Somebody said it was like piles of cats everywhere. Some on top of each other in chairs and on couches, some tangled in and playing with rope, other kitties attacking each other, tumbling around. I was an outside cat who had to be let in and out constantly, which suited me just fine. There was ample purring, some hissing, definite caterwauling. Many compliments, much helpful preening. Fourteen weird, sweet, cautious but cuddly kitty queers.

It was hailing when we left our too-big cabin. The precipitation continues further east, but it’s warmer, which is nice. I made it to my family late in the day, Lenape and Nentego land.

My tent is weathered to points of serious deterioration. There’s tape in places. Last night the zipper busted. This I cannot fix. In all other ways, everyone’s day was pretty perfect. I’m near sure of it.

---

I spent most of the day traveling from noisy city to hilly country. The sky let fall a handful of hail as the last of fourteen kinky queers gathered in a giant rental property. People immediately set up rope hard points and made dinner. We all sat down to discuss dreams we’d like to manifest, and consent. Everyone is cool as fuck, safety aware, and capable in their chosen roles. No beginners, no bullshit. Lots of self-awareness and support. Being here is already a dream made manifest.

We had the kind of encyclopedia that you ordered from a magazine, or perhaps our grandparents had bought it from a door-to-door salesperson. The whole collection was only sixteen volumes, maybe twenty, and comprised the entire potential reference capabilities in our household. I’m sure we had a dictionary somewhere, and various field guides, but if I wanted to know about culture or people or the world at large, it was to this shelf of magazine-quality information dressed up in fancy leather that I was resigned. Always when I went to investigate something in this promising reference library, I invariably felt some kind of injustice had been committed. Even before my age had reached double digits, I was well aware of adult deception. These purported reliable sources did not contain all of the facts. It was obvious that truths were being kept hidden, and even moreso that stories had been fabricated. Why, I would wonder abed after hunting for my Easter candy, would it matter that a bunny brought the eggs? To this day I wonder. I served the justice of telling my little brother the truth behind this strange secret. I don’t remember him caring, but I haven’t forgotten that my grandmother did. I like to think, though I do not quite remember doing so, that I had researched the Easter bunny in those lame encyclopedic tomes. It was my ongoing and quite fervent mission to reveal the truths that were being hidden from us children. If I said it wasn’t fair, adults would tell me that life’s not fair, and would leave me puzzled as I cried that they might be, if they so chose. How could I ever trust them or their books? I pledged to grow up honest. I even wrote myself a note, in high school, that as a parent (update: uncle) I would trust children with truths, and believe theirs in turn. I suppose it wasn’t only the lack of compelling information about the world outside my own that made me want to run away.

One of our fonder family stories involves my then-kindergartner brother taking off down the road from our home armed only with fresh undies and a toothbrush. He was my hero that day, despite my skepticism and the likelihood that it was I who gave him up before he got far. I read as many books as I could about adventurous kids; I still do. My Side of the Mountain remains glorious in my mind, as well as the entire Narnia series. (Pa que lo sepas, there was nothing in the latter to persuade even my childhood mind to believe that god was anybody significant.) In the waning glow of my trust in adults I tended a budding faith in all underestimated young adventurers. Wasn’t I as capable as Lucy and Peter? I knew myself equally pure of heart, and similarly in need of respite. Parents don’t believe their children know what’s good for them, I suppose. Nearing the end of a halfhearted slog through undergraduate tenure, I found myself applying to grad schools with a depressing, panic-inducing resignation. In those weeks, sleeplessness would leave me only temporarily, and then horribly, as in the midst of the rest I so dearly needed I would startle awake clutching at my chest and gasping for air. I was thus plunged into apathy, giving up on most of life and nearly failing the capstone project of my minor. I had started to expect that my entire existence was going to suck if I did it the way the lying adults wanted me to. In my final semester of university, I finally began my plan to run away.

