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She Sat on Her Stoop Like a Star

  • Writer: POETRY
    POETRY
  • Jan 10
  • 2 min read

By Emanuel Xavier


Before the piers, 

before I learned what family could look like in fishnets and heels,

there was her. 

Down Mamina’s block, Bushwick-baked and fireproof, 

she was the only trans woman I’d ever seen— 

a walking scandal wrapped in sequins, 

sipping lip-gloss from a corner smile, 

a story the grown-ups told through chuckles and shade. 


She made a throne of her stoop, 

drag regalia on a Tuesday, 

no parade, no protest, no permission— 

just a presence 

they couldn’t erase. 

Not bold. 

Necessary. 


Every time Julio drove past, 

I became a rubberneck prophet, 

praying for a glimpse 

of that glamour against the rusted gates, 

her shack turned altar, 

her body a neon sermon.

 

She was Village magic, 

summoned too soon to survive our block. 


Then the night came. 

Bodega light flickering like a bad omen, 

her wig tilted like a crown half-stolen, 

movement stiff— 

like she heard the cruelty before it arrived. 


They circled. 

They screamed. 

They struck. 

And she screamed too—until she didn’t. 


I didn’t look away. 

I watched her fall, 

watched something holy vanish 

behind a windshield of cowardice 

and a steering wheel gripped too tight. 

Julio drove. 

I cried. 

Her stoop stayed empty. 

The seasons changed. 

The silence grew. 

And no one spoke her name. 


I never knew it. 


But she left her silhouette burned into my childhood— 

a sacred outline 

of what it meant to take up space 

when the world wanted you gone. 


And now, 

I wish I could tell her— 

even from the passenger side, 

even as a boy too scared to blink— 

she was my first revolution. 

My first prayer in heels. 

The reason I rise now 

with painted nails and a voice that won’t shut up. 


She made me brave 

before I knew the word. 





Photo credit: Zihao Huang
Photo credit: Zihao Huang

Bio: Emanuel Xavier is a poet and author from New York City. He is the author of If Jesus Were GayAmericanoLove(ly) Child, and Still, We Are Sacred (2026). A Lambda Literary Award finalist and International Latino Book Awards finalist, his work explores queerness, family, faith, masculinity, and survival through lived experience. Follow Emanuel on Instagram: @emanuelxavier and www.emanuelxavier.org 



 
 
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