Check me out on FilmFreeway for access to these project files.
Title: 94 Block
Logline: A kind-hearted Filipino boy growing up in ghetto Hawai’i gets a taste of the “thug life” and sets out to be a church-going meth dealer.
Genre: drama
Format: TV Pilot, 60 minutes
Writer’s Statement: I wrote this story about my hometown as a way of retracing my steps and reframing my childhood. I see this as a limited series with six to eight episodes. It could also be expanded to three seasons. A production like this would funnel capital directly into the community, where it’s needed, hiring local cast and crew.
Follow this link to the proposed soundtrack on Apple Music.
Why Am I Trans?
Title: Why Am I Trans?
Logline: A multi-ethnic trans man goes on a quest for truth, uncovering layers of thought-provoking nuance in this 60-minute performative documentary.
Format: 60 min documentary
Directed by Alethia Torres Produced by Azrael Torres Original score by Ryan Cassata Featuring music by King Aiden
⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ “At the intersection of race, culture, sexuality and gender identity comes a stunning and powerful portrait of an individual on an epic journey to wholeness and wellness. This is a must see for anyone hoping to understand navigating the complexities of life for transgender people.”
–Kasike a.c.ramìrez de arellaño, Higuayagua Taino Indian Tribe
The following is a teaser for a novel I never finished.
After accidentally creating a virus that catalyzes the rapid evolution of the human genome, Dr. Nikola Woolf is metamorphosing into a fifth dimensional being. In this scene, she has involuntarily traveled to another universe.
I was in some kind of palace. Light from the setting sun reflected off golden pillars, blinding my sight. I glanced down, to relieve my burning eyes, and noticed a mosaic of stones, lapis lazuli, turquoise, jade, and obsidian. My feet were barefoot on the cold tile. I stepped into a shadowy corner of the room, and whispered, “Where am I?”
A man walked pass me, and approached the sunlight. He was spectacular in a gown of golden threads. He dropped to one knee, and as he bowed his head, I saw her. “My queen,” he said.
The single throne must have been at least twenty feet in height. It was made of gold, mahogany, lion skins, and tortoise shell. It was occupied by a woman, adorned with jewelry and makeup. She was a brilliant sight, captivating, gorgeous, but there was something menacing about her.
“Where is my son?” Her voice echoed throughout the room.
The man stood. “Your majesty, the Roman army is at the gate. Octavius is on his way here, right now.”
“I said, where is my son?”
The man tensed with hesitation. I felt my throat constricting. “Queen Cleopatra, please. We are going to die. Our numbers are small and we cannot hold the gate for long. Please speak to Octavius and ask him to spare us.”
There was a suspended moment. Anxiety, fear, rage, and hope seemed to dance around a surreal carrousel. All of the multiverse was revolving around this moment. Whatever the queen decided would ripple throughout all parallel universes. Finally, the queen said, “Charmion, do you still consider me a friend?”
The man nodded. “Of course. Since we were children, you have been my best friend, Cleo. I love you. My queen, you have changed since.”
“Do you mean, since Octavius murdered my husband, stole my son’s birthright, and corrupted my soldiers? Yes, I have changed. Octavius is poised to destroy our sacred city, and you are asking me to bow before this filthy pig?”
Charmion cast his eyes to the floor. “I am begging you, my queen.”
“It shall never happen.”
I felt a storm brewing under Cleopatra’s skin. But she didn’t seem to move, and her voice was calm and confident. “Where, Charmion, is my son?”
I heard a voice from across the hall, the sound of footsteps. A young man stepped into the sunlight. I noticed his jawline, wide and definite. It was identical to his father’s. In that moment, I had a flash of recollection. I saw the young man’s birth, in a desert hot spring. I caught a flash of his first steps, walking to the arms of his father. I saw him, Julius Caesar, his face shape-shifted into that of… Kelly.
The boy was my son.
The young man held his chin up. His hazel eyes were honey in the setting sunlight. “I am here, Mother.
Confusion stole over me, first Virginia, now Cleopatra? This was a past life regression, surely. No, I could not have been these historical figures. There was another explanation.
The queen relaxed in her throne. I felt her exhale. “Caesarian, come.” Cleopatra’s voice was soft, like the white rose petals, from which Caesarian’s first bed was made. Her firstborn was her favorite.
The young man approached the throne. His heart longed to rush into his mother’s arms and adorn her with hugs and kisses. Instead, he forced himself to stand still, like a man. Caesarian clenched his fists and flexed his chest, back, and arms. He had been training with the Roman soldiers, and he wanted his mother to see that he was a man. It was his time to come of age. He felt ready. “Mother, I wish to sacrifice myself to Octavius.”
Cleopatra chuckled. “That shall never happen.” Now she was moving freely.
“Please listen. I never wanted to be dictator of Rome. I do not care for what Caesar did or did not do. All I wanted was to be here in Alexandria with you. I never wanted it to go this far. I do not wish for more bloodshed on my behalf. I will go to Octavius and ask him to cease the war.”
“Caesarian, my son.”
“Please, Mother. You said that I was destined to be great. You told me to behave like royalty. I believe this is what a regent should do for his country. Mother, do you see, this is why I practiced the Latin tongue, and I studied the Roman religion, and the Roman law. Not because I wanted to be like Caesar, but because I am a Roman. If Rome would murder their own kind, as they did my father, then I would be honored to die for Egypt.
“Mother, let Octavius take me back to Rome, let me be his prize, and let the city be spared. Or we shall all be dead by morning.”
I watched as Charmion held his tongue, and Cleopatra went inside herself. Another decision was to be made. The queen could not stop her son, but she would never approve of this plan. Charmion felt deep pride in Caesarian. I did, as well.
Caesarian stood with his hands behind his back, waiting, with respect, for his mother’s decision.
That’s when he walked in. I knew who he was. I felt him move right pass me, almost as if he moved through me. He stood beside the throne. “My queen, the tomb is ready. The army is here, we must move quickly.”
Cleopatra exhaled, turning her attention to the man. She ran her fingers through his dark curly lochs. “Marc, my love. I will be there soon.” They kissed, and he walked out. The queen waited another moment before speaking.
