The government voided our IDs in Kansas. And my fiancé and I, both queer trans men, are planning our wedding.
There was no grace period for the IDs. Everyone who changed their gender marker had it revoked effective immediately. An essential piece of life evaporated overnight. People are stranded and unable to get jobs or apartments. I asked my transfem friend there if she needed to stay with me in the PNW. She wants to stay and fight. I wake up every morning and I pray she’ll be okay. I don’t know if God will listen. But I have to try. I don’t know what else to do.
My fiancé sent me a link to a local bakery who makes custom pet portrait cookies. He wants our cats to be a part of the wedding and I love that. I pet Bella and she purrs. I think she’d want to be there too — just not with all the people.
People of Kansas can now hunt us like dogs, mouths frothing at the prospect of $1,000 bounty. This will hurt cis women too. I now live in the PNW, but I can’t travel to Kansas anymore. I cannot safely visit family. I’m slowly being choked out of my own country, state by state: a noose.
We’re not wearing suits. We don’t like them. We’re dressing like whimsical hobbits with wool cloaks. It will be November so it might rain or be cold, but the cloaks should keep us warm. And if not, we’ll have each other to hold.
The Lemkin institute has declared we are in the early to mid stages of genocide against trans folks. When I was eleven, if I had known that forcing children from one group to another is considered genocide, maybe I would have had stronger words to describe how secular conversion therapy sunk me from anorexic to suicidal. But I was eleven. I didn’t know. I survived, but didn’t come out until I was sixteen. It’s since been eleven years of joy. And now the President of the United States stands on a stage and calls for an end to gender affirming care for all trans youth. He’s advocating for conversion therapy like I went through and in doing so, calls for the eradication of trans youth. This will kill children. It’s genocide-
We found rings we love. They’re made of unbreakable hammered tungsten. My fiancé held it then grinned. “Rowan,” he said. “I think this is the one.” He was absolutely right. We’re going to save and get them closer to the date, but I can’t wait to wear something almost unbreakable as a symbol of us.
We visited his parents in Idaho. I had to use the restroom in the airport and I forgot if they have a bathroom ban so I stood in the airport googling if it was legal for me to piss (it’s not). I asked myself if I was passing enough that day or if the airport counted as a public facility. I wasn’t confident. I found a single stall family room. A frazzled mother glared at me when I came out, but at least I wasn’t arrested.
We’re thinking of eloping on the ferry on the Puget Sound. Then, for all our friends, we’ll throw a big gay reception. But the ceremony and the start of our life will be a little jaunt and that feels right and just like us. We’ll be on the water with the sky and the forest. That feeds both our souls. It’ll be small — just us, our parents, siblings and an officiant. But this union is about us, a power team against the world. Together through the fires of Mordor.
I’m marrying my best friend. I hold him in the evening and wonder if now’s the right time; if I’ll lose my passport tomorrow; if I’ll lose my hormones.
He takes out his phone and shows me the first dance version of our song. And I squeeze his arm. And I’m smiling and glowing imagining us dancing. And I can’t wait.
I might lose my documents tomorrow. I might lose my job. I could lose my life.
But by God, at least I won’t lose him.