Juliet Takes a Breath

by Gabby Rivera

  “Mi gente, this is the third Clipper Queerz party and I’m honored to still be organizing and partying with my CQ familia.”

  The crowd cheered Luz Ángel on.

  “We’re here to chill, get sick haircuts, and dance. But let’s not forget our fallen camaradas who’ve been brutalized by police and lovers or left for dead in the street. My fellow trans women, I will not forget you! We will not forget your names. We will not forget being homeless, being discarded by our families, and used and taunted. Bullied, murdered, oppressed for being brown, Black, Asian, for being queers, faggots, dykes, genderless renegades, trans warriors, for all our glory. We are not like those fake, fancy gays from Queer as Folk or Will and Fucking Grace! And we will never be them. We will never assimilate. Basura! The capitalist system that favors whiteness and wealth over all has denied us the right to live well, to be well, and to love. We won’t let them win. We will riot, and party and honor our ancestors and no one can stop us. Glory be to la madre, Sylvia Rivera, La Virgen de Guadalupe, and la reina, Selena Quintanilla Perez. And to you, my people, my Clipper Queerz, Luz Ángel loves you, if no one else does.”

  The CQ crew cheered and hollered for Luz Ángel. Ava squeezed my arm.

  “Do you see how incredible she is, Juliet? I’m done. Absolutely fucking done.” she said.

  I thought Ava was going to cry. She had that wide-eyed, moody daydreaming look on her face. I leaned in, pressed our foreheads together.

  “If you’re aching for radical queer love with her, prima. Go and get it.” I said, “Do it now so I can watch and remember it for you later when you try and tell the story and don’t do it any justice.”

  Ava put her palms to my cheeks, like when we were kids.

  “I’m so glad you’re here, Juliet,” she said. Ava drank the rest of her beer and walked off in the direction of Luz Ángel.

  For the first time all night, I was alone. I grabbed another beer and drifted over to the haircuts. The CQ barbers were dreamboats, all of them. They trimmed sideburns, etched lines into skin, and listened to everyone’s requests: buzzcuts, bald fades, and undercuts. One of the barbers in particular was wicked with a flat razor. Their bright, pastel blue lipstick caught my attention. They looked up and we locked eyes. I blushed but didn’t break eye contact. Neither did they. There was no attitude or bravado in their demeanor. None of that “I’m a harder dyke than you” shit that I got when Lainie and I would sneak into Gallaghers, the only dyke bar in Baltimore. Blue-Lipped Barber looked sweet, all short and stocky, alcapurria brown, and muscular in their vintage “Purple Rain” Prince T-shirt.

  I was about to walk over to them when a gorgeous human sashayed right onto their barber’s chair. Blue Lips attention shifted to them. Whatever passed between us floated off into the night. It’s not like I was going to cut my hair, anyway. Never. I’d promised myself that I’d never be one of those manly lesbians. I watched Blue Lips work from afar.

  I surveyed the party in awe. I felt like I was in some futuristic music video. It made me think of the science fiction story I’d written in the Octavia Butler workshop Starlight Mamitas: Three Chords of Rebellion. I still hadn’t submitted it to Zaira’s anthology. I didn’t know if I would, but the party connected to that world. A world where three Latina sisters would start a heavy metal revolution. Clipper Queerz was a revolution too. I hadn’t met one person at the party that fit into the regular, straight, normal version of what society wanted them… wanted us to be. Gender-wise alone, it was as if the spectrum of the galaxy, with all its manifestations of boy, girl, and human being beautifully imploded and all of the people here were imbued with its majesty.

  Luz Ángel emerged from the pool. Glorious hair flowed down her back, and for a million reasons I saw why my cousin loved her. She walked over in my direction, staring right at me. I didn’t have time to weird out and run off. Her direct eye contact made me feel at once shy and important.

  “I don’t think we’ve met yet,” she said. “I’m Luz Ángel and you’re Juliet, Ava’s cousin. The really cute cousin who’s been standing alone in a corner for way too long.”

  “What? No, I mean, yes. But like…” I stammered, losing my train of thought.

  “But like, nothing, everyone here is family and that means you too,” Luz Ángel said. She put her arm around my shoulder. “Is this okay?”

  “Yes, totally, thanks for asking. You’re sweet,” I replied, leaning into her. “We should find, Ava.”

  “Oh my God, I need a break from your cousin.”

