I’ve been at the door for twenty years, a “nice young man” who welcomes all home. Nightclubs, street front stoops, lit by the glow of marquees, sound booths, and stairs/stares, all familiar to me. Basking in the sun’s glow, in the smallest square mile footage LGBTQ peninsula where all come to play, watching. Keeping folks safe and mentally keeping myself autonomous from the apparent confusion my presence brings. Drag queens are more identifiable. Labeled daily by strangers and friends alike, I fit in as a part of this community's misfit woven cloth, shamelessly flaunting my freak flag for all to see. I had a friend share with me recently that they had described me in conversation as being an “80’s styled BMX/skater boy, but a lesbian.” Co-workers have dubbed me “BDE,” big dick energy, the Badge Bish, while I crack a little inside at the thought of how I even got here, how little people know. 

Labels are for suckers, I tell myself, as my amusement from what people think and actually know stirs within my overactive mind. A pink robe and health insurance reassured me of my born lady status. A fearless attitude and drive added more fuel to my tomboy arsenal of just being me. I stand outside the dispensary, hat tilted and half-cocked smile, overseeing Commercial Street’s charms, my 5’5” frame, holds 135 pounds of built-up emotion, pride, ego, and self-worth. “ ID please,” I request, matched with yet another “sir,” another “brother”, another “hey man.” 365 days a year, I am stickered with “sir,” and I have had to just let it go… because labels are for suckers. 

Curls recently replace the shaved head I’ve known since my twenties, where I hid behind a microphone, lust-filled nights, and bad choices, solidifying my lesbian stamp on myself. I reminisce on the club nights, raging bass-filled time warps wrapped in cocktails, drugs, and reckless abandonment of consequence. I wonder how I got here. Forty-three years young, Spring 2021, and I drop my board down, ready to take on Bradford hill, my zen from the day’s peopling. Trucks are tight, wheels in check, no traffic in front or behind me, except a bus roaring uphill filled with seasonal staffers, tourists, and seasoned locals watching my fearless dyke ass in my stained Vans make the concrete hill mine. I push off, my heart is racing, wheels go round and the roar of the friction on pavement churns a beat so familiar and welcomed. I cruise down, flying by the backside of Town Hall, rounding the corner onto Ryder, back into the seasonal roar of Summer. “Did you see that guy go down the hill?!” That “guy” is me, the Berkshire breed tomboy, lady-loving queer. 

It’s been two years since my beacons of femininity went (like where did they put my boobs? hmm…) and my flat-chested life remained. Three more years until remission is mine to claim, three. A solo act, a lone wolf navigating the new me and my town, Commercial St., 02657, Provincetown. A tiny beachside oasis with a lion’s heart and more “hello my name is” than I can even dissect here. Well hello Summer of 2021, game on. In April 2020 I walked into my last infusion, at Covid’s start, betraying my body for the final time, and my body betrayed me again when I walked out after ringing the bell, solo. My relationship with myself and my ex-partner had simultaneously died. I was unrecognizable to myself, I had neuropathy and I just wanted to skate, live and be the old version of myself, the familiar version. The new scarred version of me was driving the hour-plus timeline home to the outermost reaches of the Cape giving way to new perspectives and a skewed sense of self. Am I trans by way of breast cancer? Will I be valued as a sexual partner ever again? Who will love my cats? Will I survive? Yes, yes I will. Will I survive the constant misgendering? Yes, yes, I will. 

I claim every fucking syllable that rolls off the public’s tongue. “Sir, young man, him, he,” I roll with it, like a joint made with premium hash and a touch of sass. Letting it sink into my skin like an essential oil, leaving me amused at my own ability to disguise, and my own ability to reflect on the ignorance of it all. I sip slowly off the j that’s just floated my way, by a human who identifies as a female, straight, and currently my lover. We joke about how many times a day I am “sirred,” and I joke in return about how “straight’ she is, labels are everywhere. They stick to us like name tags: Hello my name is:_______. 

