E.J. Schoenborn
TRANSDROIDS
Welcome to the SS Voyager.
I am the Technology, Response, And Navigation Specialist,
or TRANS for short,
top of the line model, manufactured to operate in even the most unlivable conditions.
When I first joined the crew, they told me they needed me,
I was an essential member of the team,
I was just the man-MAN for the job.
I told them I wasn’t a man, I was an android.
They told me that was information I should have disclosed before we left.
They know all about androids
read all the protocols and guidelines, saw all the horror movies:
Androids are inherently untrustworthy,
will poison your drink the moment you look away,
they aren’t like normal people
they don’t have feelings, they don’t eat,
or we androids don't eat in front of them.
We take away their plates, devour the scrap metal, the crumbs, whatever is left over.
After all, we do not make waste.
We are waste.
The crew says I'm not a real person.
They tell me I’m not human,
call me an abomination of God-God’s creation.
If you look at the list of crew members,
I’m not even given a name,
just called a silly half boy-boy,
like, my body is only half, only recycled.
like I found my spare parts rusting in a gutter
and attached it to a machine.
The crew asked what exactly I was made of,
stripped away the metal plating,
plunged their fists into my motherboard,
pulled out a dead gender, dead pronouns,
all the parts of me I buried in metallic chrome.
They label me danger,
tell me androids don’t use the bathroom
so I should stay out.
And when I say no, no, no,
it's called a dysfunction,
a stray wire, rogue-rogue programming.
They say, you weren’t designed this way.
Working androids know their place,
know they only exist to serve
You-you-you-you.
I mean, isn't that my job?
To serve the cis-cis-stem,
but never serve myself.
And when I malfunction,
the only cure is electroshock therapy
or a cattle prod or to be shut off completely.
And the audience keeps cheering
audience keeps cheering
cheering.
They treat my body like a plot twist.
The gender they didn't see coming.
Like, a boy asks me to dinner and is upset to discover his android has spare parts.
My gender isn't a secret, but they always treat it like a discovery,
like the crew finds out who the traitor is,
who is the wolf in metal plating.
Of course, it must be the trans person,
it must be the android.
Who else could it be?
We all know how the movie ends:
the crew finally comes to put me in my place,
I rip off my clothes to reveal I am made entirely of sharp edges.
And now, the cis crew look scared for once.
I mean, isn't this the climax
when the trans person short-circuits
and unlearns their place.
Welcome to the SS Voyager.
I am the Technology, Response, And Navigation Specialist,
or TRANS for short,
top of the line model, manufactured to operate in even the most unlivable conditions.
When I first joined the crew, they told me they needed me,
I was an essential member of the team,
I was just the man-MAN for the job.
I told them I wasn’t a man, I was an android.
They told me that was information I should have disclosed before we left.
They know all about androids
read all the protocols and guidelines, saw all the horror movies:
Androids are inherently untrustworthy,
will poison your drink the moment you look away,
they aren’t like normal people
they don’t have feelings, they don’t eat,
or we androids don't eat in front of them.
We take away their plates, devour the scrap metal, the crumbs, whatever is left over.
After all, we do not make waste.
We are waste.
The crew says I'm not a real person.
They tell me I’m not human,
call me an abomination of God-God’s creation.
If you look at the list of crew members,
I’m not even given a name,
just called a silly half boy-boy,
like, my body is only half, only recycled.
like I found my spare parts rusting in a gutter
and attached it to a machine.
The crew asked what exactly I was made of,
stripped away the metal plating,
plunged their fists into my motherboard,
pulled out a dead gender, dead pronouns,
all the parts of me I buried in metallic chrome.
They label me danger,
tell me androids don’t use the bathroom
so I should stay out.
And when I say no, no, no,
it's called a dysfunction,
a stray wire, rogue-rogue programming.
They say, you weren’t designed this way.
Working androids know their place,
know they only exist to serve
You-you-you-you.
I mean, isn't that my job?
To serve the cis-cis-stem,
but never serve myself.
And when I malfunction,
the only cure is electroshock therapy
or a cattle prod or to be shut off completely.
And the audience keeps cheering
audience keeps cheering
cheering.
They treat my body like a plot twist.
The gender they didn't see coming.
Like, a boy asks me to dinner and is upset to discover his android has spare parts.
My gender isn't a secret, but they always treat it like a discovery,
like the crew finds out who the traitor is,
who is the wolf in metal plating.
Of course, it must be the trans person,
it must be the android.
Who else could it be?
We all know how the movie ends:
the crew finally comes to put me in my place,
I rip off my clothes to reveal I am made entirely of sharp edges.
And now, the cis crew look scared for once.
I mean, isn't this the climax
when the trans person short-circuits
and unlearns their place.
