The Girl with the Pink Hair
queer in Texas
In Texas, a heat dome arrives the same day I step off the plane. I look down at my phone and see a notification warning about the extreme temperatures expected for the week. *I've done it again*, I think—the bad weather has followed me all the way from LA, just as it did in Portland.
And yet, I trust the photo gods, I trust in divine timing.
A few weeks earlier
Sam tells me she’s going to Austin with Jo and Nina and that I should come. I'm so used to muttering a polite "thanks but no thanks" to her last-minute travel invitations that both of us seem equally shocked when a “maybe” leaves my mouth. A few hours later, I open a message from another Sam online that reads, “If you ever come to Austin, let me know.” And so I do, right after picking my jaw up off the floor and booking my flight. When I arrive in Austin, I think back on Portland and can hardly remember why it all seemed so impossible. I feel grateful for my friends, I feel grateful to both Sams. I am in Texas to swim; I am in Texas to make pictures.
A big blanket of grey hovers above us throughout our trip, occasionally burning off in the evening for an hour or two. Each night, I wait for a faint orange sun to peek out from the haze before dipping below the mountain-less horizon. The time is filled more with swimming than picture-taking, a bittersweet ratio I have to hold since I am in a new place with so many things that feel foreign to me. For example, the fire hydrants are silver here. In Portland, they were orange.
There is a deep desire within me to make a portrait of each one of my friends while we are on this trip. I can see it in my mind’s eye—but I keep forgetting to. Plus, the heat and the water prevent me from bringing my camera outdoors. For the most part, I choose to leave it behind.
I suppose in another life, I am the kind of person who does not think twice about such a decision—but in this life, whenever I’m at such a crossroads, I have to have a whole damn conversation with myself. I have to walk myself through what it might feel like if I did bring it and then compare it to an imaginary future where I don’t. I have to consider how I will handle any future disappointment or regret. I have to think about future pictures that don’t exist yet and whether or not I truly want to make them and if I do, what will I do with them, and is it only worth it if I know right now in this moment what or where I will put them? And if I have a purpose and it’s connected to work, does that mean I’m working right now? I shouldn’t be working right now. Ok so, no camera, leave it behind. But wait—
I don’t know why it has to be such a big deal.
My friends echo the sentiment I’ve already told myself: that leaving my camera behind will help me feel more present. But how do I explain to them that this is how I see? I have to announce out loud that I will be fine! even though no one has asked me. In response, they all graciously nod in agreement while waiting for me patiently at the door. I feel melodramatic and am annoyed with myself.
I have my phone, I tell myself. I have my phone, which only makes the feeling worse.
When we arrive at Barton Springs, my worst fears are confirmed when I see that the light is absolutely perfect. Grey skies have given way just enough to filter through a holy stream of sunlight through puffy white clouds. Everyone’s skin is glowing. The pool is a perfect shade of grey-blue, and I can see straight through to the stones and plants at the bottom. I’m enamored by the glittering water and the way droplets of moisture lit up like diamonds roll off the lifeguard's back. I see a girl with pink hair and sandals, lounging under a tree. I fantasize about falling in love with her or someone like her. She’s so close, but I don’t say hi. The next night, I kiss a boy named Tony at the bar instead.
Austin is unlike any place I’ve ever seen, but it's probably because I have not seen many places. The humidity feels like Michigan or Hawaii. A river runs through it and the only reference point I have for this is The Jungle Cruise at Disneyland. I’m swimming in the sky—the water—it’s in the air. It’s so fucking humid here that I have to breathe in a new way. Nothing dries overnight despite every attempt. After swimming each day, we tie our bikini tops to the balcony and cross our fingers, praying that the wind will be enough. It is not.
I am bobbing in the spring after dousing myself in sunscreen and look up to see Nina standing on the cliff's edge, shaking both hands, knees slightly bent. Jo stands behind, just a few feet away, having already jumped and ready for a second plunge. When Nina takes her leap, there is no scream, and I inhale sharply in the moments between her body falling, slapping the water's surface, and then instantly plunging below. It’s shallow, and I’m worried, but a few seconds later she pops up and says, “OW!” a ginormous grin on her face. I have no urge to jump, just a desire to stay in one piece until my portrait session with Sam which is scheduled for Tuesday.
