Travel

I've become "the traveling type".
The type that does not stand still.
The type that, on a whim, takes to the road.

So many windows I've looked out of. Windows of trains, of cars, of buses, of vans, of planes, of hotels, of hostels, of coffee shops, coffee shops, coffee shops. My favorites are the view from the front window of my car as I approach Boulder: the star on Flagstaff lights up at night, the Flatirons glow like gold during the day. Denver as I approach it on the way back down from Boulder or from the mountains, out of my front window, or my mother's passenger side window, or the window of the BV/BX/BF bus. Southern Illinois and Indiana in the colorful months of fall, crossing rivers after river. Minneapolis from the window of a plane, the landscape is like a work of abstract art, with rivers and lakes swirling through the land, the houses, the roads. Iowa from the window of a car, the hills of black dirt sing tunes of lovers that will someday be. Connecticut from the window of Amtrak on the way from New York City to Boston: when you've come to New England, you feel it; the beach, with sailboats on the water and children on the sand flashes before your eyes for just a few moments, and then you keep moving. And, of course, cities. Chicago from the 50th story condominium window of a family I babysat, New York from Rockefeller, Central Park spreading beneath, a rectangle of green in the city, and in DC, don't bother with windows, just stand on your feet on the National Mall. My least favorite are the flat plains of Nebraska, and the frozen hills and sleeping forests of Wisconsin in the winter. The wind is strong, yelling with terror, the landscape is barren, but you keep moving. Always keep moving.

I wake in the ungodly hours of the morning, and curl up to sleep in those window seats. Us traveling types, we can't afford the luxury of a reasonably scheduled trip. I caught the red-eye from Hawaii on Christmas Eve with my family, when the plane was nearly empty. I've caught the red-eye to DC, and spent two hours during the break of dawn in Charlotte's airport, waiting for my next flight. I've emerged from a friend's place in DC at four in the morning, after two hours of sleep and still drunk from the previous nights festives; it was so early, the Metro wasn't running yet, and I took a bus to Union Station, sitting beside the poor wretched souls of morning going to work. I braved the Monday morning NYC subway from Brooklyn to Manhattan, only to brave Penn Station at 8AM; a man apologetically, but without hesitation, cut in front of me as I was buying a bagel, saying he was late, and I just smiled at my first New York Moment. I caught the 5:22 Metra from the Chicago suburbs to downtown, once again searched the faces of early morning commuters for any sign of life (I found it), and jumped over snowbanks with my suitcase as I rushed to catch my bus; it was the morning after Chicago's third largest blizzard ever, and I knew that just miles away Lake Shore Drive was crowded with those abandoned cars we saw on national television. But I kept moving forward, always moving forward.

My laptop remembers the WiFi I've used, in coffee shops, hotels, and airports around the country.

I learned how to see the best of the city: you follow the used bookstores, they'll guide you through the best neighborhoods. Stroll near college campuses, the neighborhoods built for the youth are always full of life and hope. Google "anarchist bookstore", "anarchist coffee shop", "progressive bookstore", "radical bookstore", "radical coffee shop". You'll feel like a sell-out, but I promise that it will be worth it. That's how I found Red Emma's in Baltimore. Take a look at the back of your Slingshot planner, it will also give you a hint. That's how I found Women and Children First in Chicago. Of course, your best source of information are locals. Reach out. Message people on FetLife, on OKCupid, on Tumblr, on CouchSurfers. Ask your friends and family: they have friends and family, too. Don't be afraid. We're all just looking for a chance to reach out. The typical tourist attractions? Visit them, but in moderation.

Learn to navigate public transit: in the end, it's the same in every city, and you can get anywhere if you learn to read a subway map, and you'll get there quickly if you learn to buy a subway pass. Keep small change: most buses and many subways and trains don't give change. Pack light. Fall in love with your suitcase, but keep a small duffel bag around just in case. Fall in love with your backpack. Keep your laptop in your suitcase, it'll tire your out if you carry it on your back. Fall in love with your water bottle.