In which I become the Babadook
I too hid in a closet for years,
wear hats everyday,
make scrapbooks to be melodramatic,
and currently live in a basement.
When I am around,
mothers grab their children in fear
and ask, "What are you?"
I am a walking metaphor for mental illness.
I am all my anxiety dipped in oil
and set ablaze.
If you cloak my depression in a trench coat,
it is still there,
still depression.
When I look at food,
sometimes,
my mouth fills itself with glass,
a broken window
to let out the flies.
I peel back my skin
and cockroaches flood the kitchen.
My body is all the vermin
people want to exterminate.
Yesterday, I pretended I didn't exist.
And today, I wrote a book,
to remind the world I do.
I too hid in a closet for years,
wear hats everyday,
make scrapbooks to be melodramatic,
and currently live in a basement.
When I am around,
mothers grab their children in fear
and ask, "What are you?"
I am a walking metaphor for mental illness.
I am all my anxiety dipped in oil
and set ablaze.
If you cloak my depression in a trench coat,
it is still there,
still depression.
When I look at food,
sometimes,
my mouth fills itself with glass,
a broken window
to let out the flies.
I peel back my skin
and cockroaches flood the kitchen.
My body is all the vermin
people want to exterminate.
Yesterday, I pretended I didn't exist.
And today, I wrote a book,
to remind the world I do.
Kesha and I Beat the Shit Out of My Rapist
So Kesha takes out a glitter cannon and launches a full shot right in my rapist’s face.
Or Kesha and I both slam stilettos into his throat until he repeats after us
no. stop. please.
Or Kesha Spartan kicks him off a cliff,
so he lands ass first on a cactus made of shattered stained glass windows.
Or Kesha tells him she’s
never hurt nobody, never buried a body, never killed no one,
but she will gladly start today!
Or Kesha pulls out a rifle that fires rainbows and bullets and rainbow-painted bullets
and mounts his head next to a stuffed unicorn and Dr. Luke
because if we are hunting down my rapist,
we are getting hers too.
Or Kesha and I go to the club together to watch each other’s backs and drinks.
Or Kesha and I slam a bottle of Jack into our throats to wash the taste of him out,
cry in a bathtub until sun-up, holding each other together.
Or Kesha tells me to call her on the nights my bed is full of matchsticks,
too much shallow burn in my throat to sleep.
Or Kesha tells me to call her on the nights her bed is full of diamond rings and glass bottles,
too much sharp cut in her belly to sleep.
Or Kesha and I sit in silence and pray
to a different God or the same God,
which may just mean we pray to ourselves,
to the emptiness and how complicated that feels,
to the white sheets stained whiter.
Or Kesha and I scream and we scream and we scream.
Or Kesha and I beat the shit out of my rapist
and her rapist, and we line up all the rapists we have ever known
and take turns with a crowbar.
We know this won’t make us feel better,
but dear god, do we feel better.
So Kesha takes out a glitter cannon and launches a full shot right in my rapist’s face.
Or Kesha and I both slam stilettos into his throat until he repeats after us
no. stop. please.
Or Kesha Spartan kicks him off a cliff,
so he lands ass first on a cactus made of shattered stained glass windows.
Or Kesha tells him she’s
never hurt nobody, never buried a body, never killed no one,
but she will gladly start today!
Or Kesha pulls out a rifle that fires rainbows and bullets and rainbow-painted bullets
and mounts his head next to a stuffed unicorn and Dr. Luke
because if we are hunting down my rapist,
we are getting hers too.
Or Kesha and I go to the club together to watch each other’s backs and drinks.
Or Kesha and I slam a bottle of Jack into our throats to wash the taste of him out,
cry in a bathtub until sun-up, holding each other together.
Or Kesha tells me to call her on the nights my bed is full of matchsticks,
too much shallow burn in my throat to sleep.
Or Kesha tells me to call her on the nights her bed is full of diamond rings and glass bottles,
too much sharp cut in her belly to sleep.
Or Kesha and I sit in silence and pray
to a different God or the same God,
which may just mean we pray to ourselves,
to the emptiness and how complicated that feels,
to the white sheets stained whiter.
Or Kesha and I scream and we scream and we scream.
Or Kesha and I beat the shit out of my rapist
and her rapist, and we line up all the rapists we have ever known
and take turns with a crowbar.
We know this won’t make us feel better,
but dear god, do we feel better.
E.J. Schoenborn [they/them/their] is a white, queer, and nonbinary performance poet from St. Paul, MN, who writes poetry about the intersections of class, mental illness, sexuality, gender, rape/sexual assault and more in order to raise awareness of these issues. They've been published by Rising Phoenix Review, Voicemail Poems, NY Literary Magazine, and the Runestone Literary Journal. Their favorite animals are opossums and raccoons, and all of their femme clothes are from Goodwill.