I let my fingers get crinkly. I submerge my entire body except for my eyes and move slowly across the surface. From this angle, I pretend I am a film crane, my eyes recording everything in sight. The light has never been better; I feel my heart break. I see girlfriends hanging off the backs of boyfriends, arms looped around necks, legs wrapped around waists, with heads gently resting on their lover’s shoulders. I pee—just as I will pee in the river and just as I peed in the giant swimming pool that was basically a river. I tell no one and no one tells me. But I know everyone is peeing, because everyone pees! And no one is really getting out of the water.
It’s shallow, and we are freaked out by the feeling of mush underneath our feet, so it’s legs tucked and toes curled as we make our way towards the waterfall. In less than two minutes, Jo, Sam, and I arrive and take turns climbing up onto a sharp rock to sit and stare at the ferns dangling overhead. They look familiar, like a plant I once purchased from Home Depot as a kid. Its leaves were soft like rose petals and smaller than a fingernail. Despite my efforts to water it frequently, it was too hot, too dry, and too bright in my room. The fern quickly withered and died. I get sad and change the channel, envisioning myself as Peter Pan, lounging with the mermaids instead.
On Friday night, Nina and I go on a mini adventure. We walk 15 minutes to the bus stop and miss it, then scramble to the next stop and miss it again. The sun is setting, and we can hardly breathe, salt dripping down our brows. A woman with salt-and-pepper hair and an oversized cobalt blue polo half-drenched in sweat asks us how we are doing. I look down to see the moisture on her skin, an iridescent glow. She tells us a little of her story, and I breathe it in, feeling the cracks I cannot fill. I know that I can listen and that I can meet her gaze, and so I do until the next bus scoops us up.
As we drive further into town, Nina points out familiar spots from when she lived here during grad school not long ago. We get out at the Fiesta Market and immediately notice the vastness of the parking lot spread out before us like an endless desert plain. The glass entrance keeps slipping further and further away, but eventually, we do make it, our feet trailing behind. We are met with an icy cold breeze just inside the door.
Immediately I lose track of Nina and get lost in the aisle with the piñatas. The fluorescent lights don’t seem to bother me much here. We are in a warehouse. It’s HUGE. They have everything. I never want to leave this place. We find everything but what we came for: pool noodles. Instead, I buy a camo hat that says TEXAS, two packages of ramen, an incense cone burner, and chocolate that fully melts before I can get back to where we are staying. Neither of us is in a rush to leave the market, and even though the original goals tonight were to find noodles and make pictures, I begin to make peace with the fact that neither of those things is going to happen.
When we finally do step back into the heat, my feet are barking. The chronic pain in my left foot is at an all-time high and there’s nothing I can do to fix it at this moment. But I’ve been in silent pain all week and frustrated by the existential dread it has triggered within me. I think about how much I love to walk, how much Nina loves to walk, and how we are walking together. I want to keep walking but it’s so fucking hot. My foot is killing me.
Nina takes us to her old apartment and shows me the weird pool at the complex that seems to be overtaken by algae. I think about how strange it would be to live somewhere else entirely, to leave it and then return as a new person, living a different life. I think about the only home I’ve ever known since my couch surfing days—an apartment with no central AC but the most spectacular view of the Los Angeles City skyline.
We eventually arrive at a golf course, and Nina is so nice and doesn’t make it weird when I ask to photograph her. For the life of me, I do not know why it is still vulnerable to ask. But I do know that sometimes a person's willingness will force me to confront the parts of me that are afraid and hiding behind projected insecurities. Mosquitos bite at my ankles as we begin and I swat away any doubt that what I see on my screen isn’t good enough as the sun continues to sink. I see flowers on the side of the road that I know I’ve seen back home, but they grow differently here.
