Transitions, Contradictions, and Facing Fear

In this issue we feature writers from Mary's Place Seattle, Jo from our Australian Collective, and New York Writer/Poet/Artist Branwen Drew

Photo: Julien Oncete

The following piece is by Mary’s Place writer Terrell T. Williams and was generated from a Pearl Moon writing workshop prompt regarding places and things that scare others but not yourself:

One thing that scares other people but doesn’t scare me is going to prison. True enough, prison is definitely a place to be afraid of. However after going to prison at the tender age of 15 I learned prison was only a place that you shouldn’t be afraid of. It’s the people you’re surrounded by that makes it so scary.

Had I not been to prison I would have continued to think it was a scary place, like everyone else. Instead I learned that just because I was there I didn’t have to look at it as a scary scene.

Prison for me was a great learning experience and I met some wonderful people. What made it less scary was the educational opportunities I was offered education, spirituality, and a bunch of other things. This resulted in me getting a GED, an Associates Degree in Office Systems Technology, and became the start of a General Maintenance career that flourished.

It felt like I was blessed because I was sent to one of the scariest places on Earth but fortunate in that I had the chance to learn. Prison isn’t a good place but it really isn’t a scary one, unless you allow it to be.

Terrell T. Williams is from New Orleans, Louisiana, the West Bank to be exact, Algiers/Fischer Project. Terrell states, “I am 39 years old but have experienced more shit than most 60 year olds.” Her interests are music, how things work from a mechanical perspective, and what keeps people going. Her writing goals are to get back to writing and eventually write her first book.

Pronouns: she/her/hers

Photo: Nach kostenlos

Nature Work by Mary’s Place writer Mozelle Yvette Allaway

Quietly seeking

Established sources of land

and hiking those unknown.

Soar; Climb with no hesitation

Afraid not, fear not

the masked night asked.

Suddenly, confusion and doubt arose.

A day shall come forth when

a radiant light of sunshine

will lead to a new world arisen and

unknown worlds will appear;

with treasures to gather and nurture.

Quiet, quiet come alive

and flourish with life anew.

Mozelle loves writing poetry and is a fan of Edgar Allen Poe. Mozelle credits her junior high school teacher, Betty Farmer, with giving her the confidence to project her voice and hold her head high.

Pronouns: she/her/hers

Photo: Pearl Moon Writers Collective

Inspired by a Winter haiku writing prompt, Two Haiku by Mary’s Place writer Pennie Gentzkow

Haiku 17

Jacket is copper

My toothpick is cinnamon

Your brain is nutmeg

Photo: Abaldon

Haiku 19

Nutmeg-brawny Zeus

Olympia beer label

Dippy, pretentious

Photo: Pearl Moon Writers Collective

Pennie was born in Oregon.  As a young girl she lived on property with a silver creek, multiple trees such as apple, pear, cherry, fig, walnut and filbert. The grape arbor was really her Father's pride and joy. Blueberries, strawberries, and raspberries grew in abundance. The primary harvest was from an orchard of Italian plums. Pennie's kitties loved to dance and play around the orchard.  She was a 4-H’r with a one-Jersey cow project in a one-horse town. She was a FFA Officer holding the Historian/Drawer position with projects ranging from livestock sheep to gardening. Pennie has lived in Oregon, Montana and Washington.  She enjoys the Pacific Northwest where both of her children were also born and raised.

Pronouns: she/her/hers

  Photo: Rainier Werner Fassbinder, 1975

Contradiction by Jo Webster

Is my life a see-saw?
A moment,
A day,
A month,
A lifetime
Balance playing out
Swoop up, bang down
Always hanging on
Longing to feel free

Hair pulled tight
Hands hanging on
Fingers embedded into desperation
Bang down

It’s living life’s see-saw!
A daughter,
A sister,
A wife,
A mother,
Juggling my selves
Swoop up, bang down
Always hanging on
Longing to feel free

Hair flying freely
Hands outstretched
Fingers reaching for the sun
Swoop up

I love living on a see-saw!
No anxiety,
No stress,
No judgment,
No loss,
Experiencing the now
Swoop up, bang down
Always hanging on
Loving to feel free

Photo: Jo Webster

Jo lives in Queensland Australia and regularly contributes to Lady House/Pearl Moon Quarterly. She is an avid reader and journaler and hopes to one day write her memoirs.

