It's not easy being a transgender
transient. It takes work to have style on the streets, and even then
the most I can accomplish is a sort of hobo chic but if you have a
problem with me you can derelick my balls.
It's not easy
knowing I could hide in wasp's clothing, hold an occupation serving
in glorious serfdom, shut my mouth regarding the pain and corruption
targeting minorities who can't hide like me in a hive caked not in
honey but in silence. I can pretend I am just the same as all of
them, receive a certified assurance of security for the all time low
price of my liberty, 50% off today only.
It's not easy feeling
too ashamed sometimes to admit I woke up under a bridge today,
thankful to god to be there because I've been caught in the rain, the
snow and the cold before, not sure if I'd make it to morning or
give in to exposure. But if I tell you, you'll ask me why, why do you
do this to yourself? Clean up, get a job and an apartment so you can
barely afford rent on a box that sits vacant. Why do you do this to
yourself? Get some bills, get a debt, pay some taxes, there's a war
happening and we can't terrorize civilians without your help. Don't
do this to yourself! Have some self-respect. Serve some fast food,
the industry's striking so they're sure to hire you. Seek treatment,
find a program, you must be insane and on drugs to sleep in the rain.
Why do you do this to yourself?
What do I say? No, I'm not on
drugs, I just smoke weed but you better be crazy to survive a day
here. There's nothing rational about the spiritual castle I erect out
of magic to cancel the cold and the wet, the lonely and dark,
frozen near dead with miles ahead--I'll get there even if my carbon
can't make it because I'm crazy enough. I bring safety with me when I
travel and I place it wherever I sit like a paper weight lantern
whether I'll get fucked with or not. I don't give a shit. I know my
rights and they weren't given to me, they aren't written like
laminated privileges, my ancestors stole my freedom, they turned
themselves into citizens.
You can hate me but I swear you
can't hate me more than I dared to the night I finally understood why
it only feels like I'm in a costume after the time comes to resume
wearing male apparel. Maybe no one else cared but I felt greater fear
than I knew how to bear so I buried the feeling that I was living in
error. I carried more fear of wearing mascara than spraying a payload
of mace at the tweakers that told me to walk away so they could scar
lessons on my friend’s face. I refused them. I pulled out my mace,
I aimed for their eyes, they took in stride and pulled out their
knives and you must be wondering how running from two monsters
fueled by methamphetamine for so long your body’s been reduced to
adrenaline is less frightening than presenting as a woman but there’s
a distinction between putting on polka dots and realizing everything
you thought you believed in was false. They could only kill my body.
I had to release a fictitious identity.
So I fought back the
tears. I shrugged off the pressure, and no weapon you brandish could
hurt any worse than the club I erected with my own self rejection to
batter and beat myself in my sleep. I hit harder than those skinhead
thugs did the night they broke my nose and chipped my teeth and tore
out my hair and told me to get on my knees. They told me to grovel
and plead. But I refused them. I told them if I'm going to die
tonight, I die on my feet. The truth is you can't scare me more than
I dare to. I bring my own terror. My nightmare's alive and breathing
my air repeating a curse to convince me I don’t deserve to be here.
My mother says I'm incorrigible. To
vacate feeling responsible because I wouldn't let her control me she
concluded that I'm simply not correctible but if I were incapable of
improving I wouldn't be breathing because it's a lie that life
gives nothing you can't handle. The truth is to live through this
bullshit that floods through existence we must evolve into
unrecognition. I used to be an arachnophobe. By the third time I
caught lice, I found spiders adorable but I still won’t cut my
fucking hair.
Does this make me stubborn? Am I incorrigible?
Maybe. Maybe my mastery is alchemy and I'll transform right in front
of you. Maybe I have to because some younger version of myself is
sitting somewhere licking a pistol lollipop wondering how many licks
it'll take before things finally taste sweeter.
I know it isn't easy being one of
nature's experiments, but you're not a mutant and your experiment can
only fail if you let fear conform you until you've grown identical to
the control group. I know I can hide in wool clothing and pretend
I don't suffer with you but I won't abandon the lantern and leave you
with no one to show you--I don't even know you but I know this much:
happiness has nothing to do with lying to yourself.
I'm not
perfect, I never will be but you can't judge me more than I judged
myself. I stole my own joy deceiving myself into believing that face
blinking back from the mirror was supposed to be growing a beard and
broad shoulders and look hard and rough and all scarred up. I live
the regret knowing I built barriers with black magic to protect the
part of me I couldn't love yet while a testosterone brush coated the
fertile earth of my body with a parking lot crust because I couldn't
find my courage early enough. But I'm calling my bluff. My goal is
happiness and I’ll send my fear screaming. The cement is giving to
self-respect seeds, the concrete is splitting and beautiful things
are spilling from me.
I may not be a real man like you, but
that's because to you manhood's a prop to make you finally feel
powerful. There’s nothing superior about having testicles. You use
it to hide yourself from your cowardice so you call women bitches
because that way at least you can subjugate something. I call last
night my bitch because it tried to destroy me and I still woke up
under that bridge. It doesn't matter how, I woke up. I carry a
lantern called manhood, my father gave me the tools in my attitude to
protect what I love from being misused or disposed of, from being
caught in the cold and the wet. Fear may be breathing your words and
stealing your air but I'm still here and I'm not giving up yet.
And
if I’m not a real woman like you, I won’t be offended. Maybe you
can’t stand it knowing this poser is prettier than you. If your
judgment defined me, that’d make me your object and no real woman
allows others to assign her own value. You don’t have to be
perfect, just respect yourself enough not to project your own self
contempt or I’ll be required to call you an “it” because no
real woman takes shit. Real women are resilient, that gift from my
mother she mistook as my stubbornness. Real women see spectrums, not
dichotomous categories. A real woman is whatever the fuck she wants
to be.
It's not easy being transgender but your skin is only
momentary, your personality's imaginary and your conditioning is
voluntary. A human being is not computer code. Your gender’s binary
because you've been taught to believe in things that divide and
conquer you. Truth is what you choose. You can stop playing by them
when you don’t like the rules.
It's not easy being transient
but the only reason for your system to be monetary is to scare you
from throwing out your batteries, taking off your training wheels and
stepping out of boundaries to find where your true power lies. It
doesn't matter what the facts describe. Only your attitude can hold
the light. Put it to the test and you can show the rest how to defeat
the things that want you to cower and plead. Show me because
sometimes I'm still too scared to be free. Show anyone that wants to
stop you, show them they can kill you but if they kill you, you die
on your feet.
