Zimzir and the Dragon, by Jennifer Angelina Petro

Zimzir and the Dragon

By

Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

Before Word

Being friends with a dragon takes some getting used to.  For one thing their digestive systems are always rumbling like an old car.  When they burp, which is often, foul smelling smoke comes out of both ends, and little spurts of fire sometimes ignite nearby curtains or sofas.  Another thing is that they sometimes eat people which is hard to explain to the authorities when they come looking for said eaten person.

However there are many benefits of being friends with a dragon.  For example, they eat people—people who are bullying you or harassing you, which really cuts down on being bullied when word spreads that people who pick on you end up disappearing, leaving only a few bits of hair and sneakers behind.  Another benefit is that they burp, and foul-smelling smoke comes out of both ends—which is another good deterrent for bullies—as are the little spurts of flames aimed at particularly sensitive areas on bullies.

You might be wondering why I have so many bullies flocking around me.  You see, I am trans—transgender.  And I’m a kid.  I was born nine years ago and everyone thought I was a boy.  And even though I was born with the parts that would make some people assume I was a boy, I am a girl, and I know I’m a girl.  My parents know now as well—after years of me insisting on wearing dresses they finally got it.  Not that dresses defines being a girl, but my folks are old-fashioned.

I am one of the lucky ones.  My parents both accept me.  I also have friends who do as well.  It wasn’t always that way though, and when I first came out things, shall we say, got ugly.  And that’s where being friends with Harbor came in handy.  Yes, Harbor is my friend dragon, and he does by ‘he.’  My name is well, we’ll get to that, and this is the beginning of many beginnings and the end of many endings and the beginning of many endings and well, you get the idea.

 

Zimzir and the Dragon.

As I said, my parents were told I was a boy when I popped out on a cold winter morning in January.  My parents named me, “Joseph.”  It was an OK name, except it didn’t fit.  At first, I didn’t understand why it didn’t fit. It just didn’t.  Sort of like accidentally putting both legs into a pair of pants.

My parents were pretty OK though, and so I began to grow up, or, well, as I like to think of it—grow down.  You see, I always felt like I was an alien or something.  Like I came from up there in space somewhere.  I just felt different from the earthlings around me.  And so, it took me a few years to come down, so to speak into this body I didn’t want or ask for.

When I was a toddler (which is a really funny word if you think about it) I used to toddle to the laundry basket (my family did do laundry, but always left the clean laundry in a basket in my parent’s room, and I knew this, so I would, as I said, toddle to it, and then, with some effort, toddle over and into it, sort of like a misguided cat).  Once in the basket I would do an artistic little dance as I sat there on the clean laundry with quite possibly a stinky diaper, which consisted of me throwing clothes around the room while I sang (the artistic little dance, that is, not my diaper).  “Sang” isn’t quite the right description of the vocalizations that came out of my mouth. My singing was more like cows yodeling.

While in the laundry basket I used to fish out the “women’s” clothes and wrap them around my head.  Then I would giggle and slobber into them.

And here I want to say that, of course, clothes (and toys, for that matter) (and well, anything for that matter, especially kids) (unless they want to be) should not be gendered.  So, I put “women’s” clothes in those little quotation mark thingies just to let you know I think it’s absurd that people think there is such a thing as “women’s” clothing.  For the rest of this story, however, I am not going to use quotation marks, mainly because they are annoying.  Trust though, whenever I mention women’s clothes or boy’s clothes, I mean (with a big roll of my eyeballs) (eyeballs is also a funny word) that I mean “women’s” clothes and “boy’s” clothes.

As I grew down some more, I used to go into my parent’s room and not only fish out my mom’s clothes, but I try it on and parade around the house. This made my mother laugh and my dad yell.

“Take those off, Joseph.  Those are girl’s clothes.  You’re a boy,” he would say.

To which mom would say: “Oh, honey he’s just pretending.”

