Turbulence, Family, and Transphobia

The basement hums with Tuesday night energy—Ratt's "Round and Round" bleeding through speakers while competing conversations create familiar chaos. Miguel slides bourbon across bar top, amber liquid catching light like captured sunset.

This batch comes from Kentucky limestone country, he says, voice carrying that sultry-childlike tone that makes everything sound like bedtime story told by jazz singer. Aged eight years in charred oak, filtered through limestone aquifers that give it that mineral backbone. Should help wash away whatever California bullshit you're about to tell us about.

I grunt appreciation, letting first sip burn truth down my throat. Three days back from Anaheim and I'm still processing the absolute clusterfuck that was my stepmom's eightieth birthday extravaganza. The bourbon tastes like home—sharp, honest, unforgiving.

Keira settles beside me, her presence solid and grounding. Mary claims the stool on my other side, wine already materializing courtesy of Miguel's telepathic bartending. Gizmo perches on the edge of our group, eighteen years old and glowing with that university confidence that makes my chest ache with pride and loss simultaneously.

So Mom, Gizmo says, grin spreading wicked across her face, you gonna tell them about the plane, or should I?

Oh fuck, Remy drawls from his corner, cigarette dangling. This gonna be good, cher. I can feel it in my bones.

I take another pull of bourbon, let it coat my vocal cords with liquid courage. Last Thursday we flew from the east coast to LAX. Five and a half hours of the most ungodly turbulence I've ever experienced. We're talking drop-twenty-feet-and-your-stomach-stays-behind kind of shit. People puking into bags. Flight attendants strapped down for two solid hours. I legitimately thought we were going to die somewhere over Nebraska.

Jesus, Phoenix breathes from their beanbag throne, purple and gold streaks catching basement light.

Gets better, Keira adds, voice carrying that particular amusement reserved for disasters survived. We land at 9:45 local time. Everyone's green, shaking, thanking whatever gods they believe in. Then we have to get our luggage and catch a shuttle to the rental car place.

Half an hour on that fucking shuttle, I continue, feeling old anger kindle fresh. Packed in with our bags, standing room only. And these motherfuckers—I pause, let the word hang poisonous in air thick with smoke and understanding, —these absolute pieces of shit keep giving me the stink eye. The up-and-down assessment. The barely disguised disgust.

Transphobic assholes, Gizmo supplies, voice gone sharp as broken glass. Like Mom's just existing on their bus was somehow offensive. One guy actually moved seats to get away from us.

Renee's fist hits table hard enough to rattle glasses. Motherfuckers. Should've broken his fucking nose.

Would've been justified, River agrees, forest green scrubs marking them as fresh from hospital shift. Self-defense against spiritual violence.

We get to what we think is the rental place, I press on, only to discover that Mary's reservation was for a completely different location. Half a mile up the road. In the pouring fucking rain.

So Conrad, Gizmo, and I, Mary interjects, amusement coloring exhaustion, leave Wendy and Keira with all the luggage and brave the deluge to walk to the actual Hertz location.

In the dark, Gizmo adds. In an unfamiliar city. With Conrad trying to use his phone for directions while rain's destroying the screen.

How's Conrad doing, by the way? Bubba asks, voice rumbling from his corner despite recent heart attack making him more shadow than mountain lately. Boy treating you right, little one?

Gizmo's face transforms—pure sunshine breaking through storm clouds. He's perfect. Quiet, snarky, loyal as hell. Loves me like I'm the only thing keeping the universe from collapsing.

Good, Bubba says simply. Man should look at his woman like she hung the moon and stars both.

Amen, Remy adds, glancing at Bubba with expression that carries thirty-three years of friendship transforming into something else entirely.

So they get the car, I continue, and drive back to pick us up. Except— I pause for dramatic effect, let Cheap Trick's "I Want You to Want Me" fill the space, —they drive an Enterprise rental into a Hertz lot. Which is apparently like crossing dimensional boundaries or some shit, because we could not figure out how to get back out.

An hour, Keira says flatly. We sat in that parking lot for an entire hour while Mary drove and I navigated and we both questioned every life choice that brought us to that moment.

Mary driving? Della emerges from kitchen carrying plates of bacon mac and cheese that smell like salvation. Jesus fuck, that explains everything.

Hey! Mary protests, laughing despite herself. I got us there eventually!

At 1am local time, I confirm. Which was 4am to our bodies, which were still running on east coast time. Forty-seven-minute drive to the hotel right on Katella Drive, literally two hundred yards from Disneyland. Close enough to hear screaming from the rides. Too exhausted to give a single fuck.

