So I came in early Friday, just before Bonnie's shift would start, figuring that would be the best time to talk to her, before it got busy later, when I usually came in. I think the day manager is lesbian, but I don't know that for sure – but by the way she avoided me, I sensed there was a big problem coming, and she didn't want any part of it.
Bonnie was outside smoking, and we went into the tent. The bar owner, Sterling, was also in the tent. He is usually there for shift change, and he smokes alot, so it was no surprise that he was there. They didn't know I was coming, so it wasn't like they prepared for a meeting in the tent.
It was immediately clear that this wasn't intended to be a discourse. Bonnie had decided to ban me from the bar, and was going to tell me why, to my face. That's what she presented anyway. I doubt it's the truth of the matter, in that I don't believe the decision was Bonnie's alone. My subsequent conversation with Sterling would bear that out. But for the moment, I let Bonnie talk.
She started out with how much she likes me, and Rita likes me, and so many other people like me BUT "there's been too much >-bleeped-< happening around" me, and it's getting worse. Sooner or later I am going to get hurt, like Monica did, and it will break Bonnie's heart, and it's really for the best, yadda, yadda.
When it was my turn to talk, I told Bonnie that it was not her place to make those decisions for me, and "sooner or later I'll get hurt" is the chance that I live with every day and everywhere I go, and that it's no more risk for me there than anywhere else, probably less so. So no, I wasn't agreeing to be banned for my own good.
Bonnie then took it to another level emotionally. She hugged me tightly then pressed my cheeks between her hands, with tears in her eyes, and expressed that the stress was tearing her apart inside, trying to watch out for me all the time, afraid that anytime I was out of her sight, I might be getting jumped by some >-bleeped-<s who were lying in wait for me outside.
I told Bonnie how much I appreciated her concern, how deeply I was moved, and how much I care for her too. But I told her I couldn't go along with that either. That's why I told her to stay out of it in the first place, not to insist on being the policeman on this problem.
Bonnie replied that that was her job, and I told her no, her job is to stay safe behind the bar and call 911 when bad things happened. I didn't want to say that Bonnie was wrong to work Friday night by herself, so she could make a big payday. I didn't want to tell her that if she had some help, she wouldn't be so stressed. I didn't want to tell her that she really needed to have a bouncer in there on Friday night anyway, rather than trying to be Supergirl using super-hearing and super-speed to stay on top of everything all night long, keeping everything under control by the strength of her super-personality. So I didn't.
What I did say was, "That is the same as every other woman in here Bonnie. Anybody can get jumped by some >-bleeped-< at any time, and Bonnie can't prevent it."
She scoffed, "You know it's not the same. You have alot more risk."
I returned her scoff. "I probably have less risk, because I am more capable of defending myself."
I knew that this was an academic point, a moot argument. Bonnie had made up her mind (or Sterling had made up her mind, or Sterling and the rest of the staff had), and she was trying to make both of us feel better about this decision, by getting me to agree with her that it was the right thing to do, and assent to it. But that wasn't going to happen either. In that regard, she was an irresistible force and I was an immovable object. Or maybe the other way around.
I had more to say, I don't know what order I said it in. I told her, "This is why they call this part of transition the real-life test. The whole idea is to go out and face the real-life challenges that go with this, and to deal with them. If I let this kind of thing stop me from going where I want to go, I might as well abandon the whole transition entirely."
I also told Bonnie, if what she says is true, that it's just a few >-bleeped-<s, just a few idiots, causing the trouble – if she bans me, then she is letting those few idiots and >-bleeped-<s run the bar. I said, "I'm not about to let a few idiots and >-bleeped-<s run my life, and I don't think you should let them run your bar. I'm not the problem, the idiots and >-bleeped-<s are the problem, deal with them. Let everybody else deal with them, as they do and have been doing. Nothing has happened to me because people in here won't let anything happen to me."
Finally, Bonnie was in tears, telling me that there were too many violent drunken >-bleeped-<s gunning for me, and they were going to get me sooner or later, and she couldn't have it happen at the EndZone. I said, "Are you going to feel any better if it happens at Bomber's instead?" Then, Bonnie looked really scared. She said "Don't go to the poker game at Bomber's tonight. Roberto said he was going to be looking for you there, and he was going to >-bleeped-< you up!"
So I said, "And that's it then. I should just stay home all the time, because anywhere I go, some >-bleeped-< might start >-bleeped-< with me? No, Bonnie, I'm not going to do it. Now, if you were telling me, 'Please don't keep coming in here' because I am hurting the business, or costing you money, making your kids go hungry; I might consider it, because I care for you. But for these reasons that you are telling me, no I can't do it."
So Bonnie says, "Ok, that's it then. You coming here is making people uncomfortable or angry, and they stop coming here and it hurts the business and costs me money. So that's why you're banned, and that's the end of it."
I say, "Sure, let's get Sterling to sign off on that. Sterling, what Bonnie says, is that true?"
"Sterling just say yes."
Sterling says nothing.
"Damnit Gina! You know that's not the reason. It's because I CARE ABOUT YOU!"
Then Bonnie rushes off in tears.