Pronouns: she/her/hers

Photo: Preble rest stop / Source: Google

Preble Rest Stop by Branwen Drew

Early April 2018 - I don’t remember the exact date. It is around 8 AM on a rainy and dreary morning. The air is warm but very humid. Signaling a right-hand turn, my car pulls into the Interstate 81 Preble Rest Stop, almost with a mind of its own. Time to start the mission.

Tucking the car away in a far corner of the parking lot, I hope to be inconspicuous. Shaking and a little sweaty, a bundle of nervous energy and opening my car door, my left hand is clammy and slippery. Reaching down, a quick pull on the lever opens the trunk, allowing access to what is needed next. Closing the driver’s door slowly and deliberately, trying to keep calm, I walk to the back of my car. The trunk lid is open like the gaping jaws of a crocodile. Reaching in, out comes a small duffle of treasures. Hands shaking and knees wobbly. invisible stares hit me from all directions, piercing my resolve.Forcing a tentative walk across the warm, oily asphalt parking area and crossing the access road, the marble stone curb reaches up and grabs my shoe, almost dragging me down to the ground. Scanning furtively around, did anyone notice? Pushing on the door, it refuses to move. Nervously, I pull it towards me as It opens slowly with a loud groan, proclaiming, “See the pervert, the abomination.” I shuffle in, glancing around, searching for the family/unisex restroom, hoping its not occupied. There it is, straight ahead, the sign proclaiming “VACANT.”

Time slows down. The restroom door is heavy and slow to open. Finally, slinking in and pushing the door shut, I secure it, sliding the bolt across then turn slowly around and survey the safe space where there are white tiles everywhere. A large glass mirror, with a polished aluminum frame, is set on the wall with a white porcelain sink in front of it. In the far corner, a toilet with the automatic flush and the cyclopean electronic eye, staring at me, the seat raised with bleached white arms reaching for its next victim, to force them into the bowl and into oblivion. Hanging on the back wall, the baby changing table is open inviting me to change. I set my duffle on it. Taking a deep breath, trying to relax, looking into the mirror, there is my ugly male self, scowling and sweating. Approaching the mirror and water basin with caution, turning the faucet to cold my cupped hands fill with cold water. Placing my face down into the fleshy container, I feel much better now. Breaking my gaze away I turn my back toward the mirror. I walk over to the changing table. Slowly unzipping my dark gray duffle and pulling out items, I inventory what I packed from the hidden cache of female treasures. Skinny leg blue jeans, pink panties, long bright red knee socks, a pink frilly camisole, black Shapermint long line shaper bra, cheap fake breasts found on Amazon, a long black synthetic wig bought online from Glamour Boutique, a jet black fringed t-shirt, and a pair of black flats ordered online from Torrid. I shed my male clothes like a snake shedding its skin. Standing there, naked, vulnerable, head filled with fear and yearning and second thoughts, I fish out the silky, high-cut, pink panties, sliding them first over my right foot and then my left. Bending over, pulling them slowly up over my ankles, over my calf muscles, up to my knees, slowly over my rear, I pull them up over my waist. Standing there, a moment, enjoy the softness, then reach down. I tuck my male parts in between my legs and pull the panties up snug. A wave of liberation, of change flows through my whole being.

Waltzing closer to the table, picking up the long line bra. I slide my hands and arms into it, struggling to pull it over my head. Squirming into it, I pull the bottom down to my waist over the top of the panties. I reach out for the first jiggling white mass on the shelf. Into the left cup and then the second one into the right cup. Turning towards the mirror, trying to focus only on the position and placement of the falsies, I need to see more. I step back until I can see my whole body. From the neck down, there is a woman, a bit chubby. A loud sigh comes deep from within me, I turn back to the table. Reaching for the knee socks, I roll up one and drag it over my toes, the ball of my left foot, and up my ankle to just below my knee. I do the same with the other sock, struggling to maintain my balance, on one foot like a pink flamingo. At last, the socks are on after a ten-minute struggle.

Waiting on the white plastic table are my skinny jeans from J C Penny’s. Unzipping them, pulling the left blue leg over my foot and up, struggling like a trout in a fisherman’s scooping net, my foot finally emerges from the blue tube. The right side is harder as I struggle to stay upright.