My mom, nearly exclusively among the adults around whom I was raised, always did her best to see me when she looked at me, and hear me when I talked. When I admitted to the deep suffering of my final semester and asked if I could put off graduate school, she didn’t even take a breath before agreeing that I should. There was a pause though, I remember, before she let me know that I was my own person now. I should probably go to grad school, but it would be entirely my own choice, my sole responsibilty. She let go of her managerial duties as parent then, and let the evolution of her role as a trusted, supportive equal begin. It was my mother who taught me to question authority, and it was she alone I trusted among adults. It was also she who, upon hearing of my decision to teach English in Asia, bargained that she’d pay for my ticket if she could choose the country. In my fledgling state there was nothing to do but agree, and so my ticket to Taiwan was purchased.

Teaching in Asia was a natural choice for me, it felt wholly in line with the life of my dreams, and not at all scary as a concept. Susan, Peter, Edmund and Lucy didn’t take guidebooks to Narnia; they didn’t do research before stepping into a place wholly unknown. I arrived in Taipei at the tender age of twenty-one with a well-packed suitcase (gracias, Mama), a contract for employment, and no clue what I was getting into. It was my very own clean undies and toothbrush combo; I was running blindly toward anything new. Bravery asks that one choose to overcome an unfamiliar discomfort in order to accomplish something. Cultural discomfort wasn’t new to me, though. I was a bisexual, biracial, human who’d been assigned to the female gender and treated alarmingly thus. All of this confusion even as I struggled to reach eighteen in a village of fewer than two thousand all-but homogenous, very privileged people. A whole new continent seemed no more daunting to me than every single day of high school had been. I thought happily that abroad I would have the excuse of being foreign to shelter all of my insecurities. With trepidation made palatable by the immense hope offered by a new experience, I cried myself to sleep on the plane to Taipei.

Through the Catskills into the Poconos, all the way to friends on occupied Piscataway land.

What if driving is a party and some people suck at dancing? You’re gonna roll your eyes at the idiots in the club, so why not on the road. Tailgating is hilarious to me. It makes me anxious, for sure, but it doesn’t hasten me the way the other driver surely hopes. Driving culture out west is so much more chill. There’s turnouts everywhere—I will let folks pass me all day. Today I saw this little sporty thing stuck behind a big rig. It was dancing from one side to the other in their lane, real close up behind the truck. I guess they were making sure the trucks driver was aware of the anxious vehicle behind them: “Scoot over, get seen in the left mirror again!” What is the truck driver gonna do? Fuck that little car. Nobody cares, dude.

I was eating peanut butter breakfast in my car at 10AM when a dog in the old sedan parked next to me noticed. It leaned its squishy pink nose against the window that had been cracked enough to deliver the scent, and stared at me. It was a big doggy, something broad and beefy with a face that could go from cuddly to pugnacious in a fraction of a second. It seemed to be sharing the back seat with a small human. I could see feet sticking up from somebody laying down on their stomach. The feet wiggled around, occasionally tapping the window. The dog continued to beg as I chewed my sticky bread.

In the midst of this wholesome scene, somebody blasting Fleetwood Mac came along to occupy the space opposite my neighbors. The driver rolled up and parked, then got out to check. He then launched into some loud grumbles about “what the fuck parking”, gesturing angrily at something invisible from my vantage point. His bodily indignation reminded me of Elmer Fudd, or Danny Devito. “Did you even SEE the LINE?” he berated the rear bumper of a car occupied solely by a dog and a child. Beside them, my window was wide open. I wondered if this man was aware of his audience of three, none of whom had much stake in his battle. The dog alone could have won it for our side. Having released his full volley of insults toward an impressively harmless parking job, this frustrated individual strode back to Stevie Nicks still crooning. He proceeded then to pull his SUV right up to the sedan, within inches. I don’t think even he knew whether he would bump it—he certainly could’ve done some damage to the offending vehicle. Our villain didn’t choose recklessness though, and when the engine cut off I think we all expected the dude to finally go about his business. Certainly nobody drives to a parking lot just to argue with parked cars. This man stalked off only about ten feet before he thought better of it, and turned back toward the scene that had so upset him with a finger raised. All three of us were watching with varied expressions of curiosity as this lunatic began stomping toward our cars one last time… then faltered. As if finally realizing how much nothing he had achieved for all his fury, all in front of an apathetic audience, our party pooper, fueled by unspent rage, finally exited the scene.

