Lost In The Closet

Between my (nonexistant) budget and my bones, it’s hard to find shoes.  And when I went to look for my favourite boots, the ones I wore on Halloween, the heel of one was still covered in dirt from where I stopped the car to pee, and the other was missing.  Gone, invisible, vanished.

I liked those boots, which replaced a pair whose heel cap cracked on Day Of Rememberance 2004, when I dropped my purse in the rain.  And I wanted them on my first night out since then, almost two and a half months ago.

I could feel the sweat as I frantically searched the bins for that left boot.  It’s the sweat that always comes, the frantic rush to get things right while getting centered enough to go out and face the world.  I felt it.   But I stopped, wore the other boots.

That boot is lost.  It’s lost in the closet.  Maybe for other people the closet is a little enclosed room, but it’s not that for me.  I think I lost the boot when I changed in the car under the power lines, swabbing my face with baby oil and opening the back door to throw my clothes in a bin.  To me, the closet isn’t a place, rather it’s long path back through my history where things had to be hidden, where panic gave way to darkness.

Virginia Prince tried to read me out once, tellling me my history by spinning out The Prince Pattern of CDs.  She was wrong about me, of course — no femme name and no purging, none of the characteristic dumping it all.  I don’t lose much, and when I let something go, and I have, I do it with consideration, not the idea that throwing it away will free me from it’s pull.

But now, well, now, I think about what I have lost in that closet.  I once spoke to someone who was doing oral histories of trannies, but he eventually told me he didn’t want to do one with me.  “You have told your story too much.  I don’t think I could get anything new from you.”  Yeah.  My innocence and openness lost in the process of building a story that could sustain me though the stigma and challenge of being a visible tranny.

We all have those challenges, though.  It’s what we need to be a tranny, some story that keeps us from feeling the separation of all we have lost in the closet, all of the humanity we have had to leave there over the years.  My childhood, my passion, my dreams, all in there with my lost boot.

And I miss them.