“Caesarian, do you remember what your father taught you about warfare?”
The boy nodded. “Yes, Mother. Marc Antony has trained me as well.”
Cleopatra leaned in and whispered. “Your father was the greatest warrior who ever lived. Rome is because of Caesar. The greatness that built Rome lives inside you. Go into my chambers, into my golden chest, and you will find your father’s armor and sword. Listen, son. I want you to go to Octavius, but I do not want you to surrender. I want you to kill him. I want you to avenge your father’s death. Do this, for me?”
Caesarian shifted. He glanced at his feet. I felt his throat constrict, his heart grow heavy. He fought the urge to cry. He returned his eyes to the queen, pushing his emotions down below. “Yes, Mother. I will do this for you.”
“I love you, my son.”
Caesarian jumped into her arms, knowing they would never embrace again.
The next I knew, I was laying on the office floor, gasping for air.
It was published in 2012 by Regal Crest Enterprises. Unfortunately, due to life’s circumstances, I had to part ways with the publisher. The truth is that I stumbled onto a film set and fell in love. But that’s a whole other story.
Fiction will always be my first love.
I shot a promo trailer with the intention of shooting a full-length film. The funding never came and I moved on.
There are a few used copies available on Amazon here.
Katie North works on her Master’s thesis in Secular Theology when her dad, a conservative mega-pastor trying to reckon with his guilt and budding social consciousness, asks her to come back to church to help make reparations with the LGBTQ+ community, yet Katie isn’t interested in serving the institution. She’s on a mission to protect the vulnerable and deconstruct toxic doctrine while building a new theology that helps her community thrive, all while reconnecting with her first love, Jay, now named Jacob.
SAMPLE CHAPTERS:
Prologue: My Thesis
Humanity does not need religion to dictate ethics, for we each are born with an innate moral compass: our hearts. Religion, at its best, offers glimpses of truth, but no single tradition holds the entirety of the divine. Only together, in peace and humility, can we assemble the greater mystery of existence.
My name is Kate-Lynn North. I’m a graduate student studying Secular Theology at the University of Nevada Las Vegas, and this book serves as my master’s thesis.
Between these pages, I’ll weave together a memoir with theological arguments, cited statistics, and social critique. This creative work asks its readers to do more than analyze. To understand, rather than to merely know, I ask my readers to empathize.
Intellectual labor alone cannot and will not provide effective solutions to the multiple crises our species faces today. We must evolve and adapt quickly to stabilize the chaos of the climate crisis, food insecurity, nuclear threat, and the rise of fascism, and reorganize ourselves into the great global ecosystem we have the potential to become.
There is an anthropological purpose for human diversity. Nature is collecting data, a library of survival strategies that significantly increase our chances of survival.
“Diversity is necessary to healthy transformative survival: and diversity is also one of the underlying sources of social conflict on this hair-trigger nuclear stockpile we call Earth. It should be seen universally that the loss of cultural diversity is as threatening as the loss of genetic diversity to the maintenance and salvation of humanity on Earth and in space. Diversity allows the kinds of specialization and interdependence characteristic of a complex and highly evolved culture. Delight in difference will thus become necessary, like oxygen, if humanity is to survive. Infinite diversity in infinite combinations is a key to survival.”
Consider this: if nature insisted on creating a variety of cultures that in turn created many different paths to the Divine, perhaps our survival also depends on our ability to come together and share ideas. To call holy people from all over the world, to gather the pieces of the puzzle and see how they fit, and perhaps behold a much grander vision than any one nation could have seen in isolation.
“Imagine there’s no heaven / It’s easy if you try / No hell below us / Above us, only sky / Imagine all the people / Living for today…” —John Lennon
ACT 1
Chapter 1: My Journal January 12, 2026
I can’t believe he’s asking this of me. My dad. The same conservative mega-pastor who sent me to conversion therapy. The same one who told me to pray the gay away. The same dad who once thanked Jesus that I didn’t put a bullet in my head like Kevin did, and then turned around and forbade me from seeing Jay. Yeah. Him.
I’m not a kid anymore. I know that people can apologize without actually changing. They can soften without taking accountability. They can learn just enough language to sound like they’re evolving while keeping the same conclusions tucked safely underneath.
Living by the golden rule means accepting others as they are, as I’d like them to accept me. Sure, I could argue whose identity is inherent and whose can or should be changed, but that’s a matter of perspective, too. I can’t make people understand what they just don’t get, and they can’t make me believe stuff that just doesn’t make sense.
So, after the conversion therapy. After the funerals. After Jay and I broke up, and after I came out as an ex-Christian, not an ex-gay, they did their best to accept that I would never fulfill their expectations. And I accepted that they’ll never be the parents I need them to be. And that might be okay. Not because my needs aren’t important, but because I have another family who meets those needs.
Chosen family is everything.
I go to my parents’ for dinner every Sunday. This is neutral territory. They know I won’t go to church, but I can be a part of their holy day in the most secular way possible.
Tonight, it’s just my dad and me. Dinner is over, and the dishes are in the washer. Aside from that, it’s a quiet night. Their cat, Jinx, purrs at my feet. They got it after I moved out. Empty nest sadness, they called it.
He sits across from me at the kitchen table, bald head shiny, thick hands folded, posture calm. Pastor calm. He grips a coffee mug and waits for the right moment. That’s part of his talent as a pastor. He prepares the soil before planting the seed. It’s like a Jedi mind trick. He just sits in the silence… and waits.
I’m receptive now. I can feel it coming. I sip my chamomile tea….
Finally, Dad says, “I’ve been praying about something dear to my heart.”
Of course he has.
“It’s time our church did better.”
I wait. I’ve learned not to rush him. Silence makes people say more than they intend to. I have my own tricks, too.
“It’s not right what’s happening,” he continues. “The current administration…” he shakes his head. “I’m partly responsible for putting them in office. Nevada swung red for him, and… well, I told the church to vote red. I mean, I didn’t say it like that, but I pointed them to the Bible, and the Bible pointed to him, and I didn’t warn them about wolves in sheep’s clothing. I can’t believe I didn’t see it.”
