Antinous for Everybody

I worship a dead gay teenager and you can too

Archive for the tag “ancestor elevation”

Requiem for the trans dead, movement seven

VII. An ancient dirge

On this night, on this night,
every night and all,
fire and fleet and candlelight,
and gods receive your souls.

If shoes and stockings
were taken away,
at the first gate
put them on

If skirt or trousers
were taken away
at the second gate
put them on

If shirt or blouse
were taken away,
at the third gate
put them on

If hat or wig
were taken away,
at the fourth gate
put them on

If jewels or gauds
were taken away,
at the fifth gate
put them on

If cash and cards
were taken away,
at the sixth gate
take them up

If hungry and thirsty
you may be,
at the seventh gate
there waits for thee

food and drink
fire and friends
light and a guide
on this night

on this night
every night and all
gates stand open
for the trans dead
gods receive your souls

Advertisements

Requiem for the trans dead, movement six

VI. Libera me

O Antinous the Liberator, deliver us.

Deliver the living from transphobia

and the trans dead from their fears.

Deliver the living from the fear of Eros

and the trans dead from their unrequited loves.

Deliver the living from the tyranny of gender roles

and the trans dead from the tyranny of the body.

Deliver the living and the dead alike from all evils

that would harm the body, that would assault

and deform the soul. O Antinous, liberate us!

 

May Panprosdexia free the minds of the living

and the souls of the trans dead.

May Panhyle free the bodies of the living

and the remains of the trans dead.

May Paneros free the hearts of the living

and the hearts of the trans dead.

May Pancrates burn the bonds of the living

and likewise of the trans dead.

May Paneris contest with all hatred among the living

and defend and protect the trans dead.

May Panprosdexia succor the living

and find all the trans dead, wherever they may be,

and lead them home to the light.

Requiem for the Trans Dead, movement five

V. Communion

Lux aeterna
May light eternal shine on the trans dead
and may the light of judgment shine upon their murderers.
May light eternal shine on the path they take
and may the light of condemnation shine upon their bullies.
May light eternal shine for them, a beacon in their darkness,
and may light like a laser search the consciences of the bigots.
Light can be a blessing, sunlight, moonlight,
a candle in the darkness, a string of tiny bulbs,
but light can also be a curse, probing, searing,
burning, cauterizing the wound so it will not bleed.
May the dead walk safely into the light.
May the living walk safely under the light.
May the guilty find no rest, only the torment of light.
When there is justice, then may the trans dead
rest and remain in peace.

Requiem for the Trans Dead, movement four

IV. Offertorium

Domine Jesu Christe, Rex Gloriae

O Antinous, Liberator of souls,

Navigator of the Boat of Millions of Years,

Lover and beloved of the queers, the homos,

the fags, the dykes, the trannies,

the green carnations and the pink stars:

Deliver the souls and spirits, the bones and shades

of the trans dead from the wandering road,

from the unhallowed place.

May Panprosdexia lead them

out of the deepest pit.

May Pancrates rescue them

from the lion’s mouth.

May Paneros draw them

from the bottomless lake.

May Panpsyche guide them

through the restless winds.

May Panhyle protect them

and their bodies’ resting-place.

O Antinous, beautiful, just, benevolent,

gather them aboard

your Boat of Millions of Years

and take them to the afterlife

of their heart’s desire.

 

Hostia et preces

To the gods we offer sacrifice and prayers

on behalf of the trans dead, remembered

and unremembered, to all the gods

in all the heavens, in all the hells,

in every purgatory and limbo, on behalf

of all the souls, male or female or both

or neither, that they may be welcomed

onto the Boat of Millions of Years

and taken to the afterlife

of their hearts desire.

Requiem for the Trans Dead, movement three

III. Sequentia

Dies irae, dies illa
This is the day of my wrath
this is the day of my trembling
this is the day when it all goes to hell
literally
this hell on earth
this man behind the podium
this moment
this is what all the prophets were prophesying
this is the day the oracles feared
this is the day of victory
and defeat
and in silence and trembling
I call on the armies of the dead
to overthrow the rule of the fathers

Confutatis maledictis
Confusion to our enemies, my friends
Confusion to the evildoers
Confusion to the patriarchs and the patriarchy
Confusion to men who think that only they are human
Confusion to men who hate women
Confusion to men who hate men they think are womanly
Confusion to the sexists, confusion to the racists
Confusion to the wealthy, confusion to the greedy
Confusion to the bishops and priests and popes
Confusion to the doctors and lawyers and judges
Confusion to all who harm children
Confusion to those who make of gender a prison
Confusion to our enemies, my ancestors, my children
Let there be an army of the dead
surrounding the towers of the mighty
Let there be a hosting of ghosts
Let this be judgment day

Judicando homo reus
In the name of the dead, I judge you
In the name of the trans women who were murdered
because they were not “real” women
I judge you
In the name of the trans men who were murdered
because they were not “real” men
I judge you
In the name of the dead whose obituaries
printed the name and gender chosen for them by others,
I judge you
In the name of the dead who died nameless,
I judge you
In the name of the suicides
who died to escape the unending bullying,
I judge you
Priests and doctors without discernment
Fathers and mothers without understanding
Demons in human form without empathy, without compassion
In the name of the trans dead
and of the queer dead
and of the dead women
and the dead children
and the extinct animals
and the vanished plants
and the poisoned waters, air, and earth
I judge you
I judge you
I judge you
and I am not the only one