Don't be afraid to be alone. Don't be afraid to speak to strangers. Don't be afraid to make a friend. But if you are afraid, listen to yourself.

Since moving out of my mother's house twenty months ago, I've lived in Boulder, Washington DC, and Chicago. I've traveled, with friends, to visit friends, or just by myself. I've driven from Denver to Washington DC and from Denver to Chicago. I visited Washington DC, Grinnell, Iowa City, Washington DC again, New York City, Boston, Baltimore, Albuquerque, Lincoln, Omaha, Des Moines, Grinnell again, Iowa City again, parts of Chicago I've never been to before, and, today, Minneapolis.

I've become the traveling type, writing this as I sip a coffee, looking out another coffee shop window.

My Identity Is Not About Gender Liberation

It’s not about smashing binaries.
It’s not about eliminating oppression.
It’s not about politics.
It’s not about feminism.
It’s not about anarchy.
It’s not about activism.
It’s not about you.
It’s about me.

My gender is non-binary, because that’s what it is.

My gender is not all that unique or special. My gender is not all that queer or all that different. My gender is not rebellious. My gender is not something you should be jealous of. It’s really not all that cool to be genderqueer.  You get ungendered all time, erased in language (“brothers and sisters”, “he or she”), no one knows your gender exists. Coming out requires a bit of a lecture, and everyone starts conflating all sorts of things when you do tell them you are genderqueer.  You really don’t wish you were genderqueer, I promise.  And you really don’t think it’s all that cool, I guarantee you, any more than your binary gender is cool.  Oh, but don’t feel sorry for me. It sucks to be a woman, too, and in some ways it even sucks to be a man, and it sucks to be black or disabled or neuroatypical or lower class or any number of things that you might be that I am not. It really just sucks to be in this world, and I don’t want to play oppression olympics here, but I sure as hell don’t want you to feel sorry for my gender. Get over it, and make it better. Perhaps start by not telling me how cool you think my gender is.

My gender is not about hating binaries. Really, the binaries are hating my gender. My gender is not about how limiting the binary is, and it’s not about liberating myself or anyone else from any binary.  Nor is it about taking anything away from men or women. Men and women can present however they want, relate to their bodies however they want, do to their bodies whatever they want, describe their identities however they want. Really, I don’t care. My identity is not about men or women. It’s about me, about how I understand myself, how I live my life, how others understand me, and what makes sense. Have I ever wondered if I am actually binary-gendered? Yes, all the time. Maybe I am just a binary-gendered guy way pre-transition, who chooses to present in a very femme female way for the time being? Maybe. Maybe I am just a binary-gendered girl with a unique relationship to my body? Maybe. But you know what really makes sense? That I am genderqueer. Not binary-gendered.
and that’s not about you.

(x-posted on Tumblr and FetLife)

Last night, at the hookah bar, i ran into an old acquaintance.

George
from Georgia.

In middle school, one of my friends was the only oboe in the band.
(I haven't spoken her since middle school, but I still remember her name: Noel.)
Then, George came
from Georgia.
and George played oboe, so my friend was bumped to second oboe.
Every time i see George
from Georgia.
i think of this story.

We're all growing up.

Home, Revisited

The title has two meanings.

"who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver & brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes" - Allen Ginsberg, Howl

I came home for Thanksgiving break. Home. Funny how I can now say that word, and know what it means. It's a bizarre feeling, really, to have a hometown. To miss one place more than any other, to look over the city and know it's where I belong. To rediscover it each time I return, but each time to feel like it's the place I left my heart. Denver is my city, my home.

I walked the streets each day, smiling.  I wandered down sidewalks, through bookstores and coffee shops, looking up and West to remind me I'm just where I belong.  On Thanksgiving, the streets were deserted, and I could stand in the middle of roads.  I met a kind homeless man, spoke to him about Autumn and life.  I visited a community space with Denver's Zine Library. I visited a radical pizza shop, and I had a sandwich at Paris on the Platte.  The Platte passed beneath me, caught my tears like a lover, and reminded me that I'm alive.  I spoke of philosophy and history at Stella's, cigarette smoke like a cloud on my lips, and I never wanted to leave.

