goodbye

Who am I if not the words that build me from the core and beyond?

I find it difficult in this closing reflection to not acknowledge what is happening in the spaces that surround me.

I write phone numbers across my arms of people who can bail me out of jail. I write to my family and tell them that I am okay. I write in the memoir of my own brain which side of history I want to end up on.

I look to my peers, many of which are much stronger and braver than I and I admire how they use words. They stand up to the institution and the court of public opinion, and somehow know what to say. Yet, if I were given the same chance, I don’t know if I’d know quite what to say.

Words are fuel for conflict and community. Words are the bullshit that Folt and Guzman spew to students — cowardice and hypocrisy buried in their email blasts. Words are the manifestations of our hearts and conscience.

I’m imperfect; however, it is the beauty of language is in my ability to express my fallibility. I’m twenty years old. I can’t even drink legally in this country. And I’m expected to know who I am and what I stand for and how to optimize my expression. I write as I find the right answers. The pages are limitless and maybe in this years and months that go by, they will help me better understand my purpose on this Earth.

I’ll speak freely and honestly as I can. I will stand up for what is right. I will not punish myself when I fall or act out of spite or pain.

I don’t have the words, but I can write them until I am able to speak.

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I thought the semester theme of my writing would be men.

I’m often plagued with the pressures of being enough of a man. I’m too fat. Too gay. Too anti. And what, on the outside, I may have presented as a meta-immersive self-guided research on masculine spaces and interpersonal relationship, was me just simply trying to fit in.

I traverse through the rows of lockers and shirtless body checks and bare asses and I attempt to find myself in mirrors that I can no longer see my reflection in.

In this place, I no longer understand who I am. But, I know when my coach yells out for me to push harder — even as everything burns, I begin to see stars and my eyelids lull— I feel like I am fulfilling a prophecy. It’s so normative and proper and lacks all of the shame and irreverence that I have learned to carry on my back and wear across my chest like armor.

It’s like I am so woefully aware of how toxic gym-bro culture is, yet whether it’s pitiful faggotry or undying desires to self-actualize — it all feels so fucking good. Then, bad again. Ebbing and flowing like the Thames or Seine or Hudson.

I haven’t found my third place. But, I reread this piece and realize that it has to be active engagement. I won’t fall into a headspace of loving myself or surrounding. I have to seek. It’s hard, but I will keep going. For the lost boys, including me.

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For a writing class, it seems a bit antithetical to paint the work for 1 of 3 major assignments in the semester.

I realize that I need to do work alone. Even writing this current essay in public, I’m distracted by sounds of people around me. It’s like the words in conversations I hear start to take over what I type and soon, it all becomes an amalgamation of what I want to say and what my ears can’t help but take in. Painting operates the same way.

I paint late into the night and always alone. I wonder what it would be like to share my work. Even these essays, the collect in a sort of archive of my mind, but as weeks will pass by — they won’t see the light of day. There’s a stack of paintings on my desk, and although the good ones make it onto my wall — they’re all clung with tape. Temporary.

I wonder what would happen if I bothered to give them a frame.

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Like I said in the beginning of the essay itself, it definitely wasn’t the paper I was expecting to write.

I’ve pondered utilizing this platform, Medium, how this work is publicized — if it effects my name or reputation or legacy (ugh). There is something that feels almost exploitative about being asked to mine yourself for source material. I’m not really even referring to this class at all, at least in this place there’s agency and ability to decode and analyze and better understand your personal history. I guess I’m talking about the rest of the world. I’ve put so many parts of myself into my work, that I have begun to lose my ability to discern what is fact and what is fiction and who I am in all of it.

I guess this paper was my analytical fuck you to all of the people that have made me feel like writing what I know has to be in some way intellectual or exploratory or healing or uber. I’m who I am. I’m making no apologies. And even though I am aware of this — that putting myself into my work can be painful and must be done with caution — so many people I know don’t. Or maybe just don’t care.

I hope for their longevity and peace-of-mind that they learn the lesson soon. Maybe some day I’ll truly be able to implement it.

Art is messy and gross and conflict-ridden. It’s beautiful and fervent. I wrote this to remember I am a person before I am a tool for the world’s usage.

So. As a person, I’m signing off.

This is the last time I’ll be in one of my university’s general writing requirements. I’m grateful I had the opportunity of these years to write about things that I care about. Things that concern and delight me.

I’m nothing without the words I speak. I’m always finding my voice.

Goodbye, for now. Hope to see you later. Thank you.