We are walking our very public attraction
through eighteenth-century Philadelphia.
I am simultaneously butch girlfriend
and suburban child on a school trip,
Independence Hall, 1775, home
to the Second Continental Congress.
Although she is wearing her leather jacket,
although we have made love for the first time
in a hotel room on Rittenhouse Square,
I am preparing my teenage escape from Philadelphia,
from Elfreth’s Alley, the oldest continuously occupied
residential street in the nation,
from Carpenters’ Hall, from Congress Hall,
from Graff House where the young Thomas
Jefferson lived, summer of 1776. In my starched shirt
and waistcoat, in my leggings and buckled shoes,
in postmodern drag, as a young eighteenth-century statesman,
I am seventeen and tired of fighting for freedom
and the rights of men. I am already dreaming of Boston—
city of women, demonstrations, and revolution
on a grand and personal scale.

⣿⣿⣵⣿⣿⣿⠿⡟⣛⣧⣿⣯⣿⣝⡻⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⠋⠁⣴⣶⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣦⣍⢿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⢷⠄⣾⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣏⢼⣿⣿
⣿⣿⢻⠎⠔⣛⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡏⣿⣿
⣿⣿⠇⡶⠄⣿⣿⠿⠟⡛⠛⠻⣿⡿⠿⠿⣿⣗⢣⣿⣿
⣿⣿⡿⣷⣾⣿⣿⣿⣾⣶⣶⣶⣿⣁⣔⣤⣀⣼⢲⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣾⣟⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⣿⣿⣿⢟⣾⣿⣿
⣟⣿⣿⣿⡷⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣮⣽⠛⢻⣽⣿⡇⣾⣿⣿⣿
⢻⣿⣿⣿⡷⠻⢻⡻⣯⣝⢿⣟⣛⣛⣛⠝⢻⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠸⣿⣿⡟⣹⣦⠄⠋⠻⢿⣶⣶⣶⡾⠃⡂⢾⣿⣿⣿⣿
⠄⠟⠋⠄⢻⣿⣧⣲⡀⡀⠄⠉⠱⣠⣾⡇⠄⠉⠛⢿⣿
⠄⠄⠄⠄⠈⣿⣿⣿⣷⣿⣿⢾⣾⣿⣿⣇⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄
⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠸⣿⣿⠟⠃⠄⠄⢈⣻⣿⣿⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄
⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⢿⣿⣾⣷⡄⠄⢾⣿⣿⣿⡄⠄⠄⠄⠄
⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠸⣿⣿⣿⠃⠄⠈⢿⣿⣿⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄

⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠟⠋⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⢁⠈⢻⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⠃⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠈⡀⠭⢿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⠄⢀⣾⣿⣿⣿⣷⣶⣿⣷⣶⣶⡆⠄⠄⠄⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⡇⢀⣼⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣧⠄⠄⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣇⣼⣿⣿⠿⠶⠙⣿⡟⠡⣴⣿⣽⣿⣧⠄⢸⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣾⣿⣿⣟⣭⣾⣿⣷⣶⣶⣴⣶⣿⣿⢄⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⡟⣩⣿⣿⣿⡏⢻⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣹⡋⠘⠷⣦⣀⣠⡶⠁⠈⠁⠄⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣍⠃⣴⣶⡔⠒⠄⣠⢀⠄⠄⠄⡨⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣿⣦⡘⠿⣷⣿⠿⠟⠃⠄⠄⣠⡇⠈⠻⣿⣿⣿⣿
⣿⣿⣿⣿⡿⠟⠋⢁⣷⣠⠄⠄⠄⠄⣀⣠⣾⡟⠄⠄⠄⠄⠉⠙⠻
⡿⠟⠋⠁⠄⠄⠄⢸⣿⣿⡯⢓⣴⣾⣿⣿⡟⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄
⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⣿⡟⣷⠄⠹⣿⣿⣿⡿⠁⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄⠄

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