Spike 2005-2018


The Day After Pride

The day after Pride there was a memorial in the Transgender Memorial Garden for Castilla. I didn’t know her, but I had seen her. I don’t know her last name. It was never spoken at the memorial. The many times I heard stories about her I never heard it. Sometimes she lived in the park near my house. Sometimes she accompanied her friends on their first trip to a beauty supply store. Sometimes the police cut holes in her tent. Sometimes she did jobs to make a little cash. Sometimes she lived in the trans flat. Sometimes she was beaten so hard she had to be hospitalized.

When Sayer started things off he talked about the garden. “It was started by Jarek and Miss Leon” he said “and a whole passel of queers.”
Last names don’t mean much amongst a family whose surname is Queer. Legal IDs are more of a hindrance than a help, and they so rarely tell the real story. They so rarely say who we are.

Castilla came here from Guatemala. She was legal. She had done everything she was supposed to do, but when she tried to go home to her mother she was blocked by the government because her documents had been destroyed between shelters, between tents, between meals, between jobs. Lost. And so she was thrown away. Lost.

This isn’t a post about immigration. It’s not a screed about the lack of safe and welcoming shelters for trans people. It’s not about the lack of treatment for addiction and mental illness for people who sleep behind buildings and not in them.

And it’s about *all* of that.

This year’s Pride Festival brought 300,000 people to downtown St. Louis. Entire corporations and the whole roster of politicians and local celebrities were there. It was the first time my niece got to come to the city and go to Pride and she cried watching the parade. She was overwhelmed. She had never seen so many people who were kind toward her queerness. It was life affirming and beautiful. Necessary.

There were, perhaps, 40 people at the memorial garden. Somebody’s Black Lives Matter yard sign blew from the cooler where it was propped against my legs as a late afternoon thunderstorm threatened. Two local clergy persons delivered messages through a borrowed bullhorn from handwritten pages and notes on their phones. Friends told stories. Activists told anger.

Chanting, the chanting I have grown to love, began with three or four and swelled to all of us. “No Justice, No Peace” Call and response. The kind that carries you like a good sermon from a fiery preacher. NO JUSTICE. NO PEACE.
We called to each other like so many other times some of us have called to the world, voices rising above the garden that we planted just for this purpose. And quietly, then mournfully rising to a wail, a fellow family member cried, collapsed and yelled through tears. Crying the pain in a scream that silenced the chant. We stood in silence and let those around them comfort. We held that space. And then the chorus started to sing “We are a gentle, angry people, and we are singing, singing for our lives.” The storm got loud. The rain started. The perfect coda.

In the end we looked around at each other. Fellow queers we know by first name – even those of us we don’t know well. We hugged told each other we appreciated each other.

In these ways, both fabulous parades and homemade funerals, we’ve got each other. Both are important. After all, Pride was a child born to the Queer family after a long labor of just this kind of grief and anger. This kind of homemade love. But I can’t help but think that if the corporations, politicians and celebrities would show up for Castilla we wouldn’t need a borrowed bullhorn or a fundraiser to save a sister from a pauper’s grave. We need to show up for both.

The trans community will send Castilla back home to her mom, who Sayer had to inform today that her child had died.
In every way the city around us, the state around that, the country around that failed her. We all failed her because this is our watch.

She was a trans woman. She was important even if you’ve never heard of her. She was a human being even if she had no place to go.
Her name was Castilla. She mattered.

The Man in the Mirror

I searched the internet for a comprehensive list of things I’d need before flying to San Francisco for the beginning of the last phase of my transition – phalloplasty. I found one in a Facebook group after watching so many YouTube videos that I almost talked myself out of even doing it. It’s the way I cope with anxiety- plan for every single catastrophe known to man and mentally rehearse the moves through them.

Over and over and over.

I ordered $100 worth of bandages, and assorted ointments, bought 3 extra large pairs of sweatpants. It said I needed things I hadn’t heard of which conflicted with things other lists recommended, so I researched every ointment. The last thing on the list was “1 cheap hand mirror.”

I expected this. I would need to see places I don’t normally look. Places that, in their current configuration, were the source of much pain. Pain I couldn’t really describe except for to describe what would not be painful.

And I was no stranger to the feminist movement to use hand mirrors to examine one’s own vagina, to take control, to look at what was patriarchal taboo, to own one’s own healthcare. One of my friends even used to deliver sperm in a cooler to women so they could self inseminate. In theory, I was down.

