person who had known about my plans beforehand, kept up her litany of support. My brother Gus sent me an email explaining that he would never feel comfortable with me again, because he would know that I was “a disfigured freak.” My other sister, Robin, was mad. My father expressed his annoyance as disappointment, and said I would be soft, like Truman Capote. My mother also compared me to Truman Capote, and said she didn’t understand why I was choosing a life of dishonesty and hiding. The morning of June 11, 2005, was blindingly humid, the kind of the day when the asphalt starts to steam and stink as soon as the sun rises. I put on my favorite old button-down shirt, and realized that it was the last day I would ever need a bra. We went out to the street and flagged down a taxi to take us across the river and away to the Upper East Side. I remember being incredibly hungry and extremely scared. Andrea had her own fears – if I
The Winter Issue of Black Fox Literary Magazine featuring new fiction, poetry, non-fiction and photography.