Excerpted from Nikki's soon to be released rolling autobiography: "Transcendence - My Rebirth as a Woman"
I had the privilege to attend a play called The Laramie Project at Steel River Playhouse in Pottstown, PA. I had recently joined the board of directors of LGBT Equality Alliance, based in Chester County, PA. The board asked if I would sub for the organization’s founder at the showing and facilitate / moderate a talkback between the audience and the cast after the performance. The Laramie Project presented the life of Matthew Shepard, cut tragically short by his beating death; a hate crime for the sole reason he was an out and proud gay teen attending college in Laramie, Wyoming.
I had the privilege to attend a play called The Laramie Project at Steel River Playhouse in Pottstown, PA. I had recently joined the board of directors of LGBT Equality Alliance, based in Chester County, PA. The board asked if I would sub for the organization’s founder at the showing and facilitate / moderate a talkback between the audience and the cast after the performance. The Laramie Project presented the life of Matthew Shepard, cut tragically short by his beating death; a hate crime for the sole reason he was an out and proud gay teen attending college in Laramie, Wyoming.
I had never heard of Matthew Shepard. He died in 1998 while I was steeped in my business career prior to the advent of the new century. I was given a complimentary ticket for agreeing to facilitate the talkback. When I entered the small theater, I was greeted warmly by a volunteer who asked my seat number. I had presumed seating was similar to a movie theater. I extracted the ticket from the right pocket of my mauve suede jacket and handed it over. She smiled, announced the seat row and number and pointed me in the right direction.
The row letters were written on labels and affixed inconsistently on the outer leg of the end seat. I was destined for row C and when I climbed to the third row I searched for seat numbers. There was one open seat at the end of the row. I looked across the row to count the seats. The soft eyes of a man seated to the left of the open seat beckoned me to ask, “What is your seat number?” He smiled and announced “nine.”
“Then this must be seat ten!” I smiled warmly and settled into the chair.
“What’s your name?” My theater buddy asked.
“I’m Nikki. Nikki, one “N”, two “K”s and two “I”s but no “C”. He offered his hand gently. I shook it.
“Nice to meet you Nikki. I’m Andrew.”
“Hello Andrew.” I paused. “What do you do for a living?” Old habits of stale ice breakers were difficult to lose.
“I work in Philadelphia.” I wasn’t sure if my question felt intrusive. Undeterred I continued. “Public sector or private?”
“The woman in row B turned and smiled. Andrew looked at her. Are we public or private?”
“Government,” she announced.
“Oh the third form.”
“Third?” He asked.
“Public, private and government,” I replied.
Andrew and his friend in row B smiled. “This is my new friend Nikki.” Andrew introduced me. I’m terrible with names and can’t recall the smiling woman’s name. She turned and contributed to our conversation. It was comfortable and later I learned it was destiny’s design that Row C Seat 10 was designated for me.
“Where do you live?” Another stock question from my inane repertoire of queries.
“Philadelphia.”
“Where in Philadelphia?” I was beginning to feel like I was probing in a sensitive area. Andrew answered and then asked the same of me.
“Centreville, Maryland.”
“Centreville?” He asked as if he knew this 1794 vintage enclave.
“Yes, do you know it?”
“I live in Chestertown. About four miles closer to you than the town.”
“Wow!” I thought of the possibilities that I would be placed in a seat next to someone three and one half hours north of home and a stone’s throw from mine. Coincidence? I think not. Given how my life has played out since my physical transition, there’s design. I’d expand by adding the word “intelligent” but that would spark debate and possibly castigation from intelligent design proponents. This we’ll save for another day and another time.
We exchanged contact information at intermission. As we enjoyed the performance I cried and Andrew seemed to feel my pain and empathize. He had seen the plot twice I believe yet was drawn to it yet again. Given what little I knew of my most recent friend, I presumed there was something deep and abiding in the message.
The performers (I wouldn’t consider them actors as they seemed to live the multiple parts each thespian was chosen to portray) delivered the message in character, depicting the response of each interviewee conducted during two trips to Laramie over a two-year period. I was visibly moved by the depth of conviction of each character’s presentation of the senseless loss of life of an eighteen-year-old college student for living his life true to his sexuality. He was robbed of the opportunity to flourish and continue to contribute to society by two young men who thought they would lure Matthew away and beat him into changing him to their narrow view of life.
Maybe there are those who would offer that the destructive duo went too far by killing Matthew. That would be blatantly wrong. They went too far by believing that might makes right and attacking a person, in any way, shape or form, is the appropriate human response to someone who is diverse. Justice was served (two young men adjudicated to prison for the remainder of their lives), albeit too late. One of the messages was remembrance. We must learn from tragedy and strive to never repeat it. The destruction of lives, Matthew’s and the two killers, their families, friends, the town of Laramie and anyone who was touched by the wanton disregard for human life, is never worth the lessons learned. It’s too late when we’re holding vigils, commemorations, remembrances, etc. We can’t undo what’s been done. We need to overcome the need to categorize, criticize, analyze, ostracize, victimize and every other negative “ize” that exists now and in the future.
Matthew’s tragically shortened life leaves us empty and robbed of the richness he would have added; as does any tragically shortened life. We have a tendency to become guarded, to nurture bias, to feel uncomfortable. These negative occurrences paint good people with the brush of generalization which further deepens divides, stifles healing, foments mistrust and fuels the potential for more hatred and destruction.
When will it end? Given the apparent lack of compassion, not soon enough.
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