  I tensed up. “What? Why?”

  “Because she’s just too fucking gorgeous for me to handle, okay. I’ve literally been running from her all night and obviously, I’m telling you because I’m a drama queen and my crush on your cousin is out of control. And I fucking love it.” Luz Ángel pulled me closer. “Let’s do a lap.”

  We walked through the party like homecoming king and queen. Folks were dancing, doing flips into the pool, and taking time to reinvent themselves. The haircut line ebbed and flowed with the music. Necia handed out jello shots to me and Luz Ángel. Mine was bright blue. I’d never done one before. The three of us clinked Dixie cups and swallowed. Necia flittered off to hand out the rest of them. Ava was surrounded by a small group of folks, immersed in an intense conversation. Luz Ángel attempted to lead us in the other direction. I stopped and turned to her.

  “Oh no, way, Miss Let’s-Lead-the-Revolution. You’re not avoiding Ava any more tonight,” I said. “Come on.”

  We edged in around the circle. Florencio had the floor.

  “We have to rethink masculinity, Ava, not dismantle it,” she said.

  “But its super damaging and violent. Why not just be rid of the whole thing?” Ava asked.

  “Because, well at least to me, masculinity is forever linked to the feminine and to all other forms of gender expression. It’s only damaging and violent because we’ve elevated it above everything else. Society up and gave masculine people, more specifically cis white men, all of the power and resources and that’s where the trauma comes in. It’s not masculinity in and of itself,” Florencio said. “But, to be perfectly honest, I’d rather spend my energy exploring and elevating divine feminine energy.”

  I stood there with Luz Ángel’s arm still around my shoulder and took in what Florencio said. Instead of feeling blocked and confused like I’d been in Portland, something clicked and I got it. I got what they were saying. It connected to Raging Flower and Harlowe. It connected to all of my issues with Lainie and my Mom. I’d been so busy trying to be what they wanted me to be that I wasn’t exploring and elevating my own divine feminine energy. I went from Luz Ángel to Ava and wrapped my arms around her waist.

  “Thank you for bringing me here, prima,” I whispered to her.

  “Oh babygirl, you’re welcome,” she said.

  “I’m gonna wander and you’re gonna be cute with Luz Ángel. Okay? Like, just do it. Trust me.”

  I looked her in the eyes. Ava pushed her forehead into mine and nodded. I walked off and when I turned around, Ava had moved closer to Luz Ángel. They were almost touching. I made my way to the haircuts and stood by Blue Lips. I watched them use a flat razor to shave lines in someone’s newly shaved head. I ran my hand through my curls. I had my mother’s hair. Thick, black, and prone to sweating out a relaxer and frizzing up in the summer. Blue Lips dusted off their customer, and used a hand held mirror to show off the cut and the line work in the back. Pleased, the person hugged them and offered to grab them a drink.

  “You gonna get a cut?” Blue Lips asked.

  “I’m afraid of looking like a dyke,” I said.

  “Are you a dyke?”

  “I think so.”

  “Then no matter what you do with your hair, you’re gonna look like a dyke,” Blue Lips said. They smiled at me and patted the chair.

  I said a quick prayer to La Virgen.

  “I hadn’t thought about it like that,” I replied. I sat my ass down on their chair and to
ok a deep breath. “Okay, let’s do this. I haven’t gotten a haircut beyond a trim since I was in fifth grade.”

  Blue Lips walked around me, inspected my hair for a minute.

  “How about a little undercut?” They asked. Blue Lips touched behind my ears. “I can shave off the back from here to here and leave all the long hair on top.”

  “I don’t know you, but I’m going to trust your skills. Do whatever you think will look good. I’m Juliet. And to be honest, I’ve been calling you Blue Lips in my head all night.”

  They laughed. “I like that. You can call me Blue Lips, Juliet.”

  J. Lo’s “Jenny from the Block” dropped over the speakers. It was a sign from the Boogie Down goddesses.

  “Okay, undercut me.”

  Blue Lips undid my ponytail and brushed out my curls. They used a thick comb to divide my hair into sections. A small crowd gathered. Four sets of eyes watched Blue Lips do their thing. I think people were caught on how long my hair was and wanted to see if I was gonna shave it all off. Blue Lips clipped hair on top of my head and then peered into my face with their sweet brown eyes.

  “You ready?” They asked. It wasn’t an out, it was an act of confirmation.

