#trans gremlin sewer kittens

[autumnonapoea]

I went to my very first Pride festival yesterday. I had an amazing time being with friends and around our people. I also kind of hated it

Hate is a strong word; wary, maybe?

A number of caveats: I’ve been out for two years, on HRT for just over a year, and my inexperience is probably pretty obvious. Also, I am certainly some degree of stupid. I’m a trans girl whose gender falls more into the spectrum of gremlin than anything else. The gaggle of trans folks I was rolling with are feral sewer kittens. I love us. And we are as far from the upwardly mobile cisgender gay men of Midtown as one could likely get in the LGBTQIAtl

My typical gay-as-fuck night out generally centers around Mary’s on a Tuesday night, sipping delicious and splendidly colorful mocktails on the back porch, making eyes at the other dolls and possibly making out with someone or several someones. Hey, I am pretty, give me a little credit. If Tranny Tuesdays are my norm, I can really only liken Pride to the Super Bowl of faggotry. And while I love wings (all flats for me please) and chips and dip, I do not enjoy the Super Bowl

The line to get into Mary’s was… well I think we can leave it at There Was A Line. The crowd inside was unfamiliar and enormous and the fact that I was incredibly stoned only made the feeling of overwhelm more potent. Standing on line I was very aware of the increased traffic through East Atlanta Village and I said to one of my friends that it felts like we were on display for straight people. Again, I was out of my head so it may have been my imagination but the passenger faces pressed against car windows making eye contact with me as they slid down Glenwood told me otherwise.

I saw no one I knew inside the bar and no one I knew on the back deck. I was surrounded by flashy beautiful clothes on gorgeous people with rainbows painted on their faces and adorned on their clothes and while I felt serene and high as shit in the moment, I did feel a little out of place in my ratty army jacket covered in metal patches. So after a short while, my friends and I went back to where we started—the deck behind the pizza place next door. THAT felt familiar and safe and fun. We drank and smoked and talked shit and made out and wrestled and cuddled and a few folks got off on consensually putting out cigarettes on each others’ arms.

Atlanta Pride was good, it was an amazing sight, and I felt—in an enormous crowd of queer folks of all stripes—lifted up. But the pageantry and spectacle of the weekend wore on me, from the rows of corporate booths with rainbow tchotchkes trying to hawk bank accounts and cruise lines to the booming music pumping from multiple stages. I know I am saying nothing remotely new here, but Pride™️ felt more for Them than for Us.

I am aware that my goblin ass queerness thrives in dark corners and filthy parking lots. That no one is in any hurry to put glossies of me and the swamp creatures I love on any kind of brochure. And one back porch, another one right next to it? I don’t really care as long as I’m with my friends. And while “pageantry and spectacle” may be part of many gay experiences, the enormous specter of trans persecution that has spread over these last few years makes me wish my greasy weirdo bullshit could just be, if not normal, then left alone. I’m glad everyone loves the party but that six-by-twelve patio is where I go for my oddness to blend with my fellow trans girls’ oddness and effectively disappear for an evening at a time. And it does not belong to me anymore than anyone else. And I’m being contradictory and cranky. And I have little to no thesis here. And I had a great time at Pride. And I’m a little wary of it at the same time.