Iâm walking home from yoga. Iâm wearing black cropped sweatpants, a My Bloody Valentine tank top, ballet flats. I have my hair up in a bun because itâs a hot summer day. As I approach my building, I pass a black SUV parked on our block. The driver exclaims: âExcuse me! Excuse me!â
âYes?” I say.
âEhm…eh…is this…is this Park Slope?â
âYes, it is. What are you looking for?” Heâs a Hasidic man, beard, 50ish, maybe 60.
âEhm…I want to talk to someone…â
âUm, yes?â
âI want to talk to someone…about the gay.â
âExcuse me?â
âI want to know more about…the gay.â
Iâm just too confused to do anything rational. âWell,” I say, stupidly, âIâm sure there are, um, online resources you could look into.â
He chooses to ignore this pearl of wisdom. âYou live here?â
âUm, yeah.â
âIn this building?â
At this point I should have just ran. âUh huh.â
âMaybe I come upstairs and talk with you? You have time?â
âUh, no…I donât think so. Look, sorry, Iâve got to go.â
He stares at me quizzically. âYou are a man or a woman?” Why am I still engaging with this person?
âIâm a woman.” I say.
“You have a penis?” he responds.
I turn around and stride purposefully home. Iâm shaking.
Joan and I are in Berlin, looking for a bar to pop into for a pre-dinner beer or two. We choose a smoky old-school dive in Charlottenburg-Wilmersdorf. Everyoneâs older, smoking cigarettes, playing cards, talking, laughing. Not a smartphone in sight. I clumsily try to order our beers in my nonexistent German â with the help of some friendly locals, weâre eventually sorted out. We sit in a corner next to some very drunk grannies who befriend us. They ask us how we like Berlin and we say we love it. They even write us a postcard, in German. At some point, an older woman with black hair and a chilly demeanor, sitting a table away, says to us: âI donât know vhy zay are being so friendly viz you.” We donât know how to respond. âZhey are never zis friendly.” She looks at me. âAre you a man or a voman?” she asks. Iâm, once again, dumbstruck. âA little bit of both, eh?” she says. Then she says something loudly in German. The whole bar falls silent for a moment. The drunk grannies start shouting back at her, defending us. Not sure what theyâre saying, but they shut her up. We finish our beers and thank the grannies and make for the door. âWhat the fuck was all that about?” I ask Joan. Back in Brooklyn, our neighbor Ingrid translates the postcard for us. At the end it says âBerlin is not Germany. New York is not America.â
Weâre in a Greek restaurant in the Slope â me, Joan, our friends Carrie and Amy. Weâre finishing off our dinner â I’ve had the vegetarian moussaka with lemon potatoes washed down with some cheap Greek plonk. Across the way at another table is an older dude and a younger woman. I catch his eye and look away. I look back some minutes later and heâs still staring at me. The younger woman is going on in a loud voice about something annoying. I canât help but look back though I know I shouldnât. Heâs still transfixed, or something. This time I hold his stare. He says to me: âYou know, youâre a very intriguing woman.” Carrie hears this and is momentarily flummoxed. âIâm very attracted to you.” he says. Carrie starts giggling. The younger woman at the other table yells: âDaaaaaaaaad! SHUT UP!â
Weâre on our roof. Itâs a warm July evening. Weâre drinking wine and my brother, visiting from London, is having his usual beer. Joanâs ordered a pizza for us for dinner. When they call to let us know theyâre at our front door, I offer to go downstairs and get our pie. I trundle down the four and a half flights of stairs. I have on short-shorts, a cami, bare feet. At the door, the pizza delivery guy is a bald white dude, not sure how old really. âYeah, I rang the bell but no one answered so I called your number.” he says.
âOh, thatâs good, because we were up on the roof so we wouldnât have heard the buzzer.” I offer.
âOn the roof, huh? Whoâs up there?” he inquires.
âOh, me, my brother, my partner.” Little miss innocent. So ready to share everything with the world.
âYour brother and your partner, huh? Well, what good does that do me?” Iâm taken aback but once again, unable to disengage.
âIâm sorry?â
âYou and your brother, maybe you and your partner?” What the fuck is he talking about?
âHey, you want I should come back later?â
Now Iâm back to my senses. âUh, no thank you.” I counter. I sign the receipt and give him back his pen as Iâm closing the front door.
âI can come up to your roof later.” he proposes.
âNo, thatâs really OK, thanks.” I just want this to be over.
Through the last sliver of open door, he looks at me and says: âOK, then. NAMASTE.â
Later, I tell Joan if we ever order from that pizza place again, that sheâs in charge of greeting the pizza guy.
The drawings are amazing <3 and the story made feel things I didn't even know I had in me, thank you so much
Thank you so much Ludwinas!
Please keep telling your story. I can’t stop reading and love the accompanying illustration. The representation of a queer south Asian makes me feel so validated. Thank you.
Dear Resh, thank you for reading and for your very kind words – I will indeed continue to tell these stories. xxb
Oof.
This is so, so good. So much emotion and story packed into a small amount of space.
Thank you, Cleo.
these are so beautifully made and evocative, i hope to see more of your work here <3
Thank you! And yes, I hope to be posting more work here for sure. (P.S. love your Moomin avatar!)
I loved this, and looking further I’m so excited to see you have graphic novels I can buy! Gonna send in an order this weekend đ
Writing that you’ve edited so perfectly it looks effortless ~ can’t wait to read more of your work, Bishakh!
Yay, thank you for getting my books, Snaelle! And thank you for the kind words.
Thanks for sharing this combination of images and words. Grateful to hear from you, although frustrated about shitty cis people are, all around the world.
Thank you! I will say these examples are pretty mild compared to what a lot of trans folx obviously have to go through, but still.
This is really excellent storytelling. Thank you for sharing!
Thank you so much!
Six-foot social distancing air hugs, if hugs are OK.
I haven’t had a nasty German woman shouting in a bar, but the other two are all too familiar.
Even supportive interactions with strangers can be fraught with oof. I’m at the amazing Zankou Chicken in LA glorying in the garlic chicken. At the next table, a couple sits chatting. The man goes to pick up their order, and the woman turns to me and says that I look really beautiful.
Which sounds nice, right? Except thatâat least in my experienceâwoman never give that sort of generalized compliment to women they don’t know (friends yes, strangers no). Rather with strangers, it’s always something specific, shoes, hair, top, etc.
Which means she’s trying to be supportive because she read me as a TRANS woman. Which in turn means that I’m visibly trans in a time and place that I don’t want to be.
I appreciate the compliment and the support. But oof.
Air hugs gratefully accepted. And yeah, I’ve had the same ‘supportive’ interactions here in Brooklyn, where (pre-lockdown) Park Slope ladies, complete strangers, used to nod and smile at me on the street and I’d be like, “Do I know these people?” – and a friend suggested this was a case of cis ladies clocking me and being all like “You go girl!” or whatever, which, as you say, is both mildly affirming but also, oof.
Love these, and I can so relate to them. More, please.
Thank you, Rachel! There will be more for sure.
i love the storytelling, and how expressively the faces are drawn! do you post art updates on any social media, Bishakh?
Thank you so much, vensey! Yes, I’m @biche_bash on Insta. Also I have two graphic novels out this year, Apsara Engine from Feminist Press and Spellbound, coming out in August from Street Noise Books. Thank you again for your sweet words.
Oh, I want to get these comics. So spot on, and she had me at “vegetarian moussaka and lemon potatoes.” More, please!
More in the works, Brigid! (And I actually just went back to this restaurant last week for veg moussaka and lemon potatoes, al fresco of course. No creepy dads this time.)