I share this house with three other men, but don’t much interact with them, or anyone else. I live alone, have no social life, no close friends, and no regularly-scheduled time with other humans except breakfast with my family, twice monthly.
Most days, I enjoy the solitude. People are an almost-guaranteed annoyance, and if I want someone to talk to, there I am. Yeah, I talk to myself. I wrote about it a few years ago, and listed some of the things I often say, but it’s a constantly changing list.
For the past several months, one of the things I’ve said to myself hundreds of times is, “Have you heard about my balls?” There’s no follow-up. I don’t proceed to describe my testicles to myself. It’s just that one sentence I’ll ask of the air.
It’s a riff on a preacher from my childhood, who sometimes said during his sermons, “Have you heard about Jeeesus?” Even when I was 8 and thought I believed in God, that line seemed ridiculous. First off, we were inside a church, and anyone who goes into a Christian church has heard about Jeeesus. Further, this is America — not a Christian nation, but it’s sure a nation full of Christians. There aren’t two dozen people past the age of five in this country who haven’t heard about Jeeesus.
That’s why, when it’s too quiet in my room, I’ll sometimes say to myself, “Have you heard about my balls?” This will become pertinent to the story that follows.
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I was on my way to a burrito, and stepped off the bus into a crowd much, much larger than usual at that corner. Across Roxbury Street, a man with a loudspeaker was telling everyone that God loves them. A few feet in front of me and at all four corners of the intersection, high school or college kids wore matching t-shirts, bright yellow with red text that said “God loves you.” They looked like McDonald’s ads, but they were handing out Jesus tracts, and talking about Jesus to passers-by.
None of this is ordinary, in that neighborhood. I’ve never seen street preachers there before, and this preacher had half a dozen supporters at each of the intersection’s four corners, so — twenty or more young people, in yellow & red t-shirts, handing out tracts nobody wanted.
I’d stepped off the bus and into Jesus City. Sorta stunned, I stood and absorbed the circus atmosphere, and more of the preacher’s amplified words hit my ears and consciousness. “God loves you,” he said, and his words echoed back, “just the way He made you. God made you perfect, and it’s wrong, it’s a sin, to tinker with that.”
At that remark, the dots connected themselves. I’d forgotten that this was Trans Pride Day, and a street party was happening a block over. I hadn’t planned to attend — I’m not trans and have no pride — but I was aware of it.
The preacher and his yellow & red minions were here to crash the party, and oh man, that infuriated me.
I know about not fitting I’m. I’ve never fit in anywhere, so I can almost imagine what its like to grow up in the wrong body. I salute anyone who’s brave enough to make the gender switch, and abhor the millions who laugh about it or want to prevent it — like the stark raving asshole with a microphone, across the street that afternoon.
Immediately, I decided I was gonna stand in front of that fucker and yell at him. I’d yell so loud, I’d drown him out on his own microphone. I even knew what I’d scream: “Even Christ wouldn’t forgive you, asshole!”
First, though, I’d need to get past five yellow & red shirted Jesus kooks, to get to the crosswalk and cross the street. I intended to say nothing to them. My focus was the preacher, across the street. But one of the uniformed Christian kids, a blonde girl who could’ve been 16 or could’ve been 20, said to me: “Have you heard about Jesus?”
Of course, I answered with the first words that popped into my head. “Have you heard about my balls?” She doubled over with laughter, so I don’t think the line destroyed her innocence.
“Hey!” came a shout from a tall, muscular young man in a matching yellow t-shirt. “There’s no call for that.”
I looked up at him, and it was definitely up. He had me by four inches and at least 40 years. But he’s a Christian, right? And we were in public, so he probably wouldn’t punch me. I felt fairly safe saying, “Fuck you,” loud, almost yelling.
Anger seethed in his face, which delighted me but also made me want to hurry across the street, and the light had changed. He chewed his tongue and shouted, “We’ll pray for you,” as I walked across.
“So much stupid,” I turned and hollered back at him.
After that, though, my anger was spent. I no longer wanted to yell at the preacher. I only wanted to get away from him and his disciples — a flock of yellow & red bastards who imagined they’re good guys for taunting the trannies.
My target taqueria was a block to the west, and as I waited for another ‘walk’ light, I stood with both middle fingers aimed at the preacher, five feet behind me. He saw me, saw the hatred in my eyes, and I wanted him to say something to me. Anything. I frickin’ dare ya. But nope, he only droned on about the sin of messing with God’s plan.
The light changed, I crossed the street and walked a block, rounded the corner into the trans crowd, and then into Taqueria El Semental. Their burritos aren’t particularly good, but they’re also not particularly bad. They’re OK, which makes them among the best in Seattle. I’d come for one, but ordered two, to go, please.
While they prepped my food, I complimented a trans customer on her baby blue hair, dress, and shoes. She complimented me on my stained sweatpants.
To avoid the preacher and his haters, I walked a few blocks out of my way, to wait at a different bus stop for my ride home. The bus was wrapped in ads, which means nobody on the street could see me flipping off the preacher again as we rolled by.
8/23/2025
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