Room #5 of the University of Washington Medical Center’s Emergency Department is definitively a step up from the unfortunate squalor that was Carroll County General’s, the setting of my last ER visit. Quite a lovely room, really, with Snow White and the Huntsman playing (say what you will, it’s fucking great for hospital TV). A nice room to contemplate the reason I’m here.
There’s a fine line between ‘standing up for yourself’ and ‘clearly being an idiot.’ I haven’t considered that line much lately. I relied on my ability to intimidate people who wanted to mistreat or abuse me. Being unapologetically transgender leads to some interesting encounters to say the least. Most involve the word “faggot”. When the third person inside of two hours wants to ask me that ever important question “Is you a male or a female?” well...something happens. You either run or you stand tall. Sometimes that ends in violence.
Normally, I would have rolled my eyes. Even if I had gone through that ridiculous fight anyway, I would have rolled my eyes. I’m largely unmoved by random men trying to abuse me, and there have been so very many. The problem is that fight didn’t have to happen. I could have even talked shit back like I did and walked away. I didn’t let it go. Stupid.
My partner was there. When said idiot and his wonderfully darling pregnant girlfriend (who, might I add, also struck me) started to beat on me, I laughed. He broke my nose, he shattered my jaw, and I laughed. I fell to the ground laughing. When he struck my girlfriend for trying to intervene, I stopped. The fight was over by the time I stood, and she fortunately made it out largely unscathed, but my fucking pride got her hurt. I will never apologize for being true to myself, but I wanted to watch that idiot snap. My insolence caused her harm, even indirectly.
Standing up for yourself doesn’t mean shit when you can’t protect those you love who may suffer. Pride is a useless emotion without the conviction to truly fight back and the skill to do it.
So as I sit here contemplating the paint spatter on the toes of my Docs and hug the fuzzy sensation of vicodin I’m forced to examine my priorities. I have a good life, with good people, and pissing that away because I have a chip on my shoulder and a bad attitude is sacrilege. I won’t ever apologize for being myself, but that used to include the ability to defend those I loved.
At least they caught both the fools and I will take great pleasure in twisting whatever legal knife I have as well. When he’s in that jail cell, I hope he thinks long and hard about attacking someone for being queer.
And when I take full advantage of Washington’s hate crime statutes for transgender people, I hope he hears the sound of my laughter when some other man refuses to see him as a human being and takes what he wants. I should be a better person than this, but I’m not.
Now, I’m going to enjoy this vicodin fog a bit more, and contemplate the food I won’t be able to eat for two months.