In practice though…

I got pregnant when I was 19. At the time I was thrilled because I was underweight, and for the prior 5 years I’d erased myself, vagina included, by obscuring traces of me behind a fog of vodka, weed and whatever else I could get my hands on. At 18 I was a connoisseur of Maalox flavors and was working on a beauty of an ulcer. I figured my body had stopped even trying. Finding out I was pregnant was like hearing it say, “not yet motherfucker.” I was not as ruined as I felt.

It was complicated.

I could rewrite history and say I knew I was a man and being pregnant was torture, but that would be a lie. What I knew then, without having met a trans person or even copping to my attraction to women in addition to my then boyfriend, was that pregnancy gave me legitimacy. It justified my existence. It was also surreal. It felt like it was happening to someone else and I was watching that person – with those parts- do something normal.

Holding a hand mirror down there was absolutely out of the question. I was separate from that body. I wouldn’t be looking at myself.

Now though, a mirror made sense. I was going to look at *myself.* I put it off. It was a minor detail. There were $10 models at Target, even more expensive at Walgreens. It was a toss off, and I had already spent a metric shit ton of money on every other part of this surgery, so I went to the dollar store and bought one along with a 10 foot charger for my phone and miscellaneous nothings. I walked out having spent $11 dollars total. That was what I thought would be the least of my worries.

I started transitioning when my son was 10. My partner was going through menopause. I simultaneously went through puberty with my son and menopause with my partner. We all bumped blindly through our changes. We figured it out.

Of course there were layers and years and mistakes. I was (am) an imperfect parent. I only saw my son every other weekend and every Wednesday. His dad was infinitely more stable, which was why I loved him in the first place.

In the short bursts of time we had together I tried to cram all of my love into his heart. When I started to transition I told him I would always be his mother. He could call me whatever he wanted. My voice deepened, my hair changed, then fell out. I started growing a beard. When I had my top surgery I explained it to him. Nothing would change, I said. And really, between us, it didn’t.

For the past 10 years I have been quietly screaming, though. My relationship with my body degenerated to the point where now, pretty sober and reasonably successful, I could not ignore the disconnect anymore. Forget hand mirrors, I couldn’t even let someone else look at me without hours of agony.

I told my now 25 year old married son that I was having this surgery in a conversation over the phone. He was grieving the loss of his daughter, and after an hour or so of sharing and crying about that, I told him I was thinking about this. We made a deal that we would both make decisions – he would decide on a plan for his life and I would make a plan for mine. We’d meet again same time next year for a summit to see if we were more fucked up or less.

So I micromanaged. I planned and plotted. I prepared. And here I was, post-op, propped on pillows in a hospital bed in San Francisco. My arm was bandaged, my leg was bandaged. I had two catheters, one coming out of a hole in my abdomen. But I was happy. I wanted to look at myself.

In some dark, drugged recess of my mind I remembered the plastic hand mirror. Kris (now my wife) had forgotten to bring it to the hospital. I was undeterred. We improvised with her phone. We scooted, angled, tilted until I could see myself.

There I was. My genitals looked approximate to what I needed to see, stitches and swelling aside. But there, where I had been afraid to look before, where I had refused to let anyone come near, was a landscape of closed incisions, and stitches, red an irritated, but healthy. They already hinted at what they would look like.

I felt like a black hole had formed in my bed and was sucking me through the floor. Grief. Powerful and sudden. Unexpected. Indescribable.

Not regret.

Grief. Mourning.

I started to cry. Kris tried to comfort an inconsolable me. I could not describe what was painful except to describe what wasn’t painful.

I stayed awake trying to pinpoint it. My lost girl? Yes, sort of. My lost mission? Yes, mission accomplished, sort of.

Then I thought of my son. Yes. It was there somewhere. The grief of weekend drop offs at the mall, the trips in snowstorms to see him, the birthday parties with Superman cakes, the first step he took, the nights in the hospital holding his wrecked and grieving body over the body of his own lost girl.


I can say with conviction that grief is complicated and it is so tangled with love that neither can exist without the other. Regret is for mistakes. I regret a lot. This grief that I’m feeling is tangled in love. I grieve the loss of the one thing that physically made me his mom. I grieve for all the ways I could never be a mom in the way moms usually are.

I grieve the loss of the connection with my sisters and mother, girlfriends and wife.