  Was I ready? I nodded yes and then said yes and then I shut my eyes. Blue Lips snipped off about a foot of hair. They held it in front of me. I misted up. My hair. My beautiful long hair. I shut my eyes and pulled myself together. I closed my eyes as Blue Lips put their clippers to my sideburns and buzzed the entire underside of my head. They used a sharp razor for the edges and for the design. Blue Lips carved three lines into the left side of my head and a line in my eyebrow. Still my eyes were closed, but my nerves dissipated. I liked the feel of their hands on my head, the pressure of the clippers, the hum of them and the care put into the cut. The energy focused on me was the good kind, the kind that didn’t expect anything back.

  Blue Lips clicked off the clippers. They brushed me off with a neck duster, swabbed a cotton ball of alcohol along the edges of the cut. The slight burn felt good. For the first time ever, I felt a warm breeze against my scalp.

  “All done,” Blue Lips said. They held a mirror to my face.

  “Holy shit,” I said. “Thank you!”

  I could see my head. I looked fierce, fucking gay as hell, queer even. Shit, maybe I was queer too. Whatever I was or however I decided to identify, the cut was rad. A few tears fell down my cheeks.

  “Oh shit, it’s okay, Juliet. Transformation is a huge deal,” Blue Lips said. They put a firm, gentle hand on my shoulder. I laughed, still crying.

  “I’m fine. This is just a really beautiful night, party, everything. I’m okay.”

  From behind, I heard Ava gasp. And then she screamed like a Puerto Rican: a scream that’s more of a yell, a gasp and a “get out of here” all in one word: “Ay!”

  “Ay, Juliet, that hair, ay, it looks so good. Oh my God, you badass bitch. I love it. Your mom is gonna freak out.” Ava exclaimed. “It’s perfect. Girl, you found your look. Hot fucking damn.”

  I couldn’t stop running my hands over the bottom half of my head. Other people asked to touch it too and I let them. Like an altar call, all of the Clipper Queerz laid hands on me. I got up, ready for everything. I was ready to go back to Portland and figure shit out with Harlowe. Ready to do me. I moved closer to the music and danced with Luz Ángel and Ava. When a slow jam came on, I backed away and let them get close. They held each other by the hips. I was hot, sweaty, and a little itchy. The pool glowed turquoise. I stepped away and walked over to the edge. A hand reached out for mine and held it. It was Florencio. She let go, took a little leap, and jumped into the pool.

  “You coming?” she asked.

  I laughed, stripped down to my underwear, and jumped right in after her. And when Luz Ángel and Ava wandered off behind the pool, holding hands, no one but me even noticed. And when Blue Lips found me in the water and reached for me, I didn’t run away. And when they kissed me, I kissed back.

  * * *

  The sky rippled with gold streaks. They pierced through the deep indigo and welcomed the sunrise. Ava and I made our way out of the party. Once in the car, I called Lainie, not drunk, not high, just exhausted and peaceful. I left this message on her voicemail:

  “Lainie, it’s me, Juliet. Listen, I want you to know that it’s all okay. Really and truly okay. You didn’t make any mistakes. I don’t think we can really make mistakes because I just had the best night ever and if we hadn’t broken up, I don’t think it woulda been this incredible. You did what you needed to do and it’s fine. I’m okay. We’re all okay. We are beautiful. And you need nights like the one I had, a night to be free and surrounded by queer family. And so, I know it’s taken me a while to call you but I needed to think. Thinking is good, you know? Honestly, it’s better for both of us that we don’t talk right now. But I know we will later, I know that when I see you at school, I’m going to hug you and I’m going to love you without being in love with you. I want to know you forever, Lainie, and this is how we get there.”

  Part Four:

  Here We Go Again. Portland or Bust

  22. When All Else Fails, Take a F*cking Nap

  On the plane ride from Miami to Portland, I imagined my reunion with Harlowe. I saw Harlowe wanting to dissect what went down at Powell’s and find out exactly where things went wrong. We’d cry about how she’d stereotyped my life story and how it was all connected to her racism. I’d tearfully admit to thinking that I was in love with her. We’d hash it out with Maxine and Zaira, too, maybe, over tofu and organic beer. We’d all talk about how we need to communicate better and how fighting racism together would make us all winners and better lovers. Maybe we’d all contribute to a mix tape. Melodrama at its highest level. Performance art for hippie lesbians. I got carried away, but I felt super hopeful.

