is said to be a carefree time where one spends her or his days in perpetual euphoric intoxication.
For some—for many—that is unfortunately not the case, one must recognize.
As for me, it was fucking wonderful: Climbing trees, wrestling with my brother, basking in the sun, watching cartoons, dancing to Madonna, playing with toy cars, making fun of my sister, or being frustrated at the fact that “Lead’0-9” would not fit into my “Lead’0-5” pencil whenever the situation would arise –that sort of thing.
But shit got harder, evidently so.
As soon as elementary school ended, we’re plunged into a world we’re not totally ready for.
Middle school and high school, I realize only in retrospect, are microcosms of the society that
Will suck all of us in after [our break=College], as “real” adults. In the sense that,
The ever-present, overarching, overwhelming pressures to conform to certain standards,
To act a certain way, to dress a certain way, to like a certaingender
And even to comport oneself in a certain way towards that certain gender, in order to attain that
Certain goal. Oh, it's certainly gonna be a painful assimilation process. And there is certainly more than one machine. No one is spared.
But sometimes, the conveyor belt brings out a black sheep, shoved into the mass of “regular” sheep.
Sometimes its blackness is conspicuous. Sometimes it’s concealed, waiting to come out.
Something inside prevented the machine to complete the process, maybe only
75% complete. Not there. Not at all.
You. You’re an outsider to yourself, but to all appearances you’re one of “them”
Deep down you know why you’re “black”. But
Repression, it’s your tool—of self-mutilation, really—of choice so that you can please yourself
On someone else’s terms and not your own.
Protocol dictates your desires and your way of life, your “2.5”
And I’m sorry it has to be that way,
that you’re 20, 30, 40, still driven by that elusive, abstract and arbitrary Machine.
Still vulnerable, submissive, docile
But my intentions are not to judge, condemn, nor condescend – though it may appear as such.
I, too, am frustrated, but it ain’t about me. But I do want to tell you:
I care, sympathize, empathize, and I just wish you could be happy with yourself as you are.
On your own terms.
You are not alone.
