Authors: Kristin Elizabeth Clark
but glad when a girl'd
ask me
          to
                    play
                              something.
Yeah, mostly the same games
when it came to
handball and foursquare.
But comfortable.
When you got hurt
girls'd ask
              what
                        was
                                wrong.
Guys would ignore you,
call you names
when your eyes watered
at the pop of a soccer ball to your face.
If you couldn't stop the tears
they'd yank out more words,
like “crybaby” (or worse), to
            hit
                        you
                                with.
And I loved the way girls wore their hair.
Ponytails bouncing, braids smooth.
Loved the colors they strutted
across the yard: bright purple, pink.
Loved other things they played,
like animal hospital or house.
Loved the sound of their voices
when
            they'd
                        call
                                to
me.
                                                          Still,
a shadow lurks
near the
edge
          of
                    my
                                head
whispering,
“You like girls too much,
and not in
the same
          way
                      everyone
                                            else
does.”
My Brain Takes Me Freaky Places
I twitch, gulp milk,
slam the glass back on the table.
A salad plate jumps.
Claude the Interloper frowns.
Mom winces.
Sister giggles.
“Hey, squirt,” I say,
pinning girl-thoughts
to the mat and
gaining control
of my brain.
                “Do you like my princess hat?”
She tilts her head toward me
like I might not otherwise
notice the pink cone,
its lace ribbon dangling
close to her mac and cheese.
I move the plate a little.
“So you're a princess now.”
                    “No, Brendy, it's just
                      for Halloween!”
A gap    toothed smile.
I was twelve
when she was born.
Everyone said we looked alike.
Mom's gray-blue eyes,
Dad's cheekbones.
But Courtney has it all over me
in the hair departmentâ
hers thick, wavy, and long.
Mine straight, short, and,
I swear, already falling out.
Still, she's my favorite person
besides my girlfriend, Vanessa.
(Sounds lame, I know.)
I'm not religious; in fact
I'm not sure I even believe in God
          (though we used to go
          to church religiously [ha]),
but from the second Dad
put her
into my arms,
burrito-wrapped
in a little pink blanket,
innocent face
and tiny fingernails,
I saw Divine
attention to detail.
So small.
So perfect.
It's not a guy thing,
but I like babysitting.
Andy called her chick bait.
We used to push her stroller
to the park
and girls would wander over
to oooh
to ahhh.
When Courtney
took her first steps
toward me
Dad called me smitten.
Mom called me Little Mother.
That homey scene in eighth grade,
on my baby sister's first birthday.
Exactly one month before
Mom, the harp player, left
Dad, the biomedical engineer, for
Claude, the Interloper.
Conductor of San Diego Philharmonic.
His orchestra's music
poison to my father's ear.
Dad's banishedâ2,000 miles away.
          (Not that we hung out a ton
          when he lived closer
          but at least it was an option.)
Now he's president of a biotech firm,
seen only in summer
when Mom needs to dump usâ
          “Thanks, James! Ta-ta!!!”â
so she can tour with
her new                    (and improved)
husband.
          “Big plans tomorrow?”
          she asks.
“Party at Andy's.”
          Claude the Interloper
          raises an eyebrow.
He doesn't like Andy,
hates the way he just walks
into the house without knocking.
Thinks it's rude that Andy
checks out the food in our kitchen
when he's hungry
and maybe it isâ
but I do the same thing at his house
and have since seventh grade,
a year before any of us were aware
of the Interloper's sorry existence.
                    “I wanted to ask if you'd
                    take Courtney
                    trick-or-treating first.”
Don't mind the trick-or-treating
but I'm tortured by the reason
Mom's asking.
She's recovering from
“an enhancement procedure”
and SURPRISE she's sore.
Still, I avert my eyes
from her new shape
and nod yes.
                    “What are you going to be?”
                    Court asks.
Now there's a question
and a depressing memory.
The Night I Was a Girl
Last year sucked.
The whole wrestling team
went to school as cheerleaders.
