The Trump Donuts

I voted.

I am 43 years old and for the first time in my life I voted in a presidential election. I am not sure whether I was not taught the importance of using my voice or if the lesson simply fell on deaf ears – more interested in chasing butterflies and romping joyfully around, blissfully ignorant of all the comings and goings of the world.

A little over a year ago, I was educated. I was taught about women’s suffrage. I was taught about how brave and bold and courageous women fought to give me my right to vote – for even though I do not identify as a woman, my driver’s license makes it so in the eyes of the US government.

Since that time, I have been surrounded by a host of wonderful queers who have educated me about things like racism and sexism and gentrification and islamophobia and ableism and misogyny and privilege. My eyes have been opened to a world of power and privilege and injustice. I have had my own experiences with homophobia and transphobia. There is so so much work to be done.

So I voted.

This is the third time I went to the polling place a block down the road from my office to vote. The third time I made sure I had my ID. The third time I went to exercise my right as a US citizen to participate in the electoral process. I was nervous. And I was proud.

I was disheartened to see that for every Clinton sign, there were at least five Trump signs surrounding it. Every Bennett sign was lost in sea of Comstock ones. There was a Trump/Comstock table set up, just at the edge of the “No campaigning past this point” sign. They had donuts and coffee and white Christian heterosexual upper middle class people. I stood straight, shoulders back, proud of who I am, and walked past them and their Trump donuts. 

I held the outer door for a young woman and she held the inner door for me.

I walked in.

I walked up to the table and offered my driver’s license.

She took my ID and looked at it.

“Full name?”

(Nervous excited butterflies! I never get to say my full name!)

Jackson Alexander Clark

She looked at my ID and looked at me.

She looked at my ID and looked at me.

She looked at my ID and looked at me.

I started to panic a little. Did I say it wrong? It’s only been my name for a year. Is that it? I’m sure it’s Alexander. I just talked to someone the other day about that. That’s what it says on my ID. That’s my name. What is happening? I said it again.

Jackson Alexander Clark

Now as I think about it, perhaps she was confused by my name and the “Sex” box on my ID with the letter “F” underneath it. Maybe she thought I was trying to cheat the system somehow. Maybe she could not reconcile in her mind my man’s name and her perception of my gender. Likely she has no idea how her pause made me squirm in discomfort and in fear. Or maybe she does and does not care. I will choose to believe the former.

“Address?”

PO Box 1…

“No!”

I jumped. It’s simply a force of habit. To give the PO Box. It is what is on my ID. But my cheeks flushed with embarrassment all the same.

12391…..

I spat out my physical address, feeling the nervousness and awkwardness wash over me.

She sat and just looked at me.

The same insecurity began to creep into my head. Did I say it wrong? Did I somehow mess this up? Am I not going to be able to vote because she does not believe I am who I am? A lifetime of struggling to become who I really am and now I could be turned away because I do not match who this stranger things I am?

Moments turned to eons as we looked at one another. I started to tremble. I want to tell you that I trembled with righteous indignation but that would be a lie. Fear. I was afraid. 

I repeated it.

12391….

She handed me back my ID. She handed me a card. Wordlessly, I walked away.

Six feet away I turned in my card, I received my ballot, and I went and sat down.

I am grateful that I educated myself on the constitutional amendments before I got there. My brain had slowed down and I was having trouble comprehending what I was reading. I studied the directions. It seemed somehow hard to remember what I was doing there. What I wanted to do. What names meant what to whom.

Then I remembered the Trump donuts.

OH THAT! I’m fighting against the Trump donuts. I’m doing one very small part of MY part to fight injustice in this world. I filled in the circles slowly and methodically.

I rose, inserted my ballot into the machine, watched my votes be counted, and left the building.

I voted.

Those who know me well know that now I am wondering what I could have done differently, what I could have done better, how could I have diffused the tension/aggression/confusion that blossomed as I handed my ID to a stranger who was charged with being sure that I was who I said I was.

But I know the answer. I did it already. By exercising my right to vote. By walking into my polling place in White Post Virginia as a trans identified person and silently booming “I belong here. I have a voice here. My vote counts, too.”

I voted.

