Artist Statement:
This piece was sort of a last minute decision. Right before I began writing it, I watched the film Dallas Buyers Club which depicts a man with AIDS who develops a friendship with a transvestite. Part of this film depicts how transvestites and cross dressers were treated back in the day, which hasn’t changed much today. So when I began to write and develop Tilman, I wanted to show how such hostility and hatred can create a lot of pain. Ultimately, I wanted to shed light on how bad actions can result in very sad reactions.
If there’s one thing more embarrassing than being ridiculed in public, it’s waiting in line at the SNAP center for food stamps. I never thought my life would take such an ugly turn as to beg for a few pieces of paper. But then again, nobody does. Nobody thinks about the decisions they make anymore. Not about when their next meal will be or where they’ll sleep for the night. Now, those are the only things I think about.
“Hey,” I hear somebody say.
I turn my head in response. The man in the line next to me, with a thick, gray moustache and overalls, stares me down, his eyes practically penetrating my delicate skin. “I didn’t know they served faggots here too.”
An awkward smile forms in the corner of my lips, though I don’t know why. I shouldn’t be polite to him. He just insulted me! Perhaps it’s my Nana’s fault. She would always say to me: “Words may make you mad, but never let them make you sad.” Though I badly want to scream: I am not a faggot, sir! My only physical reaction to the word ‘faggot’ is to smile. I should be used to name calling by now; after all I’m a man who dresses in women’s clothing, and acts like them and talks like them. I may love women’s clothing, but I still have a shlong!
But I don’t say a word.
I remain silent and conjoin my hands together, squeezing my painted fingernails as though they were a stress ball. I may be used to the words, but I’m not used to the hostility behind them. I don’t understand it. If women love wearing such cotton and fabric, why can’t I wear it too? Don’t I have the right to wear what I love too?
I veer away from the man, who continues to stare at me, and blankly look down at the floor. It’s better to see the world looking down. If you don’t poke your nose into anyone’s business, then they won’t poke theirs into yours. I’ve spent a lot of time looking down, keeping my face hidden. Nobody cares about you if they don’t see you.
A second later, my line finally begins to move, but from the corner of my eye, I can still see the man (who is frightening taller than my 5’6 height). Perhaps being somebody else’s entertainment for the day, why, it just makes my own!
By the time I reach the front of the line, an hour has past and I am eager to leave. The lady at the counter doesn’t look up from her computer, though I can’t blame her. The glass dividing us reminds me of the ticket master booths that sold Broadway tickets, with a circle cut out in the center of the window. Her blonde hair is shoved back into a ponytail; several curly strains stick out over her forehead from the overhead fan bellowing down on her. Her white nametag read: Polly.
“Your EBT card and some form of ID, please.”
I dip my hand into my very used silver handbag, reaching through the ripped, zipper pocket to pull out my driver’s license (I don’t drive/car=lots of money), and my EBT card, which verifies that I can receive assistance in living.
She takes them both; glancing at them, but not glancing at me. Polly then takes out a small, yellow slip from her desk draw and passes it to me, along with my cards through the crevasse under the window.
“Here is your stamp. Would you like to pay your monthly allotment now or later?”
“I only ever pay for one,” I keep my voice low, though it naturally projects when I speak. “How much would it be for two?”
She typed in a few numbers on her calculator and pressed enter, “$350.11.”
“Can I pay half of it now?”
Polly shook her head. “All together, sir.”
I signed. So she hadn’t looked up. If she did, she would see that the man on the driver’s license was not wearing a blue, spring dress from Goodwill.
“I’ll pay for it now,” I said. This was eating into my rent money, but I had to eat.
I unzipped my purse once more to pull out my wallet when a sudden movement to my left startled me. I dropped my purse, cards and stamp on the floor, quickly salvaging them before anybody else could. It was the man next to me, the one who had continued to stare, whose eyes were fire against my icy skin. He stood there, snickering at me, thinking such behavior was acceptable, but his gaze made me powerless to stop it.
“Sir, I going to call security . . .” Polly stopped short as she finally looked at me. The shock and confusion on her face hurt a lot, but I put my head down as usual.
“It’s all right,” I said, hurrying out of the building before the lady could burn me with her own fixation.
I’ll have to pay the bill later.
***
It takes me a while to recover from the incident at the SNAP center, though by the time I reach the mile walk to the supermarket, I feel slightly better. The food stamp for this month will help to cover my grocery list for a while. I don’t eat a lot, at least, not as much as I use to.
As I walk into Round the Corner Market, the fresh smell of produce wafts in my face. I grab a basket and quickly head in that direction. My favorite food is carrots. Though I still have yet to find out if eating too many can cause someone to turn orange. But I never eat enough to fall through with the hypothesis.
When I snatch a plastic bag from the dispenser to put the produce in, I lock eyes with a little girl. Her stare reminds of the man at SNAP, but there’s no malicious intent behind it, only the innocent look of curiosity. I’m unsure as to how I should react around children, so I smile and wave. To my surprise, she waves back and places her hand in her mouth. Not just her finger, but her whole hand. In my awkward nature, I turn and quickly go to the cereal aisle. The aisle is empty and I can’t help but chuckle with relief.