Sometime during the drama, the kid had sat up and I had put my breakfast down. Now the dog again took notice of the wafting peanut butter as I finished eating, and the child returned to its backseat relaxation.

Nobody cares, dude.

When you leave, it is from your family, but not a place you’d call home. The leaves are black now in their muddy graves, sodden from the months of snow and relentless wet that follows. Beech alone cling to their branches, bleached so white in the long winter that at first glimpse they look like bones hung for the vernal equinox. There were showers in the predawn blue this morning. The pit pat of drops on your tent would be soothing if you still trusted its weatherproofing; a shell that was once a true shade of blue now as pale as the cloudy mid-morning. A heavy, hollow tap tap tap tapping interjects, resounding–you’re reminded of the pop of fireworks on the streets of Taipei, gong xi–and you can spy a downy woodpecker hopping along barren branches. Of course it is all good luck, and you are certainly celebrating now. The Canada geese will eye you but not budge from their breakfast in a pond on the edge of a forest that chirps and buzzes relentless. When you arrived last night it was a million frogs who peeped and croaked nonstop until dawn, mating. In this perfect place, alone among the birds but for one dog and its human, several miles back, you’ve finally ensconced yourself in the flamboyant fecundity of spring. Nothing feels more like home than this.

First time barefoot trail running, and a waterfall.

Today’s tunes:

• “Voodoo in My Blood” Massive Attack
• “Rain” grandson, Jesse Reyez
• “Old Bone – Jim-E Stack Remix” Wet
• “Extreme Ways” Moby
• “Muy Tranquilo” Gramatik
• “Que sera” Wax Tailor
• “Watch it Grow” KR3TURE
• “Be, I do” Nightmares on Wax

This place is called Ducky’s Pond. It is full of noisy frogs, accompanied once in a while by geese. Somewhere in Mohawk Territory.

A final full, bluebird day in the beautiful forested hills of New England. I only interacted with two other humans today, both of whose company I enjoy. I spent most of the day with that absurdly cute cat, Voltron, and a book recommended by my beloved friend.

Do the thing [you don’t wanna do] for five minutes, then rest.

I think I’m still in Wabanaki territory, but I’ve crossed multiple state lines, and hiked a granite mountain midway. I’m bedded down in my car in my friend’s driveway with no light pollution whatsoever, bug noises galore. The sky is cloudy but the growing moon is nonetheless bright. I look forward to the stars.

Today is my last in Maine for a while. I have been packing Sorcha with ease: last year’s gains in understanding and efficiency remain strong, and I’m traveling in only two seasons as opposed to all of them this time. From nine months to four and a half—here goes nothin’.

does one listen now? We are here and nowhere, isolated and surrounded. Everywhere connection without connection. Whose ears hear the a story from the mouth of another, in this din? Who pauses? Who plays? Who is not triaging their own wounds, hastily, frantically, absent-mindedly?

Your farts are hilarious, and not that stinky.

I’ve always preferred to dance along the edges. I look down rocks to water, or more rocks. Sometimes there are crashing waves below me. Once manta rays, dark and massive, like underwater storm clouds. That precipice was many more feet higher than the sandstone ledge from which I jumped into an oasis pool some deserts ago. The rocky cliffs are especially green up north, the water especially indigo. I like the edges. I like to see the bottom and greet my fear. I jumped into the St Lawrence River once, plunging deep into the froth with my shoes on.

I also play in broader lands, of course. I twirl and dance with abandon in wide swaths of green, or dusts of colorful browns. I lean in loaf in the havens of animals. Some in open spaces are less watchful than one might expect. I can get that way, feeling comfortable. That’s when I go find an edge to toe right up against.

I once startled a skunk who didn’t spray me.