And I’m going to get my own donuts.

Equality donuts for everyone.

Dear Parcheesi,

Dear Parcheesi,

You are a very good girl. Such a good girl. I don’t think I told you that enough times. I felt it each time I looked at you. I felt it each time I walked in the door and looked into those big blue eyes. You were always so happy when I got home. I mean, I always knew it wasn’t about me. Not really. Me coming home meant you went out to potty and then you got a… yes… you know what's coming… a C.O.O.K.I.E. That’s right. You go potty and you get a cookie. I swear, so many times you asked to go out just so you could come in and get a cookie. I think you went outside and just counted down – 10, 9, 8, 5, 7, 3, cookie, 1! and you ran back to the door and bounced and bounded your badonkadonk to the kitchen for your cookie.

Delightful. You were delightful.

Do you remember that day five years ago when you were lost and walking down the side of the road and Tina found you? I won the lottery that day and I didn’t even know it. You hung out at the clinic for a while. We really thought someone would come looking for you. Do you remember your life before you came into my life? I can’t seem to remember a time before you came into mine, Cheese.

Maybe we both won the lottery that day.

I put your picture on Facebook. Help me name this dog! The responses were enthusiastic, creative, and immediate. With each new suggestion, I would shout the name and see what happened. Finally, "Parcheesi!" You got so happy! You bounced and pounced and trounced and wagged your tail. Parcheesi. That's my girl. Cheeseball. Cheesecurl. Cheezit. Cheese.

Do you know that you started it all? A long line of rescued dogs named after games? You were the first. You were the young one. The healthy one. The one who was going to be here with me for the long haul.Yahtzee and Jenga and Sargent Pinochle. You watched them all come and watched them all go. You treated each one with the same indifference with which you treated every other animal in my life. I was the only one who mattered. Unless I had company. Then it was me who became invisible in the face of your shiny new toy - a PERSON... who might have FOOD... and SCRATCHES and LOVINGS. You are so my child, Cheese. So much tail wagging glee we both found in this life together.

Do you remember meeting best friend Beth? You loved her more than anyone. Do you remember? You were so HAPPY! So overstimulated! I started to worry that you would pass out from sheer excitement! (She's my favorite, too. I get it)

Do you remember snow? You loved the snow so much! You would roll around on your back and burrow your nose down deep and just stretch out and rest in the middle of it. You always liked the cold. This past week, as the weather grew cooler, you spent more and more time outside. Parcheesi, I wish you had gotten to experience another snow. But I remember for both of us. When the snow does come this year, I'll remember. 

Baths, Cheese. Do you remember baths? I know you hated them. I know you felt so so betrayed. But honeylove, you looked so lovely after. You were the most beautiful girl in all of the world. I do not know what I did to deserve a dog like you.

And Cheese! Do you remember that time that I took that picture of you? The best picture I've ever taken. You were so perfect. You delighted me. You delighted me every single day. For five years. Even now as my heart is broken, you delight me. 

Do you remember car trips? That day 18 months ago when I drove you to meet Dr. White for the first time? You were so skeptical in the car. So doubtful of me and my driving. I mean, where were we going? This wasn't the clinic. This wasn't Blandy. This definitely isn't somewhere we've been before.

I know you felt my anxiety.

I'm sorry Cheese. I should have done better with that. I should have been braver for you. My worry made you worry. I regret that more than once my worry or my sadness or my temper made you worry. I wish I had been happy. More of the time. For you. 

Do you remember Dr. White? She was the best, right? We love Dr. White. 

Yes, it's cancer. Yes, radiation will be curative. Yes, we can fix this.

We took this that day before loading back up into the car. Remember? We've got this.

And then we sang the whole way home.

And I'm freeeeeeeee!  Free faaaaallin'! 

We went and visited Dr. White day after day after day after day. You were so happy.. so excited to load up and go. So happy to walk right back with them and then, on wobbly legs, you were happy to return to me. I was so proud of you. You were such a good girl. The best girl. 

You are my best girl, Cheese.

It got harder towards the end. The anesthesia began to wear on you and the burns started to surface. Physically you slowed a bit, but your enthusiasm never did. You were so brave. A lobby full of nervous dogs and owners and you brought smiles to everyone whose path you crossed.

