Right now I’m listening to Yma Sumac. Because she is magical. And I don’t care what people say. I will always choose to believe that she was an Incan Princess, trained to sing by the nuns in Lima. Because she is magical, and I refuse to believe that she was actually a “Jewish American Princess” from Long Island. Lies! Who can say where a legend is born anyway?
Two days ago, I was at Loma Linda Hospital, waiting for a friend to have surgery.
Kidney stones the size of golf balls. Staghorn. Ouch. Waiting on hand while he checked in, I was teased by the RN, or PA or CNA or whoever was prepping him for the countdown to anesthesia, regarding the Lisa Frank fantasia in stickers plastered all over the cover of my Mac Book. Flummoxed, but taking the high road, I explained how coveted these stickers are among millennials, and that, furthermore, stickers on laptops are necessary in an academic setting so that no one steals your Mac. Because there are so many, and they all look the same.
And I pointed out the Marvel Super heroes scattered among the unicorns, adorable baby animals, butterflies, and rainbows adorning my laptop. Clarifying that superheroes were the only stickers purchased by me. The rest were gifts. From people who know me well. And I declared that I am comfortable enough with my own masculinity to have as many fucking pink ponies on my laptop as I want. But I didn’t say it like that. It came out nicer. And then I asked him if it would make him feel any better, if I confessed that I was super stoned when I made the masterpiece on my Mac. He laughed his ass off.
Left the patient and returned to the waiting room, where I waited, realizing that I was no longer in Oz, and up to my neck in Jesus People. Extremely kind Jesus people, who held hands and prayed over my friend before they went into surgery.
Became engaged in a fascinating conversation with a handsome young man while waiting. We discussed gender identification, and how the ultimate trump card is having no internal sense of being either or. Nothing frightens people more than something that is neither this nor that. Liminality is taboo, because the androgynous nature of the soul is terrifying to the Western mind.
Ancient mythology made room for chimeras, like the Egyptian Sphinx, whose juxtaposition of the primal animal and higher mind represented an inter-dimensional bridge between the mundane world and the divine, inspiring man to bring forth civilization. Perhaps we have lost our connection to the sacred space between worlds. The seen and unseen are just a breath away. We need the chimeras to show us the way to the future by preparing us for the unknown.
I have always been an in between. It doesn’t matter if I’m dressed in a red polo shirt, Khaki pants, and hiking boots. It doesn’t matter that I dressed for the occasion like Ronald Reagan on the Ranch. Because my Mac Airbook lid will give me away. Or I will accidentally tell the woman in the gift shop that she has fabulous nails. Or someone will look over my shoulder and notice I’m on Scruff…
Didn’t know I was ok with being a boy until I was ten. Seemed like a huge mistake, up until the moment when I saw myself gaining potential to look like Aquaman, and never looked back. But also remember all the tears I cried when they refused to let me dress as the fairy princess for Halloween when I was only two. Yes, the little girl in me still comes shining through. My favorite color is hot pink. Power Puff Girls Rule! There is a pink Pegasus unicorn Tattooed on my left shoulder. My soul is androgynous. I wanted to wear my hot pink shorts to Loma Linda Surgery Center. Because they are comfortable. And why not? But I dressed like a republican instead. People are so relieved when you look this white but don’t boss them around.
The deep conversation about gender and the generation gap boiled down to “specialness.” We talked about “snowflakes” and how “if everybody is one, nobody is one.” We decided that this was a great idea for a series of children’s books preparing them for the reality of global warming and how the very people who brought them into the world have betrayed them. The name of the book would be, “Guess what? You’re Not Special!” Dark humor. My favorite.
Hours later, the doctor calls. The surgery was successful. Of course, recovery isn’t guaranteed, and the patient must…blah blah blah, they want him to quit smoking.
Ha. Rome wasn’t built in a day. And drink lots of water.
What struck me at the end of the day was the kindness people showed us at Loma Linda Hospital. And I am grateful to be reminded that there are Christians who treat homos with kindness, because my buddy and I are about as queer as pink unicorns come. And our wings make noise.
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