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| − | [[Image:GSA_working_cover_%28front%29.jpg|thumb|left|Homofactus Press]]
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| − | GSA to Marriage: Stories of a Life Lived Queerly weaves a tapestry of raw and honest tales to explore the paradoxical nature of one queer’s life. Memories of childhood sexual abuse, coming out in a conservative semi-rural area and being kicked out as a teen for being queer emerge in these tales of survival, escape, and triumph. Following Sassafras through multiple gender changes from butch, to FTM, and finally to high femme, the stories play with fluidity and the politics of passing. GSA to Marriage charts a sometimes perilous journey to adulthood through the lessons learned in escaping the demons of one’s past.
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| − | Sassafras Lowrey is a queer history obsessed genderqueer high femme, militant storyteller, author, artist, and activist. Ze believe that everyone has a story to tell, and that the telling of those stories is essential to creating social change. An accomplished storyteller, ze was an original member of "The Language of Paradox" founded and directed by Kate Bornstein, contributor to numerous anthologies including: LGBTQ: America Today, The Femme Coloring Book, Gendered Hearts, and Visible: A Femmethology. Sassafras and was honored as one of Portland's top emerging writers by In Other Words feminist books in 2004, and is the editor of the highly anticipated Kicked Out anthology (Fall 2009) from Homofactus Press. Sassafras is also the author of GSA to Marriage: Stories of a Life Lived Queerly (Homofactus Press, Summer 2010). Ze lives in New York City with hir partner, two puddle-shaped cats, and a princess dog. www.pomofreakshow.com
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| − | <u>
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| − | Where I Come From:</u>
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| − | an excerpt from the memoir ''GSA to Marriage: Stories of a Life Lived Queerly'' to be released from Homofactus Press Summer 2010.
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| − | Bar
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| − | New York
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| − | 1945
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| − | Butches sit posed
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| − | Scuffed saddle shoes
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| − | Half smoked cigarette
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| − | Black and white
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| − | Postcard
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| − | 99 cents
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| − | Yuppy card shop
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| − | Fingering cardstock
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| − | Bent edges
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| − | Stare into faded eyes
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| − | Smiles
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| − | Smudged with times fingerprints
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| − | What would two old butches think
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| − | Of me
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| − | Purchasing there
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| − | Anonymous photo
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| − | 61 years
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| − | After the flash
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| − | Bar
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| − | Checkered floor
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| − | Wrong
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| − | To be buying
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| − | History
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| − | In card stores
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| − | Purchasing truth
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| − | That someone came first
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| − | Beside
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| − | Whoopee cushions
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| − | I've always loved butches, hearts of stone. Found my body pulled close, trembling beneath a firm touch. In the moonlight I can make out the faint line of scars. As darkness envelops us, your fingers stroke calluses, aorta, ventricles, valves, and chambers. Our hearts pull toward one another, songs of pain and longing spew forth as our veins sing as if a harpist's hand strums them together. Our journey, a harmony of collective pain, sorrow, and strength planting firm intertwined roots.
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| − | Bruises find one another. We know better than to shy away from the pain. Our hearts press into each other. Bruise to bruise, the sweet exquisite secret pain, which only the injured can ever adequately appreciate. Old wounds weep together with thick red blood. Pressed tight. Plasma trades aortas, telling fingers where it is safe to grip. Eyes locked, pupils focused on the first to understand.
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| − | Mouth to mouth we resuscitate each other. Our heat brings blood from trickling creeds into mighty rivers: Columbia, Clackamas, Willamette. Through your mouth I taste desert summers chasing lizards, through my lips you find your tongue coated with the metallic grit of dirt.
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| − | You hold my heart in your hand, callused fingers tickling my aorta as your nails and cuticles are dyed crimson. My blood warm and wet seeps through your fingers as they staunch its wounds. I beat tenderly in your palm, your fingers laced in intricate bondage around the subtle pounding. Don't let me go. Your touch, the most real I have ever felt.
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| − | Garage sales, flea markets, trashcans
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| − | Our families of origin
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| − | Burry our truths
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| − | Burned in oil drums
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| − | At the end of long gravel roads
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| − | Love letters charred
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| − | Marble fireplaces
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| − | Photographs left to rot in landfills
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| − | Buried under
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| − | Coffee grounds
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| − | Banana peels
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| − | Dirty diapers
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| − | Those rescued
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| − | Remain nameless
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| − | Circa 1943
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| − | Two men in polka dotted aprons
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| − | Stand thigh to thigh over a sink
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| − | In a kitchen that looks like the one
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| − | My grandma had
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| − | During the war
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| − | Circa 1954
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| − | Leather jacket
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| − | Jeans with rolled cuffs
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| − | Bound breasts
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| − | Beautiful woman on the back of the bike
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| − | Short-sleeved blouse
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| − | Stockings
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| − | No helmets
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| − | The way my cousins would ride there
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| − | Girlfriends
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| − | Through small hick towns
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| − | I want to know where we come from
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| − | Make a habit of scouring old photographs
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| − | Looking for faces of people
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| − | I can recognize
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| − | Family
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| − | Searching for pieces of history
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| − | Buried
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| − | Lost
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| − | Destroyed
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| − | Telling us that people came first
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| − | Is dangerous
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| − | Convincing us we are alone
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| − | Abominations
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| − | Unnatural
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| − | Keeps us scared
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| − | Quiet
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| − | Circa 1957
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| − | Four women pose together
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| − | An east coast beach
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| − | Three in black stripped swimming clothes
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| − | The forth
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| − | Whit pressed pants
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| − | Button down shirt
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| − | Dandy sailor cap
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| − | Arm around the femme closest
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| − | I stare into their faces
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| − | For clues
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| − | About who they are?
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| − | Clues
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| − | About myself
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| − | Who are we without histories?
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| − | We don't raise our young
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| − | Not guided to adulthood
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| − | With stories of people who have
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| − | Come (out) fist
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| − | Survival
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| − | Flower gardens
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| − | Picnics
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| − | Circa 1943
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| − | Circa 1947
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| − | Circa 1954
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| − | Circa 1963
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| − | Circa 1948
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| − | Circa 1959
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| − | Circa 1964
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| − | Circa 1946
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| − | Circa 1952
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| − | Circa 1951
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| − | Circa 1957
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| − | I place them
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| − | Folded corners
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| − | Smudged images
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| − | In a box
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| − | Time to time
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| − | Finger the rough edges
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| − | Stare into faded faces
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| − | Begging them to tell me their stories
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| − | Circa.
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