Ivan Coyote - Rebent Sinner

REBENT SINNER

REBENT SINNER

IVAN COYOTE

REBENT SINNER

Copyright 2019 by Ivan Coyote

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any part by any meansgraphic, electronic, or mechanicalwithout the prior written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may use brief excerpts in a review, or in the case of photocopying in Canada, a licence from Access Copyright.

ARSENAL PULP PRESS

Suite 202 211 East Georgia St.

Vancouver, BC V6A 1Z6

Canada

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The publisher gratefully acknowledges the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the British Columbia Arts Council for its publishing program, and the Government of Canada, and the Government of British Columbia (through the Book Publishing Tax Credit Program), for its publishing activities.

Arsenal Pulp Press acknowledges the xmkym (Musqueam), Swxw7mesh (Squamish), and slilwta (Tsleil-Waututh) Nations, speakers of Hulquminum/Halqemylem/hnqminm and custodians of the traditional, ancestral, and unceded territories where our office is located. We pay respect to their histories, traditions, and continuous living cultures and commit to accountability, respectful relations, and friendship.

Cover and text design by Oliver McPartlin

Cover artwork by Christine Fellows

Edited by Shirarose Wilensky

Proofread by Alison Strobel

Printed and bound in Canada

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication:

Title: Rebent sinner / Ivan Coyote.

Names: Coyote, Ivan S. (Ivan Shed), 1969 author.

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20190123958 | Canadiana (ebook) 20190123966 | ISBN 9781551527734 (softcover) | ISBN 9781551527741 (HTML)

Subjects: LCSH: Coyote, Ivan S. (Ivan Shed), 1969 | LCSH: Transgender peopleIdentity. | LCSH: Gender-nonconforming people. | LCSH: Transgender peopleCanadaBiography. | LCSH: Gender-nonconforming peopleCanadaBiography.

Classification: LCC HQ77.8 C69 2019 | DDC 306.768092dc23

This book is dedicated to Sarah MacDougall, for showing me her artists heart. She reminds me every day of why.

CONTENTS

1. BLOOD

MY GRAN USED to smoke the cheap cigarettes. John Player Specials, Craven A menthols, Number 7s. Shed buy them by the carton and squirrel them away in the closet in her bedroom.

My uncles would swipe one from her open pack on the kitchen table, and cough and stare down at the red cherry between their fingertips and say, Fuck, Mum. These are awful. Why cant you get Du Mauriers? Export As? She would make that noise with her tongue and tuck the rest of the pack into her purse.

She had one of those little cigarette machines, too, where you buy the filters and tubes and the tobacco in a tin, and she and my aunts would sit around the table and stuff little wads of tobacco into the groove in the machine and slide it back and forth, and a cigarette would pop out the end. You had to get the perfect amount of tobacco in there to get it to burn just right, But look how much cheaper it is, they would all say, like they were trying to convince each other of something none of them truly believed.

My gran unknowingly smoked her last cigarette on a Friday afternoon, and she broke her hip that night, when her foot fell off the footstool during Jeopardy! and her heel hit the floor at a weird angle. She always said that new hardwood floor was easier to sweep than the carpet ever was to keep vacuumed. She was hospitalized right away, went into a coma, and died the following Wednesday without ever really waking up again. She was almost ninety years old. It all happened so fast, but hey, At least she never had to quit smoking, everybody said.

DEAR FAVOURITE UNCLE: Im going to have to insist you stop using my deadname. I changed it in 1993. That was more than twenty-five years ago. Im afraid I just cant get used to it is no longer an acceptable excuse. Lesser uncles are gaining on you. I still love you, but collect yourself.

IM COMING HOME in fifteen days. I will come and see you in the new place. I look like your sons did when they were my age. I look like your grandson, and his son looks like me. You might be confused, but I know you will recognize the blood in me. Your blood in me. I will touch your supersoft hands and marvel at all those blue maps on the backs of them.

What should I get you for your ninety-seventh birthday? I will ask you.

What? you will say.

Your birthday, I will repeat louder.

My what? you will say. Oh, that. Im good. I have everything I need right here. These people, they take good care of me, you will say.

LAST MONTH I was home in the Yukon and I went to visit my ninety-seven-year-old grandmother in the nursing home where she has been for the last year, since her accident. It had been a few months since I had seen her. It was about eight p.m., dark and cold outside. The heat was cranked up inside the nursing home. I was sweating in my unzipped parka as I walked down the maze of hallways, through the dining hall, and into her room. She was asleep, and my heart twisted in my chest at the sight of her: asleep on her side in her hospital bed, her nightdress pulled up to reveal her unbearably thin and bruised legs, and her diaper.

She woke up as I sat in the rolling chair next to her bed. Its you! she cried out, with joy and surprise. Look at you! My beautiful boy!

She sat up and patted the mattress beside her withered thighs, pulled her nightdress down a little, but not all the way. I sat beside her. The plastic sheet on the mattress crinkled under us both.

My beautiful, beautiful boy. Youre so handsome. Youve always been so handsome. Im so glad you are here.

She reached out a pencil-like arm and pulled my head down to what was left of her once ample chest. She stroked my head and cupped my cheek. She was never very physically affectionate before, but shes changing, my uncle Rob had warned me on the phone months ago. Shes slipping a little mentally, too, he had said. She is getting confused easily, not recognizing people some days. Dont take it personally if she thinks youre one of the staff or something, he told me.

Does she think Im Rob, or my dad, or one of her other sons? I wondered, and hugged her back. She felt like she was made of bird bones and tissue paper.

My beautiful, beautiful boy, she cooed over and over. Then she looked me right in both eyes, her papery palm still cradling my cheek. Is that what I should call you? Do I call you my beautiful grandson, or my granddaughter? I never know with you.

IN LATE MAY 2017, my uncle Rob went to visit his mom, my grandmother, Patricia. She asked him what day it was. Its Saturday, he told her.

She took a small breath and announced it was going to be her last Saturday on this earth.

You dont know that, Mom, Rob said, but she gave him that look. Her look. She had a real withering look she could lay on youit was kind of terrifyingand she remained capable of wielding it far longer than she should have physically been able to. It was usually paired with a frustrated blast of nose breath, exhaled over pursed lips.

This is my last Saturday, she repeated. I feel a new kind of tired coming over me. Theres a girl that works here, her name is Crystal. She only works weekends, but shes not here today because shes in Las Vegas with her sisters, so I wont see her again. Please tell her how much I enjoyed our little chats. Tell her that she is really good at her job, but she should keep up with her studies. Tell her to stay in school. And I need you to do me one last thing.