The laughter shared fuels my zest to examine the human mind’s visceral reaction to doling out pronouns. As I undress to shower for dinner with said lady, I catch a glimpse of the scar running from armpit to armpit across my chest. No nipples, just a flat land of geography that used to have a valley and peaks, now a sweaty plain, a reminder of where I have been. I drift back in my head to all the infusions, the bald body that housed my deteriorating mind, stamina, and will at moments to keep going. The physical agony, the knock on death's door and me kicking it shut refusing to give up. I snap out of it, I have a moment of guilt that I’m one of the lucky ones. I wonder what my current lover sees now, as I move with what I presume to be the grace of a wild boar, raptured by human physical response and sheer terror that I’m going to blow it. BDE, really? This new form of body is still introducing itself daily to me and others, it’s a mindfuck at best. I survived, I remind myself, I keep saying out loud: I AM HERE. 

A human being. My career as a Sir on the stoop has my bank account allowing for life’s simple pleasures, like health insurance. The card tucked neatly in my wallet, a reminder of privilege, a reminder of resilience. I am grateful to live in an accessible healthcare state while recognizing the need to ensure equal compassionate care to all humans regardless of how they identify. Some of us are two-spirited souls, but that’s a different piece. So ‘Sir’ it is, trans by cancer, apparently it will require more teachable moments to sway folks. Meanwhile, I will continue to extend warm welcomes, skate, draw and love in this tiny seaside oasis, wrapped up in this boyish body kicking cancer's ass. I’m still here. You get one dash in this life to carpe diem the ish out of, savor each moment, and shake off labels. Stick to your guts and bear your soul, because in this town, soul is what we’ve got. Labels are the hill, and I shred them daily. I encourage you to do the same.“Sir, it’s on the bottom left,” their date of birth, I stand silent as I am overjoyed: I AM STILL HERE. I am still fucking here.

“On this day, June 19, 1865, two and a half years after the Emancipation Proclamation was signed, some 250,000 slaves in Galveston, Texas, did not know they had their freedom until Union soldiers came to the city and told them so.  Juneteenth is the celebration of the completion of the 1863 proclamation freeing all enslaved peoples in the United States.

Join us, a grand coalition of Black/African Americans, Jamaican/Jamaican-Americans, Indigenous Persons, People of Color, young leaders from the Provincetown IB School, allied community members, organizers, and leaders for a celebration of resilient honesty.”  -Juneteenth Coordination Committee ‘23

These two small paragraphs culminate hundreds of hours of group Zoom calls, one-on-one meetings with community leaders, conversations with educators and students, and working out the logistics of something that would set a precedent for the following years.  Before 2021, Juneteenth and Provincetown rarely, if ever, existed in the same sentence. Still, a band of engaged humans has joined forces to create something quite beautiful and important for our little town.  

After the summer of George Floyd, a group of like-minded action-takers from Gays Against Guns (GAG) & the Provincetown League of Visionary Revolutionaries (PLOVR) found themselves all living at the same residence and having conversations around race & equity.  And because all of our worlds are connected, Aaron Clayton, Jaimie de Sousa, and Trevor Pittinger got an introduction to Tomik Dash, creator of the Black and Brown Equity Coalition (BaBEC) on Fire Island. Next, Chris Hartley of Provincetown Brewing Co,  joined the group, and talks soon led to a joint action of Fire Island and Ptown “sistering up in celebrating Juneteenth, diversity, true equity, and inclusion in our queer spaces”-AC.  

With a goal in place, the team quickly started to recruit. First, a handful came from PLOVR. Elspeth Slayter explains, “We had been working on getting the DEI officer in town… it was a natural progression”. Then, as more names came up, they were called, emailed, and tapped on the shoulder, including Pastor Brenda of the Unitarian Universalist (UU) church and Racial Justice Provincetown. It must be mentioned that in the beginning, there was trepidation amongst some with the idea of a Juneteenth celebration being pitched “by a couple of white boys,”… but putting in the time, building bridges, and really doing the work was visible to us onlookers and the doubts quickly vanished.  An assembly of intelligent, compassionate, honest people for change had started to take shape, and I had no choice but to join the collective.