No choice but to go along.
Shaved legs and everything,
we all did itâeven Rudy and Gil.
They're team co-captains.
Jerk-asses, towel snappers,
the first to bend fingers
when the ref's on the blind side.
They told Vanessa,
“Brenda looks so natural
she must do this a lot.”
(Angel Hansted)
Opportunity Knocks
The bus makes a lurching turn
and I'm tellin' you,
I'm thrown against
the hottest guy ever
to wear a Halloween-theme tie.
He has that slicked-back,
butter-on-hot-corn-wouldn't-melt-
in-my-mouth, don't-touch-me-I'm-cool
lookâbut doesn't lean away
        not      at      first.
I can tell he's checking me out
but isn't gonna be obvious.
What's the point in being so shy, I
wanna ask him.              Get bold.
“Opportunity curves”
is what I say instead. He grins at me
for a secondâthen eyebrows raise.
He gets up and changes seats.
The smile
(it wasn't so
hot after all)
leaves when he clocks me.
I mostly passâbut
I've been made enough times to
know the exact second it happens.
And I just wanna say to Mr. Corn-hole
mouth,                  “Your loss.”
My stop's next, anyway.
Toss my head, get off
at Evergreen Community College.
Got my GED here.
I tell you now
classes are a habit.
Finish my degree
(social work major),
then it's off to difference-making
full-time employment
for Angel.
Maybe I can change up some things.
Someone's gotta do it.
Someone like me, I mean.
Someone who knows simple basics.
You wanna assign roommates
in group homes based on birth sex assignment?
Go ahead, idiot.
Make it easy for thugs to
S  m  e  a  r
the Queer.
Three Years Ago
My first day at Evergreen
I was ready for flight OR fight.
Out of the baking August parking lot
and into Admissions. I tell youâ
my foster mom hadn't of been there
I mighta shot back through the door
like some kind of Olympic runner.
Stood at the end of the line,
freezing in my fuchsia tank top,
turquoise skirt, strappy gold sandals.
Girl, that building was icy but
the papers I held were floppy,
my hands sweatin' so bad.
Finally my turn. Big crabby-looking guy
with beady eyes called, “Next.”
I went up to his window,
handed him my application.
He looked it over, looked at me,
and he
frowned.
People get uptight
when your ID
calls out a gender
different than what you present.
My foster mom touched my elbow
soft â lettin' me know she was there.
Still, my back was up when
Beady Eyes stepped away
to get a supervisor, muttering,
        “Right name, wrong gender.”
And I'd heard it beforeâ
but God was with me that day.
Beady Eyes's supervisor
came to the window.
        “You're Angel?” Adjusted her
        glasses. Looked over them.
        At me.
I nodded,
stretched my neck,
made sure my
courtesy-of-a-sadistic-
pervert-john
collarbone scars
showed.
Not afraid of
this.
Ready to lay me down some attitude.
          “We're admitting you today
          but you might want
          to get new state identification.
          “You need a note
          from your doctor and
          signed by a witness,
          the identification you have now,
          and a special form, DL 328.
          “Then your information
          will match you better.”
That sweet little old lady
winked at me
and I almost fell over.
Now every time
I pull out my ID
F
for Female
feels like
T
for Triumph.
(Vanessa Girard)
In Ceramics
Hip against a metal plate,
the kickwheel squeaks
getting up to speed.
My hands slick the clay lump in front of me.
breathe              focus                  center
            “It's art, Vanessa, not a competition,”
            the teacher, Mr. Mathews, says.
That doesn't keep him
from entering my pieces
in juried shows.
Contests they win
and I'm not going to lieâI'm proud
because I know
it isn't luck
or even talent
that takes first place.
It's practice and work
and the fact that
I stick with things
                                        even when they're hard.
Centering the Clay
takes concentration
Difficult
when one of your
two best friends
is standing by,
pestering you.
            “You're breaking
            Halloween tradition!”
            Julie's practically whining.
“We're too old for trick-or-treating,” I tell her.