Seedlings of delight stem in the growing branches of his curiosity.
His eyes carefully trace the edges of the world,
Stenciling out the beaming rays of sunshine
that seem to shine out of everything he claims
with his inquiry.
He finds no remorse in wielding a lightsaber to class
and battling the Jedi and Sith
of a kindergarten education,
Nor is he yet poisoned by the constant eyes of society
Programming their codes of self-worth and constructed identity
into his DNA,
Leaving craters of silence and submission in its victims.
So he triumphs through the playground
Holding the hand of his first girlfriend,
Ignoring the ridicule of foreshadowed impositions
So that he can show her the swings and slides of his imagination.
But he later discovers, when he quits playing sports and begins being called gay,
That sticks and stones may break our bones
But words can staple themselves
onto the documents of our memory,
And broken bones may be repaired
but memories stay locked up
in the storage of forever,
Waiting to be blackmailed
so that we can sabotage ourselves.
So he is recruited into societal design,
Tranquilizing his emotions so that he can
numb the sensitivity he feels that
only girls are allowed to experience.
He finds himself in an anti-pink regime,
Waging war on the girls and banishing
any boy that comes into contact or even
thinks about the exclusive girl color.
One day his friend commits treason and he
runs away from him, avoiding his friend’s cursed
disease until his friend breaks down and cries.
He then sees the devastation of misunderstanding.
So he finds himself embattled in trenches of contradictions,
Seeking sanctuary from the magnetism of conformity
And conflicted over revealing ostracized differences.
There is no middle ground in this war,
Neutrality would only result in his excommunication.
Two roads diverged but he chose the path of acquiescence
until one day he discovers that the
people he stripped his identity for to mirror theirs’
were not actually laughing with him, but at him.
The conflict with his identity
Is written in the textbooks of masculine and feminine distinction.
Roots can be traced deep in the soil of his family dynamic.
Women are predominantly present in his life
and the majority of his identity is sculpted
under the guidance of his mom.
So watching the Notebook around an army of
crying women didn’t make emotions and their
consequences that foreign of a concept.
But the parameters of the sexes define that he
must camouflage his love for romance and
suppress sensation, substituting his
armament of tears with a football.
He accepted that as reality,
Then he realizes.
He realizes that he is different.
And that different doesn’t mean bad.
That different doesn’t mean you wake up on a
sunny morning and have to stay in bed all day
because the neighborhood children won’t
recognize and accept your alien features.
And it is in that moment,
That he accepts himself.
In the fifth grade he conceives a proclamation
Constituting his new identity.
He learns that you don’t have to be cool to be cool
And that nice guys may finish last
But since when was happiness a race?
He no longer hides his rebellion against the “player” guy label and
his wanting to only love one girl and
to be a father and give his wife all his happiness
and raise his children with all his love.
He no longer takes shame in caressing
the beauty and tenderness of all living entities
with ever so delicate, consistent sensitivity.
He proudly claims his ability to
be sensitive, to feel, to be human.
He no longer has to clone pictures of
others over his face to look
in the mirror and see acceptance.
But now that his audacious cry for revolution
Has asserted his sovereign possession of his own soul,
What now shall society identify him as?
Certainly the malicious barrage of being called gay
for five straight years doesn’t qualify him to be a “he”
Certainly the stretch marks on his thighs, the boobs he grew up high, and his weight and hips getting wide from the medications he now takes cuz he almost took his life
could qualify him as a “she”
Certainly the fact that he wasn’t “man” enough to deal
with hopeless tears and morbid fears and
tried to take his life which he no longer considered dear
couldn’t qualify him as a human being
But maybe I am just “me.”
Maybe just “me” is all I certainly need
for my soul and identity to be free.