“Alone at last,” I whisper aloud.
As I skim through the shelves to find the Mini Wheats, one of the colorful, brand name cereal boxes catches my eye. It’s a bright, florescent pink with a carnival theme on the front, complete with a merry-go-round, Ferris wheel, balloons and a clown. The clown is smiling at me, and beneath the flaky, pink lipstick, I smile too.
The clown’s white make-up reminds me of the last play I participated in before my sudden snag. It was a play I had never heard of before: Faces of Fonts, in which each actor portrayed a personified version of a typed font. I was cast as the Evil Clown font, in which I had to wear a black jester outfit and paint my face completely white. I scared every cast member who ran into me, but the audience was in awe! I remember the sweet sound of applause. I felt like myself in somebody else’s story. I felt accepted and complete. I felt like me. My smile grows wider as I hear the roar of cheers echo in my thoughts once more.
I suddenly snap out of it when I realize an elderly man is standing next to me, questioning my stance. I glance at him a moment, noticing he had been staring at something on the shelf in front of me. I look to see a package of condoms next to the box of cereal I had been staring at. I immediately turn red and want to protest in outrage.
I swear to God I’m not a pervert!
But I grab the Mini Wheats from the shelf and say: “Good day, sir,” before running for my life.
I spend the next twenty minutes collecting soup, milk, orange juice, cleaning supplies, and cat food for my cat Oscar. This is all I buy and this is all I can afford. The sun is setting by the time I leave. I have about fifteen minutes before I catch the last bus to down town Chicago. There’s no one at the bus stop bench by the time I get there. Though I’m usually thankful when I never have to be around people, this worries me. I search around, hoping someone will come up and sit down on the newly painted, wooden bench. I hear several pairs of footsteps approaching. I turn my head, feeling relieved. But my relief instantly turns to dread when the man, whom I recognize from the SNAP center, walks toward me with two men on either side of him.
“I knew I’d find you here, faggot!”
I throw my purse at them, though I hate to do it, if only to distract them so I can get away. It doesn’t and they catch me.
“Get away from me!” I yell, my deep voice showing through.
“I didn’t know this faggot had balls,” he chuckled.
“I do!” I spat at him. I took off one of my high heels and hit him in the face with it. I meant to blind him, but he turned his head before I could do so.
“This faggot just fucking hit me with his shoe!”
“Don’t fucking move!”
I try to strike again, but their height and numbers overpower me and I succumb to their beatings. They hit me every which way: my arms, legs, hips, and torso.
“No, please, please stop!” I cry, but one of them kicks me in the face. They stop then.
“Don’t come around here anymore faggot. Or hitting the pavement will be the least of your worries,” I vaguely hear the man say. I roll over, unconsciousness slowly getting to me, but I fight to stay awake.
I lay there on the ground a moment, covering my face in an attempt to hold back my tears, but they rush out anyway. I listen to the three men as they cross the street, bragging about and cheering about what they had just done to me, before slowing fading from my hearing. With shaking hands I push myself off of the ground and pick up my purse, keeping my eyes fixed on the dandelion growing out of the sidewalk.
From a distance, I hear the bus approaching. I quickly wipe my eyes and bloody nose with the inside of my coat, and cover my face with the strands of my damp, brunette wig. When the bus pulls up and opens its doors, I do not show the driver my face as I drop the bus fare into the slot. I avoid eye contact with anyone and sit in the back of the bus, which is thankfully open. Several of the people on the bus gawk at me, suddenly wondering why my face is hidden.
Nobody asks and I don’t tell.
The cold seat feels strangely relaxing against my sore bottom, temporarily clearing my mind from any violence. I curl my legs up to my chest and sit quietly in the fetal position, but it gives me little comfort. There’s nothing to be seen out the window, just the reflection of the overhead lights and my face, but it’s not me. Me is so far and out of reach that I no recognize it anymore. Like a fool, performing in front of a blind king.
The bus ride is long and seems to stretch on forever as I watch each person reach their destination but me. I’m the only one left until the last stop is called, but I do not want to stop. Outside was the dull, brick building with uneven and broken stairs that led up to my apartment. I climb them with all the strength I had left in my aching legs. I skipped getting the mail, only past due bills and credit card companies that want me to sign up for bills. When I open the door to room 5, I’m instantly greeted by my cat Oscar who gazes at me with excitement, waiting for his next meal. I pull out the bag of cat food and pour it into his bowl. But there is no affection, no enthusiasm in my motions. I then go to my room without the lights on and undress down to my flesh and bones. Giant purple bruises begin to form all over my body, like the color of the sky on a starless night. My eyes then veer to the ribs hugging my chest and the hips protruding from my sides. I wrap my arms around myself and close my eyes.
“I just want to be beautiful,” I whisper. “Why can’t I beautiful?” Still naked, I veer over to my bed and collapse on the sheets.
My name is Tilman Sharp and I like to dress as a woman.
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