So I say, "Well Sterling is that it? I'm banned because I'm hurting your business?"
"I just don't want no trouble in here. You're the source of all this trouble."
"I am not the cause of the trouble. Other people cause trouble."
"But you are the source of it. If you weren't here, I wouldn't have it. And I'm not gonna have it. Not in here."
"Oh, 'Not in my backyard', eh? Wouldn't that be the case with any and every bar in Colorado? Nobody needs the excess baggage that comes with trans people. Trans people wouldn't have anywhere to go. Every bar owner would say 'That's an additional level of hassle that I don't need', and trans people would be banned everywhere. That's why the law doesn't let you do it. Colorado law forbids you from denying access to your public accommodations that you provide, on the basis of somebody being black, or Jewish, or gay, or transsexual."
"I own this land, I own this building, I own this business. I can deny service to anyone, and I have a sign behind the bar that says so."
"No you can't. Your business depends on services provided by government. Police service, fire service, roads. The government demands certain things from you in return. They demand that you not allow smoking in your bar, even though that hurts your business. And they demand that you provide public accommodations without discriminating against people of particular protected classes, including transsexuals, even if that hurts your business. I am a legal transsexual and you are discriminating against me on that basis. That is a criminal act, Sterling. I didn't want it to come to this, but you leave me no choice but to file a complaint with the state over this."
"I am not banning you because you are a transsexual. I don't care what clothes you wear. I wear shorts and sandals when I can, and you wear what clothes you wear, it doesn't mean anything to me."
"It's not about the clothes Sterling. I'm transsexual. I am a woman, and some people are prejudiced against me because I was not born a woman. That's the reason that you are banning me. It's no different than when the first blacks and first Indians and first Hispanics started going into Anglo bars, and other people didn't like it. There are going to be some bumps in the road, but that's how change happens. Over time, and against some resistance."
"Well, you are going to have to change somewhere else. You're not coming in here no more. I can't have the trouble, and I can't have my staff in danger."
"I am going to have to file that complaint. You don't give me any choice. It's a Civil Rights issue that's bigger than any individual or any friendship. I owe it to those people who came before me and fought and died for Civil Rights and I owe to those who come after me, and those fighting for their rights right now. I don't want to do this, but I guarantee you that the state is going to give you more trouble over this, than any amount of trouble that me coming in here could generate."
"You do what you have to do, and I do what I have to do."
It was still too early to go to the poker game at Bomber's, so I went home. At home, I pondered whether it might be wise to bring a weapon with me, in case Roberto was really serious about his threats. I dug out my Swiss Army knife. It would be legal to carry it, but the blade would most likely break if I had to use it as a weapon.
I have a couple of Cutco knives, that were the best cutlery made, back in the early 80s when I had a job selling them. Stainless steel, sharp as a scalpel, a blade that runs the length of the knife, not just from the handle forward, riveted polyester resin handles. The 7" trimming knife or the 13" small carver, either makes a nice weapon.
I thought about carrying the trimming knife in my sleeve, and I tried it out, under my coat sleeve, and under the sleeve of my sweater, seeing how well concealed it was, and how accessible. As I laid the length of that blade along my bare forearm, trying different orientations and different angles, I realized that I was also measuring that knife for slitting my wrists, the right way, down the length of the vein, not across it. That at that moment, I had the blade lined up exactly right to do that, from the elbow down.
I wanted to. I really wanted to, and maybe it was my subconscious way to get that close to it, to deceive myself that I was looking at the knife as a potential weapon. I realized that I didn't want to take the knife to the bar, I didn't want to fight Roberto or confront him. I just wanted to be dead, because I felt so bad about not being able to go to the EndZone.
The EndZone had been like an anchor in my week. I go to counseling on Tuesday, and I call it the Crying Place. I realized that the EndZone had become my Happy Place. I was always happy when I was there, even when I had no legitimate, rational reason to be happy. On Friday night, I ended out bad weeks with a good time, and on Sunday night I garnered strength for another tough week with a good time.
I even had told my counselor that I feel wrong about feeling so happy just to be myself in that crowd. To be somewhat anonymous and somewhat known and somewhat liked and somewhat supported, and have friends like a normal person in a normal way, and not even think about being trans. Just another woman regular at the EndZone, with other female friends there that greet me, hug me, chat with me and seem to genuinely like me.
At this place in my life, having lost my job behind being trans, and having split up with my wife about being trans, and not getting interviews for jobs, and having no clear path to be able to continue my transition financially; this companionship of women at the EndZone was my support network. I needed this anchor, this happy place, to look forward to, and from which to draw strength afterwards, to be able to go onwards.
To try and snap out of this suicidal funk, I wrote an email to my lawyer (who is representing me on my employment discrimination case), briefly outlining the potential case against the EndZone, in case he was interested in representing me. This seems to me like a good case, because Sterling is a good target to sue, and the case seems to me like a slam-dunk.
