Burgandi Rakoska

The Accessories #1 Burgandi Rakoska

"There's a bar in Greenwich," he softly said. "A bar for people like me. Or, I thought they were people like me. I thought I was like them. 'Turns out, they wouldn't let me in, either. I tried, this summer. A few days before I met you. I didn't even want booze; I just wanted to go inside. I wanted to be with people like me. They turned me away." One hand tightened around his cane. The other reached out to scratch his guide dog's ear. "They didn't want to let an animal in. I couldn't tell if they were talking about me or Baxter ... I'm tired." That confession, those three words, were enough to make me feel gravity. I slumped down, resting my head on his shoulder, touching the hand that was touching the cane. He gave Baxter's ear another scratch before reaching up, turning off the blue light, stowing the flashlight away for another time. "I knew that I was different, but how can I be different in a room where everyone else is different? How is it that my differences are worse than their differences?" He sighed. "I came to New York because I wanted to make a difference. But it's 1989. Stonewall isn't accessible and neither are the riots. I can't even see the flags, anymore. So, how can I be proud? How can I...be?" So, I said: "You can't be disabled there, but you can be queer here." And he paused. "Yeah?" "Yeah," I said. "We can be...here."