The Privileged Many & The Nameless Few

if I had wanted
hormones pumped into my body
right around that age
where I started to feel a certain
burning
in my pants
I would have been refused;
turned out
flat and cold as a bank
statement denying
a critical loan.

I would have spent
the next never-ending
years of my life
shuffling in a bath robe,
my hair collecting
particles of dust & gum
as it drags across
the pavement, groping
for curlers and a
tube of lipstick.

when I was born
the doctor said “too pretty
to be a boy”
and passed the
little ball of meat down
the table, past candlelight,
the delivery room
must have been dimly lit
for them to have
thought me beautiful.

it could have been
some kind of omen,
I could have, from
the very moment I was
able to stand, slipped
on mommy’s velvet
black shoes and
pranced around the house,
and my gap-tooth smile
would have been all the
proof in the world
that you cannot fix me.

or, if I had been
born a girl, and
swaddled in a
bundle of bubblegum-
pink blankets,
would there still be
the great thirst
I have with me always,
would I still
objectify?

children are hungry,
children always want.
they sleep when they’re sleepy,
eat ‘till they’re fed
and when they have a nightmare
it’s the fucking scariest
thing that’s ever happened
in the whole world, and
don’t deny them.

children know.
they know when they
feel like their body
isn’t their own.
they know when their hair
no longer belongs to them,
they know when shoes feel
like ski’s and dresses feel
like mummy’s wrappings.

so maybe he doesn’t want trucks.
so maybe she won’t curtsy.
don’t take it personally.
she’ll still hold your hand.
he’ll still call you mommy,
daddy, there will still be
fireworks on the 4th of july.

presents under the tree,
just change the color of the bow.
a white one, please.
enough of the gender wars.
treat it like it’s a monopoly
game and someone’s
bound to fall asleep on the board.
lose the irons, the thimbles,
put the cannon back in the box.
you were born in the right body,
it's easy for you to win
but your babies? are they lost?

let America have its children.
let them be rare like an oasis
springing out of the wastes.
let them carry themselves
and live out their lives
to the very end of every branch,
where the fruit bunches up
and awaits a gentle hand.
keep them alive
in the brute face of
ignorance, disgust
and hatred that one day
could prick their finger
and send them away from you.

if you've nothing to say
i've given you a start:

you are who you are,
you were who you were,
you don’t have to be a boy,
you don’t have to be a girl,
I’ve loved you forever,
you’re exactly the same,
you’ll win out, anyways,
they put too much stock
into names.