I avoid his eyes. I’m afraid that if we make eye contact, he’d feel the depth of my rage, and I might come off as overly aggressive. I’m trying to temper my anger, you see. Not for him, but for me. As much as things have changed, I still need my dad. “Gee, Dad,” I say, “it’s almost as if I told you he was a con artist. It’s almost as if half the country has been saying it for ten years.”
He exhales, seems to deflate. It’s a rare sight to see him defeated. “I shouldn’t have mixed religion with politics.”
“Told you that, too.”
“Yeah. I was wrong, Katie. I was dead wrong.”
“Yup.”
“Are you enjoying this?”
“Kind of,”
“Well, go ahead and eat your heart out then.” He sips his coffee. “You know, I see what’s happening in the Latino community. And in the LGB…TQ…” he pauses to make sure he’s got the letters right, “…plus?” He peers at me, waiting for my approval.
“Yeah, Dad. I mean, there are more letters now. But you can just say queer, you know.”
He shakes his head. “No, no, I don’t think so. I think you can say queer, since you’re part of the community. Because… wasn’t it once a derogatory word?”
Now he’s virtue-signaling. He’s saying, See, I really do care. Look, I’m trying.
I exhale.
“Anyhow, the flipping Christian Nationalists are destroying our republic and making a mockery of the Church. And, well, I remember when you said that the name of Jesus was being defamed. I think you called it blasphemy. I didn’t get it then. But now I do, Katie. I’m sorry I didn’t see it before.”
I open my mouth to tell him that it’s okay. Except it’s not. I pause to change my response. “…I appreciate your apology, Dad.”
He nods. “I’m thinking of a new ministry,” he says. “We need to make reparations.”
“To the queer community or the Latino community? How about the Black community? Native? Women? Muslims? Pagans? The Church has hurt a lot of folks, Dad.”
He glances into his coffee mug. “I know, Kate. Between us, there’s only so much we can do. But with you being who you are, I think we should focus on the… can I say ‘the Alphabet community?’”
I chuckle. “That’s cute, but no. It’s up to us to define ourselves.”
He smiles, a real smile. Warm and open. “Well, you know, it’s something y’all ought to consider. The Alphabets. Kinda has a ring to it. But anyhow, let’s get back on track. The ministry… at its core, I want it to ask, ‘What Would Jesus Do?’”
“Jesus would be flipping tables, Dad, and condemning oppressors to hell.”
He takes a deep breath. “Maybe you’re right.”
Maybe.
He says it gently, like an offering. “I want you to lead the ministry. The Apostle Paul said, ‘I was weak to the weak.’ Maybe queer to the queer?”
“I thought you weren’t going to say that word.”
His eyebrows scrunch up, like he’s confused. “I was speaking as if I were queer. Queer to the queer. Belonging is implied.”
“I get it, Dad, but if you’re going to minister to the community, you need a simple, consistent message. If you say the word ‘queer’ isn’t for you, don’t say it.”
“Katie, I want you to be the minister.”
I look at his hands. The same hands that signed the paperwork. The same hands that rested on my shoulders while strangers told me my intelligence was leading me down a dark path.
“You want me to go to seminary,” I say.
“No, your Secular Theology degree will do. You are graduating this summer, right?”
I nod.
“Well, if you accept this assignment, the elders are prepared to make you a pastor.”
“Dad, I’m not a Christian. Do you know why I chose Secular Theology?”
“Because you disagree with the Church. But you still believe in Jesus, right?”
“Yeah, but not the same way you do.”
“You act more Christian than a lot of Christians I know, and I respect that. Our church is multi-denominational. We have differing beliefs. We don’t have to agree. Many of us have lost touch with the outside world and… we, we need your insight.”
I sighed. I didn’t expect that. I studied Secular Theology to deconstruct the doctrine I inherited.”
He raises his hand in defense. “I get it. America is moving into a post-Christian era. I know now, it’s not because they’re evil. It’s because the church is flawed.”
“That’s an understatement.”
“If Christianity is to survive,” he continues, “we need to adapt.”
“Well, that’s true.” I pause. “How does Mom feel about this?”
He looks away for a quick moment. A buffer. Whatever he says next will be a half-truth. “She agrees with me. She wants to see you fulfill your potential.”
“You mean fulfill your expectations.”
He sighs. “You can do anything you set your mind to, Katie. You’re brilliant. We’d love you if you chose to sell hot dogs on the corner. And. Our church wants to brand itself on conservative progress.”
“That’s an oxymoron, Dad.”
“We need more female pastors.”
“I won’t be tokenized.”
“You’re being impossible.”
“No. I’m being for real. You want me to come to the table but not speak my truth? That doesn’t work.”
He leans back in his chair and peers into his mug.
I take a moment as well. Let the tension dissipate. He is trying. His intentions are good. And I don’t see any other church leader trying to make amends with the community. I should be proud of him. I mean, I am. Yet… he’ll never understand. Maybe I should stop wasting energy trying to explain and just state my boundaries.
I decide to speak into my anger. “You sent me to conversion therapy,” I say.
His face tightens in pain. “Yes, I did what I thought was right at the time. I’m sorry.”
“And now?”
Now he hesitates.
“It’s not man’s job to convert people. I believe God works through the school of life,” he says. “Through patience. Through obedience.”
There it is. The hope, still breathing quietly between us.
“You still think I’m wrong,” I say.
He exhales. “I still believe in the Bible.”
I laugh. A bitter, angry laugh.
He holds out a hand in defense. “I’ve heard your cherry-picking argument. You’re right, we don’t follow every rule. But it’s not up to me to choose which rules to follow. In any body of people, specifically the Church, progress is tempered by conservatism. Democracy requires a majority agreement. This is the way.”
I ignore his attempt to lighten the tone with pop culture references. Nothing about this is funny. “What about the people in the margins you claim to care about? What about God-given autonomy? What about people having their own personal relationship with God and differentiating, for themselves, relevant values from ancient history? You want me to help queer folks survive a church that refuses to stop hurting them,” I say. “You want me to stand between them and the same theology that results in murder and suicide.”
