Chapter 33
Thirty-Three
THE MUSEUM IS CL?SED T?DAY
Monday morning, we’re greeted by a sandwich board in the parking lot. Normally, security closes the gate at the turnoff. Today,
however, the gate is open. It’s like they want guests to see—
Oh, right.
This is the photo op Dagny wants: workers on strike, running through chants, while the museum is closed. Now picture a family
of out-of-state tourists in the foreground, a kid crying like they’ve just dropped their ice-cream cone at the boardwalk.
“Is this online yet?” Stanley asks, scratching his head. “The museum’s supposed to open in half an hour.”
“Maybe they’re scrounging up scabs, but the sign is a precaution?” Naomi asks, photographing the sign.
“It’s Ford’s day off,” supplies Gwen, who joined us yesterday. “That leaves Anya, Dan, and—”
“Anyone they can conscript from upstairs,” I add. “But something seems off—”
“Found something,” Efraín grumbles, glaring at his phone. He’s sitting on Hawkeye’s bumper, so I scoot in next to him.
That something is the museum’s first official communiqué regarding our letter.
The press release on NSX’s socials is really just a statement from Dagny to the internet at large. The strike, she says, is
the project of “impertinent upstarts” and “ ‘woke’ Zoomers” who came to the museum with a hidden agenda: to burn down her
father’s legacy and call it activism.
She tries to delegitimize the strike by claiming that the fired worker only sought this job to agitate employees, and as a
result, was fired for causing “significant disturbances in the workplace” that prevented others from performing their essential
job functions.
Meanwhile, I, apparently, am bringing my “mental health issues” into work. Because gender dysphoria is in the DSM, Dagny’s claiming that every aspect of my identity and experience as a transgender person can be reduced to a symptom of
my disorder.
I have also been responsible for grievous workplace disruptions, despite management’s numerous attempts to help me address my issues privately, and I have made dangerous, baseless allegations regarding sexual harassment against staff and guests—so you, the reader, should be concerned that I, the scary, mentally ill tranny at the ticketing counter, might decide to #MeToo you next.
Dagny doesn’t refer to Efraín or me by name, which must be a concession to the fact that we’re minors. However, she views
the union as an “existential threat” to the museum, and on that note . . .
She’s thrilled to reopen “registration” for NSX’s sold-out anniversary gala. Due to strike-related disruptions, they’ve been
forced to close today and may not be able to operate throughout the week, so they’re asking fans to step up! Register to attend
the party as a volunteer! Don’t worry, they still have celebrities who will cross the picket line, so you should, too! Scabs of the internet, unite!
Fury whittles the world down to a red-hot poker.
Efraín’s cursing next to me, quivering with rage.
I don’t know why he’s not moving because I’m standing up. Stanley’s hand on my shoulder stops me from storming the farmhouse
door and finding out how much of that Dagny would say to my face.
Lola’s mad as hell, too, and she’s back on about interviews. Eden’s typing up notes for the group chat. TJ’s asking about
our social media response plan.
Everyone wants my opinion on something, but I’m all sold out.
Efraín’s saying something about taking a walk, and I’m about to invite myself when Naomi hits my arm. Hard.
“What?” I hiss, rubbing my sore skin. I look at her, looking at the world through her phone’s camera interface.
Dan’s coming out of the barn.
“Well, it’s about time you joined us!” Stanley yells.
“Are you joining us?” Lola demands. “Or are you here to deliver some message Dagny won’t publish for the public record?”
“No.” Dan shakes his head, bewildered. “I mean, yes, I’m joining. If that’s cool with you.” Dan’s looking straight at me.
“I just saw the thing. What Dagny’s saying about you—that isn’t cool. I don’t want to be part of that. So, uh, if it’s all
the same to you, I’d rather be here.”
I don’t know why he’s asking my permission. Dan’s never misgendered me, not as far as I know, but I’ve also never heard him
defend . . . anything, really. Given that Dan spends so much time with Ford, there’s an endless supply of microaggressions
to call out. That’s the problem with Dan’s brand of chill. He may accept the news of my gender with a single blink, but there
are some things in this world that you can’t just let live or let lie.