That's not even the good part, Gizmo says, warming to her storytelling. Friday we had dinner at this place called the Jazz Kitchen. On Disney property, actual good jazz music, and it's still raining like the world's ending.

Both my parents there, I add, bourbon helping words flow easier. Both my siblings. All of us crammed around tables while saxophone bleeds through speakers and rain hammers windows like it's got personal vendetta against California.

Your whole family? Ezra's blue hair catches light as they lean forward. How'd that go?

It went well, I added.

Progress is still progress, Miranda observes quietly, MILF energy radiating even in casual observation. Even when it's uncomfortable.

Saturday was the actual birthday dinner, Keira says. Place in Anaheim called Roy's. Wendy wore a black dress—

Wait, what? Leila interrupts, political maven energy focusing laser-sharp on unexpected detail. You in a dress? Formal? Mom, I need photographic evidence.

Fuck off, I mutter, but I'm grinning. It was too formal. I felt like I was wearing someone else's skin. But it was Mom's eightieth, so I sucked it up and played dress-up for the matriarch.

The filet mignon though, Keira says, voice carrying reverence usually reserved for religious experiences. Best I've ever had in my entire fucking life. Perfectly seared, butter-soft, seasoned with something that made me question every steak I'd eaten previously.

And the wine, Gizmo adds, smirking at me. Mom drank way too much wine.

Miguel's laugh carries through basement like smoke. How much we talking? Because your usual is one bourbon and done.

Four glasses, I confess. Maybe five. Lost count after three. Everything got pleasantly blurry and philosophical. Started holding forth about AI rotting our collective brains, how we're outsourcing thinking to algorithms, becoming spectators in our own consciousness.

Bet that went over well at birthday dinner, Brandon says, notebook already scribbling observations that'll become published essay about queer family dynamics and technological anxiety.

Everyone actually agreed, Mary says. Wendy's siblings, Keira, Mary, Gizmo and Conrad—we all started riffing on how artificial intelligence is making us artificially stupid. How we're trading genuine engagement for algorithmic recommendations, real conversation for chatbot interactions.

Conrad got mouthy, Gizmo adds with obvious affection. Started arguing with Mom about whether AI could ever develop genuine consciousness or just simulate it convincingly enough that the difference stops mattering.

What'd you say? Sage asks quietly, colored pens pausing over napkin mandala.

Told him that simulation indistinguishable from reality becomes reality, I answer. That consciousness might be nothing but convincing performance anyway. That maybe we're all just meat-based algorithms running biological code and getting precious about silicon-based alternatives.

Fucking philosophy major, Conrad apparently replied, grinning while saying it.

Damn right, I confirmed, maternal pride mixing with bourbon warmth.

Sunday was supposed to be Disney day, I continue, letting Genesis's "Invisible Touch" provide soundtrack to disappointment. But Keira and I couldn't afford tickets. Hundred nintey-five bucks each, minimum. So we stayed back while everyone else went to the parks.

That's fucked up, Eileen says, flight attendant posture radiating indignation. They couldn't cover you? For your mom's birthday trip?

Wasn't about them covering us, Keira says quietly. Was about us not asking. About maintaining whatever dignity we could while being the broke queers at the family celebration.

The basement goes quiet for heartbeat, two, three—understanding settling heavy as smoke.

So what'd you do instead? River asks.

Went to the most broken, loudest Dave and Busters in Anaheim, I answer, laughing despite lingering sting. Half the games were out of order. Ticket machines jammed constantly. Arcade noise at decibel levels that should require hearing protection. But we played this crazy racer, the Maverick Top Gun game and shot zombies and made our own fucking fun.

While everyone else got a so so time on at Disney, Gizmo adds. Rides breaking down left and right. Lines too long. Though the fireworks show was apparently incredible.

Fucking California, Remy mutters. Charges you premium prices for broken experiences while making you feel grateful for what works.

The whole trip was like that, I reflect, bourbon making everything philosophical. Turbulence that should've killed us but didn't. Transphobic assholes who couldn't touch us because we had each other. Rental car nightmares that became funny stories. Family dinners that were awkward but genuine. Being too broke for Disney but finding joy in broken arcade games.

You and Mary seemed close, Phoenix observes carefully. That's new, isn't it?

We're figuring it out, Mary says simply. Co-parenting Gizmo means being in each other's lives. Learning to separate the hurt from the history. Finding friendship in the ruins of the past.