And then we were done. You were cleared. You were free. 

Remember?

You were a survivor.

Cheese! Do you remember.....

uh.... .nevermind..

And then what a year we had! Cancer free! Whoo! Car rides and picking up chicks and making memes and deep thoughts and sunshine.

What a great last year it was. 

Then, your nose started running. And running. And running.

And off we went again. 

Do you remember the hard conversation we had on the way over? I told you that we were going to stay positive. We were already assuming it was bad news. We didn't know yet. It's all good, Cheese! You're a survivor! This is going to be fun! It's going to be fine. Everything is alright, my sweet loverdog. 

Parcheesi, honey, I'm sorry I wasn't more brave for you. I'm sorry I was anxious and nervous and afraid. I wish I had not brought my own anxiety on that trip. I wish I had handled it better. I know I handled it as best as I could. I simply had never been on that side of the door.

A few days later, we got the news that led us here. Now. To this day. 

Do you remember the night I came home and curled with you on the floor and held you close and cried? That night. That was the night I knew I was going to lose you and that it was going to happen soon. Cheese, my heart broke that night. Lots and lots of hearts broke that night.

Remember how we started living after that, Cheese? Crappy canned food and tons of peanut butter and lots of time on the floor together. Lots of holdings and pettings and lovings. Lots of all of it. If you had a bucket list, it would have been a bucket full of food. So we ate bacon and cheese and eggs and chicken and remember that steak, Cheese? And for the last couple of months, we lived. 

I did not know how I would know. I never know. What I did know for certain was that you were not going to suffer. You gave me too much love and joy and happiness for me make you linger here until you became a shattered shell of the joyful dog you were. 

The nose bleeds started to come everyday.

Cheese... I do not want this to be so. Not yet.

Honey... I'm not ready...

But it was time. I made the appointment. I sat with you and tried to explain, but the words got stuck in my throat. I gave you half of my sandwich instead. 

A few more days of food and love and treats and holding and curling up on the giant bed with you.

A few more days of questioning and uncertainty and indecision.

A few more days of extra canned food and scoops of peanut butter and spoonfuls of ice cream and slices of bacon.

And today, a trip to McDonalds. Hamburgers and french fries and happiness. The only thing I wanted from this trip was to bring happiness to you. I gave you that. The best gift I could give you.

After all you have given me. 

I thank you. 

And one last trip car trip for my happy, contented girl.

One last walk into the clinic.

Happiness and wagging tail. You love the clinic. Everyone gives you so many cookies.

One last walk into an exam room. 

One last, Cheese.

Rest now, my darling dear.

Let me send you off on your next romping journey with these words:

Parcheesi, you are such a good girl.You are a delightful ball of wonder. You are the epitome of joy. Your have brought me so much joy over the past five years that I will never be able to pay it forward. 

But I promise to try.

We all promise to try.

To be a little more like Cheese.

I want you to know that I am going to take a little break. I am not going to adopt another dog for a little while. I will again. I promise. But I need to let my heart heal. The loving of you changed me and the loss of you fractured me. I can feel it already. The fluffy blue eyed hole in my heart aches for you. 

I want you to know that everyone who ever met you loved you. Everyone who ever saw your picture loved you. You were special. You touched lives. With your smile and your eyes and your cheery disposition you spread happiness and joy. The world was brighter because of your wagging tail and  toothy smile and inexplicable blue eyes. 

It was a privilege to call you mine. Really, I think I was just a channel to share you with the greater world. I was so lucky that you picked me. 

Thank you, Cheese. For choosing me.

I want you to know that I have taken steps to take care of myself this weekend. I am safe and protected in the arms of people who love me. We all will mourn the loss of your bright soul together.

I want you to know that there will never be another Cheese. Not for me. 

I want you to know that I love you.

Thank you for loving me back.

Jackson               

I wish I had been more brave.

A year ago today I posted a blog and asked all of the people in my world to start calling me by a different name.

I look back now.. I read through… I shake my head.. I feel a little sad…

I want to go back to that person one year ago and say:

It’s okay.

You’re okay.

You’ve got this.

