last train back to Mt. Vernon.”
“Bye, Mama, Mizz Nona,” I said hurriedly, pulling away from Keith as they stood up to leave. “Say hi to Daddy.”
“Think about what we talked about, Angela—the date,” my mother said. As she wrapped her arms around me tightly, I closed my eyes. Her hair brushed against my face.
“I love you, baby girl,” she whispered into my ear.
“I love you back, Mama,” I said as she walked out the door. The bouquet of Blue Nile remained in the air, clinging lightly to my clothing and stinging my nostrils.
Chapter 7
I slipped out of the house early Saturday morning, after explaining to Keith that I was attending a workshop on African-American women’s empowerment. A little black lie.
“Excellent, now that’s the kind of thing you should be doing.” He kissed me sleepily. “Let me go with you; it sounds good. I might learn something.”
“No, sweetie. I’m on assignment.” I pushed his head back down on the pillow and pulled the covers over him. “Besides, it’s a sistah thing. You know, we black women need our own space sometimes.” Sistah? I didn’t sound natural using that word. I seemed stilted, like I was speaking awkwardly in a language I hadn’t mastered.
“Yeah, okay, I hear you. And, don’t forget, we have that party to go to tonight,” he called out as he turned his back and tucked the covers under his chin. I slammed the door of our apartment, itching with excitement. No matter how many times I dug my nails into my palm or forearm, I couldn’t stop thinking about seeing Cait again.
The event was being held at the Jordan-Rustin Gay Lesbian Bisexual Transgender Community Center. It was brand-spanking new, converted from a rundown Presbyterian church less than a year ago, according to the Web site. It was an alternative to the more established gay center in the West Village. Mae was joining me, though I wasn’t sure that was a good idea. I had tried to discourage her, but she had been pushy, asking too many questions and insisting that she loved my “freaky little fact-finding work excursions.” Finally, she wore me down. She and I had planned to meet at a coffee shop on DeKalb Avenue to map out our strategy.
I had been standing in front of the coffee shop for a good fifteen minutes, and was starting to feel a bit annoyed at her for being late. She had acted so excited about going, so why not be on time? I had no idea what this conference was going to be like or what to expect, so I wanted to arrive early to get a feel for the setting and the scene. And look for Cait.
I liked the city post-dawn. It was interesting to see who was out and about. Not many people at this moment, save for a few families getting an early start on the day’s activities; some cheerful drunks, stumbling home; and a portly working girl—a woman with a huge afro, oversize Jackie-O sunglasses, knee-high heeled boots and a tiger-print micro miniskirt. I wondered what she was doing in this neighborhood at this hour; maybe a breakfast booty call. From a distance, she looked clean and healthy—unlike the wasted, tore-up sex workers I had seen trolling 10th Avenue in Manhattan offering blow jobs to truckers en route to New Jersey. As she got closer, I realized that the oversize afro was most likely a wig, and that girlfriend was most likely boyfriend. Then, to my surprise, sister-guy waved, and flashed a gummy smile.
“Oh God, who the hell are you supposed to be?” I gasped, my jaw dangling open.
“I am incog-Negro,” she said, looking at me over her shades. “This could be a hoot, but I still don’t want anyone at this lezzie sex conference to recognize me.”
“Don’t worry.” I grabbed her arm. Actually, as I examined her, she didn’t look that bad. The whole Foxy Brown cum Divine Brown thing kind of worked. “Come on, let’s not be even later than we already are.”
The scene at the Jordan-Rustin Center was bustling as we walked through the glass doors to the registration table. The lobby was filled with women of all shapes and sizes and colors, and there was a crackling excitement in the air despite the early hour. We approached the long registration table, manned—wo-manned—by an officious-looking woman about my age—a young Miss Jane Hathaway. Her name tag read “Lindsey.” She was flanked by two bulky female bodybuilders, standing sentry in front of the roped off entrance. There was no fee to get in, so I guess the trio was merely providing security of some type, stamping the hands of entrants with two inky interlocking women symbols. The three women were sitting under a lavender banner that read “Welcome to the First Annual Lesbian Sex Conference.”
As Mae and I tried to enter, the woman seated looked up.
“Just a sec,” she said, smiling nervously.
“Maybe you didn’t see the sign?” Looking at Mae, she gestured toward a small piece of paper, hastily taped below the welcome banner: “Women Born Women Only.” And “No Penises on the Premises.”
“You can get to the Transgender Safe Space by going out that door, and walking through the parking lot and around the corner to trailer A.” She spoke quickly before turning her attention back to her registration list.
Uh-oh, I thought. I guess this was their not-so-subtle way to keep men—former and future—out of the conference. My God, why did transgender people need a “safe space”?; was there some danger here? I wondered just how many men who had become women and who were now lesbians wanted to enter. I guess enough to try to exclude them. But why shouldn’t they come in? Maybe no one was sure who had what. How did they check? Were they actually going to try and feel up Mae hunting for, what, falsies? Silicone? I prayed that there was no panty check. Mae wouldn’t be having that.
Mae had missed the entire exchange, busy watching a pair of punk-looking girls, pierced nearly everywhere except their eyelids, kissing greedily. Noticing the holdup, she looked around impatiently, and asked, “Is there a problem? Because if there is, we are press…” she muttered, rifling through her purse for her media ID.
I stamped on her foot, and pointed my eyes to the sign to the left of the welcome banner that read NO MEDIA. I glanced at Lindsey, whose thin lips were pursed, her jaw set in a determined manner that screamed “no way.”
“What my friend—SHE—means is that we are pressed for time,” I said, straightening my shoulders and trying to sound haughty and in charge—like my mother. “Is there someone else we can speak to?”
Now annoyed, Lindsey said, “Wait there,” and stood up. Her two black-clad sidekicks stared us down. I felt nervous, praying that we were going to get in. Just then, the two young lovers unlocked their lips and looked up at Mae. One of them, the top of her hair dyed greenish-blue, whispered into her lover’s ear, and the two gawked at Mae, eying her with worshipful awe. They stood up and walked shyly over to us. “Miss Gray,” one of them said haltingly. “I love your work. ‘I Try’ is, like, my all-TIME favorite song. Would you autograph my stomach?” She pulled up her wrinkled T-shirt, and handed Mae a black Sharpie.
“Sure,” answered Mae smoothly, winking at me. She scratched her name sloppily into the woman’s skin just below her double pierced navel. At a very quick glance, Mae Green could pass for Macy Gray.
“Awesome.” The woman gave Macy-Mae two thumbs-up. She and her partner waved at us and walked happily into the conference, whispering excitedly to each other.
Lindsey had seen the exchange. “I am SO sorry, Miss Gray,” she said, handing us each a schedule of the day’s events. “I had no idea. Please, go in. Enjoy yourself.”
“Thank you.” Mae raised her chin and walked past them. I rolled my eyes. “You better knock that shit off, Mae. This is how rumors get started. Next thing, Wendy Williams will be giving Macy a ‘how you doin’.”
“Don’t say one word to me,” she hissed as we entered. “I am assuming we are ignoring the whole No Media rule, correct?”
“Correct.” I looked around the crowded room, teeming with energy. Small knots of women were drinking coffee out of paper cups and leafing