“Since the wedding has made me come out to more people than I had ever intended, this trip back to my place of origin makes facing their reactions inevitable. Will my physical presence stoke the intensity of their opposition?”
“If Simón was a girl, then I was a dyke and if my father let the song play, then maybe I could sing to him and we’d finally be able to speak to each other.”
Really, I’m not sure why we feel like we have to keep on amplifying this fight. A solid two-thirds of trans women are on both sides of this so-called divide. We’re a part of both communities.
“One morning, while I was applying my new lighter makeup, I accidentally put too much banana powder on which created a shroud of ashy yellow veil all around the center of my face. I stopped and stared back at my reflection. I looked absolutely foolish. Here I was relishing in this depigmentation of my beautiful ebony skin that I no longer looked like myself.”
Gay districts are safer, more open and more profitable than ever before, but for whom?
The best part is always the journey.
“Not being an asshole” to myself meant admitting that my mom’s death and her illness permeate every single part of my being, and always will.
“When I’m worrying about how to teach without coming off as a bitch because I expect students to be quiet when I’m talking, I’m not thinking as much as I should be about whether my students are really learning.”
How the Pathetic Lesbian trope managed to scare me straight while making me laugh.
So maybe my pregnancy path isn’t as simple and straightforward as baby books would have you believe it should be because I’m a poor QPoC with anxiety, but it has been an interesting worthwhile journey so far. I can’t wait until I can take the next step.
If we don’t abundantly love each other, we can’t have an abundant relationship with God. I must embrace an interpretation of my faith that requires unconditional love for queer people because any less would be to deny my own humanity and that of my community.
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.