Category: Uncategorized

Author: Johnnie Joy Blue
Photos by: Max Shaw

I distinctly remember the first and only time I asked a trans guy his dead name. There was an audible gasp and the dressing room of drag queens fell silent. “Lisa, you can never ask someone their dead name.” At the time, I didn’t know any better. I only knew a handful of trans people and none of them were close friends. I apologized profusely and the room moved on to another topic. I was embarrassed but also grateful to be educated. I’ve always considered myself lucky to be in proximity to queer communities – I learn a lot from hearing their experiences of the world, of people, of themselves. This important book was deeply meaningful to edit and I am appreciative of Johnnie as an author for being brave, self aware, for letting me in, and for helping me understand his journey. This book gave me a better understanding of the trans experience and a better understanding of myself. You can download the full book here.

Editor’s Note

I know what it’s like to hate my body. I have a lower back injury and a crooked spine. I don’t usually like how I look in pictures. Most of the time the physical sensation of my anatomy doesn’t feel good. I have chronic pain. And yet, there is a lot of privilege in this flesh prison of mine: my gender isn’t a reason for my discomfort. I’m cis.

It’s been hard to internalize and recognize my own physical limitations and it’s even harder to tell anyone else about them. Every time I disclose my pain to someone and am met with a diminishing “you’re too young to have back problems,” it makes me want to retreat. Keep myself to myself. 

We exist in a society that prioritizes the ability to disconnect, from ourselves, from our biology, from each other. Self exploration is hard. And yet, the cost of not looking within is high. If we don’t know ourselves, we can’t truly accept ourselves, or anyone else. 

Nobody knows me better than I do and I extend that logic to every single person on this planet. When people are brave enough to tell us about their experience of themselves I think we should listen.

Johnnie wrote this book for his community, but it’s an important resource for anybody who doesn’t understand trans people — how they even know they are trans, why they should receive access to life-saving gender affirming care, should be allowed to be themselves. The world will be a better place for your understanding.

“Oma, it’s me.” I catch her off guard. There’s no recognition in her expression even though we made plans on the phone less than an hour ago. My heart sinks and rather than be sad that she’s losing her memory and her sense of self, I grieve my own perceived distortions: I’ve gained weight and my hair is dyed blonde to cover the grays that have been popping up for years. Oma doesn’t remember me and I internalize my personal failure to stay the same. Oma doesn’t recognize me and it hurts because I don’t recognize myself these days.

She lets me in anyway. She sees the takeout boxes I’m carrying and insists that they already brought dinner – she’s in the middle of eating right now. There’s food on her shirt and her face, something that would bother her a lot if she noticed. I get a plate and sit down at her tiny table. I ask her if she wants any and she refuses – she’s stuffed. But a couple minutes later she serves herself a huge plate and eats it all. I know she forgot she already ate and I wonder if she forgets to eat too – nobody is here to remind her.

When I’m home visiting from Texas, I tell Oma that I want to move back to Seattle and take care of her. She skoffs and tells me it’s a waste of time before she considers my offer seriously, but she doesn’t respond. She’s 86, living alone, and losing her independence is intolerable and inevitable. I feel like I don’t know her and I want to, before it’s too late. A year later I slowly transition to staying over most days and nights. I do laundry, I cook, I paint her nails. My partner fixes her car and teaches her how to use email every other night. We get a dog who covers Oma in slobbery kisses and does tricks for treats. And, Oma tells us about her life. She talks about the grandfather that I never met, about the war, and the camps, tells me about her mother, her brother, her childhood dog. She’s not an easy person to get to know, but most things that are worthwhile take work – I know this.

As Oma’s memory and her abilities decline, her three story house becomes a prison. I do the shopping, I invite her neighbors over, I bring her coffee. She can’t go upstairs or down to the basement, can’t really even go into the yard. My uncle decides its time for her to move into a retirement community. I hate it, it’s not what she would have wanted, but it’s not up to me. It’s not up to her either.

Years earlier, on a walk with Oma, I’m crying about my dog Ewok that I had to put to sleep. I’m embarrassed. It feels wrong to be this sad for a dog in front of a woman who lost her entire family in the Holocaust, watched countless people be murdered in front of her, lost her husband. Oma doesn’t console me but says simply “they don’t do that for humans” and I realize she’s jealous of Ewok, resentful of the dignified death he gets. She’s scared to get old, she’s never watched anyone else do it. After months of isolation and a horrible vaccination reaction, Oma refuses food for the first time in her life. She passes away days later. I’m relieved and I’m sad and I miss her and I hate that she left this world the way she did.