Transgender Dystopia Blues Part 2: Fix Your Heart Or Die
- Ro Salarian
- 4 minutes ago
- 10 min read
This is a follow up to my previous essay in which I wrote about one week of my trans life in 2025. This is about another week, one that went a bit differently. This was a week of taking power back, although it's not without loss as well. Just know that this essay gets to end in a positive note, unlike the last one.
To recap, the local queer bar that is like a second home to me was threatened by a local man who is a self-proclaimed fascist as well as a pedophile. He was kicked out for verbally abusing trans people, and responded by saying he was going to return in a few weeks and enact some kind of revenge. That put his return smack dab in the time I was set to perform a very pro-trans act at that bar alongside a bunch of drag performers.
I waffled over whether or not I could or should or would perform. I was afraid for my own safety, but I was also afraid for the safety of everyone else, and I worried my act could be seen as "poking the bear" so to speak. I changed my mind day by day, even minute by minute. My friends were split down the middle about whether I should or shouldn't do it. I felt like I had to walk a very thin tightrope between empowering trans people and endangering them by being too uppity.
A week before the show, the producer texted to ask for a definitive answer about whether I was going to perform. I still couldn't make up my mind so I went to talk to her in person at the shop she runs, another queer business that has been suffering this year. We both talked about feeling guilty for going forward with the show, for promoting the show. Were we asking people to show up for their doom? Was that irresponsible? I felt better knowing that in addition to the regular beefed up security, there would be armed guards at every entrance, hired from a private security company run by queer PoC, but what would we do if this fascist brought friends?
A couple customers heard us talking. They said they were still coming. They said this show was needed more than ever. And I realized that if even one person was brave enough to come out to see a show, they deserved to see a show. I had to be that brave, too. Plus, everyone I knew was going to be there, and if they all died, what would I even have left? The grief and the survivor's guilt would be too much to bear. And grimly I knew that a bullet in me might mean one less for somebody else. The show would go on, and I had to be there.
Incidentally, this song has never meant more to me than it does now. Freddie Mercury wrote these lyrics while in the final months of his life, dying from a different mass queerphobic disaster, AIDS. Freddie famously had stage fright all his life, but he did it anyways. He faced it with a grin. He never gave in. Sometimes performing is scary, but not as scary as the thought of not performing. I had reached that point.
Four days before I was set to perform, the city council held a special meeting to discuss this issue with the community. The threats against The Avenue were not the only threats made this year. The queer-friendly cafe across the street was harassed by fascists taking photos and videos of all the queer and trans people inside. Pride flags have been ripped down and burned. Slurs were spray painted on a bunch of queer businesses in my neighborhood. In each instance, it was on the victims to clean up the mess and take steps to protect themselves, often for hefty prices spent upgrading security. In each instance, the police did nothing.
This was my first city hall meeting. I was supposed to spend the day celebrating my best friend's engagement, but I went to this meeting instead, joined by about 50-60 other members of the community as well as the media. I went to listen. I went so that I could hear firsthand what was happening. I wanted to meet other people who were involved on all sides of this issue. I listened to about 20 other people talk, including our lone nonbinary state representative, about the unfair burden on our community to protect ourselves while the city protects the people who threaten us.
I truly didn't intend on speaking that evening, but I found words coming to me, and I jotted down some notes on my phone. I had never done anything like this before, and I was very nervous and sweaty, but I raised my hand to speak, and they called me. This is not word-for-word what I said, but this is what I worked from:
I am set to perform at the Avenue Cafe on Saturday, to use my freedom of speech, but I've never had more stage fright in my entire life. In 15 years doing drag, burlesque, and performance art, I've never been this scared. The first amendment is not equally applied to everyone. Some people have more freedom to speak than others and some of those people have used their free speech to threaten the trans community. We have laws against hate speech, but laws that aren't enforced fail to be laws. Why we have hate speech laws is because hate speech is terrorism. An act of terrorism has been committed in Lansing. One man's words have terrified the queer and trans people of this entire city. The terrorism doesn't start with the gun, it starts with the words. A balloon popped at the Ave and people thought we were about to be the next Pulse massacre. And it got me wondering, if that gunman had given warning that he was coming, would anyone have taken steps to prevent it? Would anyone be proactive about it, or would they also be met with a shrug? Ally is useless as a noun. It's a verb. It requires action. Reaction is almost always too late.
Afterwards, a bunch of reporters asked for my name to quote me in their articles. I told them my name was Rowan but that I didn't feel safe giving my last name. In the end, many reporters decided not to publish anyone's names for this reason. The video recording of the meeting was taken down, as well. To be safe meant not getting credit for my words.
My impression of the city council is that they are spectators more than they are allies. They are rooting for us, but they don't feel they can do much because politics. Despite all the suggestions given by the community, they still seemed baffled about what to do. While I do think it was responsible of councilman Jackson to wonder if declaring Lansing to be a sanctuary city for queer and trans people might put a target on our backs from the federal government, they do not seem to understand that for queer and especially trans people, the target is already there. Nothing much got done except for the decision to... hold another meeting.
At the end of this session, almost as an afterthought, it was revealed that the police had closed their investigation of this still-active threat, citing no crime had been committed, despite the fact that the man making the threats was a felon on parole. Yet I know that if I walked into the police station and said the exact same words as that fascist did, I would be arrested immediately. The owner of the bar under threat called me a couple hours later to talk about some stuff. She was furious that she had to find out this way that the case was closed. They did not inform her directly. The man was still free, and the police would not be patrolling the area anymore.
