My body was wicked.

My soul was damned.

Joseph Lamar

I grew up in focus_on_the_family_wonder_bread Colorado Springs, Colorado. It was a strange incubator to live in. Especially as a person who sits at the intersection of multiple identities that are often regarded + treated as undesirable. I’ve always had this sort of deeply-embedded intransigence that I can’t really explain. It’s sustained me + helped me to preserve the essence of who I am, even in the midst of the identity crisis that comes with being inundated with direct + indirect notions of my so-called inferiority. Still, I’m a human being. Even though I’ve always been abnormally courageous when it comes to expressing who I am, even though I’ve always known, deep down, that I was never inferior, the messages I received from the world around me still managed to creep into my brain, affecting my physical expression. Most of high school, my toes were curled up like fists in my colorfully checkered, laced tennis shoes. The delightfully unusual outfits I used to wear concealed the tension that I held all over my body. 

While part of me (my soul, maybe) sought to be realized, another part of me just wanted to survive. I tried to do so by being aware of the unwritten rules of body politics I observed in motion. Those who sat closer to the top of the hierarchy were generally granted more body privilege. That meant being able to push your weight around, sometimes to the detriment of others, without consideration, consent, or consequences. People who sat nearer to the bottom of the hierarchy had less body privilege. That meant that your existence was in almost constant negotiation + a more privileged person could move through space in a way that compromised you. Being somewhere in the middle meant that even though your space could be usurped, you could invoke some privilege depending on who you were with. The temptation to do that can be great. It’s easy to mistake physically-weaponized privilege for autonomy. When we aren’t careful, the system can convince us that the superior/inferior dichotomy is inherently true + we can find ourselves using our bodies accordingly without even realizing it. Part of growing up is being socialized into that destructive way of living. 

My granddaddy would berate me for moving my hips or having limp wrists or putting my hands on my waist or exhibiting a sense of physical independence. It sent a clear message: you can only show up in a space if you show up on other people’s terms. If you make yourself small. I could feel something essential to me being repressed. That repression made its way into my body. I started to shut down around him. I figured I’d avoid issues if I could rid my body of any idiosyncrasies. I assumed a posture that was devoid of personality. I was like a rockfish. Camouflage until the perceived threat has passed. It sorta worked. Sorta. There were other threats.

There was a world beyond that house where I needed to carve out a space for myself. In that world, the long list of things boys could + couldn’t do with their bodies seemed to apply, but my white male counterparts appeared to have a less rigid form of masculinity. Some of the ones I knew to be straight walked with slightly twitchy hips + mildly loose wrists. Generally, me + my straight black male counterparts weren’t as freewheeling with our bodies. The only black boys I knew growing up who held their bodies organically were the “sugar-footed” ones. (At least, the ones who didn’t hide it.) For the longest time, I didn’t know that I was a sugar-footed black boy too. I just knew that being too “girly” in my body was considered wrong. I got the impression that people who loathed limp wrists knew something I didn’t know. There were words for it. Gay. Queer. Fag or faggot-ass-nigga. I didn’t connect the dots. I didn’t really have a concept of gay attraction, let alone that I was cursed with that affliction. 

There was sex ed but it was heterocentric. Church offered an explanation that further solidified a growing sense of bodily shame; the flesh was a loathsome, sinful thing. In fact, the only reason I had a body at all was because my soul needed something to wear. Just like my body, my soul couldn’t walk around naked. Every layer of me was meant to be covered with something else. Around the time I started masturbating religiously, I learned in bible study that I was sinning. Not only was I not supposed to be jerking off, but I wasn’t supposed to think of my male classmates or watch porn (+ certainly not gay porn) while I did it.

Then one Sunday, I heard my grandaddy shout from the pulpit, “God made Adam + Eve not Adam + Steve!” It clicked. I was the abomination. I was worse than original sin. My body was wicked. My soul was damned. If it was true, I didn’t have a right to my physical space or self-determination over my body. Part of me believed it. Part of me didn’t. Now, I understand why the power structure is bothered by body autonomy. When the people society seeks to marginalize choose to exercise body autonomy it calls the entire social hierarchy into question; how can someone have that kind of power without being white, male, straight, able-bodied, etc.? 

The system + the people who benefit from (+ are hopelessly attached to) it interpret challenges to the status quo as an attack on their very being. They act accordingly. That’s why black people are targeted, terrorized + killed for nothing at all. Meanwhile, hordes of white folks in silly red hats can stage a whole fucking coup + get off scot-free. (These are the same people who refuse to wear masks in public spaces in a global pandemic. Again, they’re weaponizing their bodies against others for a feeling of power.) Yet, black bodies are automatically regarded as dangerous no matter what we’re doing. 

My grandaddy grew up in a time + place where being black was even more dangerous than it is now. Being a “hard-headed” or “absent-minded” black kid on top of that was considered a death wish. In that sense, strict rules undergirded with harsh physical punishment could save a black kid’s life. It’s a terrible position for a black parent + a black child to be in. For the parent, you have to sometimes hurt your kids because you love them. For the child, you live in a world where you can’t be a child in the same sense as any white kid. 

Two generations later, I would have an experience that wasn’t dissimilar from my grandaddy’s. I too witnessed, in close proximity (post-integration + all), white kids, with enormous personal bubbles, doing things I’d never dreamed of. For a time, I believed that being free in your body was an inherently white thing. There were even times when I tried to mimic what I viewed as white male mannerisms because I believed it was the only way to achieve autonomy in a hetero-white-world. I’m currently decolonizing my idea of bodily expression. It’s a continuous process of dissociating body autonomy from privilege + proximity to privilege. I’m learning that true body autonomy sits outside of colonized power dynamics. I’m learning that the path toward feeling comfortable in my skin isn’t linear. I’m learning that the way my body seeks to express itself is beyond narrow categories that leave no room for real people. I’m learning to give myself permission to explore the way my body moves without needing to impose definitions on myself. (My hips don’t twitch because I’m gay. They twitch because they twitch. My goal isn’t to attain whiteness. My goal is to be me. Whatever that means at any given moment.)

I’m working on feeling safe, whole + happy in my body. I’m cultivating true love, acceptance + respect for my body + the bodies of others. I want to allow the way I show up in the world to be an extension of that. I’m unafraid of the real or imagined dangers of occupying space + using my body in essential + fulfilling ways. Even if kids like Elijah McClain are being executed for being black + eccentric + even if what happened to him could very well happen to me. I reject the notion that my body is anything other than mine. We all must accept the responsibility of cultivating loving, respectful + equitable sharing of space for all bodies. This requires the dismantling of hostile + violent systems + paradigms in our heads, our hearts, our bodies, our relationships, our interactions + in the broader macrocosm. 

I’ve found salvation for my body in self-exploration + various forms of creative expression. The arts have allowed me to feel connected to my body + to assert myself in spaces that can be hostile. Music, visual art, dance, theatre, fashion + language arts gave me a constructive outlet for my aggression; a way of bringing my suppressed thoughts + emotions to the surface. A way of saying, “I belong here.” It’s made it possible for me to begin to actualize the truest parts of me. There’s power there. A power that’s greater than privilege. A power that can create equity + disassemble destructive paradigms. A power that can awaken us from the inside out, liberating our bodies, minds + souls. I wish that for everyone.