A friend said: “you used to try to be kinda macho, but we all knew it was faked.”
He said: “it’s better this way, I can see you. You had a kinda blurry outline, never in focus.”
I come out to complete strangers. Mostly they’re just puzzled. You gonna surprise people, pick a venue. Target the audiences.
I was asked, as that guy I used to be, to do a reading for Banned Books Week. I chose Feinberg.
First, I dressed up some and let down my hair.
Then I showed up. The librarians were kind. Hardly missed a beat. They introduced Local Author, working from the online resume. He does this, he wrote that, she’s reading from Stone Butch Blues.
It was sweet, then, to come out to the room.
We did the doctor’s visit, distant, vague. We did the horrible nurses, the two forbidden bathrooms, the assumptions, the staggering out alone.
We did the telephone, the “We’re sorry” robot, the friend’s death. We did the foreman, the “you’re fired.”
Afterwards, handshakes, polite and gracious inquiries. One grand old lady
confides: “You’re going to be pretty.”
-- risa b