The Right Side of Passage
The rights to the rite of passage? The right rite of passage?
The rites of passage unspoken, unwrit, deciding the rites descended upon the right, right of the left or right in the eyes of God. Who are the real Christians with the right sight, the peace of mind, the heart and soul to guide who’s left gone awry, or has the right been deceived; the left leaners left to bear more fruits than found in Eden.
A strange piece of misinformation, some bizarre propaganda for what ends, probably rage. City builders, those devious urban developers, splitting the trees by their gender so they don’t produce fruit in cities. Ingenious! The people, starved of their natural gardens, having the need for a Camry in their driveway with no space for an orchard in their yard, will need fruit.
Without the sweet plums, pomegranates, coconuts raining from the sky onto sidewalks, the poor mongrels will need to work, earn money, and spend their dollars on fruit in the market. A farmers market, corner store, perhaps even Whole Foods…
I guess depending on the sizes of coconuts, made huge in dense CO2 rich smog in the cities, may provide hazards to pedestrians, let alone the bills from broken windshields on a windy day. Hard hats! Yes, we must provide government mandated pedestrian hard hats, this will lower the socialized healthcare bill, and free up surgeons’ time from stapling skulls back shut. Otherwise, coconut guts and grey matter will coat the sidewalks each morning, and we would need to find funding for some sort of regular cleanings.
Well, having written it out, this piece of propaganda was not very well thought out I suppose. I recall having mentioned this to a few leftists to an imaginably disproportionate amount of rage, shock, and then indifference as their expectations of our government are further sullied from a litany of their poor decisions. Yes! They did not put fruit trees in cities because of Big Fruit Stand!
Except if you walk outside with certain books, it can tell you where and what certain plants grow, and which ones are edible. You can find edible flowers that reminisce of fresh radish, strawberry fruit that recall raspberries, dyeing the sidewalks below their branches all shades of reds and oranges. Berkeley is known for its brugsmansia, and suburbs full of lime, lemon, plum, pomelo, but don’t tell anyone you can pick up a few here and there as you get around, or they might start to line the trees with fences, chuck them in a valley, and fill a field with 10 trees for every underpaid migrant worker that gets food to our tables.
I spent all that time angry at a lie, a part of me knew about the plight of the migrant workers, but it was much too easy to blame a college educated urban planner… I mean come on, have you seen the sidewalks! Small, broken up, people living on them, shitting on them,
fucking on them… it’s enough to make me cum.
I mean scream! Damn you God! Why have you forsaken us! Left me here to suffer, alone. Jesus wept for us, and here I am unable to put words to sin for fear I may end up in Hell. He died for me, why should I not sin! He died so I may sin and be redeemed, so that I may falter, but without safety nets, a cheap mistake to one costs another their life.
The $40 Parking Ticket
“I really, really need to pee”
‘Can you hold it’
“Ok…”
“How long?”
‘Oh my god, look. I got a ticket, we weren’t even here for 30 minutes! And, it’s Sunday. Fuck this city!’
“Oh no! Do you want to dispute it?”
‘Look, I sent this text at half the hour, it’s only been 25 minutes.’
“How much is the ticket, do you need help paying it? I feel partly responsible for mentioning this yogurt place”
‘Nah, it’s only like $40, in other places it’s like $80'
“Wow.”
‘It’s going to take like 15 minutes’
….
“I feel like I am going to pee my pants”
‘Well, I have a bed pan’
“I am not pissing in the bed pan, please just hurry, or pull into a parking lot I can just find a place there”
She didn’t, she stopped heading to the destination, where there was a bathroom. She googled a place that had a bathroom on google maps, a small gas station.
‘This gas station has a toilet on google maps’
“It won’t”
I went inside, they said “sorry bro, no bathroom.”
I ran around the block of a residential area with nowhere to hide behind to relieve myself. I found a porta potty luckily, which only had a days worth of contractors’ shit in it, on the plot of some dick head’s house refurbishment project. He was probably going to rent it out to some overpaid therapist to live alone in. Someone has to console the community as they step over the nouveau homeless, fresh graduates from UC Santa Cruz, from speaking to the desperately poor people that trim their gardens, while a student a year away from the same fate makes their lattes on their way to some administrative performance art job. Hence the clown make up, hence the depression, caffeine addiction, and the vicodin pairing with red wines each evening.
Ah, the American Dream.
I was so mad at her, she had the car, she peed indoors, at her leisure, she knew when she had to pee, and would put our plans on pause to do it. Not me though, I was not assertive enough about my needs, and so I suffered. She was not oblivious, I just did not express the amount of pee I had in me, surely if it was more pee, then she would have found a bathroom with me before we left.
But she was not a her, she had boobs, no facial or body hair, beautiful blue eyes, and a white boy’s name (also a penis, but it’s besides the point).
To everyone else, she was [BOY NAME REDACTED], but to me, she was [GIRL NAME REDACTED]. She claimed to be a woman, but insisted total strangers, that call her she, think she’s a woman, have no reason to assume otherwise, call her [BOY NAME REDACTED].
I got so upset, she made me confused. It’s so gender to be a boy girl, girl boy, take both names and all pronouns, and confuse a stranger. I felt disrespected, like she was lying to me, living out some freak fantasy with some tranny she couldn’t wait to get into a motel room in Santa Cruz and get freaky with.
Like how all those older men shot her up with meth and fucked her/his twink ass and sent him home spun out, bloodied up and bruised. Like a real woman, shown her place.
I felt offended on so many levels, I did not go out on a date with a boy! I didn’t want to, the whole pretext was incorrect, slipped out beneath my feet, and I was not having fun. On top of it, this boy did not respect that I had to pee! Would not walk with me to cover my decency had I had to pee outside, just was so extremely nonchalant about it. I had not signed up for this, otherwise, we wouldn’t have fucked and I would have been drunker.
Some rite of passage to womanhood, hazing, a trans man with huge fucking tits that grew up an oversexualized or abused little girl, becoming the man he needed to protect him as a child. The American Dream. That is the kind of man I need, not some boy playing pretend. If we had the luxury and the space to think and speak and share and grieve these feminizing experiences, the violence that precedes the silence as we watch it happen to the next girl. The young girls, the fat girls, the trans girls, the Black or brown girls, the girl who struggles with talking, the girl who struggles with walking.
Who are these men, the boys, the weak that destroy the weaker for power? Human nature seeking dominance for… what? I shake my ass in a dress at the club for fun and it makes me feel like a woman, then a man walks up like I had invited his groping hands as if I were performing some mating ritual..
just wait til he runs his hand over my dick, then he’ll really wanna kill me.