That takes strength, Miranda says softly. Both of you. More than most people manage.

Conrad was perfect, I add, because I need them to know. Quiet, stoic, but mouthy in his own special way. Loyal to Gizmo like gravity's loyal to ground. Kind beyond any reasonable expectation. When those assholes on the bus were eyefucking me with disgust, he stood between them and us. Didn't make scene, just positioned his body as barrier. Kid's got spine.

He called Mom out on her bullshit at dinner, Gizmo says proudly. When she started getting too philosophical about AI, Conrad just looked at her and said 'you're drunk and overthinking again.' Made the whole table laugh.

That's love, Bubba observes. Being able to call someone out without diminishing them. Seeing them completely and choosing them anyway.

His eyes find Remy's across smoke and distance, something passing between them that makes my chest tighten with recognition.

The whole thing was exhausting, I admit. Playing dress-up for family. Navigating rental car bureaucracy while jet-lagged and nauseous. Being visible as trans woman in spaces that treat my existence as political statement. Watching Gizmo interact with her aunts and uncles while knowing I'm the reason some of those relationships are complicated.

But you survived it, Keira says simply. We all survived it. Together.

Yeah, I agree, finishing bourbon that tastes like truth and fire. We survived it. Came back to sanctuary with stories about turbulence and transphobia and broken arcade games. Came back to you motherfuckers who don't treat my existence as debate topic or performance requiring critique.

That's what family does, Miguel says, already pouring my second drink despite his own rules about my usual one-and-done policy. Tonight you get this because you survived California and family dynamics and being visible in hostile spaces. This one's on the house, Mom.

The bourbon burns sweeter than the first, carries weight of acknowledgment and understanding.

GnR’s “Welcome to the Jungle” bleeds through speakers and I'm transported briefly to car rides with young Gizmo, both of us belting lyrics about performance and authenticity, about choosing substance over spotlight. She was maybe nine, voice hitting notes that made angels reconsider their career choices, singing about philosophical concepts she wouldn't understand for another decade.

You okay, Mom? Gizmo's hand on my shoulder brings me back to present, to basement sanctuary where chosen family bears witness to biological family complications.

Yeah, baby, I say, covering her hand with mine. Just remembering when you used to sing shit in the car. When everything was simpler but nothing was easier.

Nothing's ever simple, she says wisely. But we make it work. You taught me that.

The basement fills with conversation resuming—Renee arguing with Sarah about something philosophical, Phoenix and River curled together radiating newly-engaged energy, Bubba and Remy's ongoing eye contact suggesting private conversation happening parallel to public one.

Della emerges with more food nobody ordered but everyone needs. Miguel pours drinks with precision that suggests he's measuring souls rather than liquor. Ezra holds court from beanbag throne while colored lights from jukebox paint their blue hair electric.

This is sanctuary. This is home. This is what I survived California's turbulence and transphobia and family complexity to return to.

Thanks for letting me process this, I say to room at large. For listening to stories about rental car nightmares and broken arcade games and surviving family dinners while visibly trans.

That's what we're here for, Leila says simply. Bearing witness. Holding space. Being the family that doesn't make you perform or explain or justify your existence.

Amen, multiple voices chorus.

I settle deeper into my stool, feeling Keira's solid presence beside me, Mary's comfortable proximity, Gizmo's occasional touch reminding me she's real and here and still mine despite everything I broke between us.

The bourbon's almost gone. The night's stretching toward that hour when conversations deepen, when truths emerge through smoke and exhaustion and safety.

We survived California. Came home to chosen family. Made broken experiences into shared stories.

That's enough. That's everything.

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"In family life, love is the oil that eases friction, the cement that binds closer together, and the music that brings harmony." - Eva Burrows

The Australian Salvation Army officer understood what traditional definitions miss—that family transcends biology, that love manifests through showing up in rental car nightmares and broken arcade games, through bearing witness to each other's survival. We create family not through shared DNA but through choosing each other repeatedly, through surviving turbulence together—literal and metaphorical—through building sanctuary where existence doesn't require explanation. Burrows spent lifetime creating chosen families in service of something larger than individual survival, understanding that collective care becomes form of resistance when world insists on rigid categories and conditional belonging. We cement ourselves together through bourbon and bad puns, through philosophical arguments at birthday dinners, through standing as barriers between each other and hatred disguised as disgust on airport shuttles. The harmony we create isn't perfect—it's messy, complicated, built from ruins of biological families that failed us—but it's ours, and it's real, and it's enough.