A Passing Fancy

On a date, two people tread carefully on precarious ground. One misstep and a potential lover will slip through the cracks, plunging into an icy death… or… at least a wasted night.

“Don’t be so dramatic,” she says to me through black lipstick to match her hair.

She hates to admit it, but it’s impossible not to notice her. Gray crop top over slender shoulders and arms winding down an impossibly feminine frame. Appetizers sink gracefully through her body like sand dripping down an hourglass. The slight skin that shows is perfectly pale. Everything about her is impossibly fair.

The pressure of the moment gets to me. Slouching, sweating, bulky in my chair. But her… She sits with her jean-clad legs glued together, prim and proper, her feet impossibly snug in brown Ugg boots. She just doesn’t have a care.

Impossible, I think to myself, how she works it all without even trying.

“Sorry,” I say to her, a piece of food falling from my mouth. “I’m just worried that I’ll mess this up somehow.”

“I’ve known you for months now, Jenna. It’s too late to turn me off.” She smiles, accentuating her carved, v-shaped chin and towering cheekbones. “I’m really glad you finally asked me out.”

I feel like a fraud here. She’s so comfortable with herself. Why do I have to think about every movement, every face and the sounds I make? What if she sees past it? Isn’t that the goal?

“Although,” she starts, “I am a little surprised.”

Here it comes. Elephant in the room.

“I never would have guessed…”

I tense up, recoiling inside.

“I mean, I just thought you were definitely straight.”

A cloud of CO2 escapes my body. She doesn’t notice. It must have gone out my ears.

“I’m a mysterious girl,” I respond. Stupid. So stupid. I wish I were a mystery; that would be easier to understand. But if I don’t know what I am, maybe she can show me. I deserve to know.

“You certainly are,” she says, laughing. “So tell me, how do I open you up?”

I blush. There was a time when I felt perpetually broken. I was exposed. Everyone could see the deepest darkest parts of me. Everyone could see me but me. Everyone could judge but me.

“I think you already know the most important parts of me.”

She ponders as the waiter refills our glasses. I chose water. She was confident enough for wine. Now she’s confident enough to leave her modest black mark on the glass. She could do that: be here, exist out in the open, show the world her colors. Colors… She’s a rainbow if she’s one.

I see the way the waiter looks at her—enthralled if only for a split-second. The woman who works for her castle glows differently than her who marries a king, but when it comes to beauty, those who attain it will forever envy those who are born into it. Notice the role of imposter in both scenarios.

The waiter overflows her Cabernet. A dot or two splashes onto her Louis Vuitton purse. He backs away in a panic, smashing his elbow into my head, practically knocking out a hair extension. I let out a deep, unseemly grunt. He fumbles a flurry of apologies—all for her. She insists it’s not a problem while buffing out the stains. He thanks her for her patience and hurries off. It’s his first day on the job, he explains. He’s new to it all. We just had to understand. Live and let live.

“So have you ever been with a woman before?” she suddenly asks.

I choke on my water a bit. “Yeah, actually. But not like this…”

She beams again like she’s so apt to do. Like it’s natural for her.

“Same,” she slyly responds.

Does she already know? It must be so obvious…

Silence befalls us again soon. A couple strenuous words here and there. We get our main courses and the dinner carries on awkwardly. Insecurity abounds me, swirling around me.

“You’re a tough nut to crack,” she says.

“Just nervous,” I reply.

I stare at her deeply. I have to do something. I have to tell her.

“Hey,” I say, “will you let me take you somewhere?”

“That’s a very vague question, silly girl.”

“I want to show you something that means a lot to me. I want you to understand me.”

She takes a long sip of her wine. Remnants glisten around her lips and mouth, mixing red with black and white. She has her fangs sunk into me without even knowing it.

I pay. She handles the tip. We grab our coats and head for the door.

◑

A blizzard belts my clunker of a car. When the snow melts, it will take the botched paint job with it and reveal the rust below.

She doesn’t mind. Or she doesn’t know…

She has to know.

You can’t let it go on for too long. You’ve got to be honest.

I pull over to the side of the road and shut off the engine.

“You know we can go back to my place if you wanna make out?” she says.

For once, it’s me who smiles. I open my door.

“Woah,” she says. “No way. No sir-ee. I’m not going out there. It’s cold enough in here, thank you very much.”

I get out and wait for her. She’ll come. She has to. I walk forward on my own. All alone.

When I reach the frozen pond, when I feel the sweeping frost blow up from the ice, a hand lands on my back.

“You better make this quick,” she says, already out of breath.

And then…

...I stroll out onto the ice, moving like a figure without her skates. I feel the open air. It’s not so cold.

“Hey!” she yells. “Careful!”

“Come on!” I yell back whimsically, twirling around, my frilly pink dress spinning under my overcoat.