I’ve shared space with buffalo at breakfast.

I snuck up on a deer who didn’t run.

I talked to turkeys who were afraid to cross the path in front of me.

I’ve greeted elk who sang good morning.

I got nibbled by a caterpillar.

I watched a gopher build their nest from two feet away. For hours.

I head to the cliffs when I need a strong reminder. I usually pull back before I do anything dumb. Everywhere else feels so safe, almost boring in its calm.

Until it isn’t.

Caught unawares, I will run. I barrel straight for the cliffs, full gallop. I won’t stop til I get there, suddenly skidding over rocks as I spin my arms wildly.

If I can keep from falling, I’ll look back toward that place that used to seem so safe. I’ll look and wonder at the taking for granted I’ve done. I’ll admire the precision with which a fearsome blow has just been dealt, all of my guards down.

On the cliff I know how to protect myself, and so the game is fun. It’s the earthquakes, the sinkholes, the shift of solid land, that surprises me. The fault lines I never wanted to toe up against. I am interested in broad foundations. I want to stay on solid ground.

Spring has returned. The earth is like a child that knows poems.

Rainer Maria Rilke

In the blue dawn the twittery chatter and lilting tunes come in by the window on a breeze lighter these days, laced with tender warmth. It is this air that coaxes the brave shoots of green from their sodden beds, beckons the birds from their sleepy hideouts. The light comes early now. All of it, all together bidding welcome.

Did you enjoy your hibernation? Are you awake these daylight-saving days? But breathe, and forget if it matters. Now the wild world is calling you; now you can get up.

When I think of all of the people I’ve gotten to know, I’m surprised by what is lately requisite for a new person to truly catch my attention. It’s almost an equation, provided the real-life effort to learn about humanity one experience at a time yields corresponding results in covering a measurable depiction of human interaction: as the sum of people known increases, then the accessibility of new information decreases accordingly. This would also be affected by ground covered, allowing for the truths of pluralism in a world of six billion humans. Perhaps narrowing down to a more regional scope would be helpful if seeking to answer a specific query, though too the subject’s farther-reaching experience in that case should be included and considered to a reliable degree given the circumstances of the query. Inevitably there arises the entirely pertinent philosophical question of what constitutes knowledge among human beings, or what it means to be known. There is no certainty regarding whether anyone can know anything about another. Indeed, many of us find it difficult to trust even our knowledge of our own selves. Of this final part of the equation we can be sure that there is absolutely no aspect that can be given a reliable answer, even hypothetically. In conclusion, although I cannot quantify nor even clearly explain the phenomenon, but having spent now decades studying so many and such far reaching varieties of humans, meeting someone altogether new makes me giddy as fuck.

If you’ve got an unexamined life

Don’t count me in it

You’re not thinkin on your actions

Kindly cut me out

/

Fleeting fancy suits me fine

But I don’t do casual

I favor care among my company

I like eatin til I’m full

/

I don’t have great need of anything

I like folks who tell it straight

I’m not windin up or squaring off

I’ve a resignation toward my fate

/

I prefer a roaming life

Though it’s painful to depart

I’ve got relations with my sorrows

I keep track of my own heart

/

So when I leave you in the dust

It won’t be cause you’re mean

The reason’s you aint nothing new

And there’s plenty I’ve not seen

Lonesome Dove, Larry McMurtry

This is a dead end.

If you have already begun–you have–then you are closer now to a moment when it all has passed. You are nearer to the relief or grief of an ending.

How can it matter? What is significant about the distance

or substance

between here and there?

If the shovel stuck in that fresh white fall it was for the great heavy hunks pushed aside by the only vehicles on the road that day. The unsullied powder comes lightly, lifted from the pile to be moved. Wind blusters by, dusting off the top layer, to send the minuscule flakes sparkling glittery across the blank new surface of the world. Only in the repetitive motion does the body tire from hefting this fluff. Until the shovel sticks against a grimy cake of roadside slush that come uneasily free from the pillowy heaps it has bolstered. Here, the shoulders, breast, and back grow weary. We ask the legs to do work besides that of shuffling, wading through the un-density of freshly fallen blizzard, packing it in the slog.

