I’m at the Taco Bell, and at my local Taco Bell they’ve got a gimmick where they write down your name as they take your order so they can call you up by your name as if they know and care about you. It’s silly and contrived, but also a little sweet, and that’s pretty much how you could describe Beaverton in general.
So I give my order and I pay my money, and the assistant manager taking my order is this middle aged fellow who asks me my name and I say I’m April. He hesitates for a moment, and then instead of writing down my name he writes ‘#’ and tells me they’ll call my number soon.
He looks at my face. At my boobs. Thinks about my name, and how it doesn’t match my voice. And writes ‘#’.
That’s when I realized he was scared of me. Anywhere else, any time else, he’d have told me to jump off bridge, or shaken his head disapprovingly, or something like that. He’s scared of my gender, and that fear, in another climate, would translate to poor treatment. But he can’t do that now because he’s at work, and he works in the service industry, which means his job sucks and is held at the pleasure of people who come in to drop five bucks and then never come by again.
So he writes down ‘#’ instead of my name because he can’t bring himself to say my name aloud and validate my femininity, but he can’t be too much of an asshole, either. Middle aged guys are terrified of trannies. They’re scared we’ll make penises less important. (And we will.) They’re scared we’ll recruit their children. (We don’t recruit; we liberate.) They’re scared we’ll make them gay. (That hot chick you see? Her dick’s bigger than yours, and that turns you on, doesn’t it?)
I’m glad he’s scared. He should be scared. That’s a healthy fear.
We’re not shutting up.
We’re not going away.
We’re part of your life for the rest of your life.
I am your goddamn future.
In the past two days, I have gotten almost two hundred hits from France.
I don’t know what’s caused the sudden interest in my blog from our continental friends, but welcome. Feel free to stay a while. Send more wine.
Ever since I started estrogen, my armpits smell different. Not worse. Not better. But different. They have a metallic twang to them now, when I’m stinky. I kind of like it.