Side note: LGBTQ+ folks are four times more likely to attempt suicide than the general population, while transgender folks are 7.7 times more likely than cisgender folks. For the general population, religiosity is correlated with reduced suicide ideation and attempts, but for the LGBTQ+ community, religiosity is correlated with increased risk of suicide (theTrevorProject.org).
My dad doesn’t need statistics because he went to Emo and Kevin’s funerals. He witnessed those religious parents, who were members of his church, and they were devastated, not only with unspeakable grief, but with irreparable guilt and ever-consuming regret. He watched me, his only child, mourn my best friend.
“That’s not fair,” he says.
“No,” I agree. “It’s accurate.”
The room goes very still.
Outside, somewhere in the distance, a siren passes. Neither of us moves. Within the silence, a memory surfaces.
Chapter break: Orientation at First Sight. April 22, 2009
We had just elected Barack Obama, our nation’s first Black president. At sixteen, I was elated. I thought this meant we were past racism, past our nation’s dark past, and I looked forward to electing a woman in the coming decade. Of course, I was a naive sixteen-year-old, half-white and very privileged.
My mom was the daughter of a Mexican immigrant who decided not to teach me Spanish because she didn’t think it would help me get ahead in life. English is the future, they said. Just like my grandmother decided not to teach my mother the Native tongue, Hiak Noki, in favor of Spanish. My dad told me that after he married my mom and she got pregnant, he was worried about how their brown child would fare in this society. It’s tragic to know that my Mexican heritage and any potential brownness were deemed negative in contrast to the privilege I’d be afforded if I weren’t brown at all, and by my own parents. If I could go back in time, back to the day my parents found out they were pregnant, I would appear to them like a biblically accurate angel, with four heads: one of a lion, another of an ox, an eagle, and a human, with great wings covered in eyes. I would visit them in the middle of the night and in a great, terrifying voice, say,
“Hark ye, colonized Americans. Thy child is a descendant of the great Yaqui Nation, whose sacred land was rudely crossed by thy imperial, imaginary border. Thou sacred garden was granted to them, as they were appointed stewards by the Lord thy God. Thy heritage of thy child is worth more than all thy white privilege thou evil empire can afford. Cast thy brownness out not, for the Lord thy God is pleased with thy Indigenous American culture, saith the Lord thy God, Almighty among men and women and nonbinary folks everywhere.”
Too bad they never got that message. In any case, my whiteness became more and more evident as I stepped out from under the protection of my parents’ home. I could never have guessed that our first Black president would trigger a tsunami of white supremacists to rise and attempt to dismantle our republic, Hitler-style.
At that time, the beginning of the Obama years, I was sixteen, a Junior in high school.
The cafeteria smelled like pizza. The kids were loud and obnoxious, like usual. Chanel was home, sick. Or out skipping school and not telling me because she considered me a goody-two-shoe. I didn’t mind having lunch alone. I enjoyed my solitude. Who gave a shit what others thought of it?
By the way, my friendship with Chanel didn’t last past graduation. We chose different paths, and that’s okay. I wish her well.
“What’s up, Katie?” That was Ben, Varsity Wrestling. He stood beside my table. “Why don’t you come to the kickback at my cousin’s place?”
From the corner of my eye, I noticed his white and red varsity jacket. I said, “No thanks. I’m not really into it.”
Ben took a seat across from me and ran his fingers through his blond hair. “Why not? I’m bringing enough beer for both of us.”
I averted eye contact. I didn’t want him to think I was playing hard to get. “No thanks, Ben.”
I dug through my bag.
“Are you shy?”
I didn’t bother looking up at him. I pulled out my phone and texted Chanel.
U suck 4 not coming 2 school.
Ben won’t leave me alone!
“I’m not shy. I’m just not interested.”
“Are you gonna eat that?” I glanced over as Ben pointed to my chocolate-glazed donut.
“Yes.”
He frowned. “What are you interested in?”
An idea flickered in my mind, and I pulled out my chemistry textbook. “I’m interested in chemical science.” I opened it up to the chapter I’d read the night before. “Wanna study with me?”
Ben glanced at the book and peeked at his wrist watch. “No. Science is boring.”
I thought he was about to get up and leave.
He drummed his fingers on the table. “So, about the kick back, I can pick you up around eight and—”
“I’m not interested, Ben. I said no three times. Please, leave me alone.”
There was laughter. Someone was eavesdropping. It came from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder, and I saw her.
My eyes rested on her face.
Her black hair fell and curled under her chin. I marveled at her lips, full and glossed in glimmer. Her smile imprinted itself onto my chest. Yet, it wasn’t until she met my gaze that I fell in love. Her eyes were light brown, behind dark lashes. My heart stopped, I think, and I quickly looked away.
I turned and saw that Ben had gotten up.
He narrowed his eyes at me. “I know why. You think you’re better than everyone. You’re not, you know.” Ben left.
I turned again toward Jay, but she was in conversation with a bunch of skater kids. I’d never noticed her before. This was the moment that everything changed.
It wasn’t love at first sight. It was orientation. But I didn’t have those words at sixteen. The words I had were “sin,” “temptation,” and “impure.”
Long story short, it was hell. My mind fought for the imperial doctrine, just as it was conditioned to do. My heart fought for its own nature.
Chapter Break: Jay is for Jacob (he/they) November 12, 2026
I enter the coffee shop and see him sitting alone on a loveseat, a ceramic mug in hand, lost in his thoughts. The music is cheerful, about a new love connection. I take in the smell of coffee and the sounds of baristas clattering about, shouting names.
I stare for a few moments. His hair is short with a clean fade, yet his facial hair is still patchy, still in negotiation with his face. He’s handsome. I never thought I’d be attracted to a guy, but Jay wasn’t just a dude. He was a man who understood what it was like to live as a woman. What’s hotter than that?
His eyes flicker in my direction, and we hold each other’s gaze. He stands, a smile brightening his face. For a moment, I wonder what would have happened if Jay had been living as a guy when I met him. I would probably have introduced him to my parents as my boyfriend. We’d get the purity sermon in the living room. Dad would privately lecture him about house rules and such. Jay would come to church, just once, as a sign of respect, and that would be it.
