this point, the only person I'd told outside my immediate point was Cherie, Traci's hairdresser. I kept to myself for the first couple of days after the swap, but Traci demanded I go see Cherie. I didn't see any reason to keep it quiet, so I admitted to her that it might be a very long time before she would see Traci again.
I've been out with Cherie for coffee a few times. She's been my guide to Toronto. It's a little like Chicago, I guess, not that I miss that city (it was never very good to me personally.) She insists on dragging me into clothing stores, but I tell her Traci gave me plenty of clothes, most of which seem too complicated for me to even try (hell I didn't even wear a real bra for almost two weeks.) Plus I'm not making much money at her job, so I don't think a new wardrobe is in order.
"Well you'd look great in this..." she tells me, holding up a black skirt. It's not like, by this point, I haven't worn a skirt (sorry dad) but I'm not comfortable buying that stuff.
Living alone in someone else's apartment, wearing her clothes, seeing her face in the mirror... it's like having your own little escape, like riding the rollercoaster after the park is closed. There are times when I get very excited jsut to play around, and I almost forget what I'm missing.
That all changed one Thursday afternoon when the doorknob turned and in he walked. Unshaven, carrying nearly a half dozen suitcases over his shoulder, grunting like an ape. Until I got a good look at it, I had no idea how much shorter I now was. The top of my head doesn't quite reach my old chin.
I was startled, and not totally dressed, in pajamas. "Nick, right?" He smiles, holding out his (freaking giant) hand. I felt like I was sinking through the floor.
He was walking with confidence, suddenly it felt like he had a much better handle on what was going on than I did. I gave him a limp handshake, stunned into silence. "Hi Traci."
"This is totally awkward, isn't it?" he asked me. "I should've called, but I got the first flight in I could, there wasn't much time. I'm sorry."
I was still speechless.
He started to say, "I didn't expect... I mean..." his words stumbled. "You're... really me."
"I tried not to think about it... I've never seen myself this way, obviously." Suddenly I was shy, folding my arms across my chest, looking down, backing against the couch. He groaned an awkward laugh.
So now I live with the woman who is in my body. Because it's Traci's apartment, I'm on the couch, although he's considering staying with a friend (since I have no place else to go.) The apartment isn't really a two-person setup, unless those two people are.... well, ick.
Living with a stranger in a city I don't know doing a job I don't like and am not particularly good at... missing the one piece of anatomy that defined the first thirty years of my life. Yeah... life's great.
Friday, April 6, 2007
First BISA swap inquiry challenges previous notions
In the preliminary draft of his first BISA-sponsored inquiry into swapping, Dr. Howard Bergman makes some startling assertions that are giving clarity for the first time to the phenomenon.
"Our original understanding was that some force, what we're calling Factor-X for now, has physically been removing the entire contents of swapees' brains and replacing them," explains Bergman, head of Psychology for the American BISA in Bethesda, MD. "we're already seeing it's much more complicated than that."
"There were irregularities in swapee CAT scans that were unaccounted for," he explains. "The same pattern emerged with each of them on their first scan, but we've been continually scanning a few subjects and found very distinct developments."
Notes Dr. Arthur Gulf, a colleague at BISA, "The pattern developments were mirrored between swapees... there is a definite link, which could be extremely useful if we ever discover how to reverse the process."
Bergman was first pointed in this direction by a swap occurring between an American who suffered from mild Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, and a Japanese businessman.
The American, Derek Schultz, was swapped all the way across the Pacific Ocean. "It was more like a dream than anything else, I was surrounded by all these Japanese guys in suits and I had a drink in my hand. I don't drink, but I had some anyway." He explains the most confusing part to researchers. "I completely understood everything everyone around me was saying. I speak Japanese now."
What this appears to mean to Dr. Bergman, is that swaps may not in fact be as black-and-white as a new brain in an old body. "There are some things we can anticipate, sensory reactions and injuries that stay with the body despite their apparent connection with the brain. This appears to have been an incomplete swap, which suggests that more of the original body's mind is retained than previously thought."
What this would mean to swapees is that their identity isn't removed, only buried beneath a new set of memories and personality.
"Potentially, in the long-term," theorizes Bergman, "The old personality could re-assert itself. We're learning new things about this all the time."
Brian Keller, a 16-year-old Vancouver boy who was swapped with a single mother of one earlier this year, disagrees. She emphatically denies any of her body's previous memory remains in her.
"I don't see what they're getting at," she explains, "I know who I am, and I don't see this changing that."
