going through some old albums at my mom’s house a while back, i found this photo of myself.
i assume it was purim.
now i love this picture for obvious reasons. it’s me in drag! as a KID!
i could make up all kinds of things about this picture. hindsight can sometimes hurt but it can also be really fun. or totally false. i’d love to be able to say about this photo: “well look at that. i subconsciously knew all along that i was genderfucking dyke.”
but no. i know that’s not true. i’m not one of those queers who’s known their whole life that they were gay. i didn’t know what gay was until i was just out of high school.
there are a million other pictures, i’m sure, of me putting on costume jewelry or bright red chap stick, twirling around in a pouffy dress.
i look at this picture and make up stories about myself.
lately i have been so sick of my own stories. i’ve desired to tell something else about myself other than the pivotal moments of my life, the most narrative-friendly anecdotes, and memory-solidified stories that make me who i am. who i think i am.
looking at this picture, i want to say something completely different. i want to tell stories of a different mother and father. i want to have been raised by the neighbors. i want to have lived my formative years on a farm. i want to have played tricks on people just for fun instead of being good and quiet. i want to have been a backtalker and a loose-cannon kid-cad.
i want to have been this boy.
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