To the threads woven together into a complex tapestry of open arms, I love you.
The rough, wool fibers that squeak when they rub against each other intertwine to create one cohesive piece of clothing that keeps me warm all winter. Woven into this amalgamation is the scent of candle wax that acts as my own personal time capsule. It takes me to a moment when I’m staring at linoleum, taking pictures in the fitting room, and buying a plastic container of Reese’s scented wax melts that still sits on my bookshelf more than a year later. My sister laughed at me for buying them, but I didn’t care; it was something that was indisputably all mine and no one else’s.
Without you, there would be no long conversations with my sister, standing in adjacent aisles while combing through the thick wads of sweaters and low-rise jeans that clogged the metal racks.
I held up a golden-yellow, cropped tee with the word “ARIZONA” spelled out in scarlet rhinestones. The paint was chipping off to reveal the shiny plastic beneath the red facade, and there was stitching along the hems, which was a lighter yellow, barely perceptible under the bright white overhead lights.
It was ugly, and we both knew it.
I don’t know why I remember this piece. It was unremarkable in comparison to the other ridiculous items I’ve found on the hangers in the Goodwill on Kraft. But I do, and it’s one of my most cherished memories.
It was this place—made of drywall and scuffed trim—that facilitated my first-ever experimentation with clothing. You taught me the steps to a precarious dance between happiness and disappointment. You offered up these textiles with open hands, saying, “Take it, it’s yours.” I could buy anything I wanted by myself—with my own money—for seven dollars a piece, and that is a gift of independence and freedom nothing else is or was capable of providing. You presented a path where I could wear the clothing that brought me utter euphoria in my gender and who I was. That made me feel like I really belonged, so thank you.
What I say is true, but there is nuance to this place.
On one hand, I could finally feel like I was a real person and step out of the desolate cellar that contained me for many long years. But on the other, I faced the possibility, no matter how unlikely, of ridicule, of laughter, of abandonment. There was always the risk of wearing an outfit a relative from that side of my family would deem “not feminine.” And I’ve never had the heart to tell them that I’m not a woman.
It’s never made sense to me that who trans people happen to be is the center of attention while they have much more interesting parts of them, like their jobs and lives, outside of their gender expression; being trans is one part of my identity, but I’m also a writer and a musician and a Christian and a sibling and a cousin and a student and an avid customer of the Goodwill on Kraft.
