A Beer and A Prayer at Piggly Wiggly
A Beer and A Prayer at Piggly Wiggly
Or: How I Learned to Shoot a Gun
Can you believe it? An entire town’s power was shut down by bigots with guns? I can.
For me, it’s pretty close to home. I wasn’t always the glittery glamorous Manhattanite that I am today–drinking expensive lattes and dodging delivery bikes on the streets. I likely pay more rent than you and live in a shittier place. And I love it. But this wasn’t always my experience.
Once upon a time, I worked at the local Piggly Wiggly in a small town in North Carolina. At the Piggly Wiggly, my coworkers and I were far from the most upstanding citizens. We were underpaid and overworked, and most of us were still in high school. Our small town was surrounded by tobacco fields and filled with broken dreams. We were angry. Desperate.
During our shifts, we would stage backroom brawls where we’d power-slam each other through stacks of empty paper towel boxes. It was a testosterone-infused, hypermasculine, homoerotic dream. And a perfect way to suppress the feminine flower I am today. We bonded in our rage with clenched fists and bruised orbitals. Transphobic slurs were a norm but I wasn’t strong enough, yet, to speak up. One day, during a smoke break, some of the more extreme in the group invited me to their house in the woods. How could I decline?
I ended up catching a ride with them in a beat-up Buick through the corn, cotton, and tobacco fields and ended up in a shack in a yard filled with several abandoned cars. As the front door opened, a wall of cigarette smoke pushed me back, as if to warn me. “HEEEEEYYYYYY!”, they screamed in unison, welcoming me as they handed me a warm beer in a glass bottle–Milwaukee's Best.
The beer and secondhand weed made the room wobble and things became blurry. We started playing a game where we ran full speed into a wall and tried to hit the wall parallel to the ground. This wasn’t my best moment. After several rounds of this, it was finally time to go home. Out of the seven of us, the oldest of the group claimed to be sober, and agreed to drive me home. We all ended up in the car with me smashed in the center of two marijuana-infused men. We sped off, spinning tires in the front yard and the group erupted. As we left the driveway, I noticed some of the abandoned cars had what looked like bullet holes in the doors. So did the stop sign at the corner.
The more extreme of the guys noticed my expression and explained, “Target practice. You should come shooting with us next time.” This group shouldn’t have been trusted with a barbeque lighter. Myself included. But somehow, all I had to do was catch a ride and bring a stolen pack of Milwaukee’s Best and I could shoot at whatever I wanted. I was 16 years old.
Moore County, which struggled without power for nearly a week, is not much different than my hometown. In fact, a few of the people in the group were from Fayetteville, a few miles east of the Moore county line. We will probably never know who shut down the power grid while failing to shut down a drag show. We can talk about how backward and misinformed they are all we want, but it won’t make a difference. These types are afraid. They feel powerless. Abandoned. We have to find a way to close the distance between us. How? I wish I knew. Maybe it can start with a pack of Milwaukee’s Best?
Next week, we have a very special guest writer. An anonymous author. I can’t reveal who they are but all I’ll say is that they’re very involved in the inner works of national trans organizing. I can’t wait for you to read it.
See you soon!
xoxoxo