A streetlamp flickered as Marcy walked by, and snow began falling. She wanted so badly to be inside, anywhere, any place that had heating. She didn’t know where else to go, she didn’t want to go there but it was the only place that would take her on this bitter cold Christmas Eve.
She was desperate. So she headed to the Gospel Mission. At least she could find warmth there and a decent meal. She knew she smelled bad, but it didn’t matter anymore.
Once she got there, it did not go well. There was no food left, and the staff argued with each other on whether Marcy should sleep with the men or the women. They looked at her with disgust and continued arguing with each other. Marcy’s face turned beet red with embarrassment and anger. She tried to explain why she was a woman, but they wouldn’t listen.
Marcy turned and headed for the door. No one, absolutely no one tried to stop her. There was only one place left she could try although she was sure they were closed now.
It was a long difficult walk including over a bridge and in the snow, and now the wind picked up. She asked heaven for help, and she was bold enough to ask for three small Christmas gifts.
“I could really use these gifts right now” … she said out loud, looking up.
Almost an hour later she made it…to the Pride Center. The door was locked! She banged as loud as she could, weeping and calling out for help. Suddenly the door opened, “What is all that noise!” And when the woman standing there saw Marcy, she said “Come in child come in, dear God look at you!”
Her name was Linda, an older woman and a psychologist who had fallen asleep after meeting with a client there. She took Marcy in and went into action, wrapping her in blankets and fixing something up in the microwave that smelled delicious. Marcy knew that smell, and with a smile on her face said, “Lasagna!”.
The two women talked, and Marcy told her about her night so far. They finished the coffee in the coffee pot, and talked some more about everything. Linda offered to give her fresh clothes from the attached thrift shop. They both hated red!
Linda pointed down the hallway and said, “Second door on the right is a bathroom with a shower.” Marcy smiled beautifully. Linda continued, “There’s shampoo in the closet.” And after the shower and fresh clothes, Marcy realized something.
Linda had given her the Christmas presents she was hoping for. When she told Linda, they hugged each other with tears streaming down their faces.
All Marcy wanted for Christmas was to feel loved, accepted, and encouraged.
“Merry Christmas Marcy!”
P.S. That night Marcy slept on the sofa at the center, warm and comfy. She and Linda became good friends, and Marcy now works at the thrift shop.
Her gentle hand touched his shoulder, and she was surprised by the power of his blood, the thickness of his fur. He had finally found her and fought his way through the Alps, all the way to Spain, enduring the attacks from creatures of the night.
She accepted his repentance on a level most could not comprehend. The lies were over. She could sense so much love now in his heart as her hand went further to his chest.
His wolf beauty nearly took her breath away as her light ignited, healing the wounds. Unconscious he barely knew she was there. Yet in his sleep he felt her presence.
Each wound, each particle of pain was taken. Exhausted when the restoration was done, Emma fell asleep on his massive chest, barely noticing he had shifted back to human.
She tucked in her wings, sighing in her sleep contented.
I’d rather have a cup of coffee with a transgender woman…. than with any extremist on the right, most likely she won’t even own a gun let alone an AR15….. she hates violence of any type,
and since she studies history, we could talk about the constitution…. “assault rifles are not in there…” she continues, “do you realize how long it takes to reload a musket?”
She’s getting her PhD next year, but she tears up, reaches for a tissue from her purse because children aren’t being taught about the pain of racism, “slavery really did happen…. we need to acknowledge our pain, so we can heal”…. I shake my head yes,
when I mention the radical left, she laughs saying, “I’m more of a John McCain myself…..you see how people assume?” …. She mentions the only radicals she knows are in a musty old basement on the east side of Brooklyn, university students writing their manifesto….. “by the way, they have no guns,” she quickly adds,
“I think people just want Grandma to have her electricity on, to have heat in the winter, and some decent food to eat…. instead of dog food out of a can…. is that so terrible?” No not at all, not even one bit, “that’s not radical…. that’s being human,” I add. “Exactly!” she says.
Yes, I’m sure I could have an amazing conversation with a transgender woman….. but not with an extremist, from the right.
Colorado? Her world tilted when she heard the news. She felt sick. Weeping, she looked out her window. No birds could encourage her this time, no matter how hard they tried.
What should she do? What could she do? Drive out there? Take a bus? People there needed to be held, needed to be seen. By someone that cared.
After washing the tears from her face, she noticed the sun beginning to set behind the apartments across the street. She went for her coat and hat, determined to find some of her fellow transgender friends downtown.
“Dear God…” was all she could say as she walked out the door. She would hold someone tonight, and they would cry together, whispering “I know…. I know….” giving each other just enough,
to make it
P.S. Hate and violence towards the LGBTQ community is getting worse in our country. Black transgender women are the most murdered group of people in the United States.
I stand against hate, and I stand with the LBGTQ community in Colorado Springs. If you don’t like people that are different from you, including the transgender community, please consider not following.
Much of this hate and violence is from the far right, starting with rhetoric.
For the next couple of weeks I’ll be resharing works of fiction I’ve written about transgender women. And maybe Emma will stop by to protect us, by extending her wings.
The French cuisine was exquisite along the border. Emma reached for her steak knife, cutting deeply
into the honey glazed chicken, as she was bathed in the soft glow of candlelight in a quiet corner of the café. The meal reminded her of a certain general who always wanted her, honey glazed
The plan worked.
show ‘em a little leg, have him caught in a web of a beautiful seduction, and before he could be her champion… she called forth the wolves,
he learned his deadly mistake as he quivered on the marble steps. She had towered over him
another Nazi leader decimated,
then fertilizing the moss covered soil that would one day carry Allied tanks.
Emma poured herself another glass of wine, smiling sardonically, looking at her reflection in the shine of her steak knife. Then she cut deeply again into the honey glazed chicken, while a wolf howled in the distance.
I wondered, in this tinge of pink, in this hue of purple
what the poetess would contemplate
in the ocean
seeing, more with the heart
could she hear the music
in the waves?
would whale bones speak to her?
no God would condemn
such a soul that loved the mysteries
the vastness of everything
by the sun.
Note: Dedicated to the memory of the wonderful poetess Mary Oliver.
Mary lived for a time in Massachusetts with her partner Molly Malone Cook. Molly was a photographer and at times took pictures of famous people.
Mary’s poetry speaks to me due to her observations of life and nature, and how she feels about being alive. Currently I’m reading her book Why I Wake Early. It is filled with light, and I always feel lifted when I read her work. I highly recommend it.