There are other people like you.

They are going to surround you so so soon.

Just hold on, Jackson.

You are not alone in this.

While there is no roadmap, there will be plenty of signs along the way.

Take a deep breath.

Everything is alright.

You are alright.

You do not have to be afraid.

I know you are anyway and that is okay, too.

I do not need to revisit the pronouncement and announcement and decision making process that let up to my becoming Jackson.

But I re-read my words and I thought of where I was and all of the fear and…

I wish I had been more brave.

I hid behind the name Jack in the belief that it would somehow be more acceptable to you, that you would find it easier to stomach, easier to adjust to, more understandable, not as much of a stretch.

It was, after all, my initials. Before and after the change.

I was asked to sign a birthday card for an employee at work that very first day and I signed it JAC. I froze. I was too afraid. I remember that day and my cheeks burn. I wish I had been more brave.

I am far too occasionally asked what pronouns I prefer, and I fumble and stumble and fall over the answer. Out of fear. Of how I will be perceived. Of what you will say. Of what you will think.

It is indeed a tightrope to walk when you are enamored with connection and terrified of rejection.

Love me. Accept me. Want me. But, please let me be me.

Whoever that is.

And I understand that my landscape is a rocky one. What was wanted yesterday has changed today and that may no longer hold true tomorrow.

I can only reiterate that there continues to be no roadmap and I sincerely do wish I had been more able to describe who I am and what I need and what feels right and what feels wrong. I wish I had been more brave.

I lied awake in bed last night and realized that I feel fractured, that I am walking in two worlds.

In one world, I am all Jackson and I am surrounded by people who see me as I am. People who hold space for me acknowledge me and do not feel unsteady around me. I feel confident and surefooted and grounded. I finally feel like who I was born to be. I finally feel free.

In another I am the person whose name used to be Jennifer. I feel whispered questions and misunderstandings and a divide that I do not know how to bridge. I do not know where to step and I always feel a little off kilter and out of sorts. I cannot find solid ground here. I did not do well in expressing who I am and what I need.

I wish I had been more brave.

I look around and cry out “someone needs to educate these people!”

And I remember that if there is no visible trail, maybe that means that I have to blaze it.

And I am afraid.

But you have to be afraid in order to be brave. Otherwise you wouldn’t need bravery.

So, here I am. A year later. Jackson. Unashamedly and unabashedly Jackson. There is no part of me that is not Jackson. It is as though I have always been this person.

It is that way because I have always been. I was born this way. I just didn’t know it yet. It took some time to meet this person that I really do love most of the time.

And I look back and I realize that it was not weakness or cowardice that led me to make the decisions that I made – the uncertainty and the insecurity and the trying to make MY transition easier on YOU. It was all just part of the journey.

My journey.

Jackson’s journey.

I’m glad I had not been more brave.

I did it perfectly. I did it exactly how Jackson would have done it.

I have never been on that side of the door.

I have been working at animal hospitals for 25 years now. The first for four. The second for nine. Finally, I have been at Roseville for going on twelve.

In that time, I’ve never once had to “take my pet to the vet.” It’s a perk of the job. We bring them to work with us and the doctors fit them in where there is time. Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes that’s bad. It is what it is.

I have gone to a few specialist appointments. Internal Medicine. Oncology. Etc.

But I have never experienced what you experience.

I have never been on that side of the door.

Walking into an animal hospital with my beloved pet as a client.

Until today.

I have had some sense of what you experience. I watch you. I deal with you. I try to figuratively hold your hand. I try to be gentle. I am firm when I have to be. I try to make this process for you as painless and as seamless as possible.

Today, I experienced it.

I walked into the lobby and looked around, trying to determine where to go. I was not sure which receptionist I was supposed to talk to, so I stood and looked back and forth at each one until I was greeted/acknowledged/welcomed.

I wanted you to know how special my girl is.

I wanted you to know how nervous I was about her procedure.

I wanted you to know that I was afraid of what you were going to find.

I wanted you to know that I really should have groomed her before I brought her in, and that I know her nails were kind of long, and that I’m embarrassed that she is a bit overweight, and that I really am a good pet owner.

I have never been on that side of the door.

