(I almost want to
start this poem by repeating the title,
but merely typing the
above, I know that, now, I don't have to).
Language has a way of
creating,
so here I am...trying
to tell you I wore
light brown loafers,
red knee high socks,
a brown rayon dress with white polka dots,
a simple, yet elegant necklace,
a pair of light blue sun glasses,
and a scarf.
Marilyn Monroe
incognito.
(I'd like to begin to
tell you about getting up on a stage
dressed like this,
but something else was
happening).
Point A from point B
and I get there the
only way I know how.
Biking was just
something that I did,
a way I interfaced with the world,
so I climbed on board
and started pedaling.
All the cars at the
first block let me go...
just another beard
dressed up in dress.
Nothing new to see
hear,
move along.
I merged on Lead and
took my bike lane down the hill,
legs pumping like they
do.
A few other cars stared
me down and I felt watched.
A lot of cars on an
early Sunday afternoon.
I sat in the lane,
clearly marking my way,
lights flashing,
legs pumping,
wobbling to my left so I took up space
that clearly belonged to me,
just like I usually do
as the overpass reared
up.
I felt sandwiched
between a concrete embankment
and a row of moving
cars.
(I'd like to point out
that I'm typing this right now,
so don't worry about
whether I make it or not.
You can assume,
because I am writing,
that I created a way
for me to not become another statistic,
another
"accident"
in a city built for
cars).
But the dress wasn't
helping much.
I was trying to be
seen,
when a big part in
this town
is trying not to be visible, but still trying to be seen.
If I make it downtown
without them even knowing I was there,
I'm happy.
Being alone and
isolated isn't a new feeling.
Being vulnerable and
in peril isn't something that someone invites uncritically.
Yet, for a few
minutes,
the sensation was far
from pleasant
and I had a choice.
When we try and teach
tolerance,
we're trying to create a world
where out of the ordinary is basically the way it is.
A man can wear a
dress;
a woman a rough cut of blue jeans;
or even vice versa.
But when I stepped
outside, outside of what people expect to see,
I felt more than
shame,
I felt alone,
vulnerable, as if at any moment I could be the subject of someone else's poem,
instead of the one
creating it.
Comments