I’m standing with her at a party and we’re holding hands. We’re chatting and laughing and over you come and assert yourself. You insert yourself into our bubble and offer yourself up on a plate. A ménage-à-trois you say, the “French speciality”, one not served in restaurants. You ignore me as I brush off your comments, and approach her again when I’m out of the way. I come over and you laugh at me, my concern mixed with fear a joke.Read More »
My vagina didn’t become important until I realized I wasn’t a woman. As a woman, no one cared about my vagina unless they wanted to play with it or I wanted to run for office. But once I told everyone that I’m not a woman – well everybody wanted to get all up in there. They wanted to poke and prod and prove it was still there. They wanted to make sense of me, to categorize me, and my vagina was the key to the mystery.Read More »
This is a true story: I once rubbed my hands together and started a fire. I was around five and it was Jeffrey’s turn to take care of me and he insisted I wear a dress to the supermarket. Supermarkets are cold and I was angry. Rubbing my hands together didn’t really help: just part of an act of conspicuous misery. There were fits of shivering and chattering teeth; I gave myself goosebumps when I could manage it. Jeffrey understood and said nothing.Read More »
The name of the exhibition is ‘Passage/s’ by Do Ho Suh. As we climb what seems like an endless set of stairs towards the gallery, I try to remember anything that Jess had told me about it.
Truthfully, the art doesn’t interest me.
(In the long, terrible canals of history, homosexual men have often had to communicate in code, using signal phrases to locate one another. By the mid 20th century, this coded language was vibrant and rich: it became the roots of current queer slang. In the military, one such code – being “a friend of Dorothy” – got so famous that even the higher-ups heard whispers about it. In the 1980’s, the US Navy even conducted an operation to find the infamous “Dorothy” and her ring of homosexuals to remove them from service. Needless to say, they found no Dorothy.)
It was the lotus flower that caught my eye.
I’ve always loved them, ever since I was a little girl. My parents owned a pond in their garden; it was awash with them. Pale pink, flushed dark at the tips, like a child’s hands in the cold. In summer, they’d attract dragonflies – vibrant sapphire jewels whipping past our ears, their delicate wings humming as they danced around the flowers.
Lorena and I, we loved those dragonflies. Read More »
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