One of the jobs I had recently was to provide security for a night-time engagement which gave trans-youth a venue for a talent show.
The dozen or so schools which had participated were mostly girl-teams, but one standout was a boy with split, red-black hair, who was just as hoppily-happy at their team's performance. Overall -- the joy and pride these youth displayed was very heartening, and made me all the happier to have landed here; the single most diverse place I have ever seen, much less lived.
My sister, who has been in Roxbury since the '70s, was in an primarily lesbian punk band; she, drummer, and the different girls and her bassist partner were pioneer homesteaders during a period of still rough and tumble streets and sketchy venues and dive bars. I had come up twice, once with mom and pop, our father so proud to have taped it on a desktop deck he had slung, and carried what had been a tripod camera, solo. The second time, with our other sister, after I had been attacked by the boyfriend of a girl I had merely said hello to -- I had needed a break from Miami and she and I had lodged at the Punk House for nearly two months. The number of proudly-Out women I had met well-doubled the number of flamboyant men of South Florida my father and mother both knew in academia and the Audio/Visual world. It was eye-opening and heartening: there was a place for me -- if only I could survive school and get out.
The looks of nerves and joy and pride on these young faces lifted sadness from my shoulders.
Love you Babe
K