I’d never get sent to conversion therapy. I’d never question the authority of the Church or the Bible. As much as that seems like something I would have killed for back then, I’m glad it happened the way it did. If I didn’t come out as a lesbian, I’d still be that sheltered little girl who believed everything she was taught. There’s a high chance that I’d be on the wrong side of history. And that would be the worst tragedy of them all.
I’m glad he was a she when I met him.
As it was, almost ten years of distance stand between us as I approach.
He stands, grabs me, one hand on my shoulder, the other reaching for my waist, and pulls me in for a hug.
The light stubble on his face scratches my cheek. I cherish the warmth of his body. The clean scent of his cologne. Underneath that, there’s a musky smell. That’s new. I feel his muscles tighten around me, then relax as he sighs.
“Thank you for calling,” he says.
A flood of emotions surfaces, and I pull away before they overflow onto my face and blur my makeup.
His hazel eyes meet mine, gentle yet ever present. “Thanks for coming.”
He has a girlfriend, I tell myself. And she’s not you.
We sit as a server approaches with a mug, “Here we go, a caramel macch with coconut. Enjoy,”
“Thank you,” Jay says. “It’s hers.”
“Oh,” They turn and hand me the mug.
“Thank you,” I say,
“Of course, enjoy,” and they walk away.
Jay leans back in his seat and crosses his legs. “I kinda assumed you still take your coffee this way?”
The sweet liquid warms my mouth as I sip, grounding me in the moment. “I actually don’t take sugar anymore, but this seems like the perfect occasion for a treat.”
He chuckles. “Look at you. You’re all grown up.”
I turn my attention back to him, letting my eyes feast on his new face. Wider. Shaper. Furrier. “So… you look great,” I say.
He smiles, a new smile. It brightens the room and opens up something inside me. “Thanks, Katie. You do, too.”
I get this nostalgic vibe, like we’re in high school again, except it’s new and exciting. “How does it feel?”
“Like… freedom.”
“Yeah?”
“Surgery next month, I can’t wait. As soon as I’m healed up, I’m going to Mexico, and I’ll be shirtless the whole time.”
I nod, mirroring his smile. “I’m so happy for you. Is it still Jay? He/ him?”
“Jay for Jacob,” he says. “He/they, I think.”
“Okay, what about your past self? When I think about who you were back then, how should I refer to that person?”
He drums a finger on his chin. “Good question. I guess it depends on the company. If you’re with like… church people, best to keep the pronouns consistent. They don’t need to know shit. But among chosen family, go ahead and use the feminine pronoun. I kinda miss being a lesbian.”
I let his words linger for a moment before chiming in. “Well… I hear some trans guys still identify as lesbian. You don’t have to let that go if you don’t want to.”
He sighs, “I do. I’m pansexual now.”
We make eye contact, and a silent communication passes between us. His eyes search mine. They ask: Is that okay? His smile answers his own question. He knows it’s okay. He knows he doesn’t need my approval. He knows I’m happy for him.
I feel my face mirroring his, joyful.
His smile is contagious. He goes on, “It’s crazy how hormones can change your sexuality and gender expression. It’s led me to believe that most human expressions are gender expressions.”
“Really? Can you give me an example?”
He leans his head back on the sofa and stares up at the ceiling. “Well, remember I was such a beer drinker? Like I wouldn’t be caught dead with a fufu drink at the bar?”
“Yeah. You loved beer.”
“That was me playing the gender role, ‘stud,’ you know? I didn’t even realize I was doing it. Didn’t realize it was a gender role. Studs can’t drink margaritas. Studs can’t date men. Studs are supposed to be like men, but better. Studs should be able to do anything a man can do, but better, faster, and smarter, in all the ways that matter.”
“That sounds like a lot of pressure.”
“Yeah, I mean, as much pressure as it was… the male gender role is a hundred times worse. A stud is still a woman, and women aren’t required to compete with men. So, studs are compared to men when they excel, never when they fall short. When they fall short, society sees them as merely women, so it’s expected.”
“Interesting.”
“It’s all shit,” he says, “we need to dismantle the whole fucking thing.”
“Agreed,”
“Anyway,” he went on, “I was so loyal to that gender role, I couldn’t even let myself know that I really wanted a margarita.” He made a fist and pounded it into the sofa cushion. “I fucking love margaritas!”
“And men?” I asked.
“That, too.” He met my eyes. “That was unexpected. I had to confront some homophobia inside me.”
“You? You’re the least homophobic person I know.”
“I thought so, too, until I found myself wanting men. My first thought was, this isn’t okay, I don’t wanna be a gay man.”
I nodded, thinking of Kevin and Emo… “Yeah, I can only imagine what that’s like.” Then, I felt the warmth of his hand on mine. I glanced at our hands together, feeling the chemistry between us, mingling with grief. I met his eyes.
His light brown eyes looked deeply into mine. Without words, he said, I know. I miss him, too.
We sit in silence for a moment as the emotions surface. Our hands touching. Our grief stirring. A tear slides down my cheek.
Jay leans over to me and pulls me into his arms.
I let my head rest on his chest, flat now under a binder. I inhale his scent, his pheremones. I close my eyes and listen to his heartbeat. This is where I want to be. With him. My heart aches with desire. I don’t just want him. I want us.
Then, in a moment, he pulls away, retreating to his side of the couch. His body. His energy. His personal space.
I miss him. The ache in my heart intensifies as I feel my heart reaching out, asking, where did you go? Why? I remind myself that he has a girlfriend, and she’s not me. I exhale and notice that he’s tense. I pick up my mug and sip, daring myself to ask, “Tell me about your girlfriend?”
He presses his lips together and sips his coffee. The expression on his face tells me that he’s feeling guilty. Guilty for hugging me? Holding me? Or feeling something more than friendship? He fixes his face and fakes a smile. “She’s amazing.” He picks up his phone and glances at it, probably just a nervous tic, but it makes me feel like he wants to get away. “But, hey, enough about me,” he says, “What’s going on with you? When you called, it sounded serious.”
