At Mama's House for Christmas

written by 12:41

12/25/24 6:23PM

I am hiding in my room from white people. It is Christmas, and I forgot that my gender is drag. This morning was so lovely, and tender. A family mending wounds together, creating new traditions and honoring our loss as we relish in the gift that is family.

I can see the headlines now:

A truly Midwestern American Wet Dream. Trans joy can exist, cis parents learn to accept their Trans Child who lives long enough to become a Trans Adult! Young Children and Elders practice using “they” “them” pronouns, with an apology for a slip-up and swift course-correction! Bearded Lady guides the family in the practice of Learning Into Curiosity Without Giving Into Shame! Christmas Miracles Abound, Peace and Love Envelope Planet Earth, and it is Truly A Merry Christmas for All!

This morning truly was tender, and it was surely a blessing that has escaped our family in its most recent years. It is not often we are able to share food together, express our love for one another, emote our shared, unspoken grief over the loss of loved ones, loss of our collective health, the loss of simplicity.

I return home and I am made simple again. Some things still remain, as others fall away. I have and always will be my mother’s daughter (even with the beard). I return to being silent, to knowing a nameless pain that renders me immobile. I remember that whatever identities I hold can mold and shift through time; be it trauma “survivor”, be it survivor of the psychiatric carceral system, be it neurodivergent, be it disabled mentally, physically, spiritually, be it hypersensitive, be it snowflake tenderqueer, be it republican’s ideal target practice, be it tranny chaser’s wet dream, be it scrub, be it top, be it bottom, be it switch, be it femme pillow princess, be it cam model, be it convenient hole to fill, be it drug addict, be it self harm addict, be it disappointment, be it shadow, be it leftovers, be it make believe, be it inhuman.

Holding a form is fucking exhausting.

If I try to remember who I am, and take up space, is it okay if I remember myself as human? Am I allowed to be simply person, simply alive, simply breathing, simply enjoying, simply learning? Do I have to remain something static, easy to hit and project upon?

The more words I add to myself, the less human I seem to appear to some folks. Words describing my life and my self are a mystical spell, revealing my supernatural nature. As I add words to a space, the realization dawns on me that the look in your eyes is one of recognition. The moment when your eyes glaze over as a protective encasing to sturdy yourself against that which you see as Other.

Your perception of me is between you and your god. I recognize I have nothing to do with it.

I, personally, identify as a bitch. A clown. A jester. A fool. A trickster. A reckoning. A menace.

I identify as Omen.

At mama’s house, we respect family, or at least the idea of such. We uphold midwestern niceness with strained smiles, averted eye contact, and noble silence. Politeness over authenticity. The most liberal, millennial family members fill up the room with their overwhelming “acceptance”. West Michigan White Women speak louder, faster, longer, to let the trannies in the room know that, we see you, we hear you, we really want everyone to feel comfortable here at Christmas. We hear you, things are uncomfortable and hard right now, and we really want to work through things. How can we move in a direction that heals us all? How do we save ourselves from the inconvenience of discomfort? Is there any solution at all? Is discomfort something that we should be afraid of? Are you afraid? Do you realize how afraid I am, how much I don’t want to know, how much I want to ignore things and pretend that we are not living in a budget hallmark Dystopian movie? Can I say that I want to enjoy the slow descent into the end of the world as we know it because all that is in my face right now is hyper-consumerism and comfortable enough climate shifts? Can we just be polite and welcome a cop into our home, without making a scene? Would you mind standing silently, averting your gaze when the white men come into the room and acknowledge everyone but you?Would you mind tending to the children, making sure they are quiet and polite and do not disrupt important adult conversation with their incessant need to be heard? Would you mind assisting the help -I mean - your mother and grandmother, as they prepare a grand feast for 13 people for free - free for us - free of labor, free of hardship, free of consideration, so that we can have a merry, White Christmas? Would you mind?

.....

At my mama’s house we look away and pretend we don’t notice the white men and women sitting on the couch, battling each others voices through the din of Christmas movies, tiktok videos, children screaming, adults screaming, - while the Brown women of the house shuffle from room to room/prepping food/salting the meat/worrying the meat will take too long to cook/checking the meat/tending to burns earned from checking the meat/prepping the croc pots/ taking a moment at the altar/moving the altar to make space for the croc pots/plugging in the croc pots/getting the plates from grandma’s house up the street / reaching grandma’s house and realizing even though its only two blocks away, these grandmother’s spines can’t hold the weight of these dishes, of this Christmas feast / so the grandmothers make their way to the basement where they slowly, carefully, shuffle things around the damp room to unearth a 20 year old wagon to carry the dishes and repollo on their journey / and one grandma is about 40 years younger because she’s actually 27 and not a grandmother at all, but a silly granddaughter who identifies as an elder in body and spirit because she, similar to an elder, feels at the end of her time - so she takes the brunt of the load in the bending and the shuffling / and she smells pungent, musky mold / and she wonders how long her grandmother 40 years her senior has been living atop this pile of mold and how often she comes down here and if she is safe if she stays upstairs and oh my god this mold is gonna kill my grandma /and so the younger grandmother resolves to push her spine and steady her strength to make sure that her grandmother doesn’t have to live atop a pile of mold / to ensure that the one home she knew in childhood, the only home the younger elder can see herself in - does not turn into a coffin, a prison / so that the last survivor of the burr oak house is not killed by the house that use to be a home and now feels like a way-station between the living and the dead.

....

We ground. We get the dishes to mama’s house. We smile at each other and brace for impact as we cross the threshold into mama’s house, the epicenter and container for a Merry White Midwestern Christmas. We give our body as a gift, our presence as a gift, as we bubble our souls and our hearts from the things we pretend not to see in the room; the brown women confined to the kitchen, giggling in hushed voices, whispering quips to each other in Spanish so the guests don’t overhear / the white men who have not risen from their chairs to entertain anything other than themselves and their desires / the two little half-white-half-brown girls who flutter between the Women’s Work and the upheaval of toys upon toys upon toys being thrusted

upon them.

At my mama’s house we offer a moment of silence to the only Black Trans Woman in the room. We don’t say anything when she slip outside to steal a cigarette or two, or a joint or two, or a sip of wine or two. We let her rest in peace as she gives herself a moment to melt, to move from Omen to Bitch to Grandmother to Helpful Granddaughter to Polite Hostess to Peace Keeper to Girl Who is Just Happy To Be Around Her Mama and Grandma for Christmas, Even if that Means Serving White Step-Family with a Smile.

At my mama’s house we allow a woman’s identity to be between herself and her god. And we wish her a Merry Christmas.

12:41 is a creator of doodles, poems, and whimsy. She spends her time moseying between Owashtanong and Waawiyatanong.