Member-only story
I am at a concert standing among a crowded sea of bodies. I am tall, thin, and white, and testosterone ensures that I am read as a man. I am not a man; I am a non-binary transfeminine person who keeps their femininity a secret for protection from those who I have begun to refer to as “the mens.” The concert has just begun and I am excited to be seeing one of my favorite bands perform.
I feel two hands clasp my shoulders; I lighten in anticipation of their intentions, and am moved effortlessly by the hands out of the eyesight of their owner — a tall, thin, and muscular white man. My submission then registers as acquiescence with domination; I feel the initial sour tastes of anger, and as I turn back toward the man I notice that he is gone.
I enjoy the next few minutes before receiving a tap on the shoulder from a stocky white man who frowns and points sharply toward the stage to let me know I am obstructing his view. My energy shifts significantly and I say, “Oh… okay,” with a fierceness that pierces the veil of decency that was allegedly hanging between us. I feel his anger rising in parallel with my own; I grab the crystals I keep in my pocket to help ground me into the earth and affect boundaries between our energies, but feel anger burning infernos within and between us. Sweat is falling down my face — it is very hot among these bodies, I am wearing too much clothing, and I am dueling energetically with white masculinity. My heart is pounding; I try to lose myself in the music, but am not successful. I notice my…
