Keep Your Chin Up

When I first came out as transgender over twenty years ago, the group I was working for decided the best way to “manage this” (this meaning me) was to march me in front of every team I interacted with while my operations director gave her straight southern woman’s perspective on what exactly was happening.

Honestly, it was fucking humiliating.

And through all of it, I had one friend who stayed true. A fellow team leader at the time. Every single time things got ugly or awkward or humiliating, he’d simply tell me: “Keep your chin up.”

And he wasn’t wrong.

I eventually got through all of it.

Yeah, I’m sure people talked behind my back. Yeah, I’m sure some people thought terrible things. But “keeping my chin up” was never really about them. It was about preserving my own sense of self-worth. It was about moving through life with pride and conviction, knowing deep down that I was a good fucking human being and that I wasn’t harming anybody by existing honestly.

Sometimes life has a funny way of testing that philosophy.

And holy fuck, do I feel tested lately.

Ever since the accident, it feels like there’s some fresh obstacle waiting around every corner. Some new challenge. Some new bureaucratic absurdity. Some new emotional landmine.

And yet, every single time I go through something difficult, I eventually come out the other side stronger, wiser, more grounded.

But to what end?

That’s the question I keep asking myself lately.

Still, through every new test, I hear those words echoing somewhere in the back of my brain: “Keep your chin up.”

So I do.

Today’s test was twofold: Wicked West Harley-Davidson and a separate personal issue I’m not at liberty to discuss publicly.

So let’s talk about the one I can.

I’ve done my own motorcycle tires for years now. That whole journey started after I dropped a bike shortly after a dealership installed a new tire and assured me it had been properly broken in. Looking back, I now understand the real issue was probably temperature. It was January or February. The pavement was cold as hell, and mold-release compound doesn’t scrub off nearly as quickly at twenty degrees as it does at eighty. But whatever. The end result was simple: I stopped trusting dealerships with my tires.

So I bought the tools and learned to do it myself.

But post-accident me hasn’t exactly been excited about spending precious days off wrenching on motorcycles. My mechanic at the Fab Shop didn’t have time because they’re finally taking a well-earned vacation, so I called Wicked West Harley-Davidson.

“Sure,” they said. “Bring it in Tuesday.”

So I took the day off.

Dropped the bike off first thing in the morning, which at Harley apparently means ten o’clock in the fucking afternoon like a bunch of goddamned bankers, then Ubered home so I could spend the day doing Kate things: riding around Santa Fe on Aurora, chasing cappuccinos, eating sweets, trying to enjoy life.

Brittney had also taken the day off, so we grabbed lunch and caught up for a while. Later she dropped me off back at Harley, and before she left she asked: “You want me to wait?”

Confidently, I said: “No.”

Mistake.

I walked up to the service counter and the guy casually informed me they were “finishing up.”

Cool.

So I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Meanwhile the “mechanic” in the back appeared to be fighting for his fucking life mounting a motorcycle tire.

After about forty-five minutes, the manager approached me with that universally recognizable “we fucked up” facial expression and informed me my bike would not, in fact, be ready that day.

At this point I had already missed my chiropractor appointment (which I still have to pay for because apparently time itself now costs money) and now I was being told the bike wouldn’t be done until tomorrow.

“Can you give us until tomorrow?”

Well I kind of fucking have to now, don’t I? I mean, if the bike isn’t ready, it isn’t ready. I can’t exactly ride home without a rear tire. And if this guy can’t figure out how to mount the new tire, I’m not exactly brimming with confidence about him reinstalling the old one.

So I explained:

• this is my commuter bike

• I ride it to Los Alamos

• I leave for work before they even open

• they’re closed by the time I get back into town

The manager handed me his personal cell number and promised he’d stay late if necessary.

And honestly? I really wanted to scream at somebody. I wanted to unleash absolute fury on the entire building.

But instead I tried to find grace.

I held my chin up.

I shook my head and calmly said: “I’ll see you tomorrow. These things happen. Try not to worry about it.”

Meanwhile internally? Pure rage.

Absolute volcanic fury.

But reality dictates the outcome, doesn’t it?

Doesn’t matter what I feel. The bike still isn’t ready. Physics still exists.

So I went home with rage in my heart but love on my face and tried to wrestle myself into sleep.

BUT…

There is a silver lining. Because now I “have” to ride Aurora to work tomorrow.

And honestly? That’ll probably make me smile all goddamned day.

Yeah, I’ll have to wear a backpack. But I also get to ride Aurora.

So I guess some sound sensors in Santa Fe are about to have a very exciting fucking morning.