Homeless, Part II

I’m back at my cousin’s place up in Laurel Canyon. Across the uneven street stands a castle painted baby blue and pink. In LA, where architectural epoch vacillates from house to house — around the corner, a 1980s coke den and a Dwell magazine farmhouse sandwich a Storybook cottage — you don’t see too many castles.

This one features fake flags flapping in the imaginary wind and a turret. On the turret is an insignia bearing an ‘M’ for Morgan, as in the Flying Morgans, a family of circus performers. Mr. Morgan, the petite, adorable patriarch, and I met one sunny afternoon. (All the afternoons in Los Angeles are sunny.) He wore a suit in the castle color palette. Once I told him my name, he sang a song I’m guessing is called ‘Amy,’ and he sang it nearly all the way through. I smiled, but he could tell I had no idea what it was. “You definitely know this one.” Then he sang ‘Amie’ by the Pure Prairie League. He was right; plus, the spelling is right, which I, former bee champion, can appreciate.

From the outside, it appears the Flying Morgans’ castle is past its heyday. A training trampoline leans down the hill, next to the trunk of a dead sycamore that probably used to shade it. A vintage Ford van sits on blocks; I wonder how long it has been there.

Still, for the Flying Morgans, this is home.

I left here a month ago. Since then I’ve slept in a dozen-or-so beds. Or so. I can’t be tied down. Or I’m dangerously untethered. Hard to say.

All I know is I don’t have a home.

I’m getting closer. I’m eliminating places where I’m not supposed to be. Long Beach is cute but sleepy. San Francisco has pockets of deep acceptance and way too much self-congratulations. Plus, some people there just aren’t friendly. The latest location crossed off my very short list of cities I hope are trans friendly: Oakland, San Francisco’s chill cousin. She doesn’t seem to want me.

I applied for a bedroom at the Wooden Spoon, a collective living house near Lake Merritt and the 101, for a second time. I first interviewed back in January but pulled my name out of the running because I was concerned about the move-in and my recovery from facial feminization surgery. You know how that shook out. I re-applied in May, and was gracefully advanced to the final round, the “Dinnerview.” I wasn’t nervous. I’ll be my funny, honest self, I thought, and that will be enough.

Wrong, sweetie.

I was funny, and I was honest, and I missed the cut.

Missing the cut hurts, in particular, because there were three applicants for two rooms. With this rejection, by the way, I was offered a four-week sublease. Well, let me tell you, this bitch is no fan of being an also-ran. It took a week for them to tell me ‘no.’ I said ‘no’ to their sublease within a minute.

It reminds me of my college admissions. I got into my prestigious university — would they take it back if they could? — and was wait-listed at Harvard, Brown, and Northwestern. The Northwestern one hurt. I had stats that exceeded those of my ten classmates who’d gotten in. But I didn’t get in, and boy was I pissed.

When you’re wait-listed, you get a little postcard asking if you would like to be added to the waitlist. If you check ‘no,’ you fill in the college you’ll be attending. I ticked the ‘no’ box and added “[my prestigious university], Dartmouth, Williams, or any of the other fine institutions that accepted me!”

That showed ‘em.

We settled in for the night in Battle Mountain. (‘We’ is me and Corey. More on Corey in another chapter — for now, she’s my sister.)

We chose Battle Mountain because it was where our rental car—“Lola the Corolla”—would run out of gas on the way to Vegas. But I also kinda chose Battle Mountain for the name.

The town sounded rough. It was. The gas station featured plexiglass that predated Covid. A lot lizard — a young, implausibly skinny Latino man in jeans poured onto him leered at me. I could not tell if he was flirting with or threatening me.

We bought popcorn and red wine for dinner.

The hotel had a name like Town Estate Suites. I was not fooled.

The lady behind the desk had a ten year old kid; he and I chatted. I made him feel like a useful contributor, because he was, and because that’s what I do.

Later we realized that the room did not come with a corkscrew. This room didn’t come with a Bible, so I don’t know what I was expecting. I went to the front desk. Soon, three different women were working on opening the bottle with a fat screw and a pair of pliers.

The whole time they called me “she.”

They called in a heavy hitter — the hotel handyman, the husband of one of them. He may work with his hands and wear dusty work clothes but oh boy was he trans. I know I’m biased. But I know what I saw.

He thought about the situation. “Hang on a minute.” Three minutes later, he came back with what I now call the Battle Mountain Corkscrew — a woodscrew with a hole in its head and a long nail as a lever and a handle.

I keep it in my purse.

The next morning, headed to Vegas for Viva WildSide, a trans girl fucking party, erm, conference, I slipped into a cute skirt. This is not a move I had made in the past — wearing something uber-femme this early in the morning. We were also in Battle Mountain, so it was a bit of a risk, I thought.

I ran out to the car to grab something. It was 7:15am. On my way back in, I saw a cis, straight white guy — these conclusions are drawn from appearance only — headed out the door at the exact same moment I was headed in it. I deferred to let him pass — it’s easiest to let other people through when you’re trying to avoid confrontation.

He popped the door open and called to me.

“Get in here, girl! It’s cold outside!”

He held the door open as I entered.

Home is where you are accepted.

I had a nuclear family that accepted me. But they didn’t know me. I am queer, strange, sensitive, slutty and funny, in a combination that’s hard to appreciate.

My mom got me more than anyone — she’s funny, sensitive, and macabre. When I came out as gay back in the day, she said, “is there anything else you want to tell me?” I said no. I should have said, “I’m trans, but I won’t tell you for another 20 years.” Did she know?

My brother treated me like a hero. I feel like I didn’t deserve it.

My sister mocked my eccentricities. She makes fun of me, still, for creating a spreadsheet to denote my outfits while I was in junior high — if she screams “BLUE-YELLOW-BLUE!,” she’s making fun of my tube socks from 1991.

My dad has Catholic compassion, which means that he accepts me nearly no matter what. If what you did is unusual but not sinful, he will accept and embrace you. If you embarrass him, he will shame you. If you break one of the Ten Commandments, you will not receive his support.

Matt, my husband, got all of me except the slutty part and some of the queer part. We tried, early in our relationship, for me to be a woman during sex. It almost ended our relationship. Beyond that major gap, Matt loved my strangeness. That was a gift.

As I’ve transitioned, my strange and weird self has reemerged. You might say I’ve gotten weirder, but I haven’t — I just don’t hide that part of me anymore.

A trick: the weirder you are, the harder it is to find friends.

(Finding lovers is easy: you wear makeup and you shut your mouth.)

Friends are tough. I’ve met hundreds of people since I left Matt. I’ve tried them all on as friends. Most don’t get me. Some have tried. Many have left.

A paradox: because I don’t have friends, I don’t feel accepted, and when I don’t feel accepted, there is no home.

Fine, I have friends. I have old friends whose love runs like the Colorado River through the desert. I have newer friendships, younger rivers, with Evelyn, Corey, and Hans. Wild creeks spill through the forest with people like Mia, Julie, Maci, Luke, Krystin, and Gia. Established rivers have run dry, victims of climate change, perhaps. Like with Demi.

Then there’s Kaylin, my cousin. She’s fun, fast, and loose like me — though no one I know is quite as fast and loose as me. And she’s wise — wild living and learning from her mistakes make her the wisest 25-year-old I’ve known.

We’re looking at a house together in Las Vegas on Sunday.

We’ll meet with Uncle Jack, our realtor, whom I met over the phone. We’ll see the place. And we’ll decide if we can make a home together.