That Shit

My father saw a report on a study that says people who have cardiac issues often drink pop.

He wanted me to watch, so I would stop drinking all that shit.

I went into a flat smile. He didn’t want to talk about the details of the survey, didn’t want to talk about my health status, didn’t want to talk about my relationship to my Coca-Cola, didn’t want to talk about anything.

He just knew that he has long ago decided that shit is bad for me, bad for everyoneand wants to nail that home one more time, without thought or nuance or context.

Miz Ruby noted that yesterday that when I relayed a message, I was nagging him. I disagreed, but I did agree that he experienced it as nagging.

But when he just uses any excuse to repeat “the lesson” and chooses not to engage any details, well, that I know is nagging.

Be Big, Bitch

“I just don’t need to be front and center anymore,” TBB tells me.

“Yeah,” I said. “I get that. Remember the extension of our act, The Drama Queens?”

“No.”

Drama Queens In Recovery. ”

a group for women who still had high levels of drama but were learning to let the ingenues stand in the spotlight, only coming out for one fabulous turn. These are not crones, but women who have turned frowsy, frowsy and fabulous with age. The package may be frayed around the edges, but the contents have matured and deepened, strong and bright.

We were always outrageous & transgressive when we opened, threatening to shoot hormones (with a gun), appearing as people who didn’t show up, and finally me coming on as a cured transsexual whose CR group has told her that being funny is a betrayal of all women, and TBB as a CD who just wants to party, who find common ground — “we have no act, we have no talent, we are the drama queens!

Today, it’s me chafing at constraints and TBB who needs to just get a job as a woman, flip flop.

I get the desire. I, too, just want to blend in, just be another.

Problem is that I know that assimilated & invisible really isn’t possible for me. I hate that.

If you are always going to be noticed, well, hiding just isn’t a reasonable strategy. At some point, you just have to accept that you are — that I am — just plain big, bitch.

And that’s a hard part. All eyes on you, if you want them or not, well, only an egotist would choose that. If you are in recovery, though, the ego must be tamed, disciplined, managed.

How do we trust that being big is not just the only choice, but that it is also the best choice, not only the choice that honors our nature, but that choice that best connects us with the world and the universe?

The call to small comes easy to someone who grew up trans, who learned how to deny and diminish themselves. Playing small has defined me, especially in my relationship with my family, where big is feared and separated, just as I am feared and separated.

But big? Big?  Scary Big?

Well, Bitch, it looks good on you!

I just don’t think it looks good on me.

Or maybe, just maybe, I fear that being big not only looks good on me, but also that being big is the only thing that looks good on me.

Just hard to blend in that way.