Letters to My Dead Name
Letter to my Dead Name
–On the Occasion of a Court Decree Changing my Name
and Gender and the Issuance of a New Birth Certificate
I wear this humble house dress.
All other ways are useless.
You, Richard, are deterred.
Yes something has occurred.
Oh, the things I have to say.
My tongue is very loose today.
I was a faggot to my brother,
I was raped by my mother.
I am a woman of my own.
These thoughts I cut to bone.
This is my final word.
Yes something has occurred.
Oh, you of the wayward herd,
there is no longer Richard.
Hell, there never was a Richard.
Yes something has occurred.
Love,
Richelle
Letter to the Closeted
Why would you lock your toys in a box?
Step outside. Enjoy the din.
Live your life un-ortho-dox.
Check your privilege, grab your socks.
Where you going, where you been?
Why would you lock yourself in a box?
Don’t be scared of all the shocks.
Buzzing sounds are hardly sin.
Live your life un-ortho-dox.
Seize the key, unlock the locks.
Strap it on. Plug it in.
Launch your toys right out of that box.
See what all that joy unlocks.
Nothing’s other than what it’s in.
Live your life un-ortho-dox.
Your boxed-in life smashed on rocks
of class and race and gender sin.
Why would you lock your toys in a box?
Live your life un-ortho-dox.
Love,
Richelle
First Time
I
When a friend asks me to escort her to a New Year’s Eve party, I come out to her as transgender. She quickly agrees on my going out the first time ever in my life as a woman in a dress.
But which dress? Not the house dress. Maybe the ruffled indigo dark blue rayon number with the sweep of beading down the front, but maybe it’s too sexy, or not sexy enough. My god, does it make me look old womanish?
The forecast for tonight is for a breezy 40 degrees. Panty hose? Really?
I need a purse. Where do women without purses put their wallet, keys and phone? Because I’m here to tell you, women’s dresses don’t have pockets I can find.
I need more room. Dressing for all these genders chokes my closet. And my earrings and necklaces are too flashy, my nails cracked, I only just started my beard electrolysis. What can I do with these wild eyebrows? My extra-wide, round-toe ballet slippers are too big. I finally find a padded bra with straps that don't show. The illusion of boobs looks half right. If I am careful, the bra won’t kill me. But my hair! I keep screwing up the hot rollers. My god, I look like Phyllis Diller. Hair is a bitch! Finally, the hair complies. Soft curls, touches of lipstick, blush, eyebrow pencil. Purple powder accenting blue eyes. Ah!
II
I rendezvous with my date,
bask in her smile.
Ring the doorbell.
The door opens on looks,
The host, the party guests’
looks of interested surprise.
And, of its own, suddenly,
a fragile flower out of me
a survivor of hell,
a voice:
My name is Richelle.