"Our blood is our nation."
I took those words with me this morning.
I kept them in the pocket of the rain jacket I wear every day, with the hood on, zipped up to my chin to hide my hair, the emblem of White womanhood that I shaved off once a month for seventeen years, like a ritual, when I was a Lefty tormented by "gender dysphoria," hair that has now grown out long and luxurious, a gift to my husband, a magnet to the black and brown men who cat call, follow me down the street, reach out to grab me, who take it personally when I ignore their "good morning, honey," as I walk five blocks to the bus stop at 6am to labor for the Jew, to support my family, to survive.
In fact, I'm keeping those words.
Our blood is our nation.
I hope you don't mind.
July 9, 2024
