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Across the bridge, there are a million lights and night rider Iâm driving, New York City on my right. Steering wheel in my hand, journal tight to my thigh and that seventy-miles-an-hour highway lineâs hypnotized. And meditative thoughts materialize where Iâm chugging along the interstates, paraded by inquisitive nouns looking cock-eyed and inquisitive towns and wonder what this countrified city boy hides. And this time, itâs Raleigh to DC, New York and Philly; a love-seat on Monday; a pull-out couch on Tuesday. And on days this gray, I fold into myself like clovers after dusk; and on days this cold, I wonder what the road holds. I could beat a concept of home and I say the mournerâs prayer almost without thinking: sings in Hebrew.
Yes, I do believe in God; and no, this isnât Columbine, Iâm not answering with my life on the line but when a student asked me this question, âdo you believe in God?,â after an hour-long trans 101 lesson, she was looking for a life line. âCause her whole lifetime, she believed in water into wine, dying for your sins and walking on liquid; and here I was, taking Adamâs rib and turning it into something she had to question. sings in Hebrew
Your Hebrew. The loss of a daughter without gaining a son; and like âwouldnât it just, like, be easier if you just sort of, like, picked one?â For you? Well, probably; but for me, itâs all speculatory; for my family, yes. See, yesterday, I cut off the last parts of me recognizable in my motherâs silhouette; a pound and a half of flesh, and tomorrow yesterdayâs trash; and Iâm a little bit regret, and a little bit happiness. Witness self-hate. Witness mutation. Witness my fatherâs even breath breaking into hysteria and negotiation. Witness, witness awakening. See, I went to sleep proud and woke up feeling like a sell-out, like Iâm fucking the binary, like Iâm putting out for a system that would put up with me. Like now, Iâm part of this silent hierarchy we've set up for those who have transitioned medically. And really, well, thatâs not how I feel at all, so Iâm calling on this community to commute; to move past passing judgment âcause it was twenty-six years before I saw anything beautiful in me. Twenty-six years, each with 365 days, and between, nearly ten thousand dawns of dysphoria; of waking under waterfalls, waiting to be washed clean, or carried off. And we are eighty percent water, fluidity seems only natural, to change state â a birthright. Isnât that what weâre taught? That energy is neither gain nor loss; from lava to mountain; from fire to rockâ sings in Hebrew
Sit out parts in the highway; where exits grow so far apart that what is conceptually just a little ways to go becomes fifty miles of road between you and your goal sings in Hebrew. It is a conversational prayer: the service leader says one thing and the congregation answers Hebrew. Itâs a dialog for a pair; patchwork on asphalt; tar snakes are making peace. See, across the bridge, there are a million lights and night rider Iâm driving, hoping instinct brings me to insight.