If the future is trans… 

A poem to honor the LGBTQIA+ ancestors emergent, the young queer ones, the queer ones yet to come.

Written and performed by myself at Bas Bleu Theatre in Fort Collins November 1st, 2023.
Filmed and edited by Risking Joy Productions LLC.

Text:

I want you to know— the best things haven’t happened yet.

There are gender creative creatures out there that are just
sparks of inspiration in our eyes.
There’s some kid dancing in a field of dandelions with breasts flying over his belly.
There’s some kid wearing a sparkly superhero cape, a smirk, no tremor of fear,
and walking all confidence into whatever bathroom they please.
There’s a kid out there inventing pronouns that are going to
leave us tongue-tied.
There are kids out there finding language for who they are,
language that reads like myth and coats the Earth in some kaleidoscope poetry,
whose heart songs will rival scripture.

 All we have to do is blink
and we’ll open our eyes to some new tomorrow
where those trans kids will be schooling us,
correcting our grammar and rolling their eyes saying something like
“Trans is so old school. Who ever decided that was the word?”

 They’re gonna give us a new queer dictionary.
They’re gonna fill our shelves with biodegradable glitter,
they’re gonna humble us,
they’re gonna make us say oh my gods
how did I think the world was so small?
They’re gonna show us some map that leaves us cross-eyed,
feed us some new queer magic that steadies our trans into an ecology of all things.

Look at them now—
those future queerlings,
those cloaks of concealed genders,
starting off boyish-girlish-boy-girls,
throwing off their closets,
and growing into holy holy,
something we’ve never seen.
What artists
What sculptors
to shape their lives like that,
To listen so deeply,
they find a Truth that’s never been spoken before.
To feel in them a Truth runs so strong,
its currents pulsate from their hearts and fingertips
leaving rivers of possibility with every step they take.
That’s devotion.
That’s creation.
That’s artistry at work,
my gods — these kids are building entire worlds.

I can’t wait.
I can see them now dancing some jig that makes my knees ache—
how do they move like that?
They’re gonna make my bones prematurely creak,
they’re gonna make my hair turn starlight,
they’re gonna make my voice all gravelly just trying to match their song.

And holy hell, they’re gonna scare the shit out of us.
We’re gonna look at them in tantrums
and first puberty and second and third and fourth puberties—
perpetual adolescents, who take after us, by the way,
with the added worry of global climate crisis,
super drugs, and the permanence of social media, to boot.
We’ll be saying,
read that again before you press that button?
Who did you say you were sending that photo to?

Kids these days.
They’re gonna blow me away.
I’m already excited for impossible futures,
horizons I can’t quite taste,
and they’re gonna run up to me and show me that it’s all right here,
they’re gonna show me, if only I listen,
shrug this chip off my shoulder,
let them bust open these seams
widen the curtains enough for them to beam.

It all becomes possible, these seedlings of dandelion resilience.
My, my, if the future is trans— it looks awfully grand.