A Suit for My Wedding

It is traditional, for women or female presenting people, to wear a skirt or dress to ceremonies. It honors the incarnation we’ve been given, though people sometimes wear as they wish as long as it’s in the right colors.

I typically wear a dress. It’s the first time in a long time I’ve been legit comfortable in one. The leggings underneath help—nobody wants to moon motherfuckers when they get possessed.

For my upcoming wedding to Danto, I ordered a suit. I think I startled Papa with that one. I’m not wearing it to express masculinity, which is how it’s usually worn. It’s royal blue velvet, to be worn with a blood red shirt, red rose tucked into my braid. I am so proud to wear her colors.

I ordered it for her. See, Danto and I have something in common—we have been what we’ve had to be. Masculine where we needed to be, as if masculine was merely acting in defense of children, loved ones, or home. Feminine we are, but a feminine who did what needed to be done, what no one else would do.

I have faced a lifetime of disapproving comments, speculation on my gender for this, that, or the other minor trait, or merely a willingness to get things done. Cutting, nasty questions about whether I have a dick and sympathy for any man who would be burdened with me from people who believe femininity is synonymous with weakness, who need woman to be lesser and believe their imagination is the law.

God knows I’ve been faced with enough violence for the crime of defense.

Next month, I will stand in my suit, wearing roses and makeup and perfume, with my waist length hair and my rubies and rosary and silver, as entirely myself.

I will tell my wife:

My love, my love, we did what we must and we are still beautiful.

These scars are our beauty.