Claire stared into the mirror, scrutinizing her appearance as she had done so many times before. It was easy to do as so little of what she saw was what she wanted to see. She looked for the smallest detail confirming less divide between the internal and external person.

The stubble on her jaw stared back at her, refusing to go away even with the mountains of foundation and concealer plastered over it. The square features declining her pleas to soften. She had lived this way for a year already, waiting, always waiting, to be allowed to take the next step. She knew why they did it – the medical people – they wanted people like her to change their minds and go back to the person they were born as, but that was not her plan.

She sighed, lathered more foundation on, swallowed the hormone pills and plucked some stray brow hairs. The earliest appointment at the electrolysis clinic was tomorrow afternoon, which she had to take even though her morning psych exam would leave little time for her to get there. The treatments were excruciatingly painful, but worth it, she reminded herself.

She scooted sideways to view the tiny breasts in her side profile. The hormones were finally working, but wow were her breasts itchy all the time. She clipped her bra in place. Getting there, she thought.

She had errands to run for her mother in town, which made her shudder. She loved her mother dearly but catching the train meant she’d have to bear the staring and gawking of passengers. She was tempted to take all the makeup off and dress as a boy, just this once. It would make the trip bearable, but then they’d win.

The small-minded people shouting abuse or sniggering behind their hands would win and she’d never allow that. She thought about the old granny on the train last week asking if she was a drag queen. The rain was pelting down making lakes through town and Claire had barely made it on the train in time. She sat beside the older lady, smiled a greeting, and retreated into her personal bubble. “Excuse me but are you one of those drag queens?” the older lady asked Claire. The train was crowded but people closest had heard the exchange and turned to listen.

“No ma’am, I’m transitioning. It’s a long process and I’m between treatments,” Claire said.

The older lady gasped, and her hands shot up to her mouth, “no no no, that’s simply unnatural young man. God doesn’t make mistakes”, and with that the lady moved to another seat, far away from her.

The doorbell dragged Claire out of her memories, “Hello?” she said, followed by a friendly voice asking to speak to Claire. “I’m Claire,” she said, knowing what would follow.

“Sorry? Did you say you’re Claire? Um… ok sorry sir, I mean ma’am, I have a parcel for you,” the stumbling and stuttering was normal. The hormones couldn’t reverse the damage that puberty does on the male voice when it breaks, and surgery is risky and expensive and not always available. Claire let the visitor in and waited a few minutes to allow them to walk the two flights of steps to her door. This moment was even worse. The opening-the-door moment. She did it as quickly as she could, practically grabbing the parcel, signing for it, and flinging it all back at the delivery guy, and then quickly closing the door.

She sat and opened the parcel – fresh hormones, expensive ones. She finished her routine, ate some breakfast, and made for town. As expected, the stares and sniggers greeted her at every turn. It was better to turn away, but really, the misgendering was no walk in the park – he, she or it were the norm.

Oh goodie, I get to do this again tomorrow, she thought as she finished for the day and retreated home. She had studying to do for tomorrow morning’s exam. Final year criminologist here we come. She was going to change the world. She would pave the way for other aspiring varsity trans people.

She fired up her laptop and boiled the kettle. The tell-tale noises of emails coming through pinged a tune of their own.

Mug in hand and pretzel on a plate, Claire checked her emails. One screamed for attention. It was an email from her criminology Professor. She read the mail, then reread it. There was no ambiguity, no compassion, no sign of doubt. Simple and straight forward. She stared at the screen, her face beginning to flush, her hands shaking, her body going limp at the words screaming out at her.

“Dear Miss C Hudson,” the email read, “This email serves to advise you that the algorithm HonesTy1 has flagged you as ‘exhibiting suspicious behaviour’ during your final criminology exam last week. You will receive a zero mark for this exam, and you are to report to the Dean of Student Affairs for a hearing on the matter. You are entitled to have legal counsel present. Please see below for date and time of the hearing”.

Claire tried to reply to the mail to defend herself, but a simple automated response indicated that no further emails would be allowed.

She pushed her laptop away from her, trying desperately to separate herself from what was obviously a mistake. The ulcer in her stomach started to ache, the headache that had lingered on the outskirts of her mind came crashing to the fore demanding attention. She put her fingers to her temples, begging for an explanation.

She wasn’t sure how long she sat there or how long her mother was ringing the doorbell, but when her phone rang, she snapped back to reality and answered.

“Claire, where the hell are you? I’ve been ringing your bell for fifteen minutes already,” her mother said.

