Are You A #Boy or A #Girl?


I stopped and smiled as he asked the question. He couldn’t have been older than 6 with that toothy smile and rusting, junior bicycle. His clay-brown skin glistened in the sun, as he cocked his cute, little egg-shaped head in honest curiosity that only children know to grasp well and hard. I was walking home from work with my blonde-streaked afro tied back by a head band. I understood his curiosity and appreciated his blunt affect. No doubt my purple high-tops and evident biceps obscured notions of femininity–just as my blonde streaks, tight mini shorts and over-size shades blurred lines of masculinity. My voice confused him. It booms, you see, like that of James Earl Jones. In one second, I had fucked and freed his mind. It was painless and he needed it. Finally, I answered his question with a question “Does it really matter, shug?” He thought for a second, gave me some dap and replied “I just want dress like you, however I want when I grow up!” I smiled and replied “Your job is to always, completely and fully live, dress and act as you desire. It’s your number one job. Can you do that, love?” “YESSSSSSSSS duddde.” another high five. I smiled, continued walking my mohawk-adorning, black standard poodle Bakari and considered the compoundedness of my blackness, queerness, maleness and access to education and how far I’d come since being a young thuggabee in Kansas City. Life is full of sweet-sweat, but it only stinks if you let it.

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