Somewhere, Celebrations

Somewhere in this world, people danced in the streets bedecked in feathers, leather, and rhinestones. They wrapped themselves in flags – not of a nation, but of their own making, created to celebrate their own right to exist as individuals. I am sure that it was all a bit messy, crowded, and confusing. I am not going to glamourize or romanticize these city celebrations because I know that, whenever people gather to shift paradigms, their explosion of ideas can cause a naked rawness and a touch of chaos. We are human, after all – each of us an unlikely universe of paradoxes.

Somewhere in this world, people changed a history of shame and shadow into a day of freedom and color. I won't really know the details. That somewhere was not here. Here we carried on the grand tradition of silence and doubt. Here, I learned how anger grows in the dark spaces behind our smoothly professional faces, how being shushed only increase your desire to scream, and how cages awaken our gnawing hunger for open fields. I learned what a dangerous concoction those bottled feelings brew.


The details aren't significant: an article that went unpublished, the insinuations made as to why it couldn't be, the suggestion that I stick to writing about “festivals were people are having fun.” As far as injustices go, it was a tiny blip on the scale, an aftershock from a legacy of historical horrors and the popularity of the religious right. From a global perspective, I can't complain. No one got stoned, no one lost all his or her family members, no one even lost his or her job. But the voice of a girl, one with shoulder-length blond hair and a red lipsticked smile, never made it to the public. The voice of a girl, who was courageous enough to talk about once being a boy, never got to proclaim that she is here to stay whether they liked it or not. Her voice and mine were sidelined and replaced by restaurant press releases.

We won't be silenced long. The poisonous insinuations, injected to attack my deepest secret fears, made me weak for days – too weak to put up a proper fight. I still feel their sting as I work with these lopsided sentences and hard-to-express sentiments. Yet, I am here again, showing up on the page like a battered gladiator in the ring, ready to face the tigers of rejection and the spears of criticism.

As a writer, I know a little bit about the shame of an identity you just can't deny. Trust me, if I could be happy doing a respectable job and keeping my mouth properly shut, I would chose that life. No one sets out to live a life that invites head shaking, ridicule, rejection, and hate. Although, many people would argue that it is a matter of choice – that you chose to be a writer, to be gay, to be outspoken. In truth, the only real choice is to deny your identity or to celebrate it.

I chose celebration. Here's to surviving rejection slips, nasty comments, and harsh editing. Here's to knowing who you are in your soul of souls, even when others think it's sick, pathetic, or a lie. Here's to being an imperfect, chaotic human being but demanding your right to exist, to grow. Here's to that blond girl marching under a her own flag and refusing to sit on the sidelines.

To all those who can take to the street or can come to the page despite adversity, I applaud your courage. There will come a time when every day and every place is filled with the freedom of rhinestones and rainbows.