I pull the jeans slowly up over my butt, jumping up and down and swaying from side to side to fit in them. At last, up over my ass and around my waist, I snap them shut before they can spit me back out. Struggling with the zipper, fighting for every quarter inch up the front of the jeans, success and I can still breathe. Slipping my feet into the size 12W black flats from Torrid, they are very comfortable and broken in from wearing them at home when no one else is around.

Now for the last piece of clothing. The t-shirt is 2X. It slides over my head with a bit of twisting and turning. Walking over to the mirror I start painting with my makeup, just foundation, blush, lipstick, and black mascara. Using techniques from several youtube videos and practiced a bit, at home, over the years. I slowly spread the foundation over my face, using my finger like a pallet knife spreading paint over a blank canvas, being deliberate so as not to get the cream on my clothes. The mascara is my biggest concern, having almost blinded myself from practicing at home. Sliding the brush slowly in and out of the tube, I apply the black to my eyelashes. What is too much? What is not enough? It does not look too bad. I apply the blush just below my cheekbones, as suggested in the videos. Struggling with it and using too much, I wipe off the blush on my left cheek and start again.

Someone knocks on the door. “Are you okay?” I squeak out, “yes, will be out in a few minutes.”

No response. Fumbling with my wig, I put it on my head. Having no brush or comb, I use my fingers, fidgeting with the wig. Another knock on the door, this time louder. I am ready to scream. I yell out, “Give me a few more minutes, please.” Grumbling from the other side of the door and heavy footsteps away from it. I need to leave. I pick up the shed skin off of the floor and pack it all away in my duffle. Slowly and deliberately, I zip it up.

Picking it up, along with a small purse where I have my wallet and car keys, and cell phone, I walk over to the door and put my ear to it. No noises other than the TV set hanging on the wall in the lobby. Slowly sliding the bolt back and opening the door a crack, it is wide enough for me to scan for onlookers and possible trouble. The lobby is empty. I push the door open and walk, in a panic now, almost running, to the exit. I open the heavy door and walk out into the brisk early spring air. It is raining. No one is around to see me. Elated, I run to my car, almost stepping into dog shit. I open my car door, having left it unlocked. Throwing my duffle onto the floor of the passenger side, I sit and take deep breaths. I do a silent meditation to calm down.

I look at my Fitbit. Heart rate is close to 90. More deep calming breaths. Down to 85. It is heading in the right direction. More deep cleansing breaths. Now at 70. Now ready, I put the key into the ignition and start my car. Time to head out for more adventures in my first outing in full dress.

Sunday, March 27, 2022 3:40 PM

Driving north on I-81, heading home after a wonderful five days at Keystone, I feel wonderful, relaxed, and loved. I just finished a phone conversation with one of my best friends. I have known her for a couple of years from My Feminine Heart, our online community via Zoom and Facebook. We met for the first time in the real world at the Keystone Conference.

I need to stop and stretch my legs. Almost to the Preble Rest Stop, I haven’t been here since my first excursion out in public en femme in 2018. I signal to turn to the right and pull into the rest area. There are several cars and trucks around. I see a parking space near the front entrance. I am lucky. It is a mix of snow and rain with a cold north wind. Shutting the car off, picking up my cell phone and purse. I head inside. A young man holds the door open for me. I smile and say, “Thank you, sir.” He smiles back. I walk in and head for the women’s bathroom, striding past the unisex/family restroom, in the back corner just beyond the state police office.

Several women with children are washing their hands and chatting. One looks my way and says “Hello.” I smile back and respond with “Hello, love your dress.” She smiles and compliments me on my two-inch heeled sandals. Heading into one of the stalls, I sit and get my business and paperwork done. Flushing the toilet, I slide the bolt back and glide over to the washbasin.

Scrubbing my hands with soap and water, I sing Happy Birthday ditty to myself twice. I dry my hands under the hot air drier. Confidently, I walk out, singing to myself,

“I am woman, hear me roar.”

Branwen Rhiannon Drew is an award-winning artist and poet.  She lives in Rome, NY, with her wife Sarah and three fur babies. Her writing and art are inspired by her location on the edge of the Mohawk River and the foothills of the Adirondacks.  The journey towards revealing her true self is evident in her work. Branwen’s poetry can be found at branwendrew.substack.com

She is currently working on an illustrated collection of poems about birds. Her poetry has appeared in Slack, Raven’s Perch, and other publications.

Pronouns: she/her/hers

Photo: Branwen Drew

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