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justinee rafterI like fried chicken and being blunt. http://www.readwriteteach.xyz/uploads/2/2/9/4/22944492/my_name_is_margaret_by_maya_angelou.docx.pdf
in ‘my name is Margaret’ is about Margaret a black 11 year old girl living in the south in 1964 during the segregation. Margaret who works as a servant for Viola Cullinan. Margaret sadly experienced Viola Cullinan trying to strip her of her identity by trying to shorten her name. as a transgender woman I know how important identity is and I have experienced people trying to strip me of mine many times. my blog is about my younger self and how her identity was almost taken from her. It was cold walking from my moms red kia into the catholic school I take my ccd classes in. As my black worn down Uggs patter on the black asphalt, my heart is jumping in my chest. I always hated going to my ccd classes, knowing the other kids despised me, making my time there horrendous. I walk up the green marble stairs with the metal trim up to the room where I would rather not be. I debate if I should pull out my phone and call my mom to pick me up, make up any excuse to not go threw those doors. I take out my phone and look down at the glowing cracked screen. Then I look up and my teacher and older fat man who’s name I cant remember is starring at me. ‘well are you just going to stand there or are you going to come in’ he asks me in a thick raspy voice. Great I think to myself, there’s no way out I have to go into that class room. The light above me flickers seemingly to my racing heart beat. I walk in wearing my loud sparkly Victorias secret legging and my blue zebra aeropostale hoodie with my vera Bradley wristlet on my wrist. I scan the room looking for a desk the farthest away from anyone, and with my fleeting luck a brown desk stares at me in the middle of the crowed room. I walk past him walking to the lonely brown desk, the worst of the worst, Thomas. I sit next to Thomas, I swing my mini vera Bradley back pack off my back on to my desk. Its like he recurved this seat just for me, so I am at arms reach of his hurtful words. I tuck my blonde hair nervously behind my ear and take out my ccd ‘god loves all’ book. ‘you look ridicules’ I hear is a smart voice, Thomas. I look over at him, ;why cant you ever just leave me alone, act like I don't even exist. Just like everyone else in this room.’ I ask him in a firm voice. His green eyes shower the room, seeing if I caused a disruption in the quite atmosphere. He notices a few people look over at us, as do I. His eyebrow raised in a smirk as if I challenged him, and that was the last thing I wanted. ‘why do you even come when you're already going to hell? your a disgusting abomination, and god hates you. My mom and dad say your sinning and that I don't have to call you Justinee or whatever you want to be called.’ He says loudly, with a look of power in his eyes. Everyone turns around even the teacher, I was hoping, that someone, anyone would help me. But none did, and that enraged me, I was only 13. A fire ignites in my chest bringing me warmth, and the strength I needed. I stand up ‘well your a failed abortion, and I don't have the need to tell you that every Monday. So how about you leave me the hell alone!’ I yell out at him, fighting tears that are starting to well in my eyes. Sit down! The old fat teacher yells at me. ‘no! I come every Monday trying to learn about god and I get treated like I am dirt on the bottom of your shoes. No one will even talk to me no matter how hard to try to be everyone friend!’ I yell at the teacher. The look on the teachers face looked like I just shot someone. Get out of my class room he yells at me. I look down at my god loves all book, as a single tear falls on to it, I pick it up and I start to rip it up. I look around and they were all smiling, and giggling. Like it was the funniest thing they ever seen. I called my mom sobbing, and gasping for air telling her to pick me up. I get home and in a blind rage of sadness, I find a orange prescription bottle. I didn’t even look at what kind they were, I pour a handful into my hand and swallow. I recovered from that night but after that, I was tired trying to appease everyone. if I haven't done what I did then I would have never realized that my happiness and my gender identity was more important than my religion. After that I never went back to ccd and I NEVER let anyone try and steal a piece of me again. |
Justinee rafterI will use this blog to give you a glimpse in the real life of a transgender female:) ArchivesCategories |