Today I’m in Oakland, where it’s a balmy 71 degrees. I’m sitting in a coffee shop that has neither wi-fi nor sweetener for your coffee, but there is a sign that says “EBX Best Avocado Toast 2014.” The guy next to me smells strongly of sandalwood and has been joined by a woman who has recently been disappointed by Kundalini yoga class. They’re organizing for an upcoming SJ workshop and talking about writing a piece about racist porn and whether it’s kink-shaming to call racist porn racist. Spoiler: Racist shit is racist.
They’re the fucking future and I wish I’d had half their presence of mind or education when I was their age.
I’m reading tonight again at Laurel Books in Oakland. Last night, Jacob Anderson-Minshall and I read and talked about trans lit at Strut in San Francisco. It was a beautiful space, and we had a small, attentive audience. I felt, for the second time, the warmth of a room full of people who not only care about the same things I do, but who are excited to explore with me the territories of narrative and identity that obsess me. I don’t have to translate anything, educate anyone, or censor the violence, queerness, or weirdness in my stories. These spaces are so special. I won’t ever forget these nights.