The Full Story


So, this is how it goes. I was born a girl. I was born a boy. I was born human with genitals and everyone is confused. I have spent roughly equal portions of my life a “boy/man” or a “girl/woman”. I use they/them pronouns. I dress according to mood. There is no passing for me. Only fluid emergences, flashes of visibility, moments of connection.

I have two children, 14 and 3. I am disabled. Formerly homeless. Southern by birth. Suddenly single. Spent seven years living in Washington state and still fail to accept the weather. I have lived many lives.

Love, uncertainty, grief. These are the primary animating forces of my current life. Abruption after abruption has led me to seek solace and connection with the ground, roots, mycelium, trees, bodies of water, the moon. My heart has been fucked with, fucked over, and fucked open, wider and wider and deeper and deeper, until in moments it is permeable and limitless in its welcome.

My intention is to seek levity, floatation. Embrace lift over sink. The vastness of air over the density of water. Parent through and despite the currents. Eventually take root.

Below is what I had to say, 7 years ago.


—————————————————————————————————————————————–So, this is how it went. I was born a girl– whoops. I was born a boy. I was born human with genitals and everyone was confused.

I have a gender. Some people don’t, I do. Mine is messy. Just use male pronouns and don’t ask questions. Unless we’re fucking, or about to, or drinking together somewhere with stars or cigarette smoke. No rain, though. I thought rain was poetic until I moved to Washington state.

We are unlikely to be fucking. I used to be poly but I don’t like people that much anymore. I focus on my family, and I’m sorry if that made your heart stop- it made mine stop, too- but the right hanging nuts don’t get to claim families. Particularly mine.

I am queer. I am trans, if you didn’t catch that already. So is my partner. So is my kid. We lived in Georgia. Whoops. We put our kid in public school in Georgia. Whoops. Bad things happened. We ran for our lives.

Route 66 is a good route to take when running for one’s life. Stop in Tucumcari, at the Blue Swallow Motel. Do NOT stop in Texas, even to urinate. Piss in a cup instead, keep going.

We moved first to a Collective. Then to shelter One. Then to shelter Two. We now live in subsidized housing in some place called Tumwater. Tumwater.

This is my blog. I am a writer. I write to connect. Hello.

2 thoughts on “The Full Story

  1. I read everything today, in two fell swoops. Most recent post towards the end, reversing mid-way through to start with the oldest posts. Somehow, I would’ve have wanted to read this any other way.

    I am currently living in your old neck of the woods in southern Georgia. I found you through the Lambda Literary website before I even considered applying for fellowship with them myself. It was calming to see a fellow queer profiled; one who didn’t necessarily have the same academic background as the other fellows, with whom I shared these strange roots.

    I have so much I could type right now, but this is enough: Thank you, TT, for sticking with it.

    • Enjoy the Lambda retreat, Sarah. I don’t need to tell you that it’s a whole other world from south Georgia, both invigorating and alienating in its complete otherness. I felt like a bumfuck redneck the whole time that I was there, but I felt like a “seen” one. Considering that being seen in the South is somewhat akin to painting a target on one’s face, the affirmation and relative lack of danger in the witnessing was refreshing. It changed my life, fully and irrevocably, and I hope that you have as powerful an experience.

      Glad to know that you’re down there, that we weren’t entirely alone although we felt like we were. Thank you for reading. Please swat a misquito and kiss an oak tree for me- preferably one of the low hanging limbs, the twisting ones that reach out like roots to the sun.

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