I mourn for the little boy who had to wait 45 years for this.

But as a friend said as we talked about how everything that has ever been still is, every time there ever was or will be exists now – this physical part exists. It is a layer upon which motherhood and sisterhood was planted. Though it isn’t visible now, it still exists in the form of all that it created.

My son and his wife moved a few states away and started over. His plan is in motion and it’s a good one. Between skin grafts, bathing debacles and catheter woes, I’m growing into myself. My plan is in motion and it’s a good one.

I still, as I write this, grieve. I will probably grieve infinitely because I love that way too.

Regret? No. That is for mistakes.

The hand mirror is still in a drawer for now, though.

Peace is not the same thing as non-violence

A few years ago Kris and I got into an argument.  It was one of the very few times we have outright screamed at each other.  I don’t remember what it was about.  It doesn’t really matter now, but I do remember where I was.  I was at the kitchen sink scrubbing pots and pans – good ones – that I had bought her for Christmas.  She stormed out of the room and I, in a rare fit of rage, smashed the pot against the counter.  It still has a dent.  I think about that moment every time that pot is on the stove – the moment when I had hit my limit of contained anger and broke something.

Later, after we made up about whatever it was we were fighting about, I admitted what I had done, showed her the pot and apologized.  There has never been and will never be a time when I would aim a violent gesture toward my wife, but there have been and will be plenty of times I am angry.  There will probably be very few where I reach the end of my tether and do the proverbial table flip.  In my case, Kris and I have equal power in our relationship.  She could very well throw my cell phone in the toilet or something and we would have to work it out.  Are either of these scenarios rational and calm?  Not really, and truth be told my little fit is embarrassing.  But they aren’t violent either.

I share this story to illustrate the difference between violence and property damage, specifically in light of the last few days of protests here in St. Louis and the multiple calls (from mostly white people) for peaceful protest citing Dr. King’s marches –  when what we really mean is non-violent protest.  I’ll admit I’ve used the term peaceful protest myself, equating peace with the absence of violence.  But I was wrong.

Anger is not peaceful.  Outrage is not peaceful.  Peace has no place in protest – it is the result of successful protest and other long-term work to achieve equality.  

Over the last couple of nights, thousands of angry people marched the streets of St. Louis.  As I type, another group is protesting again.  They are (and I am) outraged at the not-guilty verdict in the Jason Stockley case.

I’m angry, but I can tell you that the people around me – the black people around me – are pot smashing, cell phone in the toilet angry.  The difference is that there is no balance of power in this anger – this centuries old affront to human decency.  No miscommunication that gets resolved.  It’s injustice that just sits there with no place to go because the people with the power to change it don’t.

And also in the last couple of nights people broke windows and spray painted buildings.  Sometimes (and I’ve seen it personally) the breaking of windows is done at the very end of a protest by (many times white) people who just want to break stuff.  And sometimes the breaking of windows is end of tether, nowhere to go with your impotent rage property damage.  And while it is destructive and dangerous, it is different than hurting people.  The violence occurs after that, when the police use tear gas, pepper spray, rubber bullets, clubs, shields and vehicles to inflict injury on people armed with rocks, spray paint and nothing to lose. (I’ll add here that even if the window smashing is being done by white boys with mommy issues, the police can easily contain that without gassing a neighborhood.)

I’m a white guy who co-owns a business, so I’ll try to stay in my lane.  I won’t pretend to speak on behalf of anyone but myself.  I won’t tell anyone how, why or when they should protest – and I won’t tell them to be peaceful.  I will hope for non-violence on the part of the police and protesters because violence – injuring or killing – diminishes humanity.  Violence is abhorrent.

I’ll be nervous about my bookstore, the staff who works there and the cat who lives there.  I’ll support the small businesses around me who have broken windows and I’ll help build a community that cares deeply for its citizens.  I’ll support the movement for equality and justice for all because lives are at stake.  I’ll march when I can and be a hermit when my mental health demands it.

But I won’t call for peace.  No justice, no peace.


The day before the decision was made the decision had already been made. He must have wondered what all the tears were about. He leaned into my leg to comfort me and yelped at his own pain.

The air in the house, the place we cuddled, played and fought, was thick with heartbreak. Outside, the weather had been brutal. High 90’s heat. St. Louis humidity. Oppressive. But on this night, the night before we made the decision we had already made, there was a thunderstorm and after it, a break. A cool evening with puddles and wet smells.