“That's dangerous!”

Goosebumps travel up my bare legs.

“Life is dangerous!”

I float back and pull her out with me. She struggles but ultimately gives in.

“This is how people become icicles!”

“This is how people become free.”

I scoop her tiny frame up into my arms. She lets out a gasp, surprised at my strength. Despite her pleas, I carry her out to the middle of the pond.

“I’d say put me down, but that’s really the opposite of what I want.”

I playfully stomp on the ice. She covers her eyes and hides her soft little head.

“Don’t worry,” I whisper, “it’s thick.”

“Is this what you wanted to show me?” she cries. “We could’ve admired the pond from the shore! Or come in the summer!”

“I needed to do this now.” I look her in the eyes. “I need to do this here.”

“Okay,” she says with dilated pupils.

I’m alerted to my face freezing over, trapping pounds of makeup and mascara. My lips quiver and my tongue becomes stiff.

My hesitation enables her own; she looks down and swears the ice is cracking. A tearing in the tiny tundra. Except below there is no soil, only paralysis and oblivion. So fragile, the things that hold us up.

“Jenna! Let’s go!”

“Wait,” I blurt out. “Please. Wait.”

“Jenna, we have to—”

“I’m trans. I’m—”

“Jenna…” she starts, index finger placed on my bright red lips.

Now it’s me who has to wait. I hold back tears—they would only add to the chilling numb. Time felt long and communication slow. A lifetime of pause was no match for the pain of this moment. This is fear and fear does not obey our laws.

“Jenna…”

This is it. Goodbye.

“I know.”

She giggles.

I’m taken aback.

“You told me that weeks after we met, silly girl.”

Instead of calming, my heart rate only picks up.

“Can you put me down now?” she asks. “Or carry me back to the car—your choice.”

I put her down. She sees more fractures in the ice.

“That’s definitely not thick!”

I bring her attention back up to me:

“I didn’t mean transgender.”

“What?” She looks puzzled.

“I know you already knew that. I’m talking about something else.”

“I don’t understand,” she says, really wanting to get off the ice.

“I know.”

“Well, you can tell me anything. As long as you make it quick.” She laughs nervously.

I tilt her chin up from the ice. “I’m transracial.”

My stomach sinks as I speak it. Those dreaded words. Words that test everyone who hears them. Powerful words which evoke such prejudice and hate.

She becomes quiet. All too quiet.

“What?” she finally asks.

“My biological background is Caucasian, but my racial identity is black.”

Now the tears do fall—too many to stop.

She tries to speak but fails.

“But… You can’t just… You’re not…”

I let out a deflated sigh. Hope exits in a silvery mist.

“That’s impossible,” she says, completely forgetting about the ice beneath her feet. “You can’t just identify with a group so wrought with historical pain and trauma and abuse!”

I hear it in her voice. They always jump to anger so quickly. If only they were as tolerant as they claim. If only their progressive ideal wasn’t so tainted by the present.

“It’s who I am,” I proudly assert, trying to keep my chin raised.

“No! You’re white!”

She gets it all out. Everything. Every argument from gender being different from race to history and struggle and trauma and… and…

“Stop,” I say. “I’ve heard it all. My whole life, I've been praised for one change in identity and chastised for another. Well guess what? I’m a goddamn woman! And, I’m a goddamn black woman! It doesn’t matter what you think I am because you don’t have to live my reality!”

Now she is taken aback. Stunned.

“When I take on the trauma of womanhood, you and every other logical, empathetic human being applaud me! But when I come to terms with my race—not my physical color, but my true race—you want to attack me!”

My tears stream. Through it all, I see a change in her expression.

“Guess what?” I continued. “Trans women are real women, and trans Africans are real Africans!”

She takes a moment to consider, looking down—this time not at the ice. Perhaps she ponders history and considers the future—which side is she on? How many misunderstood, perceived lunatics vying for attention stood where I stand now, desperately explaining their very right to exist as their most real self?

My legs become weak. “I’m not hurting anyone!” I fall to the ice, cracking it further without noticing, voice trembling, head in my hands. “I’m not hurting anyone…”

I stay there without looking up, expecting her to be gone when I do. But after a while, I feel hot breath and hands on my shoulders.

Now she tilts my chin up. She smiles, then weeps. We embrace, and I hold her in my African-American arms.

“I just have one question,” she says, wiping her eyes.

I look at her.

“Why did you have to tell me this on a frozen pond?”

My eyes drift down and hers follow. The ice is clearly breaking, but for now it holds.

“I wanted you to experience the weight. I needed to show you what it’s like.”

She pauses, then…

“I think I understand. It’s just tough to navigate it all. But… I want to figure it out with you.”

Her warm smile brings me peace. Her incandescent beam restores hope.

“So,” I ask, “how does it feel to be on thin ice?”

●