reprinted here w/o formal permission from my friend the author
dedicated to my children, my friends and other strangers as:
- a commitment and call to action,
- a clarion call, a wake-up call, a promise and a warning,
- a threat to the status quo
- a gift for my grown children whose paths through the verb “gender” to selfhood made me proud of them and myself as a parent. I love who you are. I love that you will let no one (even me) “un-are” the who of you.
- a milemarker and a tombstone those lovers, friends and strangers harmed, murdered or imprisoned by Transphobia
When I help a woman on with her jacket,
my sexuality grabs my gender identity
and waltzes it around the room.
I’m a woman, but there’s a man in me.
He’s a bit of a fop, sort of a pansy.
He might be a fag.
Why shouldn’t everything about me be fluid?
I’m a squishy skin-bag of water and salt,
ocean inside and out.
As a child, I was sure I was a boy.
The heroes of all the best books were boys.
I pretty much lived in my head, what I read.
Now I feel more like a woman –
except around straight women.
Then I feel like a butch lunk.
My husband thinks I’m a femme
because I wear lavender, (color and scent),
and ask him to open jars.
All roads meet in me:
butch when I wake up,
femme at lunch.
Androgynous at dinner,
totally trans all night .
Can I get that door for you?