What do I remember from last night?
Almost falling down the rough framed stairs in the rainy darkness, wearing heels and hauling bins, after trying to smear some makeup on my face?
The precious makeup spilled and broken on the rainy pavement?
Being pointed to the other door as I came into the Day Of Rememberance event at the Social Jusice Center?
The moments pawing though my purse as the purile videos started, my hands covered with brightly covered powders from dead makups, trying to find my keys and make sure the cell phone that sprawled in pieces on the road still worked?
The arrogant poet who spouted canned drivel about oppression that had no relation to growing up trans?
The bright female in the blue suit and tie who chose wanted to quote figures rather than be present?
Hawk, who said this day was about the living, when it was not, rather it was about lives, lives gone and lives here?
Yumara, a drag daughter of sorts, who spouted with energy and passion, brilliance and light, but no thought or discipline?
Charlene, who filled the space left for all with platitiudes about everyone being people, or her black suited lover who looked at my drag influenced appearance with a hard and cutting edge?
All those trannys in the same places and with the same defenses saying the same thing?
The heel cap on my favourite boot, cracked, broken & lost in the dark night?
Will I remember my wait at the Unitarian coffeehouse, trying to figure what I would say while people played and played and played into the night?
My walk up to the stage, the stage where I tried to joke about being in the native dress of my people, where I watched people not know what to think or say?
My reading of “How Old,” the first time I read it or heard it read, even if it has been read at the DOR events in SF for four years, the reading where I found a clear voice?
My walk back to my seat during the applause?
The standing ovation some people gave me as I sat?
My wanting to cry when I was done, cry for all those dead & dying trannies, as the gentleman after me sang Kermit’s “Rainbow Connection?”
The family who came up after and told me Jesus would save me if I actually believed that the gospel music I liked was for me?
The Korean fellow who said his daughter did poetry and he was moved?
The two Unitarian ladies, one who kept calling it crossdressing, and one who was helping the FTM child of a friend come out?
Changing clothes in the WalMart parking lot, walking by the kid on security at the door, and washing my face in the men’s room?
My mother, who couldn’t ask or be open affirming as I was spare about my experience before I went to bed at 12:30 AM?
My father, who woke me up with his exercise at 6:03 and as I pulled myself out of bed, asked about when my court date was, and about lawyers?
My purse is still full of precious essence, now rendered useless because it lost cohesion, broke in a fall. My face still feels tight from the pink pump handsoap I used to wash it with in that men’s room. My socks and shirt still have the stains where they removed my makeup or dried my face when there were no paper towels.
And my heart is still broken up from the reminder how little things change, how much trannies live in walls and even people who can be emotionally moved have trouble doing the hard work of thought and action to back it up.
Bing bam boom.