22 July, 2015
I cannot convey my boundless appreciation for my birthday wishes. I, nevertheless, must take this moment to be—well, to be honest—myself. I am cis-gender, faggot, homoromantic, and a writer. Now all of these may not be the most important aspect in singularity, but together they make up a fair majority of my personality, or at least its framework. As a cis-gender individual, I have absolutely no idea the pain, and suffering transpeople go through; however, if I may throw in my 2 cents worth on one issue: a name. My name is legally Joshua Alan Victor Wilson. By cultural convention most would call me Joshua, or some derivative thereof. I, however, go by my second middle name, Victor. I have done as such since I was 17 applying for college. That is a decade of transitioning from one name to another. Anyone who knows me knows how infuriated I become when called Joshua, or some derivative thereof. Now, add a lifetime of self-loathing, a culture that stigmatises your existence, and ignores your pain: that is one iota of what a transperson must feel when one calls him/her by his/her previous name. Do not be a dick: I will be one back, and trust me: mine is probably bigger, and if it is not, it is definitely better.
‘Faggot’ is a term to disparage those who identify as homosexual, or gay, or at least that is that which mainstream has dictated. I, however, am proud to be a faggot. ‘Faggot’ is what the rioters at Stonewall were called, ‘faggot’ is the translation for the word used by the Nazis towards the imprisoned people of the pink triangle, ‘faggot’ is the term for a person fighting for equality with every fibre of his/her being, and ‘faggot’ is the term I use with pride to tie myself to that legacy. For every time someone uses ‘faggot’ to lower me, I close into the legacy of those people; therfore, call me it, and make me follow in their footsteps.
Homoromantic is used to identify those who form romantic liaisons with those of the same-sex. I form many romantic liaisons with men, for I do not limit myself to one. ‘One’ forms the paths of monotheism, monotony, monochrome, and monogamy. Those paths work for many, and for them, I wish them well. I, yet, will not be denied the opportunity to take a different path whether it be the one less-travelled or the 5/805 split. To limit myself is to censor myself, and censorship is flatly wrong. I, therefore, form liaisons with men to grow within my own boundaries, and not to prune others’ in society. For society is the sum of its peoples, and I am one of those. My expansion will not be denied no matter which way it grows.
Writer. This is the hardest for me, ironically, to write. For how can one deign to identify with something without the social support group? I have never identified readily as a writer: perhaps when I have reached the ripe age of great writers I will, but until then, I must satiate myself upon the nectar of reality: its bitter juices spell out one truth: I am a writer. I therefore charge myself for the next year to go forth, and create. 27 years have taught me many stories, many characters, many lessons, and many unknowns.
I end this rather short letter in retrospect. 27 years ago, I was birthed. 26 years ago, I have my first memory. 25 years ago my molestation began. 24 years ago I began classes full-time. 23 years ago, I remember my first spanking to which I have formed my thoughts on striking children. 22 years ago, my molestation ended. 21 years ago, my second grade teacher taught me how hate really felt. 20 years ago, my summer school teacher taught me that I could create through words. 19 years ago, I remember being an outsider for the first time. 18 years ago, I remember not caring anymore about being an outsider. 17 years ago, I forgot that lesson: I swallowed the entire contents of the medicine cabinet, and two weeks later my father’s father was put in for child molestation charges—good note: I did come out that year though. 16 years ago, I realised family is not about D.N.A. as many claimed to love me, but stood by a molester. 15 years ago, the largest fight I have ever had with my sister: it left me with a scar on my foot, and a black-eye on her. 14 years ago, I walked into Arkansas flame a-blazing. 13 years ago, I looked at my great grandmother as she denounced everything I am. 12 years ago, I lost my virginity at Beltane because I am that pagan. 11 years ago, I became the talk of the school for a whole 5 minutes upon wearing high-heels to class. 10 years ago, I realised that I was an adult, maybe not a good one but at least I had my moments, as a guy threw a trashcan at me, threatened my life, and my friends’ lives: I simply turned back to my conversation and ignored him. 9 years ago, college changed me: knowledge was not something to be gained, but something to live for. 8 years ago, I began my affair with alcohol. 7 years ago, my mother’s family seemed to give up every truly understanding me—sad as I have a slight soft spot for them—. 6 years ago, I gave up ever trying to understand myself. 5 years ago, I learnt just how much I need learning. 4 years ago, I was let down by the institution that guaranteed me support. 3 years ago, I graduated. 2 years ago, I moved to a new place for new adventures. 1 year ago, I started to piece my life together. This year, well, I cannot spoil the ending, can I?
– J.A. Victor Wilson