Protecting My Toilet
We were in one of my favorite neighborhood bars, a mixed-crowd gay bar, late on Saturday night. Heated in conversation, gossip actually, my friend, a woman, followed me into the men’s room. We were standing in front of the door to the stall, leaving both the trough and urinal open and available, when a dude entered. He literally tried to push his way through us while telling us not so kindly to get out of his way.
My friend started to argue, yelling at him to calm down as she took a step to the side, forced out of the way. I did the opposite, shut my mouth and stepped directly in front of him, prompted by I don’t know what, the confidence that comes from having a new tree-trunk neck or an extra few inches of thickness around my chest.
I stood my ground, until he turned, then I used the stall. When I returned to the bar, my friend was still fuming, prattling on about the asshole. I had nothing to say. I was a jumble of emotions, at the axis of so much conflict, angry at the boy for his bullying and frustrated with the girl for following me in, stripping me of everything I fought for daily.
I’d made a territorial move. I was protecting my right to be in the men’s room, and especially my right to the stall. I was protecting my right to be transgender, my hard-earned identity. Had my friend not been there talking to me, I knew the altercation wouldn’t have happened. But had she not been physically present, her body sort of in the way, I also knew something that scared me, that is still scaring me, that I hadn’t ever thought myself capable of until that moment. I would’ve punched him, of that I’m sure, and I would’ve done it before I’d even had the chance to stop myself.
February 10th, 20108:40 am at
Maybe you need to go to fight club this weekend. It will make you feel better.