"Don't Remember Me for My Resilience" a poem by Miranda

An original poem by Miranda

Intro

Trump started attacking transgender rights on day 1. By the second week of his administration, his operatives were purging all trans data and resources from government websites—the largest purge of data about trans people since the 1933 raid of the Institut für Sexualwissenschaft and subsequent book burning. I’m grateful to all the archivists who saw this coming and have been saving this data.

At the very least, Trump and GOP want trans people to be second-class citizens. But some—especially Christian nationalists—have called for our imprisonment or execution. Those who are trans and intersect with other groups (disabled, Latino, Hispanic, Muslim, black, sex workers, etc.) will be the first and most brutalized victims, if they get their way.

I hope our allies will keep us safe and help us fight back. I didn’t want to write this poem (or have the conversations about what if they declare us persona non gratis and start rounding us up that led to it), but here it is—pain and fear. And resolve.

💜Miranda📚

Don’t Remember Me for My Resilience

For our transgender ancestors

Or strength. Definitely not for bravery.

These days, I tell my friends I love them more often,
just in case.

The time for my poems to obfuscate–to obscure plain meaning–is over.

(first they came, first they came)
That poem is all over my social media feeds.

It doesn’t feed me. So few have anything to say
about edicts erasing trans existence.

They say I worry too much
for an unperson.

I keep thinking about the poems I haven’t written.
I’ve spent six months trying to write an elegy
for an egg I knew–they say he killed himself
because his girlfriend caught him in her panties.

Craft note: should I strike through he/him above?

Last they came—this isn’t the first time they’ve wanted to erase us.
Last they came, we didn’t even make it into the G-d damn poem.

I take my wife to the mountains every time she asks.
I want her
to remember how ridiculous I look in snowshoes.

Back to that egg: her favorite song was “The Beautiful People.”

I said I wouldn’t obscure plain meaning. Let me define
Egg: a trans person who hasn’t been born into themself, yet.

When I was a young girl, I checked out books about magic
from the school library. I became quite the illusion.

Don’t let the book burners anywhere near your local library.

Don’t remember me for who you thought I was.
Remember me for who I am.

My wife and I thought we did the right thing.
We bought a house—American Dream—
with an FHA loan, magnolia tree,
and chipped red paint.

I tried to draw a Venn diagram of politicians who demand
the 10 Commandments be posted in schools
and politicians who bear false witness against the queers.
It was a circle.

I remember the soft glow of the gas heater
in the hallway of my childhood home.
Haven’t you ever wanted to be as constant as a pilot light?

I don’t know how many more metaphors I get to write
for you.

Don’t remember tears streaming down my face.
Remember when I started smiling for photos.

First they came. Last they came.
Don’t remember that poem without me.

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