Still, I couldn't live in Denver today.  I love the streets, the coffee shops, the people, the places, but the place where my parents live is not my home.  In the months after I moved out, my bedroom was turned into a nursery, its red and black walls were repainted in baby green.  It wasn't a huge loss: I'd only lived in this bedroom two years; but it was a big symbol.  One day, I fell asleep in front of the TV. I woke up, went up stairs, opened my bedroom door - and remembered that I don't live there anymore.  My mother laughed at me as I stumbled downstairs into the guest bedroom.

DC is an interesting place. There really isn't anyone from DC. You meet people that are from San Francisco, Denver, Chicago, Pullman, New York City, London, Tokyo; you don't meet many who are from DC.  Everyone here is in passing, coming through for a few years, then leaving.  Oh, and there are those who call DC home.  Young folk who find life and hope in the city.  In the end, they, too, move along.  I watch autumn fall over DC, the trees turn red, then brown, then fall.  The sun turned to rain and clouds.  I know DC as a local.  I know it well as I wander the streets each weekend, my heart beats quicker because I know I love it, but I can't call it "home".  Not in the same way I call Denver home, and not in the same way I call Khabarovsk, Pullman, Chicagoland, Palo Alto, and Boulder home.  Everything's in passing.

I hope Chicagoland can be my home.  I'm afraid because I'll be living fairly far from the city, and because the ChiTown just isn't the friendliest place to live.  But I know there are so many amazing people there, I know the culture and the places are phenomenal, and I believe I'll find my place there.

But, when someone asks me where I am from, I can now confidently answer:

Denver.

Are you afriad?

A month from now, I will be twenty years old, unemployed, unenrolled, and residing in Chicagoland, where I haven't lived since I was ten years old.  I am so afraid.  I don't know what I am doing with my life, or why.  I am terrified I'll never get a degree, that I'll lose my way and never have a home, but I have nothing to lose.  I have no choice.

It's going to be a long, cold winter in Chicago, with mounds of snow that I'll make into a slide like I did when I was a child.  There will be clouds in the sky each day, and I know I'll be sad, I know I'll cry a lot, I know I'll be alone and lonely, but I'll make it through the winter alive.

There's a genderqueer support group in the Chicagoland area that I'll visit. I'll try to get involved with Food not Bombs, find some friends to dumpster dive with, so I can free myself from the confines of store shelves, and maybe I'll find my way at last.  I'll get involved with activism in the city, learn how to do activism outside a college campus, perhaps make some change in the world, perhaps I'll find a community, reach out, hold hands, perhaps, at last, I will be brave. Perhaps I'll transition, and maybe my stepdad will support me, because he's the only hope I have.  I can't wait to get to know him again.  I'll learn how to cook, how to sew, how to live.  It'll all work out.

I'll find a job, save up some money, maybe I'll travel in non-standard ways, and I dream of the places I'll go someday, but I know there are places I cannot stay today.  I will find a place I belong, someday.  Today, I have a month to find the courage I need to grow up at last.



Yesterday, I went on Omegle just so I could ask a friend if they were afraid. They were seventeen, graduating highschool in June, and they told me they weren't afraid.  I said they were very brave.  They were probably telling the truth, but I think they were lying.


The day before, I sent a text to a stranger just to tell them I love them.  It took me six tries not to get a landline.  They said their name was Mat, and they said it was their birthday.  They were probably lying, but I think they were telling the truth.

Help with what?

I am writing suicide notes.

I don't want to die.  I will not kill myself.  It's just a cry for help.

But help with what?  My life is not in danger.  Nor is my physical health.  I don't need help with school, I get things done, my grades are good.