The grief was a live wire short circuiting in my chest and radiating a sharp and sustained jolt down my arms and legs.

“I’ll take a walk,” I said. Kris was worried. Late night alone with my thoughts hasn’t been a good idea in a while, so instead I folded laundry, cried, carried clothes upstairs, lingered.

Kris went to bed and I rambled around the kitchen and let out our other dog, Greta. She leapt down the back stairs and made her way into the hostas.

Bruno couldn’t make it outside on his own but wagged his tail at me anyway and followed me to the bathroom, our usual pre-walk ritual. He stands by the bathroom door and waits for me to finish, put on my shoes and get his leash from the bucket by the door.

The house was quiet and there was nobody there to stop us.

I clipped on his leash. Just his regular collar. We’re long past the time of the pinch collar on this 100 lb beast. We stepped carefully onto the front porch then down the stairs to the yard. He limped and dragged to the oak tree we planted after the sycamore blew down. He sniffed and peed.

He looked back at me, the question on both our minds – how far will we go?

Slowly we edged to the sidewalk. He picked up a lumbering pace and headed to our ritual path, the route he and i have walked nearly every day for over a decade. His paws splashed in the puddles. We both breathed the clear air. “No rules tonight, my friend,” i said. “We are free and easy. It’s just us, me and you against the world.” And we both believed it.

I read somewhere that grief, at its essence, isn’t so much about death itself but the sharp recognition of a loss of that which you were unaware could be lost. And here in the night air in sharp relief was the beginning of the loss.

Him, injured hungry and alone walking himself to the bookstore to be found by Kris and adopted by us. The howl on the back porch because he was afraid of the dark that first night when we were too afraid to let him inside. His first bath. His surprise when we had his eyes fixed and could see for the first time. His perpetual posture of dismay at finding himself in this ill-fitting dog suit. The toothy smile and bulldog stomp when he was excited for dinner. Him wearing the ugly christmas sweater and felt antlers beside the tree. The weight of him when he crawled on top of me and guarded me from my own soul’s darkness. Every walk, every time – even when he slowed down with age. Even when he lingered at the same blades of grass both going and coming back. The pride in being his companion. The compliments on his beautiful one-of-a-kind self from passers by. The knowledge that the scene of us walking side by side on the sidewalk made Kris happy. His vendetta against the cats. His fear of both thunder and vacuum cleaners. His whole complicated role in our family drama.

The loss will continue to reveal itself.

Our escape that night lasted for a block and I turned us around. He’d walk all night if i asked him to. Even when he couldn’t move his feet anymore, he’d try. And I wanted to keep walking into the darkness with him, free and easy together side by side.

But I love my friend, my companion, my couch partner, my puppy pile mate; and he has given us all of his dog life and would offer more even in this pain, so I don’t ask.

I will not ask one more thing of him.

By the time you read this, I will have cried for days. We will have chosen between suffering and death. I will have sat next to him on the couch, and when he looked at me with those eyes, the left brown, the right a bluish white, I will have told him as i always do on the last block of our walk, “We’re almost there, buddy. We’re almost home.”

When I post this, our sweet, steady friend will be gone. There will be chew bones and beds and reminders of his life here. I will clean it up and pack it away. I will be a live wire of grief, and i won’t promise an end to it.

And still, forever, we are both exquisitely alive exactly then in the dark street, sneaking out after the rain, when there isn’t a future, but we are free now, and just for this moment it is enough.

Mary Oliver – A Devotion


Mary Oliver‘s Devotions comes out in October 2017, but I’ve been carrying the advance reading copy around with me every day.  It’s water-stained.  The pages are folded down.  Various poems are marked for easy reference.  She is in my head.

I’ve visited this forest several times over the past months, marching in each time without the vaguest idea what I needed and crawling out each time with a different message.  It’s a watchful woods.

There’s something sacred about the beat up ARC of Devotions.  Something that echoes the sacred place I’ve found here, deep in the woods, off the trail – alone.  It speaks the same language as this private, peaceful place.

I’ve read the poems to the trees.

