When I think about my upbringing in the lush, sticky heat of Florida, I think about my chosen family: meeting my wife between the bookshelves of a lesbian literary journal; laughing with my best friend in Miami; crash-landing on rural, trans-owned land and staying for months on end. I think about the elders who shaped me. The motorcycle-driving butch who left me small, perfect eggs from her farm. The wry dating advice from a 65-year-old doula or the hilarious truisms dished out by a gay barber who’d seen it all. I think about the strong shoulders of the south I’ve not only leaned on but stand on, too.
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