I exhale, refocusing my attention, allowing thoughts of us and not-us to dissipate, and letting the energy of the situation surface. The anger, frustration, and hope. “I’m finishing up my master’s in Secular Theology,”
“Secular Theology,” he asks?
“Yeah, it’s a Humanities degree, it’s basically social ethics, but from a deconstruction lens. Most of us are sociology grads.”
“Ah. Very cool. Very you.”
“My dad wants me to use my degree to lead a queer ministry.”
He nearly spits out his drink. “Holy fuck. And? What’d you say?”
“I said a lot… and not enough. He wants peace but not accountability. Comfort, not truth. But…” When I look up, I realize he’s staring. We hold each other’s gaze as my heart softens into a dull ache.
Finally, he finishes my sentence.“…but you think you can minimize the damage, at least for the queer folk in his church.”
“They have ten thousand members now, Jay. Ten percent is… that’s a thousand lives.
He exhales and shifts in his seat. “You know, I never wanted this for you. I always hoped you would just leave the church and never turn back. Become a Buddhist or a Pagan even. I hate what Christianity does to you. It demands the best of you and gives back the worst of it. Humiliation. Oppression. Trauma.” He shakes his head. “You deserve a spiritual path that doesn’t require you to take abuse…” He shakes his head again, sighs.
“But I also know you can’t ignore suffering when there’s something you can do about it. I love that about you. You’re more Christ-like than all those pricks on TV put together.” He locks eyes with me again. Oh, those beautiful hazel eyes. “But besides all that, Katie. What do you wanna do? I thought you wanted to be a stage actor?”
“That’s a pipe dream.”
“No, it’s not. You have the right to do whatever you want with your life. You’re not obligated to save anyone.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
I exhale and sip my coffee. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I hadn’t deconstructed enough. Maybe I’m still caught up in a savior complex. Still… he’s right about the fact that I can’t ignore suffering when there’s something I can do about it. I glance back up at him.
His eyes scan my body, desire on his face. He can’t hide it.
Of course, my heart quickens. My skin seems to reach for his hands. I get a flash of us: his new body, my tender heart, on the kitchen counter. I wonder what he’s like now…I shake my head. He has a girlfriend, and I’m not her.
When his eyes meet mine, he turns away. “Shit, fuck.” He chuckles, clearly embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I… I’m acting like a guy, aren’t I?”
I give him a forgiving smile. “You’re allowed to be a guy, Jay.”
“I know, but,”
“Do you?”
He chuckles as he leans forward. “It’s really good to see you, Katie.”
“You too.”
**This work is human-authored. I use ChatGPT for research and Grammarly for minimal grammatical corrections. .**
I am grateful for my life today, for every breath, for the ability to convey these meager words. I barely escaped the Underworld with my life. Here I lament, for although I have gained much, I…
I went on a journey into the darkness. It called to my soul and I succumbed to its gravitational pull. A stone falling into a bottomless well. As if my own Self were there beckoning me into the unknown depths. Where the damned slept in their feces. They looked up at the ever-grey and stormy sky, while their siblings stepped over them, cursing their stench. And the angels wept.
I was there. Among the houseless, the mentally ill. I broke into my father’s house for a bit of medicine, his good rum. Well, I was desperate. My father had forgotten long ago, the son he never had. The rum was all that was good from my lineage.
I made friends with the Paisanos, traded all my dignity for mere moments of relief, for freedom from the madness of this upside-down world. Like a drop of water in a burning house. And the ones without shoes never judged me.
I found myself in a jail cell, a psych ward. I found myself in a straight jacket. Unable to do the most simple of tasks, put hand to mouth, hand to dick. Hand to hair. I would have pulled every strand as an offering to the ghosts. God knew they needed help. I called for the nurse but she insisted it was for my own good.
I saw handsome demons dressed as conquistadors and priests, proudly bearing my family crest. They boasted of power and wealth, and the everlasting meal of human flesh. They held out their hands to me, swore I would not miss my soul. It was my empathy that caused me pain, they said. Then they laughed heartedly in my face as I cried out for Holy Fire.
Vomit at my feet. The Curandera’s song shook me until my body contorted. The high of her voice, the depth of her lyrics, the boom of her drum. Each moment dissolved with the structures of my mind, maddening chaos. Whispering haunted memories. I couldn’t stop it.
I saw myself curled up behind the dumpster. I could not get up, not even to shit. Bury me in shame and self-hate. All I wanted was to not feel the pain for one moment. All I wanted was medicine.
I prayed for death. The angels were happy to oblige, to put me out of my misery. They stood about me, outlined in psychedelic colors not visible to the sober eye. I knew it was my time. I felt my soul being ripped from my body and the Angel of Death, he said he was only answering my prayer. I cried. I screamed in protest like a fish on a hook, fighting for one more chance at life.
The cop in the emergency room asked me why. “I don’t know,” I replied. “I’ve nothing to live for, yet I cannot die.” The nurse glanced at my vitals, and told him to leave. I cried. And cried.
My abuela was there, holding me. I saw her through the eyes of a babe. I remember her smell, like cigars and malta, sweat mixed with tears. I tried to touch her face, but couldn’t reach. I tried to speak her name but only the sounds of an infant was heard. Was I dead? Was I reviewing my life?
Then I was there on my knees on the blood-stained field, the hot sun on my bare back, my hands in the dirt, mourning the ones who were left to rot. The bones of the ancestors spoke to me and I let my tears fall upon the earth. I swore to the heavens I would. I would.
I prayed for a miracle. Everyday. While my siblings traveled the world and celebrated their youth with good food and even better booze. I envied them as I stayed on my knees and fasted and prayed. I curled up in a ball and listened to the tales of the ghosts. I prayed for them and watched as they walked home.
Then I heard a voice. My whole body resounded with its every issue. The only light in my dark world. I was enraptured, like a moth to a flame, I could not look away. I was fed, taught, and rocked to sleep.
When I awoke, I knew things I could not understand. To make a pilgrimage on hands and knees, like a baby who couldn’t yet stand, I was charged. To ask my senses, my mouth, is this milk or glue? I crawled then I walked. I taught myself how to swim.