Requiem for the Trans Dead, movement two

II. In memoriam et Absolve Domine

In memoria æterna erit iustus,
ab auditione mala non timebit
The righteous shall be had in everlasting remembrance
but you have been forgotten
you have been called unrighteous
iustus, the just man, the righteous man,
iusta, the righteous woman, sancta, the holy,
sanctus, a saint, but you have been called
unrighteous, unholy, unjust, unworthy
in English we must choose our pronouns
gender lies in the body, in the basin of the hips,
at the join of the legs, gender is
at the crotch, the crux, the cross,
chairs and blackboards have no gender,
only men call cars or ships or storms “she”
and the names, the pronouns you gave away
like old clothes no longer suitable
were smeared onto you like excrement
I call you righteous
I call you just
I call you holy
I call you Mothers and Fathers, elders and saints

Absolve, Domine,
animas omnium fidelium defunctorum
ab omni vinculo delictorum
Absolve, dissolve, resolve, O gods
absolve the sins committed against them,
the culpability of the victim, the burden
we make them bear; dissolve
the pains of their last moments,
the agony of crossing over; resolve
the dissonance, resolve the disharmony,
Sing, just men and righteous women
No rest for your voices now
you who have counted measures of silence
and if you cannot sing
shout
if you cannot shout
scream
if you cannot scream
whisper
I am listening for you

(For the Rite of Elevation of the Trans Dead)

Requiem for the Trans Dead, First Movement

I. Requiem
Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine,
et lux perpetua luceat eis.
Rest not, rest not, rest not, but cross over–
cross over, you who have crossed over,
crossed over from gender to gender,
from the false to the true: Rise up,
rest not, there is a light in the darkness
for you,
there is water in the desert
for you,
there are voices calling in the emptiness
for you:
Rise up, cross over, come home.

(For the Rite of Elevation of the Trans Dead)

A couple inches of dirty water in the bottom of an otherwise empty vase

That’s my emotional state right now, there in the title: An image worthy of haiku, perhaps, or of Rilke, who wrote so movingly of roses in a bowl. That’s depression, gentle readers–a few inches of stagnant, smelly water, with a rotting leaf or two, in the bottom of a vase from which the dead flowers have been removed.

I suffer from depression. And it is a kind of suffering, though much of the time depression means “not feeling much of anything” rather than “feeling bad”. Depression means I sometimes don’t make it to work because taking a shower, or facing a rainy day and public transportation, seems too much to bear. It means some days the only thing that interests me is Township, a mobile game where you plant crops, feed critters, and gradually build a town with houses, factories, and public buildings. (I’ve just reached level 35 and acquired an apiary!) It means writing is difficult or simply seems meaningless, pointless.

Yet I find myself holding on to my daily devotions in spite of everything. And yesterday, in spite of not being able to cope with work, I managed to clear a space and set up a minimal shrine for an ancestor elevation. I am once again participating in the Trans Rite of Ancestor Elevation, for the benefit of the far too many transgender folks who died by violence in the past year. In addition, I am doing my first elevation for a personal ancestor, for my Aunt Margaret, whose birthday is the nineteenth of this month.

Aunt Margaret was actually my great-aunt, my mother’s father’s younger sister. Born in the ‘teens, she was several years old before being diagnosed with a hip out of the socket, probably a result of the difficult birthing. As an adult, she was still wearing a heavy metal brace on one leg and walking slowly, with a limp. Back then we didn’t call people disabled, or handicapped; we called them crippled, lame. Aunt Margaret was crippled, but that didn’t stop her from holding down a job for decades, or living on her own. She rented a room from another lady of her own generation, up the street and around the corner from our house, and had dinner with us every night before walking home around ten o’clock.

Aunt Margaret was a constant presence in my childhood. She gave me money for the collection plate at church and bought me a new winter coat every year. She played cards with me for hours on end. She went on bus trips with my grandmother and me; my mother hated to travel and could not sleep away from home, but Mom and Aunt Margaret and I travelled up and down the east coast from Quebec to Nashville. Did I mention that she stood all of four-foot-six? Outgrowing Aunt Margaret was a benchmark.

My life has turned out more like hers than I could have anticipated. Like me, she was divorced, lived alone, and supported herself. I have her body type, inherited from my maternal grandfather’s family. I fear I have her wonky hips, too. Her picture has been on my shrine all along, but this year I felt the call to honor her more directly and to do something for her benefit. She gave me so much when I was a child, and it took me far too long to appreciate that.

As for the transgender dead, I was informed, more or less, that participating in this year’s elevation rite–and next year’s, for that matter–is just something that I am required to do. It’s my job. I volunteered for it when I did it last year, and the Tetrad deities noticed me; now I have to keep up that responsibility. And last night, in spite of everything, I did.

I have some half-formed thoughts on what my calling is, what work the Tetrad want me to do, but they are not nearly ready for a blog post. In the meantime, think of your ancestors, dear readers, and pray for me in my depression. I’ll write again soon.

Post Navigation

%d bloggers like this: