Was I so far from the idea of trans in her head, that there was no way I could be “one of them”? Or did she refuse to make the association because there was something so wrong with being a trans woman that she could never be attracted to one?
People would look surprised and say, “But…you can’t be a girl. You’re a blacksmith!”
“But unlike the missing 43 from Ayotzinapa, I was going home. And it’s what I store in my memory each time I read an article or update about the disappeared. I am home. They are not.”
Accepting ambiguity feels like being welcomed home.
What do you do when the world gives you a mandatory day off, when nothing is open except Chinese restaurants and movie theatres?
It was so easy to stay in touch until it wasn’t: Until my resentment exceeded my love for her, until her fear exceeded her hope. But the world we made lingers.
One of the first things my mother’s boyfriend noticed upon waking up Thanksgiving Day was that all of the rooms were named after prominent confederate soldiers.
We told some really incredible stories this year and you won’t want to miss a thing.
See, home isn’t for people like me — it is not for lesbians, or queers. I cannot return to a country that criminalizes and attempts to further oppress my personhood. One that publicly accepts psychological assaults on my being, while leaving no legal safeties or recourse for its state sanctioned actions.
I didn’t always hate Christmas.
“If a group I was attending was still printing, distributing, and teaching from a book that was blatantly racist or homophobic, I would get up and leave and/or advocate for change. I do not give special passes for misogyny and sexism, especially in my sobriety, because my self-worth is so integral to my complete recovery.”
What do you do when you’ve done everything “right” and you are still mistreated? You take it to the streets. You take your rage and pain and power you make people listen. You burn and you scream and you keep screaming until someone else shows up and offers you a hand.
“It’s all fine that we become aware of our lives but we need more than for you to finally see that we are walking this Earth. We need you to hear us.”
The recent cultural trend of supporting trans women has made us highly prized assets; somehow you can prove your radicalness by being the example of someone who has worked through transmisogyny enough to view us as worthy of sex and love. But what kind of love views us as disposable?
Ridesharing apps like Uber and Lyft are a great idea in theory, but in actuality they’re quite dangerous — for the passenger and the driver. I should know; I’ve been both.
This is not as rewarding as that “spice up your marriage” advice columnist promised it would be.
“Farm work was everything my depressive body was screaming against: sunlight, physical activity, and tiny symbols of the fragility of life all around that I couldn’t remember how to value.”
“Who are these men noticing me? Who are these men giving me the long, soft stare, eyes holding mine like they got something for me, something they can’t talk about, something only eyes can pass along. Who are these men whispering ‘hi, papi’ to me? I don’t think I look more male today than I did yesterday.”
“Book of Life” posits that my father is in a place more vivid than memory, which is is just a medium between the man who raised me and the man who waits for me in a place beyond time.
“Delilah takes up mansion-sized space in your head. She bought property the first time you kiss in Adams Park.”