Still I traveled. I turned my head from the ones who hurt me. I spoke to the trees and squirrels for the people could not understand my foreign speech. I sang to the ghosts and angels and they remembered my song. I danced with the one who would become my best friend. Like a Hawk and Tiger, taking turns at land and sky. We cried and sang together.
At the summit of the mountain, the lion’s lair. The weight of the pain was too heavy. I set it down somewhere along the treeline, with an offering of my greying hair. I bathed in the ice rivers. I sat with the fire. I watched the stars talk to each other.
One in particular took a liking to me. She traveled down a ray of light and watched me as I watched her. I told her what life was like on Earth. I will not bypass the pain. I will not abandon myself in the darkness. She listened to my dirge and shed a tear for the human race. She promised to speak for us in the higher courts.
Now here in the quiet valley, the pain and joy, the love and rage, like northern lights that fall upon the path at my feet. I’m grateful for this. I still have questions, still hear the ghosts. The adventure calls me forward, a Sagittarian bow, a soft open heart.
Thank you for these meager words. Thank you for the milk and the glue. Thank you for the freedom and the straight jacket. Thank you for my every breath.
I know that I’m never alone.
Thank you, reader, for your presence here. May we all hear the song in our souls. May we sing in chorus, one day, the stories of how we walked each other home.
As a child someone asked me “what do you want to be when you grow up?”
I’ve been thinking….
I want to be open, like a timeless book of pulp pages, soft between her fingers, folded dog ears and memorized lines, night time by the fire side, her hands on my worn leather spine, repeating cycles, rewind, revising stories for spatial time, let me be the empty chalice for her maturing red wine.
I want to be strong, like the brick walls she pounded with bloody fists, red dust falling at her feet, electric fences overhead, the violence of the pendulum swing, as she found her way inside my ribcage, like a tender flame, I would cup my hands and swallow the wind, let me be without fear…
I want to be generous, a tree, a leaf, a seed, and mud, to build castles in the clouds with the ink from my blood, with my breathless body, silent yet free, a labour of passion wrapped carefully, in scar tissue and purple stitching, a gift that keeps on twitching, let me be the flood
That overwhelms the parts of her that have never been loved, the lighthouse that blinds her dark waters while her demons writhe like fish out of the sea, let me be, the Creator who grants them legs, the Darwin to her painbody, the Easter to Good Friday, let me the sacrament of blood
That runs through her holy veins, the spirit that moves through her temple, from the volcanic peaks of her rage, to her ocean trenches of grief, let me be her silent howls at the moon, the flowing blood of her course, let me be one with her force, like a rouge Jedi knight to her secret sith, a terrible Darth Lilith, set free, ‘cause if she asked me, I would follow her down any path, you see.
I want to be the love that never leaves, to sing painfully out of key, ballads of memories, collect seashells along her Plutonian shores, cut love coupons from my skin, for redemption, keep bitter receipts, and movie stubs, deep, hidden pockets, under our flaming wings, transcending, transmuting, expending, intruding, yeah, pushing and pulling, two of cups, overflowing, renewing, alchemical caldron now brewing
An ambrosia to remember, a goddess, I remember, set free from sleepy amber, a soul beyond gender, extreme polarities temper, and tempest, quiet down, gather ‘round, and astound the ones who see her true face.
You see, her true face is a reflection of me, a mirror to see, more clearly, a love, for love, to love her, I love me, for love, this is me, to be me is to love, is to be free.
So to the children inside me, for little ones in she, to the question “what do you want to be,” Mije, please reply,
The following playlist is a musical archive telling the story of my 2021. I started doing back in 2009 this as a way to reflect on how much I’ve grown through the years. I recommend listening to it in chronological order. I hope someone out there enjoys this. ❤
I remember how he used to visit me everynight, holding me in the dark, a cold pistol to my temple.
The rage and pain rocked me like a crack baby, while I spat prayers of peace and silence between the waves of grief and coughing snot.
I’d come to depend on the pain he brought me. I appreciated his loyalty.
How long had I been trapped in that prison?
Between my thoughts, in every silent moment, where the mystics sought Nirvana, I found only Hell.
Of course, I left this world. I escaped this body. Why remain in this tortured state when psychosis is free medicine? And oh, the realms I’ve explored.
But that’s another story.
During the day, I felt the shadow stalking behind, whispering of failure and worthlessness. His pistol to my head, threatening my life with his hatred. After so many decades, I’d come to believe his lies.
I remember the moments he stole, like the time my parents remembered my birthday, and as everyone sang Happy Birthday to me, he whispered of disgust and shame.
Or when I almost had a good time at that party with some people I didn’t know, he took hold of me in front of everyone, called me a worthless slut.
From then on I was the “psycho worthless slut.”
And despite how much he couldn’t stand me, he came, night after night, with the barrel of his pistol to my head.
Why not pull the trigger already?
Then something changed. Over the course of 20 years, or so.
I was sitting up in bed, listening to the silence between my thoughts and realized that I was not in Hell. I remembered from whence I came.
As every person I ever hurt, and all of whom have hurt me, came before me carrying a black box. I opened my heart and offered them Love.
One by one, I retrieved my soul and reclaimed by peace, turning enemies into relations. Until he came forward.
His face hidden behind his pistol, his heart behind the words, “I hate you.”
His arm, grotesque with muscle, bulged out of his torn shirt.
While the skinny left arm hung useless, an impotent worm.
I stood, an epiphany opening like a rose bud on a frosty morning, and went to him.
“I remember you, Brother. I know why you hold your weapon out like so. I know why you’re here. Do you remember?”
He shoved his gun in my face, pressing the cold barrel to my head. “To kill you. I hate you.”
The stench of rotting corpses spewed from his mouth, the sewage of his heart.
In the past, I believed him. But now…
I nodded. “Yes. Should I have taken a dark path, should I have been a danger to the people I love, should I have failed at my mission, it was your job to kill me, to spare my soul the burdens of evil. It was me who gave you this task.”
His scowled face melted in understanding, while his tears fell down my cheeks. I reached out to take the weapon from him, but changed my mind.
“You did your job well, Shadow. My soul belongs to me and my body is safe, thanks to your vigilance. I have a new job for you now. Keep the weapon concealed.”
