In The Becoming...

cosmic dance of being queer

To become. How do you know you’ve become all or even most of who you are?

Is there a cosmic quiz hosted by Dolly Parton? Please?

As a kid in the late 60’s and 70’s (twentieth century, folks), there wasn’t a plethora of resources on gender expansiveness or queer fabulosity. Instead, I have a vivid memory from nursery school - racing to the playground with the boys to get the best tricycle. It felt right, and it felt wrong.

I can remember the album, yes album, by Marlo Thomas, Free To Be You and Me. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, google is your friend.

Except I didn’t know how to truly be me or if I ever would be allowed. There were these rules. Dumb rules. Really dumb, and hurtful rules. Damaging.

But everyone seemed to be following them, without much outward feedback. I learned enough about myself and my feelings from kindergarten on, to know without a grain of sand, to keep it all silent, to myself. Hidden.

Now that I’m almost 60, okay, 3 years, okay 2 years from 60, and that’s my final offer, I still have starts and stops navigating how to be present from the inside out, into the stillness and fullness of who I am.

I sometimes don’t have any idea what I’m feeling. Or it will take days for it to surface. Ask my spouse how aggravating that can be? And that after twenty years of marriage, I still can’t name a show tune from the correct musical. Mame? No!! She’s so damn patient.

I spent so much energy stomping down any sense of realness and truth as a kid so I wouldn’t reveal myself that now shit comes to the surface at random moments. When I may not be prepared. Or even dressed. And it’s usually stupid. Like spending twenty minutes cleaning out the crumbly dry old bits of curly kale from the crisper, while cursing up a storm, as if the kale purposely woke up that day and said, let’s piss the fuck off of Mal! Ok, ready to crumble?!

I would really appreciate, want deeply, to actualize all of who I am before I die. I’m a regular mostly consistent meditator, but I sure don’t even know what’s possible. Maybe that’s my problem.

Sometimes I feel like I’m running out of time to access all the latent corners of my truth. I mean, I do know that death can stop by at any moment. There’s no tag on the back of my neck that says, wash in cold, tumble dry low, or you will die.

Or my therapist will suddenly announce her retirement just as I arrive at a massive revelation.

If I can just out last the most habitual of my childhood fears, even just to have the awareness of all of them so I know what I’m dealing with, I’ll be good to go.

If I keep taking daily vitamin D, hydrating, keep writing down all this funky ass gray matter, will I awaken to being in this body in this moment right now? And not only be ok, but elated?

Maybe I’ll get to actualize the deeper depth of myself - firmly rooted in the warm sand. And LOVE myself enough to do my purpose first, instead of cleaning the dead kale in the crisper. And the song will start and I’ll freaking dance like everybody’s watching, and I won’t care at all, I’ll just tell them to join me or get out of the way of the the glitter bomb that’s about to drop.

Who am I? I guess now’s a damn good time to find out. It’s actually imperative. Life-saving.

As the wildly magnificent human James Baldwin said, “You have to decide who you are and force the world to deal with you, not with its idea of you.”

That’s a damn good start. Somebody pass the kale chips.