For one reason or another, today's road trip memory is from 1996. It was another one where it was my Dad and I, but this time we were helping an aunt relocate from Timmins to Guelph.

On the way back, we stopped outside of New Liskeard to use the washroom at a truck stop and get a few things to eat. It didn't make sense to stop with only about 2 hours left.

In any event, I was wearing two t-shirts of slightly different sizes, which was a style among sort of alternative girls and closeted transsexual girls, but in the case of the latter, not really fitted. The top layer was a black Nine Inch Nails t-shirt (it looked like this) and the bottom layer was a sort of peachy-coral colour t-shirt, whose sleeves and hem were visible from beneath.

When I was finishing up in the washroom, a man walked in took a look at me, made a sort of threatening stomp-like motion (like to get me to flinch), and said "nice shirt, faggot."

When I got back into the truck, I didn't say anything to my dad about it (he'd have agreed with the man), but I mainly remember feeling threatened (mission accomplished) and I remember feeling like I needed to be more careful: even the wrong colour can inadvertently communicate something about myself what I was trying to hide.

Even if I was at the time trying to do the traditional thing of giving clues and hoping someone asks me directly so I can break down and say "...yes..." in a faux-nervous-faux-relucatant way.

Though again, they never did get their terms for me accurate. Although, the rare time it happens today, notwithstanding the trans and lesbian pins on my purse, they still get it wrong in the same way.

July 30, 2026