I need help making friends.  I don't have any friends.  I follow the rules.  I messaged people on facebook casually, I say hi to people in the hallways, start conversations in class.  I text people when I have free times, and sometimes grab lunch with friends.  In the end they all leave.  Every day I'm alone.  I want someone to talk to.  I want someone to think with.  I want someone to get drunk with.

Sounds like a personal problem.

On Saturday of Halloweekend, I found myself someone else's dorm room.  I followed all the rules.  Talked to the kids hanging out in my hallway, walked into the room when everyone else did.  There were maybe six of us in there, and they were all going out for the night.  I asked them where they were going, told them I really want to go out tonight.  They named some greek letters, they mean nothing to me.  They weren't excited about me asking, they didn't want me to come with.  Why?  It was just a frat party, it was nothing personal.  I was still alone.  Still so alone.

Sounds like a personal problem.

Really, who's fault is it that I can't make friends?  And writing suicide letters won't convince someone to invite me to a party.

But I am writing suicide letters again.  Not because I want to die, but because, if I die, I want you to read them and know I was crying for help.

I am crying for help, but help with what?

Last night, I had dreams that I made friends.  Again and again and again.  I was so happy.  I said something about fat shaming, and a girl asked me if I was single.  I do think I have something good to say, I just have no one to say it to.  I don't "like" that girl, but I want to be her friend.  I want to be her friends' friend.  Her friend was in my dream.  I've seen her facebook, her twitter, her tumblr.  I see her smoking cigarettes.  I want to come up to her and say hi.  She is a feminist.

Sounds like a personal problem.

This isn't a real cry for help.  I can spend the nights crying all I want.  Because I do have friends, and they've all reached out to me, and I never responded.  I have friends who told me they don't want to be friends anymore, friends who asked me if I was mad at them.  I don't hate you.  But it's so hard for me to care.  I want a friend here.  I am so alone here.  It doesn't help when I have friends far away.  They can't get drunk with me, or hear my daily thoughts.  Why is this not enough?

Sounds like a personal problem.

Sounds like a problem I should stop whining about, stop writing suicide letters about.  Because I won't kill myself, I won't hurt myself.

I will cry.  But it's no ones fault other than my own that I am lonely.

This time of the year, I become a smoker again.

It starts each day at 5, right after I get out of my last class.  My days are always far from over, always more tests to study for, or papers to write, or co-sponsorships to fill out.  Still, that first breath of relief quickly turns into loneliness.  I always walk a lap around the quad, desperate for someone to share a moment with, because I am alone.  I want to walk this lap with a cigarette.

Maybe it's the cold, the way I see my breath in the air.  Last year, I craved cigars the day that first chill came along.  Or maybe it's the way I've always connected around stacks of smoke, around campfires or waterpipes.  (I resurrected an old lighter from highschool this afternoon, there are three stickers on it: a green, a brown, and a pink; three letters spelling out the word "pot", reminders of a better time.)  Maybe I am just hoping someone will stop by and ask me for a cigarette, I'd give them one, and I'd hope for a quick exchange of words, maybe we'd exchange names, maybe we'd exchange feelings, maybe we'd become friends.

Maybe it's because I've been thinking about drugs recently.  I wish I could still smoke weed like I used to.  I want to escape.  I want to spend a Saturday on acid lying alone on the grass, and maybe I wouldn't feel so alone.  I didn't get drunk this Halloween.  I tried, but I had no one to spend Saturday night with.  Maybe I just want an addiction, maybe it would be something to hold on to.  I know it won't help.  I still feel lonely when I am surrounded by stacks of philosophy and poetry, it doesn't help when I finish a paper four days ahead of time, I just want a friend.

It's been so long since I bought a pack that I forgot what kind of cigarettes I smoke.  I stumbled over my words.  I took out my ID so far ahead of time, I must have looked like an 18-year old buying my second or third pack ever.  This pack will last me a week or two, depending on how many I give away.  At the end of those weeks, I'll no longer be a smoker; but, at the end of those weeks, I'll still be lonely.