Probably, one of the biggest fantasies that I played around with in
my head was to be purposeless. I thought how ravishing it would be to be
aimless and to just exist because I was breathing, because my heart was
beating, because egg met sperm. How fantastical it would be to just be. Gravity
would be my only God, and the time between birth and death would just be some
party with no subtext or theme.
I was not born with that particular silver spoon in my mouth. No. I
turn corners in dark alleyways and see shadows of purpose, destiny and
intention on the wall. I can’t run from these ghosts that howl. Being black and
queer has interjected me with the venom of purpose; making everything I do a
type of stroke of magic. I am an involuntary magician, turning pebbles into
flowers and bigotry into fluffy, white rabbits. Still, with this knowledge, I would
attempt to run. Blatantly, I would run from certain themes that highlighted the
blackness, the queerness, the magic.
It’s almost as if the more I’d try to avoid my identity within my
work, the more powerful the identity became. My denial of my personal purpose,
made it sentient and able to suffocate me during the times I least expected it
like during sex and sleep.
The ultimate magic trick was during lunch with a friend and the
waiter that wouldn’t stop staring at me. He’d look, I’d bite. He’d look harder,
I’d stuff my face further. He finally stood in front of my table and asked if
he could speak to me, and I obliged. Suddenly, he performed the best magic
trick I’ve ever seen in my life. This waiter comprised of flesh and blood,
turned himself into a glass of water, and totally spilled himself on me. He
revealed to me, in his vulnerable liquid state, that he was a transgender man
and nineteen years of age. He revealed how alone he felt. He revealed how
inspiring and electric my presence was, and how he would have kicked himself in
the head if he didn’t say hello to me, if he didn’t attempt to connect with
this electricity. He introduced me to his girlfriend that also works at the
restaurant with him. He let me know how miserable and alone that he felt in
this stage of transition, in both the medical sense and in the spiritual sense.
Not to be outdone, I transformed into a cup of water and spilled
myself onto him too. I let him know that some of biggest tests in life can be
the framework for some of the most inspirational testimonies that can transform
lives, beyond just your own. I told him that your perceived flaws and
insecurities are actually your superpowers. I let him know that he was
beautiful and brilliant today, and he didn’t have to wait until tomorrow to
believe it.
Ta-da.
I transformed back into my regular flesh state, and enjoyed my
meal. I realized between chewing and swallowing that being queer and black is
what makes everything else I do worthwhile and magical. It turns my speech into
poetry. It transforms my romance into revolution. It makes my sexuality a
wild act of liberation. It shifts my mere existence into purpose. It turns my
art into magic. And from that, I will no longer run from.
Abracadabra.
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