There are only two days left in the month of May. That’s only two days until Pride month if you live by the queer calendar. June is Pride month or Pride season if you will. To many who identify as LGBTQ+ it is license to celebrate with kick ass parties, festivals, and bar bashes. Some would paint a pretty picture and have us believe that the season swells with love, inclusivity, and a glittery rainbow of commonality between allies and community. Well, I am here to tell you that that depends on whom you ask.
I woke to a number of “this needs to stop” and “something needs to change” posts across social media this morning. I have not seen one “I’m going to…” response to last night’s shootings in the city.
If you can’t see that this problem reaches beyond the responsibility of parents and city officials then you inarguably are not looking hard enough at the real issues. To choose to reside in an area where violent acts continue yet put the onus on others to rectify the situation so that you have a better place to live is irresponsible and elitist.
When I was just weeks shy of three years old, I was hanging
around the house with my mom doing the stuff that toddlers do, I guess. It was
mid-morning on a warm spring day and I was bored and tired of playing with
whatever age acceptable toys had been placed in front of me. My mom must have
been focused on my sisters at the time – one was older and the other younger
than I – because she didn’t notice at first that I’d made an all-important
decision to find something else to do. I’d always preferred to be with my dad
and that day was no different. Dads always did the cool stuff and I wanted to
do cool stuff with my dad instead of the usual toddler stuff. I knew he was at
work and lucky for me, his work was right next door. So I decided I was going
to go to work.
trans boys want the same things as any other boys growing up. I was no
different. I liked being outside and getting dirty and I wouldn’t be surprised
if I’d have broken records for wearing through the knees of my jeans. I’m
pretty sure I mastered that challenge with a record time of less than two weeks
to wear holes in at least one of the knees. Oh, and the patches that my mom
sewed on them usually “fell off” in even less time than that! Everyone knows
that cowboys do not wear patches on their jeans!
When I was a kid everyone assumed I was a tomboy. I played by myself much of the time because I hated playing the girly games. I had the most fun doing my own thing – which often involved finding what appeared to others to be the most “tomboy” activity I could find. If I couldn’t be a boy, at least I could act like one. This was easiest to do when I could be outside and even more so when I got to visit my grandparents’ farm. Sometimes revisiting our past reminds us that who we’ve become may not be all that far from where we began.