Stone Butch Blues

I am still processing... I just finished Stone Butch Blues by Leslie Feinberg. I don't know whether to laugh or cry, scream or sit silent.

As I finished reading Stone Butch Blues, "Mr. Lonely" comes on my itunes. Fitting, I chuckled softly. I choked back tears and apologized the entire reading for not understanding earlier, sooner. We grew up in a world so much more accepting than had I been born twelve years prior. You made it possible for us. And the ones before you made it possible, easier for you. Cris, with all your strength and your fear, I could rarely push through to break down the walls, I am sorry I didn't always push harder. I am sorry I wasn't more patient with you. I am so grateful for the times you let me through. I wish I could cry now but I know my walls have begun their assent as well. 

I don't know where I fit yet, where I belong. You should know that I go by Sam now in some circles, but not all. I look up to you as an elder, I mean it with the upmost respect. You taught me a lot about being able to be myself no matter the consequences and I treasure that, I always will. I hope that you find peace in your heart and your head and that wherever life takes you, you remember that you are strong, but you don't always have to be. Let someone in. You may be surprised. 

I feel like we have so much to learn, so much to gain from previous generations. We owe so much to them. To the butch/femme dichotomies, to the early transmen and the ones who refused to conform at all. We owe a generation so much and yet we forget. We don’t see it, or we choose to ignore it all. They fought for us, every day that they fought simply to survive each day and we can’t even honor who they are and were.

They are older, wiser, yes. But they also carry more pain than most of us could even imagine. They need our love and our protection. They need us to be strong for them. Actually, I have no idea what they need. I am not the individuals. But I know everyone needs love.

There is still a lump in the bottom of my throat and I can’t figure out if its because I identify with the character or am apologetic to my first really serious girlfriend. The only partner I have lived with, made a home with. She is twelve years my senior and encountered such a different world in her teenage years it frightened me then, and it frightens me now. 

I am still processing... still something. When I finish a piece of writing I like to leave it feeling finished, but this may be my never-ending journey.