Bergman explains that this theory will be proven or disproven as the months wear onward and more is learned about the swaps.
As Bergman, Gulf, and their colleagues at BISA continue their research new leads present themselves all the time, as do new questions.
"There's always the one big question," says Gulf, "Of what, exactly, is responsible. Until we know that, I doubt we can ever truly call our work done."
"Our original understanding was that some force, what we're calling Factor-X for now, has physically been removing the entire contents of swapees' brains and replacing them," explains Bergman, head of Psychology for the American BISA in Bethesda, MD. "we're already seeing it's much more complicated than that."
"There were irregularities in swapee CAT scans that were unaccounted for," he explains. "The same pattern emerged with each of them on their first scan, but we've been continually scanning a few subjects and found very distinct developments."
Notes Dr. Arthur Gulf, a colleague at BISA, "The pattern developments were mirrored between swapees... there is a definite link, which could be extremely useful if we ever discover how to reverse the process."
Bergman was first pointed in this direction by a swap occurring between an American who suffered from mild Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, and a Japanese businessman.
The American, Derek Schultz, was swapped all the way across the Pacific Ocean. "It was more like a dream than anything else, I was surrounded by all these Japanese guys in suits and I had a drink in my hand. I don't drink, but I had some anyway." He explains the most confusing part to researchers. "I completely understood everything everyone around me was saying. I speak Japanese now."
What this appears to mean to Dr. Bergman, is that swaps may not in fact be as black-and-white as a new brain in an old body. "There are some things we can anticipate, sensory reactions and injuries that stay with the body despite their apparent connection with the brain. This appears to have been an incomplete swap, which suggests that more of the original body's mind is retained than previously thought."
What this would mean to swapees is that their identity isn't removed, only buried beneath a new set of memories and personality.
"Potentially, in the long-term," theorizes Bergman, "The old personality could re-assert itself. We're learning new things about this all the time."
Brian Keller, a 16-year-old Vancouver boy who was swapped with a single mother of one earlier this year, disagrees. She emphatically denies any of her body's previous memory remains in her.
"I don't see what they're getting at," she explains, "I know who I am, and I don't see this changing that."
Bergman explains that this theory will be proven or disproven as the months wear onward and more is learned about the swaps.
As Bergman, Gulf, and their colleagues at BISA continue their research new leads present themselves all the time, as do new questions.
"There's always the one big question," says Gulf, "Of what, exactly, is responsible. Until we know that, I doubt we can ever truly call our work done."
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
'Nightmarish' swap may have led to sexual assault
Warning: This article contains mature subject matter.
In what is being called a "nightmare swap come real," a known sexual predator may have been loosed on the City of New York, under the guise of an 11-year-old girl into whose body he has been swapped.
On March 24, 11-year-old Colleen Golightly of Queens went missing and was presumed kidnapped. Only a week later, parents Ryan and Helen were presented with a ghoulish alternative.
"They told us they thought she had been sighted in the city," said a tearful Helen, "A man had been attacked by a young girl at a party. They thought it was our Colleen."
Gerard Toombs, 28, was attending a casual cocktail party in the SoHo loft apartment of a friend's acquaintence.
"I was drinking and feeling drowsy," recalls Toombs, "And I should have known something was wrong then, but someone told me I could go lie down in the bedroom. I must've passed out in the bed."
As Toombs thinks back, he should have realized he'd been drugged; "I hadn't had enough to put a man of my size down." A toxicology report later revealed he had in his system a combination of ketamine (an anaesthetic often used as a date-rape drug) and viagra.
Toombs awoke some time after, restrained to the bed by expertly-tied knots, stripped, gagged with a washcloth, and blindfolded.
"Someone was on top of me," Toombs says, "She was small, I could tell, and from the way she sounded, far too young to have been at the party. Someone must have snuck her in. I could also hear another voice by the door. It was the most disgusting violation I have ever felt, made worse by the treatment that girl's body is getting. It makes me sick."
Toombs' descriptions match the modus operandi of two other recent sexual assaults in the New York area, one in Clinton and the other in Central Park.
Party-goers later admitted to seeing a small girl matching Golightly's description, with a larger bald man, leave the party. no-one questioned could identify either.
Mr. Golightly is outraged, saying "it is unbelievable that a pervert could take my daughter's body and commit those horrible things."
Meanwhile the identity of the assailant remains a mystery as detectives interrogate numerous known offenders.
