Where I’ve Been Lately

Dear Reader,

Hey there — it’s been a while. Maybe you’ve noticed, maybe not, but I know I have. I’ve missed talking with you (nearly) every day, sharing things I’ve noticed and experienced whilst on the road. (I’ve also missed the opportunities to use words like whilst, which don’t come up nearly enough in my daily conversations.) 

So I wanted to share a bit about WHY it’s been so long…so I, and we, can move forward. 

January started much like normal: following the New Year’s holiday, I got back on the road, finishing southeast Georgia before heading up to Tennessee for state 22 on this trip. While in a series of small towns in western Tennessee, I had a tour guide: a man named Collin, who kindly offered to show me around an area he knew very well. 

From mountains to moonshine: I saw it all. I talked with locals and thought about the stories I’d share with you. I was falling in love with this adventure once again. And then, the night before I left for my next stop, everything changed. 

[It is here, dear reader, that I need to place a content and trigger warning for the following: hate crimes, transphobia, transgender slurs, and police brutality. If you would like to stop reading here, I don’t blame you. I don’t hold it against you. But I will say this — thank you for your patience and your support. Normal We The Voters programming, or as normal as this trip has been so far, begins again next week.]

Around 9 p.m. on a clear January night, we were stopped by the police while walking down the sidewalk. A half-hour later, we were deemed intoxicated and taken into custody. I’m not here to split hairs on whether or not we were guilty because in all honesty, I’m tired of running it around in my mind, and frankly — it doesn’t really matter, because it happened and I cannot change it. What matters, however, is what happened during those six hours. 

For me, it went rather normal. (Or at least, I think so, having never been to jail before, with no intention of ever going again.) My handcuffs were removed, my mugshot was taken, my jewelry and jacket were stored. They asked questions about my whereabouts that evening. I was given a phone call and told I didn’t need bail, that I wasn’t under arrest but couldn’t leave. I was placed in an empty cell without any details of what I was being charged with or when I’d be let out. 

So I sat, I paced, I laid down, I paced some more, and mostly: I waited. 

And then, around 3 in the morning, I was let out of the cell and taken back to the room where I started. With a ticket for public intoxication, I gathered my belongings and was let out the back door. 

In the cold January air, I saw Collin and relief rushed through my entire body. Relief so palpable that it took me a second to connect what was in front of me: it was Collin, yes. But it was Collin, bloody. 

Bloody, even though we had entered jail together fully intact. 

“What the fuck happened to you?” I said, my voice a shrill whisper.

“Not here,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Not here.” 

So we got into the cab that was waiting. 20 minutes and 28 dollars later (the question of cab fares and highway robbery will have to wait for another day), we stood facing each other in my hotel room.

“Okay, now,” I said. “What the FUCK HAPPENED TO YOU?” 

He paused, eyes shut tight. He spit blood into a plastic cup and staggered over to the sink. More blood.

And then, he began. 

[Note: If you’ve made it this far, I need to say this: Collin is a transgender man. He’s medically and socially transitioned, nearly completely, except for a critical detail in this case: his driver’s license still has his assigned at birth gender marker and birth name. For the sake of this story, I will be referring to him by his name (Collin), his birth name as such (birth name) and using his pronouns (he/his) and gender (male) throughout for clarity. If you need more information about transgender identity or have any questions, I highly encourage you to read this resource.]

When we were taken into jail and separated, Collin was left handcuffed. The officer who booked him looked at his ID, which features his birth name, and back at Collin, and then back at the ID.

“What ARE you?”

Collin is booked, still cuffed. He’s brought into an empty cell, much like the one I was put in. Except for a critical detail: when he is put in the room, the officer scowls: “Fucking tranny.” 

And hits him. 

In the face. 

So hard, it splits his lip, knocks his nose ring out, and causes him to fall to the ground, cracking his head against the concrete. He blacks out, and when he comes to, the officer is kicking him: once, twice, more in the ribs. 

He’s pulled off the ground and to another cell: this one with three or four other men who’ve been booked. He’s pushed inside, still handcuffed, as the officer announces: “Here you go, guys. I’ve got a pretty tranny for you.” 

…

The officer watches what goes on inside from behind the glass plate window in the door. Three hours later, Collin is taken out of that cell and placed into a third one, again empty. His handcuffs are removed.

Another hour passes and a new officer comes, takes him for release. Blood down his face, on his clothes, pooling on his shoes. His mugshot, present on the screen: no busted lip. No bruised ribs. No blood. 

He’s given the same ticket and is released, which is when he waited in the dark parking lot for me. Under the tree, moonlight dancing shadows across the asphalt.

The next 48 hours pass in a blur: he chooses not to press charges. I take him to the hospital, where he’s diagnosed with bruised ribs and a grade three concussion. 

The days that follow, I don’t sleep: I try to wrap my head around what just happened. I try to make sense of this incident within my world view, which is rooted in unrelenting respect and honor for those who chose to protect and serve. I don’t feel protected, nor served. 

He doesn’t sleep: he closes his eyes and he relives it. Every time, for weeks on end. Acute trauma, the psychologist says, not willing to assign PTSD yet. We muddle through. 

I go to California to clear my mind: an attempted reset before heading back onto the road. It fails, no matter how cute my niece may be. I go back to Wisconsin with the same mission: it fails again, as comfortable as home may be. 

I drive back to the town. I make my court appearance, determined to not have this mark my record, my life or my experience. As I stand, legs shaking in front of a police officer, who asked what I’m looking for in court that day. I tell him, and he begins to hem and haw. 

“The judge will have to consider,” he says. “You can sit back down.” 

As I turn to return to my seat, the officer who arrested us keeps staring at me. He turns to his colleague and makes a small nod. 

“On second thought, miss, that’s fine,” he says. “The judge can see you now.” 

I walk up to the bench, where I pay a fine and plead no contest in return for probation and — in six months — a clean record. I thank the judge and assure him that he won’t ever see me again. 

I get back on the road. Destination: west. Feeling: ready.