“Sorry mum, I’ll open for you now.” Claire stood, but her shaky legs threatened to abandon the task and she leaned on the table. She felt the tears welling up and her nose turning red under her foundation. Her mother appeared at the door and grabbed her daughter and held her close and tight.

“What’s wrong? Sweetie don’t worry about people, they mean nothing. You must be who you are.” her mother had thought it was the standard bad treatment.

Claire led her mother into the study and showed her the mail.

“What is this?” she asked

“I’m being accused of cheating mum. I never cheat. I supported this algorithm because there are so many that do cheat.”

“I don’t understand Claire.”

“Since the pandemic started, we have been doing our tests and exams online because we can’t all be in the theatre or lecture hall together. So, the powers-that-be implemented a no cheating plan called HonesTy1 – with a capital T meaning trust or truth or something like that. I was all for it because I know there are people that cheat.” Claire said.

“How does it work?” her mother asked.

“When you log in to the test, or exam in my case, you click on the algorithm extension, and it opens your camera and microphone and logs your key strokes. That’s the extent of my knowledge. I do criminology for goodness’ sake not IT,” Claire said, pacing her living room.

“Honey, if you didn’t cheat, they can’t prove it. At least there’ll be a hearing where you can defend yourself. You can take a lawyer as well. “

“Mum, these hearings are formalities. It’s where student’s futures go to die. They have already decided my fate believe me.”

“Come on Claire don’t get down on yourself. You’ve worked so hard to get to where you are. You’ll go to the hearing and explain your position and they’ll all agree that there was some misunderstanding.”

Claire loved her mother dearly and knew that she had all the faith in the world in her. She had stood by her throughout the transitioning process and even paid for a lot of the procedures out of her savings. Losing this fight just made Claire so depressed. “Thank you, mum. I’ll put on the best face I can”

“Sweetie, just a thought but maybe you should appear as Calvin instead. You’d put them on the back foot, and they may feel more kindly towards a man?”

“Oh, come on mum,” Claire turned to face her mother, “really? Not you, please.”

“Hear me out. I have supported you since Calvin died so Claire could live and I’ve never questioned you, but I know these institutions; they’ve been around since Noah fell off the ark and they don’t like people who make waves so maybe, just this once you can go in and let Calvin defend himself and Claire can stay home?”

“No, absolutely not. I will not bow to these prudes. No matter what. If they’re going to boot me out because they don’t like what they see, then they can do it to my face”. Claire’s resolve was back. She would not go down without a fight.

                                                                                    ***

She wore her best pants suit, navy blue, tailored with a loose lady-like white tie and heels. High heels. The highest she could find. She was already over 6 foot tall and now she was an Amazon going into battle. She marched into the varsity, straight past the information booth, watching the lady behind the desk momentarily rise to ask where she was going, then decided against it. She entered the conference room, where the Professors, Dean of Student Affairs and two others were already seated. She surveyed the room then took her place at the table opposite them.

“Good morning, Miss Hudson. I see you don’t have counsel. Are you sure you want to proceed without legal representation?”

“I’m sure.” Claire said. The two Professors sat either side of the Dean. Claire recognized the Dean from the photo that hung in the lobby. He was in his late 50s, greying but well groomed. The professor to his left sent her the email and he looked quite sheepish. She glared through him, wandering if this was all his doing. The other people in the room were female, probably another professor and secretaries. Claire felt the waves of hostility washing over her, her future bleeding out on the brown 80’s carpet.

The Dean read out her ‘crimes’, then played a 60 second video clip as proof. It showed her looking away from her computer screen, looking down at her lap or the table, talking out loud to herself.

“As you can see, the algorithm logs everything and is quite precise about your behaviour. We employ this method to ensure that human error is eliminated. Do you have anything to say in your defense Miss Hudson?” the Dean asked

Claire explained that she looks around when she’s thinking and sometimes, she fiddles with her fingers in her lap when she’s nervous. She reads the questions out loud to understand them better and not because there is someone in the room helping her. They never believed her.

“It is impossible, or nearly impossible, to prove a negative, but you all know that. For every explanation I have for my behaviour you can counter it without much thought. This isn’t about cheating. It is about you.” Claire pointed at each person in the room. Her face blazed red, her nostrils flared, and her fingers shook, but she stood her ground. “You simple minded fools; you live in your tiny worlds and expect what you’ve always had to remain the same. You expect me to sit like a mannequin, no, actually, you expect me to be a man, not a woman, not a trans woman,” she was shouting now, slamming her hands on the table. “I will not be society’s punchline.”

“Calm down Miss Hudson, you aren’t helping yourself by exhibiting this behaviour.” The Dean said.

