Before I had the language to diagnose the ills of world — I felt ugly. Bone deep, derelict, irredeemable ugly. Sure there were spectacular moments like my classmates calling me dirty because of the color of my skin. The tongue is the best tattoo gun, ask the word ‘faggot’ on the back of my neck.
But it wasn’t just about these moments, it was about how they landed in my body. Made colonies in my consciousness. Took hold — harvested a whole new crop of shame. My own thoughts became more cruel than anything they could ever say. Their shame becomes our self. Eventually we don’t know who we are outside of it.
(This is a lesson that before we have language, we have feeling. This is a lesson that after feelings, we have language. We need both, I think. Which is why I’m here now.)
For years I sought solace in words. Analyzed, deconstructed, prescribed, pontificated. I became so good at speaking the wound, describing it. Became so good at saying “this is what’s wrong,” I forgot somewhere along the way to ask, “what do I need?” Discourse is not a hug. Analysis is not a home.
I thought that legal recognition would heal my childhood pain. Or fame. Or work. But what I was looking for — all along — was a good friend. Someone to sing “you’re beautiful,” like a prayer so many times until I believed it. Someone to show me that is possible, this — being free. Someone to blaze with an incandescence more scintillating than the sun. So bright I just couldn’t look away. And I didn’t.
What I’m saying is that love is both a scalpel and a stitch. What I’m saying is being understood isn’t enough. We all deserve to be loved.
Thank you my gorgeous friends for helping me find my own beauty. I thought it was lost forever, but here it was, all along.