craftsman houses
Growing up, my father would drive me to my HRT appointments. We'd take Woodward all the way down to Berkley, where this HRT clinic was at. The doctor was a grumpy old man who wanted to make sure I was a true transsexual. Whatever that means.
On the way there, we'd pass through Pontiac. Pontiac has so many beautiful old Craftsman houses. I'd tell my dad, one day, I'm gonna live in one of those houses. They are so beautiful, and he'd ask me all these questions about why I wanted to live in the houses. At the time, I thought it was annoying -- why should I have to justify anything? But I was an angsty teenager, and, to some degree, I still am.
We'd go to my HRT appointments every 3 or so months, always at 8 am, so I could go to school afterwards. We were driving down there, and just before we got on Woodward, where m59 and Woodward meet, my favorite house had been torn down. It was this beautiful old craftsman, probably from the 1920s, and it'd been in disrepair for a while, but it had this gorgeous green siding with blue accents.
I had this whole story in my head about who lived there.
And now it was gone.
That day, I got on estrogen and spironolactone. It was a sort of rebirth, in a sense. I dedicated my first shot to that house.