Before I was queer, I was French.
When I look at my personal aesthetic (if I could call it that), I see something that gives me room to move through binaries.
There is something attractive about being the subject and the artist all at once; of being entirely in control of how I am seen, who sees me.
Estrogen and testosterone have historically been deployed to produce gender compliant citizens. What if, instead, they were agents of autonomy?
It’s about being able to say, oh, gender? It’s no big deal. I just threw this gender on today.
The Outsiders’ world was the one in which I wanted to belong.
“It was this Islam, the Islam of authenticity, community, justice, and love, that showed me how to be a truer version of myself.”
As euphoric as my queer epiphany felt, I’d had it as my mother lay sick. It felt like I was reentering the world as my mother was leaving it.
Well, what does it mean to be a boy or a girl? The answer so often is, simply: I don’t know. And I’m not sure that it actually matters, anyway.
What was I getting out shame, anyway? So I walked away from it all: going to church, reading scripture, prayer, even the Christian music I loved so much.
There was nowhere to go back to. Oklahoma was out of the question, always out of the question. But then, where was home?
There’s nothing more queer than cobbling together something fabulous out of very little.