"Given that the girl has been unable to contact her parents, we are under the impression that the swapee was incarcerated," says NYPD Det. Simoné Gupta, "And given that the perp had an accomplice on the outside and knew the area, we will be checking New York state facilities first. The thought that this poor girl is rotting in a cell with no idea where she is or why she's there is the most disgusting part of this, to me."
As the search continues, swap authorities at the BISA are calling the matter "the worst conceivable nightmare" of the swaps, and have cited it in their request for greater funding for researchers examining potential causes.
"We have to make sure this does not have the opportunity to ever happen again."
In what is being called a "nightmare swap come real," a known sexual predator may have been loosed on the City of New York, under the guise of an 11-year-old girl into whose body he has been swapped.
On March 24, 11-year-old Colleen Golightly of Queens went missing and was presumed kidnapped. Only a week later, parents Ryan and Helen were presented with a ghoulish alternative.
"They told us they thought she had been sighted in the city," said a tearful Helen, "A man had been attacked by a young girl at a party. They thought it was our Colleen."
Gerard Toombs, 28, was attending a casual cocktail party in the SoHo loft apartment of a friend's acquaintence.
"I was drinking and feeling drowsy," recalls Toombs, "And I should have known something was wrong then, but someone told me I could go lie down in the bedroom. I must've passed out in the bed."
As Toombs thinks back, he should have realized he'd been drugged; "I hadn't had enough to put a man of my size down." A toxicology report later revealed he had in his system a combination of ketamine (an anaesthetic often used as a date-rape drug) and viagra.
Toombs awoke some time after, restrained to the bed by expertly-tied knots, stripped, gagged with a washcloth, and blindfolded.
"Someone was on top of me," Toombs says, "She was small, I could tell, and from the way she sounded, far too young to have been at the party. Someone must have snuck her in. I could also hear another voice by the door. It was the most disgusting violation I have ever felt, made worse by the treatment that girl's body is getting. It makes me sick."
Toombs' descriptions match the modus operandi of two other recent sexual assaults in the New York area, one in Clinton and the other in Central Park.
Party-goers later admitted to seeing a small girl matching Golightly's description, with a larger bald man, leave the party. no-one questioned could identify either.
Mr. Golightly is outraged, saying "it is unbelievable that a pervert could take my daughter's body and commit those horrible things."
Meanwhile the identity of the assailant remains a mystery as detectives interrogate numerous known offenders.
"Given that the girl has been unable to contact her parents, we are under the impression that the swapee was incarcerated," says NYPD Det. Simoné Gupta, "And given that the perp had an accomplice on the outside and knew the area, we will be checking New York state facilities first. The thought that this poor girl is rotting in a cell with no idea where she is or why she's there is the most disgusting part of this, to me."
As the search continues, swap authorities at the BISA are calling the matter "the worst conceivable nightmare" of the swaps, and have cited it in their request for greater funding for researchers examining potential causes.
"We have to make sure this does not have the opportunity to ever happen again."
Nick: Inside a swapped mind
My name's Nick Blanchard. That much I know. Until one day in March, I was a 32-year-old man living in Chicago under the same roof as his parents. Then one morning... well, you've read the interview.
What's uncomfortable to me is how comfortable I actually am. Anytime I settle down and just be, I suddenly get a chill up my spine; I think "Oh God, what's happening?" If it ever becomes not weird to be a woman, that would be weird.
It sucks not being yourself, that's something we can all agree about, no matter what body you get swapped into. I read on this site and in some of Alex's other files (stories he's been working on) where physically fit people become overweight or unhealthy, people lose decades off their lives, lose their livelihoods, or get life-threatening diseases. So I've considered it a comfort to simply have found myself walking down the street for the last few weeks in the sensible shoes of a physically average woman in her mid-20's, knowing the potential alternatives.
As we, the swapped, grow in numbers, we rely on our segment's growth for support. The idea that this has not merely happened to me, but is happening all the time, has kept me sane. So I'm coping. Of course, that doesn't mean I don't intend on getting my body back. I can't accept that this is the rest of my life.
I don't intend on being a woman. I've been dressing in the most tomboyish clothes available, keeping my hair modest and not using make-up. But I walk with confindence as best I can, because hey, I know I can't hide.
The real Traci Moore is packing up as many of my things as possible at this very moment, ready to move back here to Toronto from my parents' house in Chicago. I've already told her (I haven't had to look her in the eyes - my eyes - yet, so she's still a her to me,) I'm not moving back to Chicago. I had nothing going on there and wanted the means to move. I guess the swap gave me that.
She didn't like the idea of us living together, but with one of us out of work, we don't have much of a choice. I've applied through the provisional Toronto BISA (operating without a HQ) for a work visa.
