Cat, yelling from the stage.

CAT

Holy hell, there are so many of you!

Hey!

We’ve got no microphone tonight so I’m gonna need you to shut up!

Cat waits.

(CAT)

Everyone have their glasses?

Raise them to the

Ladies

and gentlemen

and the actually interesting people here

…

Listen,

Some mornings I wake up

and I feel caught in the middle

feel the she, her, hers, and the he, him, his

waging a war in my gut

telling my they and them and theirs that they must choose

that the middle is just muck

…

But some mornings I wake up

and it doesn’t feel like the middle at all.

It’s something else entirely

It feels like slipping into warm flannel

and sipping chai while it rains

some days, fiercer

like slipping feet into

unbroken platform heels

clusters of muscles in my feet controlling plantar flexion

feeling the downward pointing feet pulling at muscles all the way up my leg

sometimes it feels like work, but

it takes work to become

…

On my clearest mornings,

They and them and theirs is a root

It grounds me

as both she and he

and neither she and he

both and neither

…

I don’t know where that leaves me.

I don’t want to make a mockery of the women who

Slip feet into soles and find it fuel for their woman-ness

Truth be told

I can be jealous of them

It’s simple for them

Uncomplicated

A feeling of being elevated

They find themselves powerful

but

Heels were made to be unisex

Ninth fucking century

Persian men wore heels into battle on horseback

A symbol of wealth

Of manliness

And I realized slipping feet into shoes

Was me preparing for the battle of being

Fighting

Ritual

It’s the last thing I do before stepping on stage

It roots me to my goddamn people

Like if I had the means to trace up my family tree

Could I find a member of the Persian cavalry that shares my name?

That maybe also felt between

and outside?

…

I tattooed a Persian Cedar tree on my thigh the day before I turned 21.

I held hands with myself

Clutched my own body for the two hours it took for the needle to leave all of the ink beneath my skin.

Dipping in and out faster than hummingbird wings

Watched as my artist poured their heart into my flesh

And I asked how long they’d been tattooing.

They looked young but they said twenty years.

And I said I couldn’t imagine doing anything for twenty years.

And they winked when they said

It roots me.

And we laughed at the irony of tattooing a tree as roots

And I studied the hard edges of their face

The shadows of a red beard creeping in

as they smiled and said

the art of creating,

it makes me feel so feminine, you know?

I just don’t see why I can’t be male and female

And neither male nor female at the same time, you know?

and I said

I know

Because I did

And they said

Namas-fucking-te.

The light in me recognizes the light in you

Like a beacon,

like a lighthouse

The fresh ink in my thigh leaving a dull throbbing reminder

a steady pulse of knowing

It didn’t matter what I looked like to anyone else

I could claim my femme

And I could claim my masc

They could exist together

And I could be complete

…

I only have one other tattoo

I went back to the same artist five years later

And they said

I was wondering what happened to you.

It’s so good to know you’re still

here

And they put three words beneath my tree

It says

Burn, Gender, Burn

…

So I kept painting my face

Covered up my brows

I glittered my lips

I extended my lashes so far

Past the clouds

and past the stars

and out of Florida

out of fucking Florida

and back in time

I wanted to butterfly kiss

Marsha

and Sylvia

and Christopher Street

and the femmes who came before me

the ones who spoke Spanish at home with their mothers

and yelled English to the cops on the streets

I want to séance with their ghosts

and thank them for the air I breathed

deeper and deeper

and deeper

and deeper

and deeper

and deeper

and

Cat gasps.

I need to ask them why it is

Sometimes

So

Damn

Hard

To

Be

The

Person

I

Am.

Context: A flashback to the night prior at around 3 am as Cat (they/them/theirs) is on stage delivering a monologue in full drag.

More information: samanthadmueller (at) gmail (dot) com

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