If he’s finally figured that out, then all the power to him.
Wordlessly, I hand him the sign I’ve been using as a crutch.
In organizing, we talk about inoculating against union busting, but I could’ve used a booster shot against cyberbullying.
It’s a universally acknowledged law of the internet that any social justice–related content will eventually reach bigots, haters, and trolls. I’ve been concerned since the beginning that our positive viral attention might trigger backlash.
Sucks to be right.
Everyone has put down their signs and quieted their chants to sit on the ground and doomscroll on our personal electronic
devices.
It’s bleak.
We’re on strike, so anti-labor commenters are to be expected. Most of us are young, so it follows that many posts call us
some variation of privileged, spoiled brats and indict our entire generation.
Those critiques seem downright civil compared to the rest of it.
We’ve attracted every person on the internet who clutches their pearls or grabs their gun when they so much as hear “DEI.”
We’ve enraged the trifecta: racists, homophobes, and TERFs.
This job has taught me that the NS fandom is diverse. For every queer who’s found something meaningful in it, there are countless fans who just like scurvy zombies, grapevine-tentacle
monsters, or pretty girls skinny-dipping in luminescent lakes.
Or maybe they just like guns.
They sure love the target that’s been pinned to my back.
It doesn’t matter that Dagny didn’t use Efraín’s or my names. NS fans speedily cross-reference the press release with the union’s socials and public information and come up with our names,
birthdays, sexes assigned at birth, addresses, phone numbers, and—
Yeah, no, they find my deadname minutes later.
They don’t fixate on Efraín with the same ruthless ferocity, and I shred myself into pulp feeling guilty, grateful, and jealous
when I see why: Efraín’s barely in Naomi’s strike photos. He’s always occupied with something, never claiming center stage. At first, I
wonder if he made a deal with Naomi, but when I run back the past few days, I realize that’s just how he’s been acting—not
withdrawn, but quieter. I assume the fact that Efraín isn’t prominently featured in the photos makes him a less appealing
target for trolls. Meanwhile, I am right there in HD, imposing on the tableau of their favorite TV show while visibly trans. Low-hanging fruit for the lowest common denominator.
There is something singularly gut-crushing about reading some anon claiming he clocked me the second he joined my tour group.
Is that better or worse than the strangers who discuss Dagny’s words with genuine concern?
Some for me—how dare my parents allow me to mutilate myself?
—but mostly against me—they couldn’t imagine letting their daughter share a bathroom with me—and a lot of single-minded transphobes who are so fucking terrified by the existence of trans women that they literally can’t comprehend that trans men exist?
And then there’s Christine Holloway, the septugenarian actress best known for her role as Carol Davis on NS, and a verified X user.
Christine Holloway
@christy_holloway
Such a tragedy, so close to home! This is what happens when the radical left preaches gender ideology and conspires to pump
young girls full of dangerous hormones instead of treating their troubles. I doubt she would be lashing out like this without
testosterone fueling her rage? No surprise she’s raging against authority when the authority figures in her own life have
clearly let her down by letting her act out these delusions.
Sad.
Anywho, I’ll be at the NSX Anniversary Gala on Friday. Rain or shine, strike or no strike! Who’s with me?
I am a queer, transgender, Jewish teenager. It was always going to end up here. God forbid they find out I’m autistic, too. I’m hitting all the boxes on someone’s “today on the internet” identity bingo card.
I’m still scrolling when the first death threat rolls in.
It’s a macabre party game, finding the most vile tweets to read aloud that night at Punch Bowl’s happy hour.
Nearly a dozen of us are here eating cheap fried food. Or just pushing limp fries around on a plate. I don’t have an appetite.
The conversation is sluggish, and I keep zoning out until people say my name.
Efraín has been by my side all day, brooding and silent. The only time I’ve ever seen him so quiet in the face of bigotry
was the day those three bigots walked into the museum. Since the death threats started, he’s been loath to leave me alone.
He’s slipped into guard dog mode, and he snapped at Lola when she tried to check in with both of us about how we’re coping.
