HBO, on Oct. 7, released the powerful documentary "Valentine Street." It deals with fifteen year old Brandon McInernay's decision to premeditate and murder classmate, Larry King, at school in cold blood. The
movtive? Larry King cross-dressed, may have a had a crush on McInernay. Also Larry King was an interracial child, a fact that surely did not escape the notice of Brandon's White Supremist relatives. Amazingly, the
community at large as well as some teachers seemed ready to blame the victim. You know, the old he-was-asking-for-it mentality. It is a powerful, sobering movie.
As sheer coincidence, one week later,
I attended my book club. A couple of new members were there, including, of all things, a cross-dressing man. I'll call him Phillipa. As is the custom, when new members attend, we introduce ourselves, tell bit about ourselves.
When Phillipa spoke, it was in the voice of a man. She had a beard. Slim, probably around 40, she dressed as the thin can dress. Her make-up was tasteful, if a little on the heavy side. Long hair
showed bleach at the ends; she wore a bit of jewelry. She seemed happy to be among us elderly broads and a couple of old guys. She contributed to the discussion, had read the book.
I've made no comments to
my friends, I've heard no comments. I'm soaking it in. And I'm thinking how incredibly brave this Phillipa to be found in the slow lane, regretfully the bastion of many redneck good ole boys. I'm almost frightened for her.
I have great curiosity about when she decided to go full time female dresser. What was her life? She's undoubtedly one brave and interesting soul. Still, I'm frightened for her.