Shadow lowered his arm, and I saw his face for the first time. He was just a boy in need of a bath. “I did good?”
I nodded, “You did good.”
He smirked. “I can eat? I can sleep now?”
“Of course.”
So the Shadow took refuge in the center of my heart, while the others watched and began to ask, “What about me? I can eat now? I can sleep?”
Image Credit: Unknown: The drowning of conquistador Diego Salcedo sparked the uprising of 1511.
The following is an oral retelling of the first contact with Christopher Columbus on the Caribbean island of Boriken, more commonly known as Puerto Rico, leading up to the Taino Rebellion of 1511, according to my great-grandmother, grandmother, and father.
My name is Kaika, but some of you remember me as Lu. I met Niki about 15 years ago, while we were in our early 20s. It was a memorable time.
It’s no secret, Niki was a party animal. It was the Pride festival, Freezone, GirlBar, and Nine Fine Irishmen, especially Nine Fine. We made any excuse to get drunk on the dance floor. She was my cheerleader when it came to tearing it up.
Left to right: Niki, Kaika, Logan, Marissa @ the Las Vegas Pride Festival
She was the responsible one, though. I don’t know how many times she refused to let me drive, made me sleep in her guest room, not caring how jealous or controlling any of my girlfriends may have been, or whether or not I’d get broken up with the next day. She likely saved my life.
What I loved most about Niki was her passion. I can’t recall how many times she started a sentence with, “I want you to know that I care…”
I remember how much she loved her students. Throughout the years she shared letters written by her children, drawings, reports. When there was a child who needed help, she shouldered their burdens and needed to talk about them. Although none of us minded, she would often say, “Okay this is the last thing I’m going to say about work. Okay, okay, I know I said that was the last thing, but this is really the last thing I’m going to say about work.”
I remember telling her how important she was to the children of this world. I told her that not all, but many of her students would grow up, look back and tell stories about Ms. Franklin, “the teacher who believed in me,” “the teacher who stood up to my parents for me,” “the teacher who encouraged my obsession with Percy Jackson and Greek Mythology,” lol.
I remember thinking, ‘man, I wish I had a teacher like that. Just one teacher like that would have changed my life.’
Then I realized that Niki was my teacher.
Yellowman concert @ the Hard Rock
Earlier this year, I deleted all my social media accounts because I realized that I didn’t know how to be a good friend. I confused likes and follows for love and loyalty. This is me at 38 years old. I wanted to know who my friends really were. I wanted to know who would take the time to text and FaceTime me. I wanted to know who those true friends were and I wanted to love them back.
Niki showed me what it meant to be a good friend. She genuinely cared about how I was doing. She carved out time to text and talk. FaceTime was important. She gave thoughtful little gifts, cards, photos. She made it a point to express support of my transition. For a trans person, that support could be the difference between life and death. And she knew that. I know that I’m not a special one.
Niki made such efforts to accommodate all her friends, and I marveled at how how she was able to consistently put her love into practice for so many people, for so many years.
This past summer, her, Logan and I reconnected in a way we hadn’t in a long time. The last time I saw her face, just a few weeks ago. I was at a bar, FaceTiming with Niki and Logan, virtual happy hour, and we took a stroll down memory lane. I got to tell her how much I appreciated her friendship and why. We celebrated my wedding. I got to feel like I reciprocated her love. For the first time, I felt like I was on the path to being a good friend.
Now, I’m back in Vegas but I swear we were planning to kick it, drink my first batch of mead, and celebrate life, not have a COVID funeral!
Well, class is over. I seem to have graduated, and it’s time for me to go out into the world and become the friend I want to be. Here is where I cherish the memory of my friend, teacher, and role model.
If you’re reading this, it’s most likely because Niki has touched you somehow. You loved her, didn’t you?
When you go home tonight, whether you find yourself numb, drowning in tears, or trying to assign some sort of meaning to the fact that when the world needs people like Niki most, she’s gone, or whether you’re desperately trying to make yourself personally responsible for her death, as I know I have, I want you to know that Niki cares about you.
And you’re not alone.
We may not be friends. We may not know each other. You may never hear from me again. Yet, through our love for Niki, we are connected. And anytime you grieve for her, we are here with you in this emotional space. I want you to know that Niki cares about you, and you are not alone.
Thank you, Niki, for sharing your life with us, your light, your love, and all your gifts. I pray that we learn to celebrate life with gratitude for our every breath. I pray for the peaceful journey of your beautiful soul. Please forgive us for our selfishness, for wanting you here in this crazy, chaotic world, when we know deep down that you’re in a much better place.
Thank you for your time.
Today my wife and I planted a Chilean Mesquite named “Demeter,” dedicated to the memory of Niki Franklin.
The windstorm and the wild fires have stolen my rest, roused by the howling of the night sky, the forest creatures’ blackened faces pressed against my bedroom window, asking, “Do humans still have souls?”
An answer one might quest, lest I find myself caught up in some violent tempest, within, cobwebs and funnels, spun, like broken records, replay, nostalgic for smallness, this funeral, today…
How does the morning appear? Like an old newspaper, repeating historic nightmares, and fear, the far, natal stars charting fate, as the darkness fades, we believed, we obeyed, so naive, still dismayed, and prayed, our hearts blue, waiting for a savior (within you).
Then we worshiped with weapons, knelt to paper and holy books, innocent blood for sacraments, shook and deceived, bent, kneeled, agreed, while demons in mirrors made pancakes for breakfast, and we demanded pig, too.
The dark ballad resounds through the space opera house, as the morning sunlight creeps in, enlightening, the lighting, we find reasons for living, and forgiving, the pink of a rose petal, the whimper of a pet.
The most precious of secrets are hidden in plain sight: the trees produce golden fruit, the clouds only speak truth, and empires are for sociopathic children.
I woke up in the East and spent my day playing with the Salmon fry, while the Lion crossed the Sky.
The ceremony, our hands tied, crowns switched, my wine and her chalice, like Alice, and one sip, just one bite, vegan cake, love, and my wife, and this life, well, it’s just beginning…
Azrael Torres 