Fierce Femmes And Notorious Liars: A Dangerous Trans Girl's Confabulous Memoir by Kai Cheng ThomFierce Femmes And Notorious Liars: A Dangerous Trans Girl's Confabulous Memoir by Kai Cheng Thom

Fierce Femmes And Notorious Liars: A Dangerous Trans Girl's Confabulous Memoir

byKai Cheng Thom

Paperback | November 15, 2016

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At once a love letter and challenge to the traditional transgender memoir, Fierce Femmes and Notorious Liars is a playful, surrealist dance through queer coming of age.

A haunted young girl (who happens to be a kung-fu expert and pathological liar) runsaway from an oppressive city, where the sky is always grey, in search of love and sisterhood--and finds herself in a magical place known only as the Street of Miracles.There, she is quickly adopted into a vigilante gang of glamorous warrior femmes called the Lipstick Lacerators, whose mission is to scour the Street of violent men and avenge murdered trans women everywhere. But when disaster strikes, can our intrepid heroine find the truth within herself in order to protect her new family and heal her broken heart?

Kai Cheng Thom is a writer, performer, lasagna lover, and wicked witch based in Toronto, unceded Indigenous territory. She is the author of several award-winning works including the poetry collection a place called No Homeland, the children's book From the Stars in the Sky to the Fish in the Sea, and the forthcoming essay collection I ...
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Title:Fierce Femmes And Notorious Liars: A Dangerous Trans Girl's Confabulous MemoirFormat:PaperbackProduct dimensions:200 pages, 8 × 5.25 × 0.52 inShipping dimensions:8 × 5.25 × 0.52 inPublished:November 15, 2016Publisher:Metonymy PressLanguage:English

The following ISBNs are associated with this title:

ISBN - 10:0994047134

ISBN - 13:9780994047137

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I have an idea. About my dead uncle. A chamber opera. Small ensemble, maybe some electronics. Four or five singers doing multiple roles. No, wait, hear me out. Uncle Larry went to China when I was five and never came back. We don't even know for sure that he's dead. It's a great story. Or would be, I imagine. If we actually knew what it was. I just have bits so far: a made-up narrative arc for the second act, a melody half-cribbed from some incidental music that I wrote about five years ago for a local theatre company. An ethereal harmonic progression that I'm sure I'll find a place for. It wants to happen. It nags me in the night, sends me creeping to the kitchen table with a notepad or some music paper just to empty out my head so I can sleep. Louisa never stirs, even if I'm up three or four times. We pretty much assume that he's dead, after twenty-five years. Or most of us do. He isn't even my uncle, really. He's Mama's cousin. Or was, if he's dead. Aunt Jasmine believes he's still alive, but then I guess a mother has to. If he is, though, you'd think he'd have contacted someone by now, no matter how hard it may have been to get letters out of China in the 70s. Or especially now, with the Internet. You'd think he'd have contacted Aunt Jasmine at least. I used to sneak over to her place sometimes for tea and pastries, and the occasional family story. Stories from Mama's side, that I wasn't supposed to want to know about. She makes these great little pastries called moon cakes. Mama never made moon cakes. Mama was never allowed to make anything Chinese. There were a lot of rules for Mama. I remember one day she was supposed to mow the lawn, but didn't. When Dad got home she was asleep on the kitchen floor. I had cleaned up the spills and put the empties under the sink, but I couldn't get her to wake up, to wash her face, to sit in a chair. I was probably six or seven. He twisted her arm up behind her back until she cried and pushed her out to the shed. She mowed the lawn one-handed, rocking the mower from side to side to turn it around at the end of each row. Her arm was in a sling for four days. Oh, for a while we sometimes went out for Chinese food, but only the same way that we sometimes went out for steak or spaghetti. When we got to go out at all. There was a little place with chrome and arborite tables in a strip mall on Macleod Trail that served "Chinese and Canadian Cuisine", the menu neatly segregated: egg rolls and chow mein on the left, burgers and club sandwiches on the right. I could always tell if Teresa was trying to suck up to Dad by which side she ordered from. Dad always had the roast beef sandwich au jus. I can still see him turning his head sideways to bite into the gristly folds of meat, into the darkened bun dripping with what he always called "the awe juice". Mama usually had coffee and rice. Plain white rice. It wasn't licenced, the Chinese food place. I was often the only one who ventured into the mysterious realms of chop suey and sweet and sour pork, or chicken balls in their sticky scarlet goo. For a while. But suppose he is still alive?