Trans joy and hope, us kids, us raising our own, us raising each other and ourselves, imagine limitlessly and unconditionally. Who gets to be here? What do you get to do? What do you get to touch? Who can you love? And hold, and be with? Who do you see yourself as? Who are you in the future? What does it look like to be happy? To feel joy? We hold on, take care, giving it so much.
As I come closer to home, I remember doubting what family could look like. If they do not exist, if they cannot be stable, if we are incapable of nurture, why should I let myself feel like we do give love and can be loved. I am pulled back in.
This is only for you. I hold memory and the fragmented nostalgia that gives old stories weight. I like to tell stories repeatedly, I like to carry them around, sharing them when they are needed most. I remember once, I jumped off of a blue threadbare couch, dysphoric as fuck, candy in my fists, into the new year with all these older queers. Nade was there. I stood really still, watching them scream louder than the fireworks, yelling ‘AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN AGAIN.’ I was so full of thick rage, but Nade would just impromptu cut mango and jump taller in the air than they stood, sometimes splitting themselves open when they landed. I have learned how magic and abundant and indulgent and zesty it is to be so full of potential and possibility. To expand so much bigger than was ever expected of you.
Beyond representation, Trans people deserve complexity, nuance, multifaceted narratives, lives, names, stories. Protecting means it gets painted into existence, spoken as truth, shared, disseminated, seen. It means bodily autonomy, coded gestures, secret names. I am jumping up, no longer worried about what will spill out, unclenching my fists, remembering what is real, that I can love profusely, knowing I might split open.
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back to: 2020 Undergraduate Scholarship Exhibition