John Wayne

For all the lonely riders

this side the Mississippi

sleeping under starlight, sipping

baked beans from a can

could there not have been any

transgender cowboys? 

This question draws me back

to summers at my grandparents house

waking up well before the sun

only to find my grandpa

still alive and

hunched over a muted television set

reading subtitles

because he didn't want to wake up

his sweetheart.

He used to say there ain’t a lot 

that he is capable of providing her with, but she 

of everyone

deserves to sleep in as late as she wants to

so every morning

he watches westerns 

without hearing the gunshots –

no orchestral swells

or saloon doors coming together 

just outside the frame, before he 

unceremoniously heads out for work.

Never waking her, not once.

Which was all very sweet, when I was like six, 

not yet quick enough on the draw to read subtitles;

I begged him to watch the movies 

with me again 

when he got home, with the sound on,

and he agreed. Said I could use 

a good role model.

For the rest of that summer 

he sat me down in front of

way too many westerns, slow-paced stand-offs 

and tumbleweed stories.

Men dying, most always for loving something.

The sheriff here worked himself to death

and now I am forever a lost deputy, still in the market 

for someone to aspire to;

especially in situations like this one,

where my employer 

attempts to play out the cycle again

neatly warning me 

not everyone will use my correct pronouns 

on the job, maybe not even 

my direct supervisors,

but I won't get fired for wearing makeup

and that's a whole helluva lot more

than what previous generations

of people like me 

could have hoped for and

blah blah blah blah

All I hear is John Wayne’s voice

ringing in my ears

like one too many shoot-outs

telling me to call this shit like I sees it.

You are not doing me any favors, ma’am

by allowing my new name on your payroll!

At the risk of never being able to provide a thing 

for my loved ones again,  except for my love,

I will not commit to the same drudgery 

that killed my grandpa.

This system, 

these people that took the loyalty 

he had for his family

and exploited it – his entire life long. 

I wish 

I could've had the brains

 or guts 

to say any of this stuff 

back then.

I would have told him

that his individual time and good health

were far more valuable

than whatever that corporate pawnbroker

may have offered him for it.

That I miss him 

for entire days at a time

and I wake up this early because 

early is the only time 

I reliably know where to find him.

I know my grandma would have rather

spent a few minutes with him in the morning

than to have slept in

until after he was gone already, all the way until 

there were no mornings left. And he,

of everyone 

deserved a day off every once in a while.

And it wouldn't have changed a thing,

but I still wish I could've told him.

Some of my most character defining lessons

came from John Wayne classics:

Don’t ever trust a crook

 ed smile

or brow 

without a few beads of sweat on it.

Don’t flash a weapon

unless you’re ready to use it.

Your personal legend is a well-worn VHS tape,

so much more valuable than the money 

it brought in at the box office.

The cowboy was always a protector 

of the common people,

of my grandpa,

of me

transgender or not, I have decided

that all of my childhood heroes 

are retroactively trans-inclusive because

regardless of his real-life politics

it is so easy to imagine 

that man,

bow-legged struttin' up

to every sumbitch

that would treat me bad and try to convince me

that they're doing me a favor by it

“we don’t buy it”

He says to them 

in that John Wayne way of his, 

he says (with one hand draped conspicuous

over the holster of a colt)

“Now, I do understand that you

and the lady don't see eye to eye

on a thing or two –

I reckon I don't much agree with her

about anything m'self, 

but the way I see it right now, 

she is as much entitled to the way 

she sees things as you or me

or any other warm blooded American

might be.

And if I ever have to hear about you

giving her a hard time again

well, I'll be making my way back 

to this one-horse-town,

but God only knows, when I do

I'm not going to the sheriff, the governor, 

or the president of the United States…

I'm comin' for you.”