Our early meetings held a lot of space for us to get to know each other and tell stories about why we were there.  There were moments of solemn silence, belly laughter, red-faced frustration, and tears of joy and grief. Building these intimate relationships was paramount to us being able to move forward with the arduous task of organizing an event about race in Provincetown.  We had logistical agendas to get to, but everyone who had something to say had the floor, and I can't remember a single story being cut short for time.  As a BIPOC, to be given space to be seen and heard with regard to a production in Ptown was (and still is) such a rare thing.  

This also meant our decisions had intention and would often require people to do personal research and then return to the topic at the next meeting. For example, landing on flying the Pan-African flag took three meetings of back-and-forth conversations about our audience, message, and goals. There was also no shortage of guests being asked to join us and give insight on our progress and direction. This process is about “the willingness to expose yourself and make yourself vulnerable… it’s all about learning, sharing and trusting”- Ngina Lythcott.  

It’s June 19, 2021, and a beautiful morning at the Pilgrim Monument. Our day starts with a land acknowledgment by Steven Peters of the Wampanoag tribe and several speakers, including Pastor Brenda Haywood, our own Donna Walker, Lamb Rahming of Men of Melanin Magic, and 5th-grade students Nath’allia, Shakira, and Georgina of Provincetown Schools.  The ceremony went off beautifully and was capped with the Pan-African flag being raised to the sound of Qya Cristál singing “I Know Where I’ve Been” from the musical Hairspray. Then, after a moment of silence, the African drummers began the heartbeat and made their way down to Commercial Street with about 200 people in tow.  The march paused at different points of historical landmarks of Black life in Provincetown and dispersed at the West End Lot.  Trusting the process and many hands lifting each other up got us through our first successful event, and we instantly knew we wanted and needed to grow. 

The following year the first email went out in April to twenty-seven people to begin the process again.  Our first meetings covered standard life updates with a core group of about 7 or 8 people, and soon we were analyzing the previous year and how to better our efforts. Many of our talks were about enhancing the sense of community and creating a space for conversations. Many of us would regale over stories of potlucks from our youth, family park cookouts, food carts during festivals, and how we learned about our community over breaking bread.  Before we knew it, the UU had offered up their front lawn, and almost every business we asked to participate in some way said yes. We had signs, chairs, tents, stages, a sound system, tons of food, and volunteers. The ceremony included speeches, readings, and performances by Pastor David Brown, Ngina Lythcott, Senator Julian Cyr, Donna Walker, Qya Cristál, Aaron Clayton, Ephen Glenn, students from the Provincetown IB School, and more.  The people who came out to join us that Sunday afternoon were from different socioeconomic, cultural, and ethnic backgrounds, but they all shared the desire to make our beloved Ptown a better place for all.  Much like some of our first meetings, there were moments of solemn silence, belly laughter, red-faced frustration, and tears of joy and grief.  We also took donations to pay for all the entertainers who gave everything they had during our time together and made to-go containers available for all who wanted some extra food to take home. 

It’s now 2023, and our first email went out in February to twenty people. Our core group goes between 8 and 10 people these days. We’re excited to grow and build on the work we’ve done. We’re back at the UU lawn and are adding more entertainment and engagement opportunities for our guests to learn and share with Myra Kooy and William “Mohoganny” Whitaker. Our talks have also expanded past a singular event and have made space for topics of greater change and needs in town.  So much of what I've learned over the past couple of years working with this group is the patience and compassion of listening and the personal agency required to make a change. Thank you, Juneteenth Coordination Committee, for existing when I needed you most.

See this article and more in in Volume 2 Issue 1 of Fag Rag Provincetown.