There is nothing but the heat of our exertion now, breath to melt the whole refrigerated world. The shovel and the body in repetitive vigor, working wisely in a rhythm efficient, deliberate. Haste will not get us through anything called cyclone. Hurry does not serve a body whose work is far from finished. Three feet down until the solid ground, sometimes more. Sometimes bolstered in hunks brought by engined shovels, their lights blinking as if this was an emergency. Is it? The world around is silent in its three-foot new blanket, our effort unseen.

In the morning all the human homes will have similar trenches dug, by different bodies, other machines. A topside, sunshined world of warrens. The emergency lights stop scraping past after the day breaks, welcoming a sky so clear one wonders how the world went white, and whether its reflection could cause sunburn. Nothing more falls, and so the paths we’ve dug, narrow and piled high on the sides, become a delightful part of home. Here we are just animals, tunneled out against natural forces, basking in the sun and cold. The sugared glory of new-fallen snow.

Or, why I haven’t been writing as much.

These three books are filling gaps in my world that I hadn’t realized I’d been avoiding. They answer, finally, questions I started asking in elementary school.

The genuine optimism conveyed by a more accurate history of this colonial country has been as much a surprise as it is a new strength. I cannot explain entirely why reading of such hardship and often horror has brought me nothing but hope. But I have found that an honest history is the beginning of liberation. Now we will know all of our ancestors’ stories, not just the stories of those who have dominated. For this I couldn’t be more grateful. (The 1619 Project created by Nikole Hannah-Jones)

My fundamental arguments against the eightfold path have been responded to, and wonderfully. Finally, a buddhist practice that offers to address righteous anger. Here now we have made room for those who would not be monks sitting alone on mountains, but rather who engage in activism, who fight for freedom. Those who would extricate themselves in real time, in the real world, that we might turn back and offer our hand to the next. (Radical Dharma from Rev. angel Kyodo williams, Lama Rod Owens, and Jasmine Syedullah, PhD)

The intertwine of my own freedom with that of every other human is a gift, not to be untangled but celebrated. If brevity is the soul of wit, maybe palatable concision is the heart of freedom. This little book has all the best tools for the gender conversation that will liberate us all. (Beyond the Gender Binary by Alok Vaid-Menon)

I went to a party on the fourth of July. I could give a shit about the holiday, but the party was being hosted by a respected colleague of one of my best friends, with whom I was staying in Chicago at the time. Of course, the party was way out in the suburbs. These folks were white, rich, and, as I was warned along the ride through multiple toll booths and corn fields, voted for Trump. Indiana looked exactly how I’d expected Indiana to look.

We arrived to a gated community where the houses were almost on top of each other, so crowded were they inside their fencing. There was remarkably little lawn or garden space, though these folks clearly adored their home improvements. There was some kind of water somewhere, maybe a man-made lake, which I guess made the neighborliness worth it to folks. Notably few of the houses looked the same, though most could have easily housed multiple families. The one we arrived to had two BMW motorcycles in the garage and a giant hole in the backyard that the owners kept apologizing for. The pandemic had stalled their pool, unfortunately for everyone. Not thirty feet away from our hosts’ hole though was the neighbors’ pool, which we were welcome to if we’d like. It was full of exactly the folks you expect. At some point I was drunkenly ushered into the neighbors’ home and found myself asking someone’s grandmother, “Why am I in this house?” Capitalists will show off their homes to literally anyone.

I was by far the most alternative person between these two backyards, and while I wasn’t particularly welcomed, I wasn’t directly made to feel unwelcome either. Thank goodness for our gracious hosts, who genuinely did seem delighted to have us. I can honestly say I enjoyed their company as well–it was a party, after all. I was determined to have fun, even if it meant being alone with my best friend on the dance floor, ignoring a lot of critical eyes, and singing along to classic rock. Of course this all explains why, later that night, I was still drunk enough to get out of the car and dance on the pavement while we were stopped in massive tollbooth lines headed back into Chicago. There was a lot of honking, and some cheering, also a lot of people pretending not to notice, which seemed weird. Between the two tollbooths I made friends though, and was even offered a shot. It was maybe 10PM: Chicago never lets me down.