She muttered something about the emotional illiteracy of teenage boys before tactically retreating. I asked Efraín a variant
of the same question, thinking I might get a real response because we’re staring down the barrel of the same gun.
He keeps telling me he’s fine, and even I, as emotionally illiterate as I am, can read the goddamn lie. When he flips the switch and expresses concern
for me, I use the first excuse I can find to make my own tactical retreat.
It doesn’t matter that some guy in the men’s restroom asks me if I’m sure I’m in the right place.
What matters is when the time comes to split the check. I silently thank Mr. Xie for extending Blake’s family discount to
the rest of us, and then I Venmo my share to Eden. I don’t think much of Blake covering Jaime or Stanley covering TJ until
I catch Naomi’s wince. There have been a lot of hushed sidebars around the table.
“So, uh.” Divya scratches her head. “How long do we think this is gonna go on?”
“As long as it takes,” I answer. “Until Dagny agrees to meet with the union.”
“Yeah, but”—Divya exchanges sideways glances with Miles and TJ—“how many business days do we think that’s gonna take? I thought,
after they saw we were serious, we’d be back at work, getting premium pay for the party—”
“My rent’s due Friday,” TJ says quietly.
I feel selfish and stupid, and I instinctively glance at Efraín. He looks queasier than I feel. All those times I marveled
at how obtuse Efraín was about spending money, and now I’ve made the same mistake.
Maybe Dagny was right to call me a privileged, spoiled brat because how did I manage to overlook something so glaringly obvious?
As much as it grates, I am, technically, a child.
My parents provide food, shelter, insurance, etc.
Same for my sister, Efraín, Lola, and Gwen.
But for the legal adults in the room? How much do I know about their financial situations?
Jaime works two jobs to finance night classes at the junior college. Blake’s a college student. Eden has a boatload of student
loans.
At least I know Jaime and Blake live with their parents, and Stanley has his wife, but everyone else?
TJ’s rent is due. He’s a part-time employee in his early twenties. Does he have a roommate? Does he have groceries in the
fridge?
How many of my fellow workers are living paycheck to paycheck?
My head is pounding, and the shitty ’80s music spilling from the jukebox doesn’t help.
“It’s just—” Jaime starts. He looks first to Blake, then to Lola, for encouragement, moral support, permission? “It sounds
like Dagny isn’t going to back down? Especially now that Christine Holloway’s thread is getting attention.”
“She’s trending,” TJ confirms.
“Yeah,” Lola cuts in, “but is Holloway trending because people agree with her or because they know she’s full of shit?”
“It feels like we’re losing,” Jaime says.
“I don’t know about you guys”—Divya gestures around the table—“but I can’t afford to lose this job. I’ve got bills, man.”
And Jaime’s abuela needs groceries, and Miles’s toddler’s childcare doesn’t come cheap.
Everyone needs, and I need to say something, but I don’t know what. My breaths come hard and fast, and sweat percolates on my brow.
I look at Efraín. Surely he’ll know what to say. The vein in his temple is throbbing, and he’s working his jaw. He must be
winding up to say something that will make everything right. This is his wheelhouse. He knows how to give inspirational speeches
and rally the masses; it’s what he does best.
I’ve done my best to be the organized organizer, but it’s well-established that I’ll never be a social leader. I can write
petitions and brainstorm creative solutions, but this isn’t my role.
Efraín told me himself, didn’t he? That’s the point of a union. We all have different roles to play. This is his. Maybe it
isn’t as flashy as his old Eat the Rich: The Musical one-man show, but he’s not a lone wolf anymore. He came back from Fresno; he met me at the picket line. He understands now.
Doesn’t he?
Except he hasn’t said anything.
Instead, he’s staring at his chipped red nail polish like he’ll find answers in the cracks.
When I look up, every other set of eyes is locked on me. I’ve never felt so helpless, so I turn to the man who’s always been
there to point the way to an escape hatch.
“You know what?” Stanley says, soft and kind. “It’s been a long day. We can talk about money tomorrow, okay? In the light
of day, maybe everything will look different.”