I wanted you to know that she is not just a dog. Not to me. She is my child.

I wanted you to know all of that. Instead I gave you her name and my name and why we were there and you handed me the clipboard of paperwork and I sat down and filled it out. How old is she again? Emergency contact? What do I put here? I sat and scratched my head and pored over a form that I have handed to clients 1,000s of times over the years.

Then I was in a room and I was waiting and my girl and I sat on the floor and I loved her and talked to her and tried to act like I wasn’t nervous.

I have never been on that side of the door.

It is lonely there. It is scary there.

We talked about risk and we talked about best and worst case and I wanted to tell you “Hey, she’s super special. She’s beaten cancer twice. She’s amazing. She’s my good girl.”

I signed the waiver and kissed her head and leash in hand I walked to my car.

And I waited.

I have never been on that side of the door.

When the phone rang I excused myself from my business meeting and took the call.

It’s a mass. It’s about 2 centimeters long. It’s filling her nasal passage. I’m very sorry. She’s waking up. You can pick her up in a couple of hours.

He was kind. He was gentle. I could hear the compassion in his voice.

I took a deep slow breath and walked back to my meeting and did what we have made so many of you do so many times. Process. Grief. Fear. Loss. Without us and without your pet and without us having any idea of where you are or what you are doing and what you have to return to immediately following the phone call from us.

I have never been on that side of the door.

In a hazy daze I drove to the clinic to pick her up. Music was playing but I couldn’t hear it. Work was piling up but I could not seem to care.

I walked in and walked up to the counter and I had to fight back the tears. They were so sorry to hear. Maybe it will come back benign? She seems like such a sweet girl.

Money? What is money? Processing becomes hard when you’ve received bad news. I hand you my card and it is declined. I do not know why. Embarrassment and nervous explanations and tears threaten to escape and I just want to get my girl and hold her and carry her home and leave this place of bad news and never, ever come back.

Another form of payment and I am being led back to where she is sleeping. Lots of information all at once. Lots to hear. Lots to take in. Lots to remember. Lots of apologies. I am so sorry but now we know. Now we know.

I have never been on that side of the door.

My poor drunken girl was sleeping soundly. Blood oozing out her nose and legs wobbling and let me pick her up and carry her and hold her close to my chest.

The only thing I could think when I was carrying her through the building was “not yet. Don’t let the tears come yet. Let me hold it together for a little bit longer.” Somehow I was afraid that you would judge me. You would think less of me. You would not understand the pain I was feeling at hearing the news and hearing your apologies and hearing the death sentence in your voices when I haven’t even sent in the biopsy sample yet.

Trying to maintain my poise and composure as I navigate through all of you. Those who know and are somber and kind. Those who do not who smile happily at me and my beautiful blue eyed girl.

I have never been on that side of the door.

I was treated with kindness and compassion and respect. There is nothing I could have asked any of them to do differently or better to have made it easier on me and my girl.

It is simply hard. Very hard. To be on that side of the door. 

I love you, Cheese. 

There are so many things you don't know.

There are so many things you don’t know.

You don’t know that when I pulled up to the rest stop and there were only two cars there, I grew nervous. You see, I was born with female genitalia, therefore I have been conditioned from birth to be afraid. Afraid of men. Afraid of empty public spaces. Afraid of the risks that all women on this planet take every day.

Despite my gender representation, I have the same fears as women in dresses, women in heels, women on the subway, women walking by empty alleyways, women who hear noises outside of their homes in the middle of the night.

I also carry a different fear. Fear of men who think I am a threat. A threat to their wives and daughters. A threat to their masculinity. A threat to every way they believe the world should look.

You have no way to know this. I understand that.

So when I pulled into the almost empty rest stop and got out of my car, I was already on alert.

But I needed to pee.

As I approached the glass doors, I saw you standing there against the narrow wall in between the doors to the men’s room and the women’s room.

It wasn’t your shaggy hair. It wasn’t your dirty t-shirt. It wasn’t your ZZ Top beard. It was the fact that you were a man and you were standing less than a foot from the door that I needed to walk through.

And I needed to pee.