To which I would say to myself: “No, I’m not.  These clothes might be too big for me now, but they are the kind of clothes I want to wear forever.”  And then I would take them off and treat them as if they were threaded with gold, and fold them up neatly and put them back in the laundry basket.

One day, when I was around seven, I was at my cousin, Annabelle’s house, and I stole one of her dresses and wore it to school the next day.  I felt so proud and happy.  It felt like I was wearing cool, refreshing sunshine.

Sitting in the principal’s office after getting sent there by my teacher for causing a ruckus in class just because I was wearing a dress, was the first time I remember wishing I had never been born.  “This sucks,” I thought, “I just want to be myself and everyone either gets mad or thinks I’m a joke.”

And while waiting for my mom to come bring me a change of clothes, I heard Harbor for the first time.

I say, “heard,” because the first thing I heard was a fart.  I looked around the office.  No one else was there but me.  Upon sniffing however, I knew someone, or something—judging by the intensity of the fart-smell—was with me.

Then I heard a burp and saw a little burst of smoke and flame appear in the middle of the room near the ceiling.  I jumped and let out a little scream.

“It’s alright,” said a voice that sounded like gentle thunder.  It was a sound that soothed me and resonated through my lungs, “It’s just me, Harbor.”

“Hhh-Hhh,” was all I could manage to say. I sort of sounded like I was practicing dramatic exhales.

“Harbor,” the voice said again, causing a little storm to wave pleasantly through my heart.

“Harbor?” I said, “But, where are you?”

“Right here,” came the voice.  And then, there—right there—in Principal-Poopy-Pant’s office (not his real name) (unfortunately), the air in front of me began to shimmer and quiver and take form and color and weight, and as it did, a dragon appeared before me—large, aqua green with purplish markings and wings folded neatly against the ceiling.

“You’re a dragon,” I sputtered, and my mouth, if it could have, would have opened down enough to hit the floor.

“Yup,” he said, “so I am.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I am here for you.”

“For me?” I gulped.  “Like, here to eat me?”

“Oh no,” said the dragon.  “I am here to be your companion.  If you will allow me, that is.”

“Why do you want to be my companion?  Do I need one?”

“Because I want to be.  I know what it’s like to not be accepted for who you know you really are.”

“You do?”

“Yes.  And ‘yes’ to your other question.  We all need companions sometimes, and you have an especially challenging journey ahead, and I am offering my services.”

“Services?” I asked.

“I will be your protector; guardian angel, if you will.”

“I see,” I said, “I’m not sure what to say.  I mean, here I am, in trouble again, talking to a dragon.  I’m not sure how I feel about that or having a protector—let alone a dragon protector.  I’ve always had to protect myself.  I’m used to it, even when I do a crumby job at it.”

“I see,” said the dragon, “are you saying you would rather me go?”

I hesitated a moment, and then said, “Yes.  I have always felt alone and that’s sort of how I like it—or at least, sort of like how I’m used to it.”

“That’s fair,” Harbor said, “I’ll just be going then.” And the dragon began to dissolve into the air.

“Wait,” I said, standing up for the first time since this encounter began, “can I change my mind?  You know, if I decide later I want a companion, can you, I mean, will you, still be there?”

“I’m sorry,” the dragon said, pausing in mid-disappearing into thin air, “I may not be here for you.  There are many like you who need protecting.  However, someone will always be there for you, even it isn’t me.”

And as I stared hard into Harbor’s eyes and saw nothing but oceanic light, and kindness, and wisdom, and a sly sense of humor, I found myself saying: “Wait, please.  Stay.  Actually, being alone kind of sucks.  Well, not all the time. Sometimes I love being alone and need to be alone and wish I could be alone forever, but in general, I have no one who accepts me as me, and you seem to.  So, will you stay?”

With that Harbor fully materialized into the office again and lowered its great head down to eye level and said: “It would be an honor.  And now, what shall I call you?”

