Today I’m remembering a long-ago rush-hour subway ride. Settled into our confined spaces, pretending our butts and bits aren’t pressed up against strangers, politely not acknowledging each other’s presence. I gather little bits of awareness: the needles of a woman tatting lace, the huge size of a labourer’s lunch cooler, the Japanese lettering of a rider’s book.
Of a sudden, a switch turns on and I realize the weary middle-aged woman standing in the doorway “is a man.” Poking through the makeup is the five o’clock shadow. I steal closer glances and notice the small business-dressy heels, the nondescript office wear and accompanying jewelry that I’d find in my Mom’s jewelry box. She looked like she’d had a long day in the HR department.
I felt buzzy as I rode that subway. A beautiful truth was seeping in. Men didn’t wear dresses as a defiant drag statement. Well, maybe some. But there were men who weren’t men. They were women. And all they longed for was to live their everyday lives as a woman, without society having a say in it. This woman was cleaning her own toilet, making soup and paying her bills. As a woman. She was me. It was an it’s-so-obvious moment.
That was more than 30 years ago. I marvel at that woman’s courage and dignity, and imagine she faced some awful bigotry, navigating her days and nights with caution.
I wonder what life is like for her today. She’d be around 80. Does she think of herself as a trailblazer? Was she there last night with the thousands in the Trans March?
I wish I could tell her how the tiniest glimpse of her everyday bravery had an impact on me. I hope she has known some happiness, support and peace in her life. Back then I felt I was doing my bit for her with my conspiratorial silence keeping her secret. Decades later – I’m ready to offer more than silence.
Happy Pride, one and all.