I had really hit the skids (was being a 32-year-old man living with his parents not clue enough?) after losing my job (PR flack) and not finding new employment. The job market was crud in Chicago; maybe I'll have better luck here. While I handle Traci's secretarial job, I've got resumés out to a few different firms and organizations. I mention in my cover letter that, as a recent swapee, there's no danger in a future incident (I'm assured evidence suggests swaps only happen once to a person. Here's hoping.) The danger is that maybe they'll read that sentence and be afraid that I'll weird everyone out. Well, I worked for 2 and a half weeks as a secretary without anyone even noticing I was different. Maleness out of sight, out of mind.
It's not a well-hidden fact that PR is an industry that skews female anyway; my replacement in Chicago was a woman, as were most of my office-mates (I had a short fling with one before leaving, spurring a bit of drama in the office.) People would just rather be represented by a woman's face and voice, and I understand that. It made me feel like crap (when I was male,) but I couldn't disagree.
The thing I regret most about the swap - more than the new body, the discomfort of the clothes, the more-than-occasional glances on the street - is letting it throw my life into general disarray. But I'm taking a hold. I'm being me.
As my counsellor said during a short chat on the phone last wednesday... swaps teach people not to take things at face value.
Ha ha ha.
-Nick
Nick Blanchard graduated from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign with a Bachelors degree in Communications. After spending the last month as a secretary, she is glad to have it. She e-mails her blog entries to Alex on an irregular basis.
What's uncomfortable to me is how comfortable I actually am. Anytime I settle down and just be, I suddenly get a chill up my spine; I think "Oh God, what's happening?" If it ever becomes not weird to be a woman, that would be weird.
It sucks not being yourself, that's something we can all agree about, no matter what body you get swapped into. I read on this site and in some of Alex's other files (stories he's been working on) where physically fit people become overweight or unhealthy, people lose decades off their lives, lose their livelihoods, or get life-threatening diseases. So I've considered it a comfort to simply have found myself walking down the street for the last few weeks in the sensible shoes of a physically average woman in her mid-20's, knowing the potential alternatives.
As we, the swapped, grow in numbers, we rely on our segment's growth for support. The idea that this has not merely happened to me, but is happening all the time, has kept me sane. So I'm coping. Of course, that doesn't mean I don't intend on getting my body back. I can't accept that this is the rest of my life.
I don't intend on being a woman. I've been dressing in the most tomboyish clothes available, keeping my hair modest and not using make-up. But I walk with confindence as best I can, because hey, I know I can't hide.
The real Traci Moore is packing up as many of my things as possible at this very moment, ready to move back here to Toronto from my parents' house in Chicago. I've already told her (I haven't had to look her in the eyes - my eyes - yet, so she's still a her to me,) I'm not moving back to Chicago. I had nothing going on there and wanted the means to move. I guess the swap gave me that.
She didn't like the idea of us living together, but with one of us out of work, we don't have much of a choice. I've applied through the provisional Toronto BISA (operating without a HQ) for a work visa.
I had really hit the skids (was being a 32-year-old man living with his parents not clue enough?) after losing my job (PR flack) and not finding new employment. The job market was crud in Chicago; maybe I'll have better luck here. While I handle Traci's secretarial job, I've got resumés out to a few different firms and organizations. I mention in my cover letter that, as a recent swapee, there's no danger in a future incident (I'm assured evidence suggests swaps only happen once to a person. Here's hoping.) The danger is that maybe they'll read that sentence and be afraid that I'll weird everyone out. Well, I worked for 2 and a half weeks as a secretary without anyone even noticing I was different. Maleness out of sight, out of mind.
It's not a well-hidden fact that PR is an industry that skews female anyway; my replacement in Chicago was a woman, as were most of my office-mates (I had a short fling with one before leaving, spurring a bit of drama in the office.) People would just rather be represented by a woman's face and voice, and I understand that. It made me feel like crap (when I was male,) but I couldn't disagree.
The thing I regret most about the swap - more than the new body, the discomfort of the clothes, the more-than-occasional glances on the street - is letting it throw my life into general disarray. But I'm taking a hold. I'm being me.
As my counsellor said during a short chat on the phone last wednesday... swaps teach people not to take things at face value.
Ha ha ha.
-Nick
Nick Blanchard graduated from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign with a Bachelors degree in Communications. After spending the last month as a secretary, she is glad to have it. She e-mails her blog entries to Alex on an irregular basis.
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