Identity Games

"He" isn't me.

It feels closer than "she,"

But, like, still not being seen.

You know when someone gets your name wrong

And you don't correct them?

What does it matter?

It's just a name.

Surely, they don't respect you less

Because your name didn't stick,

Or they heard something else.

Why does mistaking pronouns feel like more of a slight?

More of an intentional oversight?

What is so special about gender

That we have made it essential to our understanding of people?

To our understanding of ourselves?

The veil of identity is seen through the lens

Of gender.

We aren't parents; we're mothers or fathers.

We aren't children; we're sons or daughters.

From our careers to our families,

And every hobby and belief in between,

We shade our behaviors, definitions, and imaginations

To blend cleanly into a gendered fold.

Even our allowance of gender expansion

Relies on binary modes of thinking. Not "he" or "she,"

But "they." Not masculine

Or feminine,

But androgynously embodying the two,

Or devoid of both.

There was a time when (due to looks)

I was exclusively a woman.

A time when I caused confusion.

Now, a time when I must only be a man.

Aware of my energy, still, but in new ways.

MAKE IT NEW!

Pound's misappropriated rallying cry for modernity

Is still compelling as aesthetic critique.

I am new and ancient.

Forged by the contemporary

Gospel of tolerance.

Informed by the history

Of those who threw bricks

At pigs.

Caught in the middle.

Fearful from the before,

Feared in the after.

Trans-masculine.