My son’s black ruffled skirt is shorter than the straight denim one
he usually wears. We’re late for school. Don’t dawdle, I say
as he swings one leg out of the truck and then the other, far unlike
how my grandmother taught me—knees clasped, pivot at the hips,
feet land together, and stand, ladylike. Those were Iowa manners;
this is Eugene, Oregon etiquette, twenty years later. A little copper
cowbell clanks against the glass door of the convenience store
as he rambles in, lanky stride long with steel toe boots and fishnet
knees as far out in front of him as a grasshopper. His delight
in the flounce of his skirt is a grasshopper wishing to skip.
The Maybelline black eyeliner applied like someone not long past
crayons and coloring books is a stealth acquisition from my makeup bag,
returned with a flattened tip which I dedicated to his shaving kit,
grateful we don’t share a similar preference in hosiery. At six feet tall
and narrow in the shoulder and hips he strikes an attractive silhouette,
despite the signature slouch of a 16-year old still frightened
by the violence of the body’s jolt of height that put him suddenly
at eyelevel with teachers, store clerks, and muni passengers. Draped
against a lamppost downtown his accidental elegance betrays him
even without the fake fur coat, his graceful knobby hands flutter
with his story and unconscious laugh. I saw him there one Saturday
evening before we agreed I wouldn’t do this, and crossed the street,
sidled up to his longtime friend from back in the days of Oreos and milk
after school and skateboards carving concrete riverbeds in the driveway,
and I asked this boy in a man body like a lifeguard, like someone
who could protect if need be, you got him? Junior lifeguard assures me
with the unpredictable tenor of a new Adam’s apple, You know I always
got his back, nobody gonna hurt him. As I wait, two fellas in a semi-rusted
Subaru wagon parked beside me eating breakfast chalupas from yellow paper
grease spotted wrappers are watching him in the store. It’s a wager
I hear. It’s I hope it IS a faggot I hear. The one from the passenger side
is up and it’s the copper cowbell clank I hear. I can see my boy in the back
of the store at the refrigerator leaning on the open glass door probably
looking for the blue skeleton drink with the skull and crossbones
on the bottle because he’s a kid and I remember when he was
a very little kid but big enough to run fast and chase the chickens
and then the rooster turned on him and stood ground and danger
was suddenly close, much closer than me, and how would I run fast
enough to grab him up in time ahead of that beak, those spurs and claws?
How did he get so far away, my boy with beautiful brown eyes? Chalupa guy
pretends to peruse the next soda case to get a look at him; I’m too late,
he’s laughing. I run. But when I reach the crackerjacks and close the distance
I find chalupa is laughing at something my son has said. Back in the car,
as if we’re playing a board game, playing battleship on the coffee table,
he mocks my she-mama-bear hurling through the 7-Eleven mad-dash,
Honestly? Was your sum total game strategy ‘kill him’? He laughs again
and bends my rearview mirror to straighten the black satin bow
bobby-pinned in his hair, and scrubs a fleck of lipstick from his tooth.
Heidi Shuler 
What a poem. Love it.
By: Susan DeFreitas on December 2, 2012
at 9:59 AM
You have become my hero Heidi. This is stunning.
By: Erika on December 13, 2012
at 7:39 AM
Thank you, Erika! I’m just finding your comment. Happy Mother’s Day month – and DO take a whole month to celebrate. xo
By: hshuler on May 22, 2013
at 6:26 PM
This splendid poem carried me forward fast on that swift-moving river of motherly/grandmotherly anxiety. Brava Heidi for writing so elegantly what we-who-love-guys-who-cross-dress feel.
Grandma of a drag queen age 22.
By: Marian Baldy on December 23, 2012
at 10:06 AM
Tapping my heart to you, grandma to grandma. Thank you-
By: hshuler on May 22, 2013
at 5:59 PM
I read your words,
“Trials of a Teenage Transvestite’s Single Mother,”
and I am abashedly reflecting on my own.
My poetry, usually rhyming,
now seems mediocre at best.
Still, it evokes emotion too.
I realize I need not compare our art
in order to bask in the brilliance of yours, dear woman.
A sixty-five year old woman myself,
Sicilian, lesbian, recovering Catholic I am.
I haven’t endured much prejudice,
at least not to my face, for a cousin was overheard
telling people at my mother’s memorial service
that it wasn’t cancer that killed her,
but the pain of having a lesbian for a daughter.
Ouch and double ouch.
Ouch because it hurt to acknowledge that my being gay
had caused my mother immeasurable pain –
Double ouch because few people knew the joy
I had also brought to my mother,
nor the beautiful relationship we rose to
as we both grew in love towards in each other
Wth new levels of understanding and awareness.
By: Camille Sanzone on June 22, 2013
at 7:41 AM
Camille,
I’m touched by your words. I feel your ouch. I’m glad you write, too. It helps us all.
Much love,
Heidi
By: hshuler on July 11, 2013
at 9:19 AM
I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way before. Really, and truly. I’ve been told I’m pretty good at putting words together when I write, but Heidi, you’ve left me speechless. I don’t know if I can get any tears out, but they’re swimming right there back in my eyes. I can honestly say I never expected to feel this way from just looking around the internet for poems. From the bottom of my heart, thank you so much for this feeling you’ve given me, and thank you even more for loving your child where so many others wouldn’t have.
By: Eve on July 21, 2013
at 3:07 PM
Every word of this poem touches my heart so deeply. It’s as if you just described my son & our relationship. My youngest son came out as a transvestite this year, just a few months before his 18th birthday. He’s so amazing & brave & beautiful & I am so very proud of him. But I also worry about him wish that I could protect him from all the ignorant people in the world. Even though he’s taken karate since 5th grade & can more than handle himself, I’ll always be mama bear! Thank you so much for expressing those feelings so beautifully.
By: Lori on November 23, 2014
at 6:25 PM
Reblogged this on Restless Mind ~ Steady Spirit and commented:
As a single mom of a transvestite son, these words speak straight to my heart.
By: Lori on November 23, 2014
at 6:28 PM