I looked at the ground and shuffled my feet. “Well, my given name is ‘Joseph,’ but that’s not the name I want or call myself.”

“Well,” Little One in the Beautiful Dress, what would you like to be called?”

I looked up at Harbor and couldn’t believe I was about to tell someone the name I had always treasured secretly in my heart.

“It’s OK,” Harbor said, “you can tell me later.  On your time.  Always on your time.”

His voice rumbled gently through me.

“Besides,” he said, “we have work to do here.  We need to get you out of this pickle the limited minds of the grown-ups around you have put you.”

“How?” I said.

“Watch,” Harbor said and winked, and then, shimmered into invisibility, but not before breathing a little puff of fire and placing it on my head where it disappeared into me like warm apple cider. And before I could say a thing, Principal Poopy Pants came out of his office.

“Your dad is here,” he said, “and he’s not happy.”

Just then, the office door opened and in stormed my father, jeans and a t-shirt in hand.

“What were you thinking, young man?” he said, lifting me from the chair by my arm.  “Why do you do this?  I don’t get it.  It’s infuriating. Why do you want to dress like a girl?”

“Because I am a girl,” I found myself shouting, my whole body feeling as if it was filled with some kind of strange, warm power.

“You are not a girl!” my dad and the principal shouted together.

“Yes, she is,” said Harbor appearing suddenly in the room, smoke and ribbons of flame streaming from his flaring nostrils, his voice thundering.

My dad and Principal Poopy Pants leapt into each other’s arms and turned around to look at Harbor.  They screamed like frightened sheep.

“Get this into your heads,” Harbor said, lowering his own to meet their terrified eyes, “If you still want to keep your heads.  She is a girl.  She feels better in dresses.  Accept her for the truth of who she knows herself to be, or else.”  And he puffed a burst of smoke around their heads.  They coughed and tried to wave the smoke aside.

“But,” my dad began.

“But nothing,” Harbor growled.

“But…that’s my son, my son Joseph.”

“That’s not my name!” I shouted, and I felt like my words were smoke and fire.

Harbor puffed out a little flame that came inches from my dad’s nose. “Don’t,” said Harbor, pausing before growling the rest of his sentence, “Ever. Call. Her. That. Again.”

“But,” my dad attempted.

And then Harbor roared a roar that shook the furniture in the room.  “No buts!” He bellowed.

“OK…OK,” my dad said.  And then he looked at me, “This is going to take some getting used to.”

“Then get used to it,” Harbor said.

“Yeah,” I said, “Get used to it.”

I had never sassed my dad before, but instead of getting mad, he bent down and looked at me, gently putting his hands on my shoulders.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “I think somehow I’ve always known, but I was afraid of what others would think, what people at church would say, what your friends or grandparents would say.  But, if this is who you are, then I accept you, and will do everything I can to help you feel accepted.  I never want you to feel wrong about being who you are.  I’m so sorry.”

It was the first time I ever saw tears in my father’s eyes.  I teared up too, and so did Harbor, who sniffled out a little fart scenting the room with, well, dragon fart smell, which was a lot like burnt toast, not altogether unpleasant, like the smell of horse poop that smells like mowed grass and straw.

“Now,” my father said, still holding my shoulders and wiping a tear from my eye, “what would you like to be called?”

I bowed my head and then lifted it up proudly and looked first at Harbor and then at my father.  “My name,” I said, with all the power of a phoenix rising from the flames, “is Zimzir.”

My dad smiled and stood up and turned to Principal Poopy-Pants.  “Mr. Poopy Pants,” he said (and I burst out laughing), “This is my daughter Zimzir.  She likes this dress and she is going to stay in it and you and your school are going to everything in your power to help her feel accepted.  Educate the students, teachers, parents.  That’s your job. So, do it.”

“Yes,” added Harbor, breathing fire tinged smoke around the principal’s head, “Do it.”