“Don’t tell me to calm down. You’re accusing me of something I didn’t do, and you don’t even have proof that I did. You have nuance and innuendo. But I suppose that’s enough, isn’t it? I’m the very thing you hate. The proverbial elephant in the room. The boy that became a girl. And you can’t put me into one of your boxes because I don’t fit so you’d prefer to get rid of me.” The pent up anger from years of abuse came flooding out. Claire looked each person in the face when she spoke, making sure they knew who she was. And then security was there.

                                                                                    ***

The tears streamed down her face as security led her out of the university, stripping her of her access card and ID card. People stared at her, whispered about her. Nothing spreads faster in a university than a secret, she thought.

Once outside, the pouring rain drenched her suit immediately. She could feel the layers of makeup bleed form her face, her mascara jumping the sinking ship. She bent down and removed her heels and made her way to the train station, keeping her head down to avoid unwanted attention.

Her anger and hatred slowly turned to sadness and embarrassment. She had made a fool of herself. She should have taken counsel with her. She shouldn’t have let them see her cry. Her feet were freezing by the time she got to the station and she was soaked through, but instead of going to the ticket counter she walked along the wall near the tracks.

She climbed over the barrier, out of sight of the waiting passengers and kneeled on the tracks. She closed her eyes and let her mind wander. It was finally over.

Linda’s Own Midwestern Pot Roast

Once you cook pot roast in this manner, you will always want to make it this way. It’s fall-apart tender. The secret to good pot roast is coating it with flour and browning it well before baking.

Ingredients

• 1 (5 pound) chuck or blade cut beef roast
• 1 teaspoon garlic powder
• 1 teaspoon seasoned salt or Chef’s Salt
• 1 teaspoon pepper
• 1 cup all-purpose flour
• 4 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
• 2 cups hot water mixed with 2 teaspoons bouillon granules or 2 cups beef broth
• 1 large onion, cut into wedges
• 5 carrots, cut into 2-inch lengths
• 3 or 4 russet potatoes, peeled and quartered
• 4 stalks celery, cut into large diagonal chunks

Instructions

1. Mix garlic powder, seasoned salt and pepper with flour. Cover all sides of the roast with the flour mixture.
2. Brown roast in oil over medium-high heat in a large, heavy Dutch oven, making sure the oil is hot when you place the roast into the oil.
3. Pour the bouillon water around meat; arrange vegetables around and on top of meat.
4. Cover tightly; bake at 325 degrees F for 2 1/2 to 3 hours. The meat should tear easily with a fork.
5. Remove meat to a serving platter.
6. Serve with the gravy made during roasting. If desired, thicken gravy with a little flour and water mixed together.

Notes

Many times I will add one envelope of dry onion soup mix sprinkled over the roast and vegetables before baking.

I looked at the robot, and darted into my room. As I fell to my knees and put the plug in the outlet, I caught a glimpse of a picture. Greta’s picture. In that split millisecond, time stopped, my heart melted. Her soft, pure hazel eyes, her short brown hair made me want to cry. She was waiting for me. I remember her face, in tears, as she took her bag and her belongings.

“You’re killing me, dad. Killing me!”

She also said that, as a child, she had sometimes gone for full days without food because I was too caught up in my creations. That had been the first time I had wanted to go back in time.

“I’ll be waiting for you, dad. Once you understand.”

And she had left. I remember my red anger as I pursued her in the corridor, scalpel in hand, and her terrified high pitched screams when I brought her inside. And her mercy pleads.

“Stop! Stop dad, you’re killing me, you’re killing me! Please don’t do this! Don’t do this!”

I remember holding them, so slippery and slimy. It was still throbbing slightly, and blood was oozing out. I just had to do a simple transfer. No more waiting. I had waited for so long already. Once she was in what I had created, everything would be simple. I thought that she would forgive me.

But I understand now. I had to leave this robot behind and join her. Only, it was too late. The plug was in.

Ding! The robot lifted its head. In its pitch black beady eyes, you could distinguish confusion. But when it looked at me… I saw the disappointment. The sadness. I saw Greta.

I ran out of the room to the kitchen and aggressively pulled each drawer, fumbling for a knife. I had to end this. Again. I couldn’t live with it. I couldn’t. As I ran back to my room, I heard the angry voices of my ex-colleagues pounding on my door, trying to open it, but I ignored them. I dived into my room and lifted my knife. The robot looked at me fearfully, but with a wondrous gaze. An almost loving gaze. I stood there, and a connection seemed to weave itself, one single thread, between us. Greta was already dead. Was she though? This wasn’t her… though there was a part of her in there. But I remember.

As my white gloves put the brain in, I felt enlightenment. It was a new beginning. For me, for her.

