She was something else. She burst in like a runway model — shrugging off the final show. Tall, fake blonde hair scattered all over her face, and a lithe frame that she managed with overt confidence.
It was a brilliant entrance that helped usher in her infectious temperament. The breath of fresh air was needed to flush out the stagnancy that drenched with vengeance all week.
I was hooked. I was hopeful that she would stay awhile and not desert us with casual allegiance to a life that was obviously vivid in comparison to ours.
She stayed. And so did we.
A bond was initiated. The three of us were inseparable through words and actions that gave life to the existence that we never imagined would filter through the walls of our makeshift territory.
This girl was magic.
She danced for us. She sang her testimonies and imitated the casting calls that required her beauty on display. She boasted about how she held Rodeo Drive hostage with her strut.
I was mesmerized.
This was odd. Her ability to assume her assets with commanding fervor would normally seem off-putting but for some reason I reveled in it.
I loved the fact that she spared no expense when it came to the ownership of her overall value as a woman of substance — both inside and out.
Then she became he.
It happened randomly. Comments were made without warning. Compliments behind her back that praised her contribution to a movement that I was aware of but didn’t associate her with.
I denounced every one of them.
How dare they assume she was that just because of her strong features and deeply mellow vocal chords.
But, curiosity got the best of me. Later, I searched her with urgency. I started from the bottom and worked my way to the top.
Her feet were rather large and not in a way that recalled femininity. Her butt was flat and wide but not shaped enough to pass the test. When she spoke later that evening my ears were at attention. Then, there was the Adam’s apple that had been invisible — until I sought it.
And that’s when I knew.
Actually — her Instagram page which she had tried to get me to follow the week before didn’t hide the truth.
I was the culprit. I was the one pretending to defend her when I was really defending myself.
I couldn’t stand anyone dismantling her template to fit their judgments. I didn’t want to be faced with the reality that her secret had been revealed — despite how hard I was working to protect it. I wanted her to just be who she was without the filter that evaporates after she leaves the space.
That’s when the chatter of her transformation overcomes her swift exit.
I wanted to protect her for myself.
Now I know she didn’t need my security or anybody else’s for that matter.
This girl was like every other. She had a past and now her future was the beacon.
I saw her in the light that made me comfortable. I must have known her story from the onset but dismissed it because I instinctively recognized it as a flaw. I rejected my review because I didn’t want to admit something that would force me to calculate whether I was being real or fake.
I used her to make myself feel noble. If I pretend like she wasn’t transsexual — then that means I’m ahead of the times.
We never discussed it.
We follow each other on Instagram which means that she knows I know. I miss her like crazy. She taught me to prance around in stilettos wearing a thong and nothing else. She gave me the boost I needed to once again embrace the parts of me that make me ecstatic to be a woman.
She didn’t need my protection. She was never in danger or afraid. Anyone who fights to survive against all the odds will never need hide behind the shield of ignorance or viral cowardice.
She taught me that.
So, now I’ve released her from my grasp.
I’m the one who needed protecting. And she did a mighty fine job of it.