Tangant Tangerine
One day was not enough….for me….it turns out.
Protest is powerful. The kind in the streets. The kind in our bodies.
I need a break. My hands. My tired, sore, scarred, tingly, numb, generous, beautiful, strong, handy, healing, hands. I love that they remind me of my mom’s hands. I used to trace them with my fingers….her bulging veins, soft and springy, bony and strong.
But it’s not just my hands that need a break.
In 2018, my life went something like this:
June:
I received my Master’s in Public Health from Drexel University. I was the commencement speaker. I won the Dornsife School of Public Health as well as the entire Drexel University’s “Common Good” Awards. (That’s not necessary to tell you. But it feels good to tell you about the things I’ve done that I’m proud of. It’s also good to remind myself how hard I was working to make up for the fact that in high school I was a delinquent. No, that’s not right. I was a relatively decent kid. But I drank and smoked and I wanted to die and my ADHD was made worse by the stress that flowed through my body from the time I was conceived. It was exhausting and unnecessary then, in graduate school, to be in student government, get straight A’s, sit in the front of every single class for two years straight. But there was something to it, too. You know? A point of pride. I digress…)
July:
I received a gift from my arm and my leg, from my nerves, from the amazing powers of the universe, along with four or so world renowned surgeons, four or so nurses, who helped me to feel more whole in my body. I was hospital bound for a week and nearly bed bound for over a month. I shared my story on the Risk Podcast a few days before my surgery if you’re curious. I used to love this podcast and now I find it annoying so if you want to just hear me (ha!), skip ahead to 8 min, 30 secs…I just checked to make sure, and wow, no, I also find it impossible to listen to myself. But maybe you’ll like it…
August:
I sat on the edge of the bed at Quest House (an amazing place started by an amazing man, where trans men care for trans men, after they are sent on their way from the hospital after gender affirming bottom surgery) in Marin County California, with my mom on the phone sounding nervous, as she told me the cancer spread to her liver. I cried softly. A few days later, my sweet friend along with another man in the house who recently had surgery, and his companion, sang me happy birthday as I sat in the living room recliner, praying I would make it home in time. (I didn’t ask them for permission to share their photo. If I get around to it and they agree, I’ll put their heads back on. But this will do for now.)
October:
My mom died as I held her hand. It was terrible and one of the most beautiful, precious, moments of my life.
December:
I came home to visit for the first time since my mom’s funeral. My cousin and I went shopping for Chanukah dinner the night before. I was sleeping in my mom’s bed when my stepdad came into the room and said something like “It’s Peter” (his son, my step-brother). I said something like “what happened?”. He said something something something “the morgue” and walked out of the room. An overdose.
Sometimes I forget that last part because, well, what the fuck.
I’d say overall, I’ve coped quite well.
I bought a grief house and three beautiful grief dogs.
I found Triton three years later when I was in the shower, discovering I could treat my body to something nice, as I spread my partner’s perfume-scented body scrub across my skin. Something hit me. This feels good. And where is MY body scrub? Where is the gender expansive version, the androgynous something, masculine but not smelling like my dad’s aftershave, not doggedly marketed to me as something to help me “be a man” or “be a caveman!” or “smell like nothing”. Where is that playful, queer, flirty, colorful, deliciously scented, hand made thing!? Well shit, it isn’t. Now let me go ahead and do that. Teaching myself about scent and discovering I’m quite good at it. Or at least, I have a passion for learning about it which makes me get good and good at it. Learning to make scrubs and soap, learning how to work with oils, figuring out which does what.
That was five years ago and I’m as in love now as I was then. Moreso, I imagine. But like many loves, it’s become more complicated over time. Things get in the way. My sweet baby Triton. It has grown but never as quickly as I’ve needed it to to be comfortable, or even to survive. I’ve been mean to it. Like I’ve been mean to myself. For not being faster, smarter, for not working hard enough. For not being enough. (For the record, we are both, of course, enough.)
So one might say I’ve coped. One might say I’ve suffered. One might say I’ve thrived. One might say I’ve survived.
But now…
It’s time for me to heal.
And like many decisions, the ones that seem impossible yesterday, today feel like flopping onto the raft and letting the river take me. I’m taking a break. Triton’s taking a break. I’m taking some time for myself. And I’m taking some time to make a better life for me and for Triton. One that’s lighter and more connected to people I love and people who love the things I make.
My customers mean so much to me. Knowing some might feel my absence brings me a sense of connectedness. I matter to you. You matter to me. When we pick back up where we left off, we will likely feel closer. You will know that I’m more than a soap maker. I’m a full human being who feels immense joy in bringing you something that makes you feel good. And now you’ll know that I’m taking much better care of myself. Now you’ll know that I’m practicing the kind of self-love that I hope my products help you to bring into your life.
More soon. I might write more Tangent Tangerines for you in the future. I might just write them for myself. I might do a lot of things. I promise nothing. But what I imagine is that I will take a handful of months, at least. I have some events coming up that I’ll keep on the calendar as long as it works for me to do so. I will be traveling across the country, through the south to LA for Leather Pride week in the middle of March, up the coast, back through Chicago for the first week of April. I plan to spend a lot of delicious time alone. I’m debating taking my two youngest dogs (the other one identifies as an older human homebody of a man and would not enjoy such a journey). I say that to say: perhaps our paths will cross. Perhaps you know of an event along my path you can point me to. Perhaps you can tell me about your favorite waterfall or forest, or…
…perhaps you can tell me about what Triton means to you. When I send things out into the universe, I really think of you. It feels good to send you love from the privacy of my home where I feel safe and protected. I wonder about you. I don’t always recognize you when you approach me at an event. To me you are “oh oh, I know you, here is my Drag face scrub and Lemon Bar customer in Philadelphia” or “Oh, this is you in New York with Sand and Leather Body scrub, and anything leather really”. When you introduce yourself to me I can almost never place you in time for the few minutes you stand at my table and pick out something to buy. I am always curious about you. Not when you objectify me or catch me off guard with a sexual innuendo I didn’t invite and wasn’t expecting. But when you tell me that your trans son loves my beard oil. That he showers more now that he found a brand of products made by a guy like him. When you tell me that walking into your room and smelling your favorite Triton scent fills you with pure joy. When you tell me that my face scrub has made your skin look and feel bright, and like me, my skin and scalp oil has cured you of a dry flaky scalp and that has given you a feeling of freedom and happiness that you can’t describe. I love these stories. And I’m here for them. And I’ll read them if you send them to me. And I may write back. I will appreciate them no matter what.
Let’s leave it there for now.
Sending you so much love. Feeling your love. If you’ve made it this far, yes. I am feeling your love. Thank you. You’re welcome.
We’re all in this together.
And still. Yes, Fuck Ice. And if it feels good, fuck the pain away, like Peaches and like Miss Piggy.
And PS - here is a recipe you simply must try.
Get into the bath…
…with a big pair of over your ears headphones.
Listen (in order) to the only two songs currently on my new playlist titled “ Beautiful Baby Jesse”.
Find your tears. If you can’t, find mine. They will flow into yours, I promise. See what happens. Something good, I’m sure.
PPS - I am a musican, a writer, a maker of things. I’m not a web designer. I’m sorry if the layout is shit. And also, I could edit till the cows come home. Just know that I know, this isn’t written perfectly. And I’m cool with that. Cool with that enough to write a PPS about it, but still. It’s progress not perfection.
Feel free to stay in touch….