A couple of hours before this hilarious and harmless yet disorderly conduct, the man of the house, an older Gen Xer who I’ll call Todd, had brought out his best tequila for us. The vocal admiration between my dear friend and this man had begun quite professionally, almost bashfully, upon our arrival. I was even lucky enough to be pulled aside by Todd and told of my friends’ distinct ability in her field; further, that she was far too humble. (The latter was news to me like, fifteen years ago.) As the afternoon waned, the two honorable colleagues were gradually, amusingly, becoming a sappy mess. Eventually, tequila toasts were in order.

It was over these drinks that it was brought to my attention, not for the first time, that the progeny of our hostess, let’s call her Becky, was seventeen, living under their roof, and had announced a pronoun preference that Becky wasn’t interested in. “It’s so silly, he wants to be called ‘they’!” She proclaimed, “Is ‘she’ next?” I found it charmingly idiotic that Becky would think for a second that I would be sympathetic to her case, yet here she was, looking at me with the conspiratorial eye roll of “you get it”. Todd had casually brought it up to me much earlier, equally more soberly, and seemed to genuinely seek my opinion. My sweet friend, having too-often witnessed my irascibility in our younger years, overheard Todd’s words and expertly steered us toward safety. I certainly appreciated her, but later found myself, having been alerted by Todd so much earlier, glad to be unruffled by Becky’s fresh outburst. Now, confused by my head-shaking denial of her truth, Becky was starting to wonder about the whole thing. “What does it even mean?” she whined. There was no steering the conversation at this point, try as anyone might. I realized, consciously working not to judge Becky too harshly, that it was now or never.

Todd, for his part, was watching me closely. It seemed he had been waiting for this, knowing his wife as he did. For the record these two were fabulously enamored with each other; I had never seen a poster-sized wedding portrait above a headboard before. To some degree they may still have been in the honeymoon phase, and it was cute as hell. We were discussing a child Todd had known only a few years, but clearly cared for. Although he talked around it stiffly, it was obvious that the new step-dad was feeling deeply unqualified right then. Todd was honestly flummoxed. Becky, however, was at her wit’s end. She ranted some and then looked to the rest of us for approval, finding little support. “All teenagers are annoying,” I said. Becky, reaching, took this as vindication. Todd knew better: he physically leaned in. I was beginning to understand what drove my friend in her loyalty to him. This was my moment.

Across the patio table and an empty bottle of mezcal, I looked into the eyes of this pampered pair and said, more quietly now, “Do you love this kid?” Becky rolled her eyes again, feeding into her own exasperation, as Todd said clearly, “Yeah, of course.” This got his wife’s attention–you really can’t blame her for being slow on the uptake after however many shots–she was trying now. I had both of them trained on me as I said, as clearly as I could, “Then this is not the hill you want to die on.” I could see the reflection of a mic-drop in Todd’s eyes. Gratified, I looked to Becky, who hadn’t heard me. She huffed as I continued, “It doesn’t matter to you half as much as it matters to them, and it’s not hard.” Then I swung for the fences: I gestured around us, to their future pool and back toward their stupidly large house. “I refuse to believe that people who have come as far as you, are this successful, and happy,” I let my voice trail off as Becky beamed, “I refuse to believe the people I’ve met here today aren’t intelligent enough to change their language for somebody they love.”

Ultimately, both parents admitted that they didn’t want to lose this kid’s trust over something as trivial as grammar. That doesn’t mean they didn’t use masculine pronouns the entire time, or that they’ll adjust at all. It also doesn’t mean that things will necessarily get easier for any member of that family. All I can share is that it seems if one pays attention, they might seize many moments, strange and sundry, to foster revolution. And on that day, despite our differences, a good time was had by all.

