Some Funny Queer Shit

 1 month since resigning from the library.

    First, I want to say thank you Universe for this time to just be. Being one month into traditional unemployment has been not difficult. Not easy either. Very contemplative. Both positive and negative contemplations. 

The positive ones: I have the fortune of my partner finding employment literally in the knick of time so that we wouldn't be homeless. I'm proud of them. And I'm thankful for them for sure. Even though I found it sad that I left my job as soon as I saw any light of opportunity to quit, but I'm still happy I did. And Kezia seems to be happy that I did too and that gives me confidence that I did the right thing. 

The Negative contemplations: The usual really. What have I done? I gave up an entire career to pursue what really? Writing? Who do I think I am? And when I get into these contemplations I find that I get depressed and freeze whatever I'm doing. I'm trying to live more presently. That was part of the reason that I quit because I couldn't seem to be present while working with needing people. And I didn't want to be that person. 

I wanted to share some of what I've been working on. Lately I've been writing about past experiences that I reflect on in moments of uncertainty about my identity as a Black queer transdude living in the South. And a lot of them, in retrospective are kind of hilarious, if only to me. 

Why write about myself and past experiences? Who am I really? I don't know why I'm writing about them. I started thinking that I wanted more queer people to feel like they could survive in this world. That as queer people our experiences have sparks of magic, guiding us to ourselves. I wish I didn't have to forget myself to find myself all over again. Locking away memories that were peppered with queerdom from first memory. The Universe knew I was a queer kid from the beginning. Before I knew. So I'm embracing those experiences. 

Excerpt from "First Moments of Queerdom"

    I think I've always known I was queer by the way I would react to any sexual innuendo as a kid. I would always cry. 

    I remember one of the first instances of this happening was at a slumber party that my hormonal boy mind probably couldn't handle. My Mom had invited all of my "girl friends" over for the party. Mom invited them because she already knew if it were up to me it would have been Marcus, DJ and Charles over for video games until our eyes rolled into our heads, controllers still in hand. The "girl friends" were just that, friends that happen to be girls. Kid associates if you will. And I was female-bodied, presented by the doctor as a beautiful baby girl. And girls did not have sleepovers with boys. 

    As the "girl friends" arrived I didn't know Mom had invited my crush, LaToya. And how was she supposed to know? I saw on TV what kind of crushes girls had and LaToya was all of those things but in girl form. LaToya was THAT girl. Long limbed. Played basketball. Could joke and laugh and dance. She was the Ciara to my Petey Pablo. 

    Once cake had been eaten and presents opened, it was time to do what any self respecting sleepover would do. It was time to dance. 

    Even as a kid, the way my body moved was so foreign to me. I hated how my hips and breast were forming under my larger-by-request clothing. I wore baggy clothes for as long as possible. So hanging back and observing was what I did best, which is what I did at my birthday sleepover. Imagine 10 year old me sitting in corner while the party happened around me. 

    After the obligatory cake eating was done we put on our sleep clothes right after (Momma wasn't sending any body back with messed up clothes). So everyone was in their comfortable, relaxed yet revealing sleepwear. Which would have been fine. Until LaToya started to move. 

    The circle/line concoction that forms when people of color dance started to formulate with the 5 or 6 other kids there ( I wish I could recall the other kids names, but LaToya obviously had my attention). The music was in full swing, probably knocking a Brandy CD from a boombox (maybe "Sitting on Top of the World" is appropriate). Everyone is swaying to the beat waiting for someone else to bust a move in the center first. And of course, it's LaToya that breaks the ice. 

    I didn't realize I was ogling like a loon until years later and even now I'm ashamed. Because my heart and hormones did somersaults in my chest and stomach as LaToya danced. As her hips moved, my heart raced. What was this feeling? The sensations I felt, I knew at that young of an age, were supposed to be reserved for the opposite sex. I already knew intellectually as a 10 year old. But here I was feeling these forbidden emotions. And I couldn't take it. 

    I immediately started to cry. For no apparent reason to anyone but myself. And I sure wasn't telling anyone the truth. But talk about clearing out a room? The music stopped. Thankfully someone had pity and cut the joyous music so it didn't play over my sobs. The girl friends stared. I ran to my Momma, who was in the living room probably wondering who fell and busted their head so bad that the music had to stop. But no, it's just me sobbing for no reason. 

    And this continued to happen at inopportune times throughout life: One time in a Bahamas resort dance club when I was 12 (but to be fair, who takes a kid to a club?). Another time on a class field trip to Florida. The first time I saw a strip scene from The Players Club (Dymond still fine though). If I felt any kind of stirring in my drawers, I cried my eyes out.