“I’m sorry. But can I make a reservation?”

I’m sitting on a train to Boston. The seats are wide and comfortable. For the most part, things are quiet, other than the occasional murmur of a conversation. 

A few stations ago, a group of young women got on the train. They were trying to sit near each other. I cleared the seat next to me for one of them, and went back to reading my book.

“I’m sorry to bother you but…”

It was her friend’s voice across the aisle that broke into my concentration. None of them were loud, but it was the “I’m sorry” that kept me re-reading the same paragraph.

In the space of a less than two minute conversation, the girl had said it SIX times. 

It’s Friday, November 8, 2024. I’m sitting at a coffee shop. In a town I love. After stopping by to check on my wonderful hair stylist. A gay man who is scared about what the election results mean for him and his husband. 

Earlier today I texted some of my transgender friends. They had to pull their child out of school for a day because she was so scared. They are checking their passports to make sure they are in order. Not because they want to leave the country. But because they are afraid they won’t be able to get a passport in the future. Or at least one that correctly identifies them. 

My favorite librarian is worried about his disabled sister’s benefits as the day care center has already made her feel like her care is in jeopardy. He is working two jobs as it is, to make sure his family is cared for properly. 

It’s barely been 48 hours since the election results were announced and I know of no one in my close friend group who is NOT experiencing shock, horror, fear, anger, disappointment, sadness, or a myriad of other negative emotions.

I spent yesterday in tears. Sobbing, ugly, hiccuping tears. And when I finally pulled myself together enough to head to a coffee shop, I cried silently walking the streets to the cafe, as the raindrops fell. Later I cried again. And again. And again.

I woke this morning to a haunted look on my face. And the question in my heart: “With everything going so right in my life, what could possibly have me falling apart so greatly?”

The answer is not so simple. But it starts with something that sounds almost fantastical in its phrasing - INTERNET TROLLS.

When I was a little girl, I loved the stories that included mythological creatures. There was one in which a hero had to cross a bridge. But the bridge was guarded by trolls who lived under it. You wouldn’t even know they existed, until you tried to cross the bridge. And then they appeared to extract their price - in some rather gruesome versions of the story, it was a pound of flesh. 

Interestingly, the bridges in all these stories were actually public structures. The trolls had no more right to take a fee, than did anyone else. But they felt entitled or superior. Or perhaps they merely hated others who walked boldly in plain sight while they felt they had to hide. (Although I’ve never come across a version of the story in which anyone treated them badly until the trolls struck first.)

“How do you do it? How do you just accept that HE is with HER this weekend?”

The accusatory tone of the speaker was jarring. I was explaining that I’m in a poly relationship. That the man I love already had a married lover when he met me. That I didn’t even know he had “liked me liked me” at first. But when I found out, my world shifted and I suddenly found myself in the most wonderful loving healthy relationship of my life.

The skepticism was obvious on this person’s face when I mentioned my sweetheart was away visiting his lover and that no, I was not jealous of their relationship. Their connection had been going on a year + before I ever met any of them.

“I would NEVER be with a partner who slept around. If he’s mine, he’s mine only.” She said this with a harumph. 

Ahhhh there it was. The ever prevalent society accepted idea that we “own” our partners in any way shape or form. 

​When I was a little girl, I made up this game called “Escaping”. Originally inspired by the stories of the Underground Railroad, and the book “Roots”, it quickly evolved into something very, very, different. More personal.

The basic premise is exactly what you might think. I’m the protagonist being held against my will, in a world I don’t want to be in. And despite all the odds, I manage to - with a lot of athletic ability, ingenuity, aid from fantastical creatures, and a few bouts of rather unrealistic luck -  break free to live my life however I wish.

I never do continue the game once I break free. Instead, in an endless cycle of repetition, the moment I’ve conquered all, the game “resets” and I start all over.

It’s been years since I played the game. Yet a part of me realized recently, that it never really ended. In a sense I’ve been playing a rather adult version of this game my whole life.

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