Dear loved ones,

I had planned a tour of telling all of you in person this winter, but life planned differently. And so, an email. A friend pointed out that this actually gives everybody more space to acclimate to the whole idea, which I hope is helpful. A few of you receiving this are already in the know, as it were, but I couldn’t leave you out. It has taken me weeks to write; finally sending this on the weekend that celebrates the man who dreamt we’d be judged solely by the content of our character seems about right.

You all knew little “tomboy” Kiah. I can recall many moments growing up when femininity encroached on my ideas of myself in ways I couldn’t then comprehend. You were witness to this confusion, whether explicit or not. I am so glad you’ve known me all along.

I discovered quickly that I was very strange compared to my peers, not to mention wholly confused by the expectations placed on me. I only first realized I wasn’t doomed to be a pariah when I got lucky enough to spend time producing The Vagina Monologues. In that theater was my first opportunity to see that a different world existed—a queer world in which I could maybe actually be what was in my heart. That experience literally saved my life in high school, although it would still be a long road to admitting, standing in, and finally being proud of, my truths.

I have been out as a queer person for a little while now (and that took long enough!) but it has been trickier to claim my lack of gender. I have been afraid to upset anyone, afraid of insistence on my womanhood, afraid of anyone prioritizing comprehension over love. Lately here in Maine, I am grateful to be feeling free and held enough to be proud of my truth. I hope you’ll be proud of me, too.

There’s a lot of research you can do on this, if you are so inclined, but it’s not necessary. This is a unique journey for each person who claims it, and I welcome any and all of your questions. Ultimately though, your love for me might preclude your desire to understand. I hope it will not hurt you to do this thing I ask, as it can only help me.

I no longer use feminine pronouns. They/them/theirs is the language I use to describe myself. I apologize for the inconvenience this causes all of us. The thing about changing our language is that we will all slip up, and that can feel uncomfortable. I still make mistakes in feminizing myself, which feels not great. Of course, most of you have been using “she/her” pronouns about me for longer than I have! Habits are hard to break, but it is in the trying that I will see your heart. And I will love you, trust you, and feel so much safer with you, for that effort.

I am your sibling, child, nibling (alternative for niece/nephew), in-law, step-family, cousin. We are calling me “Uncle” for the little ones, cuz it sounds nice with Kiah, and feels good to me as a genderless person.

The bcc is for your privacy only, as I do hope you’ll reply, discuss, and share your experience, as you please and on your own time. Again, I will gladly answer any questions. I won’t be offended—you’re my family. Lastly, I have included helpful—and fun!—media below.

I love you, Kiah

If nothing else, please listen to this: via Spotify, on Apple podcasts, or you can watch the conversation on youtube. The brilliant and poised interviewee of this podcast, Alok Vaid-Menon, has also written a really short book entitled Beyond the Gender Binary. Every single thing they say and do makes me feel like a world that welcomes me is possible.

NPR also wrote a guide

More indirectly to my personal experience, the HBO show “Sort Of” and the third season of “Sex Education” on Netflix bring lightheartedness to heavy subjects, including being nonbinary. These aren’t pushing a queer agenda, but illustrating humans as we are: unique, flawed, scared, and better when we love each other with our ears wide open.

Thinking inwardly of how silly it had been, given our current circumstances and the trust lost between we two, I told them casually that I’d carried a torch for a while. To look up at their stricken face was beyond surprising, “Oh,” they said, “oh no that would never have happened. I’m so sorry, but I have never thought that way about you.”

That this statement registers unkind was not my first impression. Instead I wondered how this person tends to their own heart. What is a crush if not appreciation, a flutter in the chest, an uncomplicated joy? To what sentiment do we owe an apology? How did they presume I had been injured by not knowing they didn’t share my sweet sentiments?