When we get back home, the girls are dressed to the nines, hair curled, lip gloss applied. I’m exhausted and realize I haven’t packed any “going out” clothes. I haven’t even really figured out what my going-out clothes are this year. Feeling my sweaty binder beneath my t-shirt, panic sets in. Sam sees me and graciously offers a very cute pink tube top. As I squirm into it, I swallow the lump in my throat, but it’s too late. I’m triggered! I can’t access a part of myself that I know exists. I want to scream but don’t want to cause a scene or take out my sadness on Sam, so I settle on a different black tank that is form-fitting but feels like the best I can do. No one at the club has to know how terrible I feel inside. I can pretend. Looking in the mirror one last time, I throw on a thick chain around my neck and decide to surrender to the unfortunate fact that I’m hot, I just don’t feel like it tonight. And that’s allowed. I will still dance.
When Tony finds me on the dance floor, I am happy and also sad. I feel ashamed for the tiny pebble in my chest—a sinking disappointment I can’t control as we start to kiss. I am thinking about the girl at the pool.
I feel conflicted in my joy, confused by my pleasure, and like a total asshole for being mad at this person for having a beard. He’s so sweet. And he looks like every man I have ever kissed.
We dance harder and kiss longer, laughing through a Taylor Swift remix. He tells me he’s in music. I tell him my pronouns. I want him to know who he is kissing even though he won’t remember in the morning. I compliment him on his dimples. He never stops smiling. “I really like you,” he says, and I laugh and pull him in closer.
Something about the situation feels queer. Probably because I am. Even if I feel a bit distracted and a bit selfish, I also feel alive. He invites me over to his place and I kindly say no, but give him my number because I can’t help the part of me that cares too much for strangers on the dance floor beneath a mirror ball.
I wake up at 4 a.m. and proceed to toss and turn for two hours. Today is the day I photograph Sam. I am nervous, not because I do not think it will go well, but because I want it to go even better than well, and there’s nothing I can do to control that. I don’t know what their apartment looks like, how long we will be able to last outside in the heat, or what ideas will come to me in the moment. I am as prepared as I can be, and the rest is up to the photo gods.
“Dear god this humidity,” they text me just before I arrive. Our plans are loose and even though my faith is strong, there is still the possibility that something could go wrong. But when I arrive, it feels like greeting an old friend. I know things will be fine. We gently embrace and I’m careful not to press into them at all since they are still healing from top surgery.
Broc the cat greets us indoors and immediately I’m at ease when I feel the rush of the AC. Their home feels warm, lived in, and safe. I tell Sam, who is finishing curling their hair, not to rush—we’ve got all the time in the world—a blatant lie. I hate rushing and I hate to be rushed. I do not like the person I am or the artist I become under unnecessary time constraints and so whenever possible, I try to suspend any sense of it. With that said, I have to get to the airport at some point, so our time is unfortunately limited. I do everything I can to slow us down. And it works.
I wish to write more about my time with Sam, but the plane is landing. For now, I’m thinking about the field we stood in, and how it felt just like home. Home as in childhood, as in first making pictures. Home as in, you were meant to do this, to see them, to be here. Home as in the inexplicable joy on Sam’s face when they put on one of their favorite tank tops for the first time with their new chest. Home as in photographing queer people is healing me, is bringing me back to life, is showing me the way, is making a way. Home as in I forgot about my aching foot or what time I was supposed to be leaving. Home as in we could have been anywhere. Home as in the gray has lifted just in time.
You may have seen this circulating on the internet this past week. This spreadsheet is one of the easiest ways to help those trying to leave Gaza. Any amount helps. If you can’t donate, share with that friend.
I recently discovered that I have two (distant) queer cousins. I thought I was the only one.
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I made a Summer Bucket list and a lot of things on there are cute and gay. Maybe I will share it here soon.
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I photographed someone who recently had top surgery (as you read above) and then two days later photographed a new mother who wanted to celebrate her journey with breastfeeding. In awe of the spectrum I get to witness as a photographer and the embodiment of beauty people allow me to witness.