It occurred to me that her words are a love affair with just this kind of thing. I had visions of the sounds of them carrying through the branches and across the creek bed, slipping through the spider webs and caressing the tips of the leaves.  So today I marched in, still without the vaguest idea of what I needed but with a mission.  I chose twenty of my favorite poems from the collection, typed them up and carried them into the woods.  I sat in the creek bed and cut the paper, punched the holes, glued the pieces of this tribute together and cut the twine with my pocket knife.  And then I looked for the place.  If you know anything about wild places, they don’t conform to what you want.  They are oblivious to you.  I sat on a fallen tree, disappointed and discouraged.  How can you pick one patch of an infinite continuum of perfection to make words float?

Of course, as it always is, the answer was right in front of me.  There is no patch that is better than another, so right in front of me is where I started.

So, here it is.  Twenty of my favorite poems by Mary Oliver, suspended in a sacred (to me) forest for just a few moments on a day that is like any other in this place, where life and death are the same motion and I am part of the dust and bark.

Top 20 (for now, and in no particular order – ever)





















About Not Interviewing Roxane Gay

Roxane Gay - Hunger This is not a post is not a story of triumph.  There will be no Facebook post with accompanying photo about my interview with Roxane Gay because there will be no interview.

Oh, I was asked.  My bookstore is co-hosting the event for her new memoir, Hunger. But like her book, the first book I’ve been able to successfully read beginning to end in 10 months – ok a year, if I’m being completely honest (I tried, Bruce), my story is not one with a neat happy ending.  Back in October, I melted down completely, spiraled into a horrid depression, and I haven’t been able to read more than a paragraph or two at a time.

My passion for words shrank to scattered thought, then slowly to short poems, then an article or two.  It’s been a nasty little secret until now, so when I got the email asking if I would be “in conversation” with Ms. Gay, I had to read it a few times to actually understand it.  Then I thought for a day or two before answering no, citing vague health issues.  I told the people around me that it wouldn’t make sense for me, a white guy who only struggles mildly with his weight to discuss such a tender, vulnerable subject with someone who has so clearly been subjected to mildly out of shape white guys’ opinions about her body.

The truth is I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to read in time to be articulate in front of a crowd.  I was afraid of being exposed as an illiterate bookseller.  A fraud.  Of course, I’m not really illiterate, not permanently at least.  The strange cognitive twist is that I can still write, but that doesn’t translate to intelligent discussion in front of an audience with someone as formidable as Roxane Gay.

But I regret my “no” answer now, so I’ll express my angst here in a public sort of letter.

Ms. Gay – yours is the very first book I could read, and if I had it to do over again, I would say yes to the interview.  Not because I’m an entitled white guy (although an argument could be made that I am) but because I spent 30 years in a female body I couldn’t reconcile before becoming this guy.

I would have loved to ask you about the bold, daring, stare the fear straight in the eyes courage it took to crack your life wide open in the pages of this book.  We have a lot in common. We could have talked about binging.  We could have talked about sexual assault, about being attacked from within our own bodies.  We could have talked about attacking our own bodies.  We could have talked about trauma housed in every cell that we want to lose, but cannot set free.  We could have talked about being so very alone in our cages – differently shaped cages, yes, but cages.  We could have talked about shame.  About touch.  About both craving it and slapping it away.

We could have talked about bodies, fat bodies, cis female bodies, transgender bodies, black bodies – all of the kinds of bodies that are war zones, that are property put up for public debate and judgement without input from the souls who inhabit those bodies.

We could have talked about taking up space and wishing we could disappear.  We could have talked about public space – TSA lines and airplanes, bathroom stalls and swimming pools.

But we won’t, and I’m sorry.  Sorry, not as an apology to you (you will be great as always and your book and event are not about me) so much as an expression of deep sorrow and regret that I had the chance to sit on a stage with you and talk freely about the experience of a body at war with itself – regret that I *finally* read something all the way through after months of sheer desperation BECAUSE you talked freely in this book and I couldn’t look away.  I couldn’t look away from the devastating beauty of it.

We met before, on your tour for Bad Feminist.  It was hot.  We borrowed the empty space next to the store to accommodate a more people.  I built a stage specifically for the event.  The air conditioner broke that day.  I was the guy with the fan.  You, no doubt, do not remember me and that’s ok.  I was being invisible that day, too.  But I remember you.  I saw you.  I see you now.  And even though we won’t do this conversation in person, I’ll take this small chance to thank you for writing this exquisite book.

So this post ends here.  Not quite satisfying.  Not triumphant.  Not neatly finished.  Imperfect and sort of selfish. But hopeful and grateful.