  Harlowe met me in the exact same spot at PDX. Just the sight of her made me light up; I couldn’t help it. She was the woman who wrote the book that opened my eyes to my body and the world. All those love feelings flooded over me. Harlowe shouted my name when she saw me. She gushed over my “rad dyke haircut” and ran her hands all over my head. It felt weird to not be asked, but I was too excited to see her face to make a thing out of it. She hugged me like we were family, tight and without reserve. We took pictures of our feet next to each other on the PDX carpet with all the crazy lines and patterns. It was all laughs and normal questions; nothing unusual. Maybe everything was just fine.

  The car ride to her house was quieter than the one when I’d first arrived. Harlowe played the power feminist mix tape that I’d made for Lainie but never sent to her. She admitted that she’d loved it and listened to it while I’d been away. I told her to keep it. The universe wanted her to have it. I noticed she wasn’t saying a word about the reading at Powell’s. That moment felt like it’d been a weird trip, a glitch in the smooth feminist internship machine. The rush of certainty I’d felt in Miami about calling Harlowe out felt far away, like I’d left it in Ava’s room. “Wide Open Spaces” by the Dixie Chicks played and it gave me a minute to think. Nothing I learned in Miami would go away; I wouldn’t let it. Whether Harlowe and I spoke about what went down at the reading or not, I was stronger and the clarity I found would stick with me. I believed that deep in my spirit. I could feel weird and awkward but I wouldn’t ever be lost. Fucking Dixie Chicks, yo. I loved them. The song played until we reached Harlowe’s.

  All of Maxine’s stuff—clothes, records, and pictures—were gone. Whatever imprint she’d left on the house had been erased. I felt it the second I walked in, I know that sounds weird, but it was hyper real. Have you ever just known that someone was gone? Without a call or anything? That’s what it felt like.

  Harlowe put my bag by the staircase to the attic. She ushered me into the kitchen and proceeded to cook me a meal. That’s when the words spilled out of her. Maxine moved all of her belongings out of Harlowe’s house the day after the reading at Powell’s. They were no long
er partners. Harlowe wept without pause. It’d been a long time coming and with everything that happened, Maxine saw no reason not to make the split official. They’d put up a good front for me, even had themselves convinced that it was all going to be okay, that Maxine wasn’t falling hard for Zaira, that Harlowe’s white privilege wasn’t an issue for Maxine, and that they were just as in love now as they were when they met on a dance floor so many years ago. Harlowe admitted to being intimate with Samara behind Maxine’s back. None of it was pretty. Harlowe disrespected their honesty clause physically, and Maxine had done it emotionally.

  Zaira and Maxine remained partners, but Harlowe wasn’t sure if they were primaries now or not. She was ashamed of herself but also angry that she’d been judged. Neither Maxine nor Zaira waited after the reading to talk to Harlowe. They both left without a word. Harlowe didn’t think she’d be welcomed at any of Zaira’s open POC writing groups anymore. No one had bothered to talk to her about it. Neither one of them asked for her side of the story. Harlowe wasn’t sure if she could forgive them for that.

  I was curious about how Harlowe’s interpretation of events would be different from mine. Zaira and Maxine knew that what Harlowe said about me was inappropriate and kinda fucked up. If they didn’t want to talk to Harlowe, it had to be because they didn’t want to waste the energy. That thought alone made me quiet. Damn. I wanted to talk to Maxine and Zaira. Harlowe stopped weeping and continued her story. At no point in her retelling did she ask me how I felt when it all went down. I didn’t offer my perspective either. Before Miami, I would have blurted out all of my opinions out. But after being surrounded by a community of people who were committed to each other, to every political cry and hazy love daydream; I couldn’t spill my guts to someone who wasn’t asking for them.

  Harlowe heated tortillas in a pan and burned them. The white rice she’d set to cook on the stove also met a fiery charcoal death. It was impossible for her to cook and tell emotional stories at the same time. The kitchen smelled of pegao and rotten eggs. I boiled cinnamon sticks and opened all of the windows to counter the foulness. Harlowe cried again. I encouraged her to sit down and keep talking. She needed to let it all out. I threw away the burnt stuff and started over. I made white rice, black beans and mushrooms. I heated the last two tortillas without burning them. Harlowe thanked me, hugged me. We ate together.