the pain of it, the joy of it

Why do I think of Michael . . . 

He came to my fiction class 

as a man (dressed in men's 

clothes); then he came 

 

to my poetry class 

as a woman (dressed in women's 

clothes; but he was still 

a man under the clothes). 

 

Was I moved in the face of 

such courage (man/woman 

woman/man)
. . .

Was I moved by the gentleness 

 

of his masculinity; the strength 

of his femininity . . .  

His presence at the class poetry 

reading, dressed in a miniskirt, 

 

high boots, bright purple tights, 

a scooped-neck blouse, carrying 

a single, living, red rose, in a 

vase, to the podium (the visitors, 

 

not from the class, shocked—

the young, seen-it-all MTV crowd—

into silence as he's introduced, 

"Michael . . .") And what it was, I think, 

 

was his perfect dignity, the offering 

of his living, red rose to the perceptive, 

to the blind, to the amused, to the impressed, 

to those who would kill him, and 

 

to those who would love him. 

And of course I remember the surprise 

of his foamy breasts as we hugged 

goodbye, his face blossomed 

 

open, set apart, the pain of it, 

the joy of it (the crazy courage 

to be whole, as a rose is 

whole, as a child is 

 

whole before they're 

punished for including 

everything 

in their
innocence). 

 

Listen to it here.

 

[Alma Luz Villanueva {1944- } 'Crazy Courage', from The Best American Poetry 1996, edited by Adrienne Rich]