In spite of what was going on – or perhaps in an effort to retain normality because of that – Mutti Frida insisted we talk to her, in Polish, abou... our day as we walked home. I struggled to explain in Polish Mr Pollock and the ‘ivory tower’ metaphor – to Mutti Frida’s amusement.When I finally got home later that night, there was no letter waiting for me. But the following morning the postman was a bit early, arriving as I was walking out of the door – and there was a letter for me. I grabbed. That aught to do it. Knocking again. I almost shoutedfor them to fuck off but figured why waste the effort?She stood in front of me shaking her head. At first, I didn't know whoshe was or how she had gotten in."You're Jahna...aren't you?"Standing in front of me was a blond bombshell. Every inch the woman thatI longed to be. Jahna and I had gone to school together, only back thenshe was known as John. You see, she had transitioned shortly after wegraduated from High School. God, I wish I. More

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