I knew that you were waiting for someone. I could tell. You were finished and you were waiting for someone who was behind that door. Perhaps you watched me walk the whole way up the sidewalk. Perhaps you did not see me until I took a deep breath, reached down, and pulled open the door.

One of the things that you do not know, is that you looked like a member of the Gestapo, standing guard against the “perverts” and “queers” that might try to sneak in and abscond with your woman.

But I have also been conditioned to fear these things. To fear them from you.

Likely that was not even on your radar. Likely you were just waiting. Likely you were just enjoying being vertical, stretching your legs, ready to get back into your car and get back on the road and get back to wherever you were heading.

That’s all I wanted, too.  

You looked at me and I looked at you as I walked in. I tried to maintain my tallest, most casual, not a care in the world stance. I was just breezing in the door.

Because I had to pee.

When my trajectory took me a little towards the left, towards the door that your brain told you I was not permitted to walk through, your eyes got a little wider. In retrospect, I think you felt a moment’s fear as well. What you were witnessing was against your natural order of things. A man was walking into the women’s restroom.

Except I am not a man. I use the restroom consistent with the gender of my birth, not because it is illegal in some states for me to do otherwise, but because I feel safer there.

But you did not know this.

It was not the words. It is not the first time I have heard the words. It will not be the last. It was the motion.

When you stepped forward and to your right and put your body in between me and the door that I needed to go through, you moved beyond the realm of what is acceptable, beyond the limits of what I can accept, beyond the barriers that society has set for us. We do not bodily interfere with other people.

But I had to pee.

Your face hardened and the words came out of you like a growl “this is the GIRL’S room!”

I do not know how I did it. I do not know how it happened. I am grateful for the grace with which I sometimes stroll through life with because nothing in me would suggest I would have responded the way that I did.

I simply said “yup” and I kept moving and skirted around you and through the door I went.

I saw her at the sink, washing her hands. She had to have been your wife. You LOOKED LIKE husband and wife. If she spared me more than a moment’s glance (like most women I encounter in a multi-stall women’s restroom) I did not notice. I was too busy trying to find what felt like the safety of a stall. With a door. And a lock.

There are some other things that you do not know. For all of the straight backed confidence that I maintained as I breezed past you, I was afraid.

I was afraid you would move further to side and block the door entirely.

I was afraid you would raise your arms and grab or strike me.

I was afraid that you would follow me in and confront me.

I was afraid as I locked the stall door and heard the restroom door open that you had decided to follow me in afterall.

And finally, I was afraid to leave. I stayed in the stall. I waited.

And that’s the part that pisses me off. I sat in that stall and waited and I was afraid and I was ashamed. Ashamed of my fear. Ashamed of hiding. Ashamed of wanting to make sure the coast was clear before I made my way back to my car.

But you have no way of knowing that.

Likely you were embarrassed of your mistake.

I took a long time washing my hands and I exited the restroom, trying to look everywhere at once. Trying to ensure that the risk had passed. I did not see you anywhere and I am grateful for that. One of the two cars was gone. I was so relieved to climb back behind the wheel and lock my doors. Sanctuary.

I stopped at another rest stop several hours later. The lot was full. Cars, people, dogs everywhere.

I was relieved. I might still have had someone stare open mouthed. I might still have had someone try to bar me from entering the restroom. But there were people everywhere and I felt safe. Safer.

There are so many things you don’t know. 

Pride

Forty Nine of my brothers and sisters died today.

Forty Nine of our brothers and sisters.

I do not have any more claim to pain or sadness or fear than any of my heterosexual brothers and sisters.

You see, these victims are not my brothers and sisters because I am one of the letters in LGBT. They are my brothers and sisters because they are human beings on this planet.

And 49 of them are dead. Another 53 are wounded. Early estimates stated that there were 320 human beings in Pulse when a young man began shooting them. Began shooting all of them.

Almost thirty percent did not make it out uninjured. Thirty percent.

Let that sink in for a minute. Think of how many people were in church with you this morning. Think of how many people were in the restaurant where you last ate a meal. One. In. Three. Dead or wounded.

There were seven people in my class this morning. One dead. One wounded. Five running in fear.