Principal Poopy Pants shook his head like a bobble head in a car on a bumpy road.

And so, my father walked me back to my classroom, opened the door, looked at the teacher and then the other students seated at their desks.

“People,” he said like a warrior announcing the arrival of a princess, “this is may daughter, Zimzir. Whatever you may have thought of her before, this is who she is and if any of you have a problem with that you will have to deal with me.”

“And me,” said Harbor snaking his great, scaly head into the room.

The class and teacher screamed and Harbor winked at me and then disappeared.

The other kids shook their heads not knowing if what they just saw or heard was real.

My dad looked down at me and said: “You want to stay here…Zimzir, or would you like to go for some ice cream?”

“I want to stay,” I said, looking up at him and smiling, “let’s get ice cream after school.”

“You got it,” he said and turned to go pointing his finger at the teacher and class.  “Remember what I said,” he warned.

And as I walked proudly to my desk, I looked out the window and saw Harbor.  He looked like he was about to fart.  The classroom windows were open.  He got up real close to the window and winked at me.  I plugged my nose.  I knew what was coming.  I sat down, smiled at him and knew I was me.  Zimzir.  And I, Princess Zimzir had a protector forever.

 

Afterword:

We may not all have a dragon as a friend, or parents who accept us.  We can dream though, and we can do our best to be ourselves in however form that takes, and in however time that takes—even if it takes a lifetime.  We need to do what is best and safest for us.  And since not all of us have dragons, may we all be Harbors for one another—safe places we can go when we need understanding, support, love, laughter, and a place we can burp and fart with wild abandon.  May we all be dragons and protectors for one another.  May we lift each other up and take care of one another.  And if you’re reading this and you’re not trans, then accept your kid, accept your friend, accept your relative.  Or else. I know someone hungry just waiting for you to make the wrong move.  Live your faith.  Be a parent.  Be a friend. Be an ally.  Be a Harbor and breathe fire for the sake of people like me.

 


 

 

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Can You Imagine?

Can You Imagine?
By
Jennifer Angelina Petro

 

 

Who would ever tell autumn leaves

They really should have stayed green?

Sure they were born all manner of greens—

Supple, minty, luminous shades;

Can you imagine a moment knowing

You were golden inside even though outside

You had always presented otherwise?

Can you imagine the terrible joy?

Can you imagine new colors beginning

To show and spreading to the tips

Of your fingers, without being able to stop them?

Imagine you were really a fire of purple

And blazing red, imagine you ingested

Bits of the sun and now bloomed orange

And lemon and vermillion,

Imagine reminding everyone of apple cider

And hay bales, and mazes made of corn fields.

Can you imagine?

Can you imagine opening enough

To include the miraculous?

Can you imagine what it is like to realize

Once you discover who you really are

That you have to let go of root and branch,

And leap into the wind, swirl onto rivers

And streams, and dance into the wild,

Blue, accepting sky without knowing

Where you will land?

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

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No More

No More
By
Joseph Anthony Petro

 
No more, he begged, crumbling to the floor, curling into a ball,
No more.

No more, he said, standing, fists clenched, shoulders straight,
No more.

No more, he whispered, gathering the frightened children in his arms,
No more.

No more, he wept, looking at himself in the mirror,
No more.

No more, he prayed, kneeling by the grave,
No more.

No more, he shouted to the sky, to the endless road,
To the silently falling snow,
No more.

No more, he cried to his nightmares, as he entered them
With handfuls of stars,
No more.

No more, he said to his tears, no more pretending
You are laughter. Fall. Fall without shame or censor.
Fall and water the roots of this moment.

No more, he said to his rage, no more thinking you have no place.
Do what you will—the world was created in fire.

No more, he said to the memories, no more hiding.
It is safe to breathe here, and to become light.

No more, he said to his heart, no more denying our brokenness—
Let us fall to pieces. There are those who will help us reassemble a way to live
And to love.

