I just concluded an hour-long tirade directed toward my poor (very patient) girlfriend, Alexandra, by shouting,
“I really think I’m this shifting Venn diagram of postmodern bullshit! Like, some queer, bi-gendered/genderqueer-but-hardly-andro faggy dyke who loves performing femme…but only with a self-reflexive drag queen aesthetic, you know?! I mean, really I’m just a gay boy.”
What the hell? And that’s not to mention my equally convoluted, ever-shifting sexual identity.
“Green today?” she smirks, nodding to the bandana protruding from my left back pocket.
“Yup.” I scrutinize myself in the store mirror. “Is it weird that I’m flagging as a daddy and wearing my hair in pigtails? Should I switch it to the right?”
I’m in love with (and indebted to) Tulip, for providing a safe space for kids like me–kids who can’t effortlessly check census boxes, or want to check them all, or write in another category, or burn the whole goddamn thing altogether. Kids who want to fuck and build coalitions and reconstitute their bodies, sometimes in the same act (if we’re lucky).
Tulip is more than just a job. It’s become my community.