The Public Apology Tour

For Elizabeth Shirley

is drawing to a close. The PR team gathers: the dancers, the opening act of all trans
acrobats in matching leotards, and the half-time show main attraction: the grey-haired
lady in a lavender ballgown who trained a dozen Siamese kittens to tag-team
their athletic feats of fancy on a jungle gym that looks like it was designed by American
Ninja Warrior, and of course — me, in my quiet, Oxford blues. We’re all fighting back
tears before our final performance in a small Midwestern town none of us have visited,
and hug like kids on the last day of sleep-away camp. The ending is not flashy, for sure,
but we’re all tired. This tour seemed to go on forever. We just kept winning
awards, garnering media attention and envy from every local carnival and rodeo.
Towns kept inviting us back. There is no shortage of humiliation and shame
in this world, but no one knew how to sell it like we did. No one had thought
to package it the way we had: with popcorn, theatre, discount tickets, and PRIDE.
Yes, for a few years, we knew how to get the people going with controversy, scandal,
put on a show that Britney Speares and her entire army would’ve reveled in. I was
the luckiest queer in the whole world: sold out tickets every show. And, of course,
a few exes, some in-laws, a couple former friends would fly in to support me as
often as they could. I couldn’t be more grateful to know how deeply I am treasured
as entertainment. It hadn’t occurred to me that I was someone worth studying
so closely, and that I could bring so much delight to so many people who live their lives
as peeping toms in the backyards of reality. Listen — I’m not here to kink shame
anyone, truly. Not here to yuck anyone’s yum. Personally? I’m grateful for retirement
and I won’t be ashamed of that. I hear the crowd begin to roar; the curtain goes up.
Elizabeth turns to me before going on stage, flipping her hair, fidgeting with her
cuticles, I don’t know what I’ll do after this. I don’t have any plans lined up. I tuck her
hair behind her ear, and pull her close, Baby Girl, this was just the beginning. Now go.

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(Featured image from Pexels)