Pride and Disdain
It often feels like I’m at the edge of the world, always just nearly able to enter it. The way I see the world and experience life seems normal to me but, too often, I am reminded that it is not quite so. I used to pray to God for those feelings that come naturally for others. Now, I’m not sure what to believe in anymore. It seems that the world we all live in is built on lies and deceit.
Sometimes, I let time smudge my windows to make the scenery outside seem murkier. When everything is muddled and the sharp edges are dulled, it’s easier to pretend that I fit in. That my shape is not just slightly wrong. Then, inevitably, I am forced to wash away the comforting obscurity and, once again, turn away from the view to look back at the haven I attempt to create.
Attacks. Words slicing deeper and deeper as they remind me that I am neither worthy nor wanted. Even the mundane has been weaponized as there’s no escape, no other way to breathe, to be. History is first written by those who won, those who fit in, who we all should aspire to be. Later, both loudly and proudly as well as silently and covertly, history is rewritten.
Our voices were taken from us, and it took fierce fighting and centuries of silently screaming at the edge of the world for us to take first tentative steps towards the walls made of glass. Some of us made it through, only to get a taste of the seductive venom, infection spreading through their bodies all the way to their hearts.
At first, they began to rewrite history, correcting and adding where needed. At times, we were also extended the pen and paper through the cracks, but there was only so much ink left. And now, what was provided and approved is being retracted. We fell for the siren, looking so beautiful perched on a rock far away from us. Just like the poor sailors, we learned the truth too late.
Luckily, behind the glass is anything but a lonely existence. I stand there, in solidarity, never alone. And when it’s too difficult to keep on fighting, to keep on looking through the window that both thickens and becomes brittle with each stone cast at it, there is someone to hold my hand. There’s always someone that shares my obscure existence.
“You never completely have your rights, one person, until you all have your rights.”
– Marsha P. Johnson