No more, he said, taking his soul by the hand,
No more going it alone.

 

 

 


 





Allowing Birdsong

Allowing Birdsong
By
Joseph Anthony Petro

There is a softness
In the pain
Just big enough
To crawl through
And cry, like
A baby.
There is a softness
In the pain
That opens
Just wide enough
To allow birdsong
To filter in.
There is a softness
In the pain
That you can
Sink down into
Without any thought
Or care of what anyone
Thinks or says or does,
Where you can surrender
Deeply into the coldness
That is a broken heart,
Knowing it will end,
It has to end. The pain
Cannot last forever.
And the softness–
The softness will gradually
Begin to radiate out
Encompassing things, like
Love, mercy, self-acceptance,
Determination, other people,
And the growing ability
To allow yourself
To be happy.

 



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A Living Bridge

A Living Bridge
By
Joseph Anthony

roots of trees 2

A Living Bridge

Right now, this very moment,
Roots spread vast interwoven networks
Of lace and hands held in intimate solidarity,
Fingertips touching in honest exploration,
And filaments gathering nutrients
From underground rivulets and raindrops,
And then, these divinely rooted roots, in their total,
Moist and cold darkness, allow light
To draw the sustenance, lift
The sustenance up through the body
In the slowest possible pulse of sweetness.
This is all happening beneath our feet
And our uncommon awareness. But know it now
And then do the same with your sorrows.
For your life depends on it,
And there are others in darkness,
Doing their best to hold on.
And there’s more:
Tress not only radiate below,
Expanding in darkness,
They radiate above, outstretched and planted
In sky, extracting nourishment from the surrounding sphere
Of influential light, drawing it in
Through their reaching and holy availability,
And then they transform their daily bread of sun
Into air for all living things.
Do the same with your joy.
With fragrant, open hands, share the wild fruits
Of self-awareness, and the colorful leaves
Of letting go into the moment,
And the sheer strength of being there,
Day in day out, steady and true.
Be a living bridge between below and above,
In the clear space of listening and speaking,
In the shared truth of existence sway
In jubilant wonder, dance
In the holy middle of being alive.

tree sycamore


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You and Our and the Magical Arithmetic of Hope

You and Our
And the Magical Arithmetic
Of Hope
By
Joseph Anthony

You and Our

And the Magical Arithmetic

of Hope

 

In the shared space pain takes up,
Camaraderie prevails.
And it isn’t so much
That the pain doesn’t matter,
Those partaking of this bitter bread
Give thanks for the nourishment it brings.
And even as they accept me
Into this holy fraternity,
This circle of understanding,
This affiliation of grace,
I stand myself apart and say: Your
Rooms, your fellowship,
My pain, your pain.
One of them brought this
To my attention and I am grateful.
So much depends upon unity,
Upon the shared understanding
That weaves through and through
Each agent of mercy, each emissary that carries
The gifts of sadness and transcendence.
And so I stand and take fledging steps
To the edge and then into
The Community of Our:
Our pain. Our rooms. Our healing.
And as I take my place amidst and among,
I sit neither below nor above,
I am simply one of the many,
One of a band that grows, like
Ripples in a pond,
Like the fragrance of honeysuckle in spring,
Like the good thoughts of forgiveness
And humility, like a song sung by the One
Who is the Ultimate Our and You and I
And We and Every Living Thing,
And on we go,
One tapestry of hope,
One table of plenty shared,
One perpetual thanksgiving
Of you becoming our
And our becoming more
Than the sum of its parts,
And the sum of its parts
Becoming the magical arithmetic
Of hope: things subtracted
Become the variables that give way
To the addition of constants
Like love, understanding, acceptance, humor,
And miracles, yes, miracles
Are a constant,
That when combined
Multiply a thousand fold, pressed down, shaken together,
And running over into a joy that equals
The priceless gift
Of serenity.


 


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