MEMOIR
Pink is The Strongest Color
I am a beacon of light
I read that some animals have bright colors to warn off predators. I dyed my hair neon pink. Hair like mine was uncommon. People looked at me. They wondered what it meant. I was fourteen. Who was this child with the cotton candy hair? My hair gave me strength.
I was called a fairy. It was a pejorative. It wasn’t said with affection. The assumption was that I was weak. I was not. I set that record straight many times. To be trans is to be strong.
My family was poor. At the time, there were seven of us in a one-bedroom apartment, and two would later follow. All my siblings were boys, and my father was proud that he sired only boys. That was his greatest boast for many years — the greatest boast a lowly köfte cook could have.
I ruined that for him. I stole that show, and he knew it. My father is a quiet man. He was under the subjugation of my mother. My mother was a drunk, and my father felt a deep shame. He would work, and she would drink potato vodka. A match made in hell.
One day, I came home with pink hair. My friend Yekta had dyed it. My mother was too drunk to notice. She was asleep by the fire. Drinking tea by the window, my father dropped the glass onto the table so violently that my mother shuddered. “Hassan, what…