The day of the show arrives. I'm nervous. My stomach is so twisted into knots that solid food won't go down. I think I lost five pounds from anxiety poops. I was sweaty. I was shaky. And I was excited.
I got to the venue at 7pm, four hours before I was to perform. Most of the people in the building were staff. I saw as the armed guards arrived. Despite quitting drinking 15 months ago, I wanted to order a shot. Weed would calm my anxiety but make me unable to perform. I had to be stone cold sober. I managed to choke down a few french fries while I sipped an NA beer. I kept sweating my makeup off and reapplied it four times. I wondered how many people would show up. I wondered how many people would see the armed guards and change their minds.
But y'all. It. Was. Amazing.
The building was at capacity for the show. I saw so many familiar faces, queer and trans people dressed to the nines, looking for some joy in this world, choosing freedom at the expense of their safety. And I kept thinking about my favorite movie I've seen this year, Ryan Coogler's Sinners. It... didn't help that I accidentally dressed like I was in that movie.
But I was dressed like a monster on purpose. Lately, I've been pondering how what is or isn't a horror story depends on your perspective. Transphobia is a horror to me, but trans-empowerment is a horror to a transphobe. What terrifies one group of people might delight another. I had been writing a short horror story while thinking about the difference between being a demon and being demonized. I was thinking that if they thought us to be monsters, then WE WOULD BE MONSTERS. My horror story evolved into this act, a rhythmic short horror story set to a basic beat I composed, in which I kill and eat a transphobe.
As my time on the stage approached, my fear began to turn into excitement. I was going on as a cold opener. I was about to set the tone for the rest of the night, and as I looked into a sea of queer and trans faces, I resolved to perform with as much passion as my body could muster. Look at all of these people who had been so brave. Look at all of these people who chose freedom. Look at how many people trusted us enough to make all of this worth it. I felt truly honored to be there with them. They deserved only the very best.
I had written this story months before the threats. All I had told anyone was that I was going to be telling a horror story until I had to start telling people why I was extra scared to perform it. It had never been about any one in particular, but it definitely felt a bit more personal that night. I didn't have to conjure any passion because my heart had never been more on fire, and in a bellowing voice I began to scream, not at the audience, but at everyone who made us have to be so brave:
Hello you don’t know me, but I know you You don’t know me, but you’ve been coming for me and mine You don’t know me, but you’ve been out for my blood And now I’ve decided to take the low road and meet you in the hell you say I spawned from
I am working on getting a good recording of this whole act to share and I will do it in the future. For now I will say that throughout the story, I as the narrator get fed up with these motherfuckers whose lives are so boring that they have to go picking on other people just to feel something, these rotten wastes of oxygen with bitter hearts. I pull one into the shadows and rip them apart with my hands and teeth and eat them. Every so often, I sang the chorus.
I told you to fix your heart or die I told you to fix your heart or die I told you to fix your heart or die I told you to fix your heart or die Well you didn’t do it in time And I ran out of patience
As the audience began to sing with me, I wanted to cry. I'm crying now as I think back on it. But I kept pushing through until I made it to the end, ten minutes later. It was the best thing I had ever done onstage, and from the sounds of it, the audience agreed. When I started performing, so many years ago, I would've soaked up the attention, but I left the stage quickly because I've spent the past year breaking down the barriers between myself as an individual and the community around me. This was us. We were all on that stage together, and I was with them in the audience. I wouldn't have even been there without their bravery.
Though I had stood in one place the entire time, my muscles ached from clenching them like a tiger preparing to strike. They had been clenched all week, and the past week, too, and the one before that. Some parts of me had been clenched for months, and I felt them finally release. So often, oppressed people are asked to be silent about our oppression, lest we put a bigger target on our back, as our councilman had to point out. Don't draw attention to your pain, or you might make it worse. Has that ever worked for any pain? Has silence and avoidance ever helped anyone?
It was only when I began screaming that I could begin to heal.
I felt so connected with that audience as we all screamed together. I haven't felt that energy onstage in a long while, which is probably why I kept thinking I was going to retire. This show and these people reminded me why art exists. This is what it was all for. I want to do more of this. I need to. Art isn't a frivolous distraction. It reminds us, in the middle of surviving, what we are surviving for. Who we are surviving for. Each other.
I realized just how much I've withdrawn this past year, when we've all needed community more than ever. Some of it has been due to disability and working too much so I can stay living indoors, but a lot of it was just me forgetting how important it was. I wasn't just going for karaoke and trivia nights. I wasn't just going for the food and the fantastic NA drink selection. I wasn't just going there to do shows. I was going there to remind myself that we are all here for each other, despite the threats, despite the defamation that queer bars are where rapists groom victims.
We shouldn't have to be so brave, but we are. Even if we can't be brave for ourselves, we show up for others. Your fight is my fight, and my scream is your scream. Even if our lives end up shorter for it, at least we were free.
I was at the bar the next day. I had helped organize a grilled cheese popup in the kitchen. Every seat at the bar was taken by more brave people, and I was happy I got to help feed them. I went outside to get some air, and in the daylight, I noticed something I hadn't before.
God bless our transsexual hearts.
Ro Salarian is a nonbinary Michigan-based writer, illustrator, and performance artist. They are fictionalizing the current dystopia in their series Magical Women.