The Boy Who Loved Snow Angels

 
There was this boy that loved making snow angels. He plopped right down in the freezing snow without a care in the world and energetically moved his arms and legs back and forth. He'd get up, look at his work, and then make another. By the time he was tired, there were dozens of snow angels, and he was sopping wet. That boy is now a man and hates the cold and the snow. He never makes snow angels. But the memory still makes him warm.

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Trannyshack Reno

We went to the first Trannyshack Reno. There were four of us. We drove up decked out in our best drag, marijuana and ecstasy in our pockets, blaring pop music. It was a fast and fun drive complete with strange looks at drive-thrus and gas stations.

The neon lights and crisp white snow welcomed us to the high desert bug small town. It was a warmer welcome than the one the concierge gave at the hotel. We set our bags down, washed up, and got read for the show still blaring the pop music, cocktails made of 90% liquor in our hands, bellies, and heads. A swallow of ecstasy and puff of joint later, we went to the show.

We danced madly and hooted loudly. We hit behind the stage curtains and tripped on steps. We drank and drank and drank.

We meandered the streets ending up at a nameless casino with a buffet, hungry and parched from the copious amounts of alcohol and THC. We sat ourselves and waited for the server. And we waited as our bladders screamed and our make-up faded until two of us had to visit the girls' room.

The left and we continued to wait for the server. She arrived.

"Excuse me," she started, "but we caught your two friend in the women's restroom. While it was okay for one of them to be in there, it wasn't okay for theother. We are going to have to ask you to leave."

"What," we both asked.

"I'm sorry. Really, I am. I know how this sounds, but it's company policy." She looked concerned hoping we wouldn't make a scene. She put her hands on the table and leaned in. "Listen. I'm a lesbian. I do know how this looks, and if it was up to me we wouldn't be having this conversation. But I need you to please leave."

A gentleman in a suit was watching from the corner, and a scream erupted from outside the restaurant. "But she is fucking beautiful! What the fuck? Get your hands off me. Can't you see she's all woman. God damn it! She's more beautiful than your ugly ass. Yeah. I said it. You have an ass of a face!"

The server looked nervous. We quietly got up and left.

"Fuck you! Get your hands off me you prick."

We gently grabbed her arm and started to escort her and our other friend out of the casino.

"This place fucking sucks! Can't you see how beautiful she is. Look at her. Look at her!" She screamed as we rode the escalator. "Fuck you! What are you looking at?" She yelled as we passed the slot machines. "What the hell just happened?" She asked as we walked through the door into the wintry early morning.

The snow was falling and the neon lights refracted against the crystalline flakes. It was bright for 4am and no one passed us on the street.

"It's warm, and I'm tired," she said, and she sat down on the sidewalk.

"We're fucking beautiful. I love you all," she said as she passed out.

We all looked at each other and laughed. We were beautiful and loved and no one could take that away.

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The Introduction

 



In between  myth and reality lies truth. Somewhere between homo and hetero lies queer. And in the space between open and closed lies coming out. This is my story. This is my myth. This is my coming out in honor of all queers.

***
It all started with the blanket of snow dusting the ground and the silence that follows it. I sat in my room staring out the window mesmerized by the frost clinging to the trees anticipating a loud crack or boom to interrupt the silence, hoping the noise would pull me out of the loop of isolation and despair that were setting in. The noise never came, and at times I find myself still caught in that loop.

I never realized how tiny I felt while I sat in that room until I opened the door and left for good. I look back occasionally and see a small fragment of that person still looking at the fresh snow. It doesn't matter that I haven't lived in snow for over 11 years. The cold lingers. It cuts to the bone, and when the ocean wind blows, laced with dense fog, I still feel it. It doesn't matter how loved I am, how connected I am, how prosperous or fortunate I am. I am still that adolescent waiting for that boom, that crack.

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