But I know now that it is too late to find her. I felt drops running down my cheeks. I had wasted my daughter’s life. But now I had a second chance, an opportunity. I was offered a do-over. My knife hung by a thread in the air. I had done it once, why couldn’t I do it again? The robot lay trembling on my wall, as it whispered that heart-breaking:

“Please, don’t do this. ”

I died and met my CAT, he revealed to me his purpose and where pets go after life.

This is just great.

Why do some people think that the US Navy is collapsing and has been surpassed by the Chinese Navy? But the US has more aircraft carriers, destroyers, nuclear submarines, and more budget.

Photo: Chinese Navy in 2024.

The current Chinese Navy has a total of 680,000 tons of surface combatant vessels (cruisers,destroyers and frigates), which is actually very close to the 870,000 tons of the US Navy.

It can be predicted that in the next 3-4 years, the Chinese Navy will add about 180,000 tons of new destroyers and frigates, while the US Navy’s fleet of cruisers, destroyers and frigates will remain basically stable. So in about three years, China will catch up with the United States in surface combatant ships.

Currently, China comfortably stands as the world’s second-largest navy, by tonnage.

The biggest gap between the Chinese and American navy is aircraft carriers. The United States has 1.1 million tons of aircraft carriers, and China only has 130,000 tons (an additional 80,000 tons are about to be commissioned).

But on the other hand, China only intends to fight the United States within the coverage of its land-based aircraft. In this way, it is actually US aircraft carriers V.S Chinese Air Force. The Chinese Air Force has 2,000 fighters and 200 bombers and hundreds of available land airports, while all US Navy aircraft carriers can carry a maximum of 550 fighters, also the US usually only deploys 3-4 aircraft carriers at the same time (the rest are in maintenance and training).

China’s rocket force is also an important force they rely on, which has a stockpile of more than 2,000 short to medium-range missiles that can threaten U.S. aircraft carriers and U.S. military bases within the first island chain.

A Chinese rocket force exercise

For submarines, surely the US’ bigger nuclear-powered attack submarines will perform better in the ocean, but in the East China Sea and the Taiwan Strait where the water depth is generally shallow, diesel-electric submarines are actually more suitable.

Water is shallow within first island chain

China also attaches great importance to the construction of its anti-submarine fleet. Currently, there are 40 type 054A frigates and 50 type 056A frigates in service. By 2027, 10 new 054A frigates will be added, so there are a total of 100 anti-submarine frigates, which means 100 towed sonars in a small area, or eight times the number of British Royal Navy total anti-submarine frigates. This would be a terrifying density of anti-submarine units, and considering the shallow water depth and the narrow water area, submarines are definitely not suitable for deployment there.

Type 056A frigates’ towed sonar, China has near a hundred anti-submarine frigates.

So my conclusion is：

The Chinese Navy as a whole has not caught up with the US Navy. In a navy-to-navy confrontation in the central Pacific ocean, China will lose.

But, China is not intend to do that, their goal is anti-access, which does not require a navy comparable to the US Navy, but a comprehensive force of navy, air force, missile forces, etc.

What’s the most “small town” thing you’ve witnessed?

I think of several.

My Dad needed to drive through Hays, Kansas. He stopped in at a cafe for coffee. When he left, he forgot his hat. About three months later, he needed to go through Hays again and went to the same cafe. When he entered, the proprietor looked at him and instead of greeting him said, “You forgot your hat” and pointed him to a rack or shelf where the hat was waiting.

My grandparents lived near Bayard, Nebraska. Grandma told the man who ran the local bakery that he should make rye bread the way the local German-Russians liked it, without caraway seed. He asked for and got her recipe. After that, he used her recipe. She no longer had to bake it herself.

One time when I visited Bayard, Grandma asked, “Would you like chicken noodle soup tomorrow?” I said yes and thought of Campbell’s canned soup. She said, “I’ll call the egg lady and have her kill a chicken. I already made noodles.” She meant that she had started with flour and egg months earlier and made noodles. (Yes, the soup was very good.)

In the early 1970’s, I was walking near the town square in Macomb, Illinois. I heard someone call me by name from across the street and ask, “How’s your conduct?” It was a local judge, the father of a guy I’d gone to school with. I called back, “Not bad. How’s yours?” He answered, “Exemplary!” I think it was a couple of years later that he was removed from his judgeship for bad behavior.

As a young adult, I once used my parents’ phone to call the operator to ask for a certain person’s number, probably a new one that was not yet in the phone book. She said, “That number is such-and-such, Jim.” She knew my voice. I recognized hers, too. I’d gone to high school with her five years earlier.