When I finished the email, it was now late enough to go to the poker game at Bomber's. But my heart wasn't in it. I didn't care how I did. In that Friday night poker game, I usually busted out early, because I wanted to get to the EndZone before 11PM, but it takes until 1AM or later to win prizes in the game at Bomber's, because the game usually has forty entrants or more. I called my Friday night strategy "Chip-up early or go home", meaning that if I didn't win some hands early, and give me a better chance to get into the prize money, I didn't want to hang around for most of the night hoping to catch up, and neither get into the prize money nor get to the EndZone. My general strategy for the Bomber's game was that if I hadn't doubled my chips in the first ninety minutes, I'd lose on purpose in the next ten.
That night I caught a full house on the second hand, and doubled up early. Two hours into the game, some of the regulars were commenting on how long I lasted that night, for a change. I made it to the final table, but my heart wasn't in the game, and my mind wasn't on the game. I made it to the final ten, and lost stupid, because I wasn't really paying attention. There were three cards to a straight by the turn, and I didn't even see the possible straight. When another guy bet me all in, with the two cards in this hand that filled out that straight, I still didn't see the straight when he turned his cards up. I thought I had won the hand with two pair, and asked the dealer what she was doing when she started pushing the chips in the pot away from me, until she pointed out the straight. That's the mental condition I was in.
I didn't want to go home, so I decided to go to the Bijou Bar, the lesbian bar where I had mostly gone in the past, when it was the only place I was going. I went inside the Bijou and quickly saw that none of my old friends were there. It was a much younger crowd of young girls trying to pick up other young girls. I took a seat at the bar, and I felt very alone. I didn't feel a connection with the people there at the Bijou.
Somebody who did know me came to sit at the bar, and asked me casually how I was doing. So I told her how bad I felt because of what had happened, and what happened. She acknowledged that that was a messed up situation, but she didn't really care. In fact, she turned to face away from me as soon as she could disengage, not wanting to speak to me any more. She was there to pick up young girls.
As I was sitting there, I realized that, while the people at the Bijou are totally tolerant – nobody would overtly hassle me for being trans – they don't accept me, they don't support me, they're not my friends. They tolerate me like I tolerate Monica. I felt like I was segregated to the Bijou, that I had to go to the Bijou, that I wasn't allowed to go any place else but the Bijou, and wouldn't be allowed to go anywhere else but the Bijou. Even though I wasn't any more welcome at the Bijou than anywhere else. That would be my lot in life to be stuck with that.
I had to leave. I knew I was going to break down and cry hysterically. I had tears in my eyes even as I headed for the door. I drove home through a fog of tears, sobbing uncontrollably.
I came home and cried like a baby. The next morning I woke up and remembered my situation, and started crying again. Eventually I got my >-bleeped-< together and went for a hike, but even on the hike, there were times when I was crying. I prayed in the solitude of the pines, and I felt better. Not good, not happy, but better.
When I woke up this morning, on the Sunday that for the last five months was the anchor of my week, the day I looked forward to more than anything; I felt worse than ever, and cried some more. How much I had looked forward to being with my poker friends early and my Karaoke friends later. But I don't have that anymore.
As a writer, I recognize that misery is a place from whence my best writing often emerges, and I had been searching for a topic to submit something for a local GLBT anthology, in front of a looming submission deadline, but had been coming up empty. But these events might fill the bill. So I drowned my sorrows by writing about them.
I know for certain that I don't want to start out going to a new bar. I also know that, even if the state makes the EndZone let me back in, I doubt that I would actually go there. It wouldn't be the same.
When the song I Love this Bar would come on the jukebox, I used to sing along as enthusiastically as anyone, because I did love that bar.
Roberto was at the game at Bomber's, but he totally avoided and ignored me. He had won our conflict. He's still welcome at the EndZone and I'm not. I couldn't look at him without loathing him, and in the depths of my despair, I wanted revenge. I made up this fantasy where I buy a .22 with a clip of about 15 bullets, and out the back door of Bomber's, when Roberto goes back there to smoke, I shoot him. Not to kill. Just in the leg, then the other leg, so I can talk to him while I shoot him some more. In the fantasy, while I'm shooting him in the arms and joints, I'm yelling at him.
"You dumb >-bleeped-<! You messed with the wrong >-bleeped-<. You don't know who I am, you don't know my real name. You don't even know what I >-bleeped-<ing look like. Nobody does. I'm gonna fill you full of holes that will hurt you for the rest of your life, and then I'm going to get in my car and leave the state. They'll never find me. They won't even know who to look for. I'll get away with it, you dumb >-bleeped-<! You thought you >-bleeped-<ed me over and got away with. But who's >-bleeped-<ed over now, Mother>-bleeped-<er, and who's getting away with it!?!"
That would serve him right. Kinda like trans panic in reverse. It probably wouldn't serve me that well though, and I know I won't do anything of the sort, any more than I will kill myself.
And unfortunately, according to an email I just received from the lawyer who is representing me on the employment discrimination case, I misread the Colorado Anti-discrimination law. While the law forbids discrimination in employment, housing, and public accommodation – the law was revised to include sexual orientation and gender variance only in the area of employment, not in the other two areas. So evidently it is legal to ban somebody from a bar, refuse to let them sit at the "For normals only!" lunch counter, or evict them from their residence, because they are gay or trans.
