By Robin D. Goldstein
"Can I help you, Ladies". He didn't know. He didn't know that "we" were"them". He didn't know that this was not a mother/daughter team. Hedidn't know that two of us shared a certain kind of genetic material, andit wasn't Minnie Bruce and I. He didn't know what he was afraid of. Andhe didn't know that he was staring into the smiling eyes of his great fear. The Great White Dope. He didn't know. He didn't know. So we smiled andlaughed and made smalltalk with him and bought the sunglasses and left andI HOPE I made it to the local nightly news and I HOPE the pharmacistrecognized me (though with my hair it's hard to imagine that he wouldforget me) and I HOPE he thinks about how he didn't know "we" were "them"for the rest of his life. I hope he's never completely sure again and Ihope that eventually he gets tired of trying to figure it out. Becauseit's just not that interesting a question. Who's an "us" and who's a"them". It was an intervention. A gender intervention. A twelve-stepprogram to heal the mind.
"Hi. My name is Earl and I can't tell what's male and what's female."
"Hi Earl"
We made our way around to the front of the courthouse to join the others. We had arrived after the initial wave, and after groups of people who hadnot traveled with us. Even longer lost family. Our local kin and cousins. They were already in front of the courthouse, on the lawn, on the stairs,on the sidewalk, talking and laughing (yes, laughing once again) and justbeing present. God, there sure were a lot of them. Of us. It looked like30 people or so were already milling around, talking with each other,talking with the police and the sheriff's deputies, talking with the media.
The Transexual Menace, Riki Anne Wilchins non-group of people who weremostly from the East Coast and mostly from New York and mostly in-your-facebecause even the acknowledgment of binary nature of gender was repressive. Saying male implied not-male implied something missing from being maleimplied something missing implied not quite as good. The shirts and thejackets of the Transexual Menace. A black shirt with the word Transexualwritten in clear large white letters and the word Menace written in bloodred horror-type. A motorcycle gang gone bad. Real bad. I had bought ashirt from Riki, but I was a tourist. It was like buying a Lettermanshirt. Or one that said 'Property of the New York Yankees'. I bought one. But I didn't have the balls to wear it. Not in public. And besides, Itold myself, I was there to play 'lawyer' in my lawyer drag, my 'If itPlease the Court' belted black dress. I might need to bail someone out ifthere was a conflict. I couldn't wear my shirt in public, I told myself.
Yes, again someone's expectations ofwhat a transsexual, a transgender, a lesbian, a gay, a bisexual, a genderoutlaw had been laid to waste. The outsider didn't fit the profile. And Itold him that the reason I was here... The reason I came. Why had I come? Why was I there? I told him the reason I had come was that I was livingin California, in warm, bright, sunny California, where my friends loved meand my family loved and my clients loved me and the people in my town andthe next town and the next town loved me. And maybe some of them didn'tlove me. And maybe some of them didn't understand me. And maybe some ofthem didn't respect me for what I had done, for the choice I had made tolive my life the way that I had chosen. But none of them would havethought it would have been alright to kill me for being me.
It was 1995 and I never imagined on my worst day that anyone would think it was alrightto kill me for the choices I had made. But I read about Brandon Teena (andnever, ever again Teena Brandon), and I was frightened. Frightened thathere in Nebraska, in the wrong place, at the wrong time, someone... maybemore than one... would think it WAS ok to kill me. So I had to go see whatthis place looked like. And to let this place and this hateful energy seewhat I looked like. Get a real, clear picture. Make sure you don't leaveout the hair. So that this place and I would remember each other forever.
And so that I would remember Brandon Teena for ever. I came to remember. I came to prevent others from ever forgetting.
And the reporter said, "But do you think that Teena Brandon..."
I froze. I had seen the same words in the newspaper that morning at thebreakfast place in Kansas under an AP byline. And I said to the reporter,"it's Brandon Teena". And the reporter said, "well, yes, I guess, but inthe courthouse they're saying Teena Brandon". And I asked if he was thesame person who had written the AP dispatch and he said yes. And I askedwhy he said Teena Brandon and he said that it was an editorial decision. And I said that was the same as saying the murder was an editorialdecision. A decision to alter reality. A decision to dishonor the personthey were writing about in death for the same reason they had been murderedin life. And the reporter looked pained and a bit confused. He didn'tunderstand why it mattered. He didn't understand. And his editor didn'tunderstand what this was all about. Why we had come. Why we were here.
And others took over, there were plenty of folks ready to take up thediscussion with the reporter, and I walked away from the crowd and into thecourthouse and through the metal detectors and officers and into thecourtroom. I wanted to see the trial. I wanted to see the murderer. And Ithink I wanted the murderer to see me.
There was a bit of pre-trial scrapping and eventually the jury was broughtin, 10 women and 2 men. One woman of color, as best as I can tell. Andthey didn't look like they were from New York. And they didn't look likethey were from California. And a thought flashed through my mind that afew of the women weren't passing. I giggled.
And in the first hour and a half they moved through the opening statements from both sides, and thefirst four witnesses. This was not going to be a long trial. And the first three witnesses were the mothers of the dead people. Three children, dead. And the pain was so heavy that at one point I thought I would haveto leave the courtroom. But I didn't. Because the prosecutor was referringto Brandon as Teena and she. And the defense was referring to Brandon asTeena and she. And Brandon's mother was referring to Brandon as her 'mixedup daughter with an identity problem'. And now I really had something tocry about.
Because as an attorney I understand that the prosecutor wants awin and in Nebraska the rape and subsequent murder of a woman makes moresense than the rape of a man? By a man? I think the DA thought it was justtoo complicated to explain and it wasn't really important to the case. Butit was important. It is important. But there was no Brandon Teena in thecourtroom that day. Not as far as the prosecution was concerned. And notas far as the defense was concerned. And not as far as his mother wasconcerned. And not as far as the jury was concerned. And at that point Ihad a second inkling of why we had come. We had come, to sit outside thecourtroom. To sit inside the courtroom. To be visible. To be present. To be the living embodiment and memory of Brandon Teena and god rest hissoul, never ever again Teena Brandon.
And I told my family of what had happened inside. And we told each otherthat this was the reason we had come. And we tried to take comfort fromeach other. Those of us who had been inside shared with those who had beenstanding in the sun. And those who had been taunted by passing cars feltbetter when they remembered that we would taunt them even worse. And wetalked to some locals who wanted us to go back to where we came from. Andwe explained that we came from here. That one of us had lived in thistown. And had been killed here. And it started to get late. And peoplehad planes to catch and jobs to return to. And some of us had stories towrite.
So we said goodbye and we hugged each other and we held hands,about 40 of us, in front of the courthouse, in Falls River, Nebraska, and wespoke what was in our hearts and we spoke what we had learned. And wespoke that we now knew, with crystal clarity, or at least with an inklingof insight, why we were here. And as we walked back to the car, Lesliesaid to me, how long have we been here? And I said that we had been inKansas City and Nebraska for 48 hours. And Leslie said to me, "I feel likeI've known you for years." And I understood that she had and that shewould and that each of us who had been touched and each of us who had beenmoved and each of us who had come not knowing why now knew why. Knowledgeis power. And strength. And each of us who had come now had the knowledgethat we were known, would always be known, and that we would never bewithout our family again. Amen.