Twelve people at my office tomorrow. Two dead. Two wounded. Eight running in fear.

Where is the world where we do not have to fear? Being in a club. Being in a school. Being on a plane. Walking down the street.

As soon as I saw the initial reports, I said to myself “do not, under any circumstances, read the comments.”

It is hard to not succumb to that temptation. There is a part of me that wants to seethe and burn with the type of anger that caused a young man in the early hours of this morning to walk into a nightclub and start shooting everyone. The same type of anger that says I am right and you are wrong. The same type of anger that says I somehow have more of a right to be on this planet than you do.

Facts are still coming out. We do not know anything yet but his name and numbers and, frighteningly, the numbers are subject to change.

I will tell you that I looked. I did click the comments box. I did see.

Hatred. Blaming. Anger. Disgust. Racism. Homophobia. Islamophobia. 

Make. It. Stop.

Stop stoking the fire. Stop blaming someone else’s religion. Stop hiding beneath the virtue of your own religion. You do not get to say that I am going to hell because I am homosexual and in the same breath cry out that the shooter was a Muslim and therefore a terrorist.

And please do not begin shouting from your soapbox “now the liberals will use this to further their anti-gun agenda.”

You are right. They will. As they should.

While I am not a gun owner, I have been. I do believe that individuals have the right to own guns, provided that they know how to safely use them and, more importantly, know how to protect their children from them.

I refuse to believe that any individual in this country has the right to an automatic weapon that has the capacity to shoot 102 people in the length of time it takes to listen to a song.

There is no reason for this.

There is no reason for any of this.

Sometimes it is hard to find love in my heart. The man who walked into that club and started shooting people is a human being also. I do not know where to go with that. What to do with it. How to cope with the ache and sadness and hopelessness of yet another senseless tragedy.

Tell me who to vote for. Tell me who to donate to. Tell me where to march. Tell me what flag to fly and banner to bear and sign to hold. Tell me where my voice can be heard so that my brothers and sisters and I can stop living in fear.

I am proud. I am proud to be queer. I am proud to be a yoga instructor. I am proud to do needlework. I am proud of my gender expression, my tattoos, my ridiculous dog. I am proud that I am a good person, a good friend, a good lover. I am proud to be a human being, sharing space with all of you.

And I am sad.

Forty nine of our brothers and sisters died today. 

I don't want to have to be brave.

Masculine presenting women are being forcefully removed from women’s restrooms by police.

Men are walking into women’s restrooms to confront women whom they believe do not have a right to be there.

Transmen are being beaten by men. Transwomen are being beaten by women. And vice versa.

A woman is beaten by a man for looking too masculine. “I’ll beat you like the man you want to be.”

Verbal assault. Physical assault. Sexual assault. Murder.

“I don’t want to have to be brave to use the bathroom.”

Let that sink in for a moment.

“I don’t want to have to be brave to use the bathroom.”

A child said that.

I say that, too.

I do not want to have to pause, take a deep breath, and brace myself to walk into a public restroom. And I am not a child. I am six feet tall, two hundred pounds. I should be perfectly capable of protecting myself.

But there is no protecting ourselves from what is happening in the world right now.

North Carolina’s House Bill 2, which requires me to use the women’s restroom (which I typicalky do anyway), has made it LESS SAFE for me to do so.

Because now I am on their radar.

Not yours. If you are reading my blog, you are my friend and you love me and I am not friends with transphobic bigots. Facebook is a wonderful tool for weeding those people out of our lives.

But their radar. Those who think that it is permissible for me to be the target of their abuse because of what is or isn’t between my legs, or because of my haircut, or the clothes I wear, or because of how I walk and carry my frame through the world, because of my pronouns, or because of my name.

The people who believe that a life is disposable and worthless because of the color of that life’s skin.

The people who think that a woman has no right to her body since she does not have a cock swinging between her legs.

The people who think that a person is less of a person because of the god that they choose to worship.

And Trump fanaticism grows and grows and grows.

And I am frightened.

I am frightened, friends.

This country is becoming a bad dream I cannot wake up from.

Create change.

Speak.

Vote.

Move.

Act.

Protect.

Please.

I don’t want to have to be brave to use the bathroom.