As the scene plays out, my eyes wander to the woman in the corner of the stage. She sits with her head down like she’s in pain. Fresco goes on a tear and heads over to her, pointing her finger, yelling, “Why would they let transgender people in our women’s shelter? This is a women’s shelter, and this isn’t a woman.”

I grip the armrest like I’m on a roller coaster that’s plunging to the ground. My body is hot and tight, and my brain has tons of thoughts at once. Fresco continues yelling slurs and hate speech that are not only offensive—they feel like a hate crime. She continues belittling the trans woman, named Wanda, and I want to cover my ears and look away. Every mean thing feels like it’s being said to me. I feel as hurt as Wanda. And I know it’s not real, but it feels real, and I want to get off this roller coaster.

Fresco pulls back to slap her, but Wanda grabs her hand. “You should die,” Fresco screams, then spits in Wanda’s face. “You don’t belong in this world.”

I’ve heard the word triggered, but I’ve never felt it before. I’m triggered, and there’s nothing I can do but sit here, hearing and feeling every word. My body is on fire. There’s sweat on my forehead. I want to get the hell out of here, but I’m trapped in the middle seat.

When Wanda walks off the stage, my muscles relax. My fingers unclench on the armrest (I’m now very thankful to have my own). I scan the audience and see no one alarmed or upset. The producer looks unbothered. Why are they so calm? How could that be okay? I’m already worried about the next time Wanda enters the stage.

I have trouble concentrating on the show. I’m thinking about why the playwright used all those terrible words. What was the point? The play takes place a while ago, maybe in the 90s, when talking like that about transgender people was tolerated. But it’s not anymore. There was no reason for what happened onstage. Wanda gets a few more scenes, and I swear I grip the armrest so tight I’m leaving dents.

When the lights come up for intermission, I step over my seat and get to the lobby first. My shirt is wet from sweat, and my binder feels soaked. I step outside to get some air. I should leave, but I would feel bad for the actors. When I’m onstage, empty seats after intermission make me feel awful. And the play is pretty good minus the Wanda verbal torture scenes.