Stop and Shop, Exeter, New Hampshire, Wednesday night. I’ve got my driving snack of bread and cheese, plus I’ve perused the sale aisle and grabbed some tuna, pasta, and beans that are 10 for 10. I see her short hair first, then a rainbow beaded choker, just like the one I wore as a teenager, and a name tag - “Rachel.” She looks about 17 - a high school queer working the checkout counter.

While she rings up the person in front of me I scan the magazine rack and wish that she could see me as queer. Playing spot the queer was always the best part of any service job I ever had. And who know what kind of shit she puts up with in this little town, which is socially liberal but probably not all that open to diversity in gender expression.

She doesn’t give me any grief when I ask her to scan the manager’s card so I can get my 10 for 10 discount. I touch my polka dotted scarf, tied square across my forehead to tame my bangs. I hate this gulf between me and other queers. If I had a crew cut, or rainbow rings through each ear, or even if I was wearing anything but long silver earrings, a red fake leather jacket, and yoga pants tucked into hot pink boots, she might know. We wouldn’t have to name it, just make eye contact and smile at each other across the conveyor belt. I think of all the times I’ve wished to be visible.

Just a month ago, at my grandmother’s wake, I watched a long line of neighbors, former neighbors, and co-workers snake through the funeral home. I come from a large, Irish-Catholic family. I am the oldest of 10 first cousins in my generation alone, and there are still cousins of varying degrees whom I’ve never met. My grandmother moved frequently and adopted neighbors and parishioners into the family fold in every state. So it’s hard to know who’s who, who’s my dad’s third cousin, who dated one of my aunts back in high school, and who’s an old neighbor from Weymouth or Chelsea or California.

I eyed the stocky blond dyke in the tan suit who was talking to Father Whittle, a Catholic priest who was a close friend of my grandmother’s. She seemed to be accompanied by an awkward looking twelve year old girl with long dark hair. Neither of them looked black Irish enough to be relatives. Maybe she taught at my high school? I was dying to talk to her.

Eventually I wandered over to say hello to Father Whittle and he introduced them - his daughter, Patricia, and her daughter, Amy. I accepted their condolences and thanked him for helping take care of my grandmother. Patricia was wearing small black triangles, outlined in silver, in each ear. I waited for Father Whittle to be distracted and imagined what I could say to her. “We’re family?” No, too cryptic and old fashioned. What about “We have something in common?” Or maybe “Nice earrings.” I never got my chance. Later, during a lull, I squeezed between my mother and father in the receiving line and whispered in Dad’s ear “no one ever told me Father Whittle’s daughter was a dyke!”

Back at the grocery store, I play with the pen on the little shelf as she prints my receipt. Another cashier comes by, carrying a drawer. “Oh, thanks, Ethan” she says. Then to me - “I’m so hungry”
“Me too,” I say, taking the receipt. “I just got off work.” I look for a place to sign the receipt. “You don’t have to sign that, you know.” “Oh, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Probably because I’m so hungry.” “Or maybe you just like talking to me, and you want to stay longer.” “That too,” I smile, duck my head to look up at her, turn on the femme charm. “Have a good night.”

I take my plastic bag, bursting with boxes and cans, and smile all the way home.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, October 30th, 2007 at 8:27 pm and is filed under musings. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.