I’ve been working on an entry that I wanted to post about Rogue One, understanding cowardice, and hope. In the wake of an extremely upsetting and discouraging election, I wanted to pen an entry that looked at a hopeful future. But, as more and more politics unfold, hope seems to be in short supply.

Maybe, I’ll finish that in-limbo work soon. I want to examine whether when I was ready to take my own life, was the choice I made out of bravery, cowardice, or something else. But, I’m not ready to go there, yet. 

I’m okay. 

Really. 

I know that existential-esque crisis seems dramatic, and it is, kind of, but I’ll try to dive into it later. 

I am okay. 

So, entry Going Rogue One will have to wait. Because, I think I need more evidence to know if I’ve given up on America or not. I don’t want to necessarily pack my bags, but the times we’re living in may be too dire to stay, which is why I am so hung up on making a decision not based on cowardice. It’s a thing. 

Since my quandary over leaving the U.S. of A. or staying, buckling down, and fighting for the rights of people that may be attacked with bigotry, hatred, racism, and more -isms and -phobias than I can count, I wanted a deep, narrative reflection over the Thanksgiving break with my family. But, when I tried to sit down and write about the turkey eating extravaganza, I ended up with poem after poem that looked like this: 

Life

It is scientifically unfathomable that we exist

That life, you, and I exist

But, we do. 

Life does. 

And, maybe, someday

Someday I will finally be able to forgive myself,

But the horrors of guilt still haunt me every moment

Totally not the gluttony fest reflection that I was working towards . . . Oy vey, I’ve still got issues to work out. 

I wanted to spend time delving into the rounds of Things that made fun of Village Inn’s very mediocre pumpkin pie. Things you are embarrassed by . . . Owning and operating a Village Inn. Or, the hilarious and unexpected crudeness of my grandmother who took a delightful gutter turn after her response for a superpower was “part the Arkansas River” and everyone thought she’d written “fart in the Arkansas River”. It was all downhill from there in the best way possible. I never thought I’d hear her wheeze with laughter for writing “fake boobs” as an answer. That was surely a joy to watch. 

I wanted to write about, for the first time ever, my Dad separated the family by gender for dinner. Or, how he worded it, “heifers” in the dining room and “stallions” in the kitchen. He was sure to pour my glass of wine on the “stallion” side. While part of me wanted to cause a scene and take my meal in the dining room, I was, at once, too annoyed and shocked to respond by doing anything but guzzle down the wine and be as uncomfortable as possible. 

I wanted to write about my brother laughing and smirking every time my family thanked God for Donald Trump because he saw that I would suddenly find myself enamored with the football game on TV. I could barely stomach listening to individuals give Trump a verbal blowjob of praise, and I would watch the sacrilegious pigskin being thrown to the blue team. 

I wanted to write about my inability to leave Saturday morning because my mom had booked a photographer for family pictures then. And, she failed to see my need to not be on the road on Sunday. Because a year ago on that Sunday, I did what I never thought I’d be able to do and lost or forever changed everything I knew by coming out as transgender. I couldn’t drive back on Sunday. I just couldn’t.

I had planned to splice in other interesting musings about my police-attacking uncle or the fact that my brother’s girlfriend has never seen Jaws, unacceptable in my book. My final reflection about the whole shindig would have ended with my thoughts about my dad’s text response when I said I made it back home. 

“Glad your safe. Great to spend the day with you. Have a good week.”

So, wrong use of your aside . . . Great to spend the day with you?

Really? 

Was it? 

Will he now be able to see that I’m nearly the same person he knew for twenty-eight years and not the person he ignored or demonized for the last one? 

Unlikely. 

Those were the things I wanted to write about. Those were the reflections I wanted to flesh out. 

Maybe, I’ll be able to write about it all eventually, after it, along with the yams and stuffing, digest a bit more. 

And, maybe, I’ll finish my Star Wars-filled, cowardice-examining, hopeful entry. Hmmm, someday.

Maybe, after I see Rogue One

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