It has been several months since this conversation took place, and still I wonder. Still I hold cute crushes in my chest, and a singular, deep love in my heart for one I cannot have. None of these are grievances, regardless of the future. They are instead warm, well-lit joys to which I secretly tend, with neither hope nor anguish. Should desire be so painful as to require an apology when unsatisfied? Perhaps the intention was indeed cruel; perhaps patriarchy is to blame. In either case, the flame was long cold before I spoke of it. Only this curious conversation remains.

it happens almost suddenly

gently

he heaves his own shoulders

always broad, now fatherly

to lift what i’ve been carrying

he will ask, “sister?”

leaning forward, bending his knees

and i will answer.

both gratefully

his infant son still sleeping

the beaver moon rises huge against the horizon, butting impatiently, massive in the orange afternoon, making way for twilight. the last leaves cling pathetic; having refused to fall in their post-green glory, they scratch mousy protest against the wind’s encouragement. i trimmed the grape vines back today, in preparation. now, in air absurdly crisp i stand, pink-nosed, bouncing on my toes with wind-beaten tears threatening escape, watching the plovers skitter over their glassy wet dominion. when does it get too deep for them to stand, in this sheen where the land ends, calm fresh waters meeting the sea. seagulls land nearby, swimming, wading. a few wander among the busy-footed, shore-obsessed flock, resembling shepherds somehow. they fly low again out to the surf then back to sandy business. the plovers, maybe sandpipers too, continue flitting to and fro. have all the geese departed?

your eyes follow the rushing plashing scrambling of a stream over piled rocks; an infinite hustle often roiling, lathered white and careening reckless over boulders who have seen it all before. here slowing to flow steadily, meandering, complaisant in the conveyance of gravity as it carries the whole waterway over an edge, plunging now to burst into foam against an impassive pool. all urgency dissolves in calm depths. motley pebbles and rocks are more visible in less excitable circulation, hiding still, decorated in soft greens that cling and dance, lilting in a watery breeze. the urgency of water is a tall tale: there is no actual destination, there will be no accomplishing. water stays in motion until there is no longer water, swashing drops into muddy beds, absorbed by greens, splashing from the fray, often drunk by a greedy sun or a needy creature. all along its course the water complies, adjusts, wending and winding and giving in. if your eyes could follow further, you might witness the final freshet out to sea, where stream mingles with salt, joins a tidal rhythm. each insignificant drop flowing through a lifetime, arriving as planned to the eternal ebb and flow, from which it never was apart.

I don’t need much to build a fire and kindle it strong so that it’s hotly lit in no time. I will bask in that light, dance around the flame. But I have been frivolous with intimacy, dismissive of potential. I might forget to feed the blaze, sometimes I simply run out of fuel. Enough time without me and the embers fade to cold. I regret that I let [you, maybe] go up in smoke. I will not again be so careless with a spark. I imagine new beginnings with less flare. Not immediately warming perhaps, but full of promise. I picture myself more patient, quiet so that I might witness the growth of intimate moments. The slow burn of tended trust.

he says the sky turns orange because the water in the storm is busy capturing city lights. on the farm everything goes black, they say. the clouds close in on everyone alike before the rain arrives in sheets, smacking against houses, sweeping down the streets. everything sounding out like the percussion section practice room. if you go out in that rain it feels heavy, pelting, and will sting your face if you let it. drivers pull over in that kind of rain rather than splash through torrential streams connecting ponds that were recently puddles. the whole world goes through the car wash, sheets of water slopping everywhere like a disastrous beaded curtain. oncoming traffic in inches of water hits your windshield like an honest to goodness wave from the ocean. the whole armageddon sky creeps overhead carrying the incessant fat droplets right along with it until suddenly the rain just isn’t coming down like that anymore. suddenly the sky is brighter, no longer a shade of doomsday. the rain makes a retreat no slower or faster that it came through, and you can watch it go. you can watch the retreating clouds still so black, still too heavy to stay off the ground. you can watch them continue breaking as they plummet toward earth, tendrils of dark sky following gravity, pelting the neighbors, now. the sky you’re under will change color again. lightening. the sun rejoins you, eventually.