closet case De’Aunna Booker
Dedication To those who feel unknown
Foreword These works were created with the intention to offer a perspective on the lived, queer experience. These works refer to homophobia as an experience, scraping away the top layer of outside influence to leave what is missed and painful. I wanted to separate the readers mind from homophobia distributed upon an individual, because somehow in all the debate around this subject, the humanity is lost. Homophobia is addressed so loudly in the media, and I hate to see the basic rights of people being debased to a debate. I wanted to quiet that noise into something less overwhelming. I wanted to portray intimate accounts with homophobia; something lived and familiar. I feel so often that homophobia is supposed to live within these large, angry moments that are easily recognizable. When homophobia is lived instead of watched, there are these loud moments, but there are also quiet ones. Homophobia interacts with every facet of your life when you’re queer. Sometimes it’s in your own mirror. Sometimes it’s something as small as a glance. It makes you hyperaware of your humanity, and somehow your lack of, as well. I think it is important and necessary to attempt understanding the world and the individuals we share it with. These works were pulled from lived and shared experiences and emotions I feel expose a lot of vulnerability. I hope these works have a hand in helping readers understand an isolation that is almost difficult to voice. I wanted to grasp the raw feelings of doubt, self hate, and bitterness in relation to vacantness, loneliness, and oddly enough, failure.
Table of Contents
Dedication ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 1 Forward ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 2 Poetry Once I Was The Forest ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 3 What to be ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,5 ho路mo路pho路bi路a ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 6 moonlight ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 7 The Lord, My Father ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 8 Mother I ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 10 growing pains ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 11 dyke sound ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 12 Biography ,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,, 13
Once I Was The Forest I was mahogany without splinter, smooth and tender, staring out into a Magenta nightfall embroidered with floral stars I wore the shadow of her lined palms, the islands of her fingertips smeared and winding she would stare young into the face of me, unafraid of being swallowed
We used to share everything.
I was mahogany and incised by the clumsy escape of a sideways steak knife leaping from her grip I wore the fractured impulsivity of remorse apparent in her downcast eyes
I was returned to the earth, and revived again. I was rosewood and musty; I gaped in shards of three, staring out into a spiritless
smoke bleak of interaction I remained unstained and un-familial, An agent of reflection, A dainty looking-glass sustained by the Occasional dusting One morning, bright and occult I Tipped myself lonely toward the Rising floor I hoped to return worthy. I am Black Cherry, fine and strong I decorate the mantel of her Solitude, I am sturdy on my Own I fixate out into her Captivity and I Remain, though reincarnated a looking glass still.
what to be enby, I envied the idea since I was young, thought androgyny meant artistry and alabaster skin, meant thin and tall and tapered, meant I could not be, could not call myself enby. enby, I couldn’t be, with breasts like stones sitting on my chest, I could not bind them, I could not hide them, with hips like hills underneath my clothes, I could not tame them, I could not name them they didn’t feel like my own enby, help me, femininity fails me, masculinity masks me, I want to be both and neither but nothing works I want to forget what’s below the waist, it’s a waste of time, want to be first in line to lose my breasts, want to pass the test, want to wear collared shirts close and scream “do you see, do you see?” enby, if it could be that simple, if surgery and short hair was the solution, if losing my breasts is the best i can do, if clenching my jaw will convince all of you, then I don’t know. I don’t know what to do
ho·mo·pho·bi·a /ˌhōməˈfōbēə/
noun noun: homophobia 1.dislike of or prejudice against homosexual people. 2.obvious cowardice 3. the absence of god’s love 4. it is awkward, full silence stepping soft in the territory of your own home, creaking as if you are a squeaking stair; as if you are the specter abandoned dinner tables bejeweled and uncared for eggshell white tile pattered with black squares; a blotch of black dye the hole where doorknobs should be, stark and staring the removal of a bedroom door, a dark hallway boxers wrinkled under a heavy mattress, a glass slipper pee filled balloons, pungent and repulsive, soaking the material of your favorite boots really long bus rides, watching strangers spit foul from the corner of your eye, watching your back for a week after eating lunch in the bathroom; a cemented sanctuary switching schools nine times the principal’s office, not because you’ve done anything, but because you might church camp alter call, your preacher’s rat-like eyes, your guilty baby face, your forehead smeared with oil in-school suspension, explaining again that you’ve done nothing absence from family affairs, avoiding family affairs, longing for family affairs alone time
moonlight
dusk ambled long and dripping down the sky, cerulean tide kissing up into its bluing, mingled liquid with the backward tide of our rippling laughter; our paired smoke i was dizzy and forgetful of my inner pariah, forgot my common sense somewhere further up the beach, let it castaway, and looked upon the strayed reflection of the moon smeared upon his cheek; a crescent in the dark, stark upon his midnight skin and then and then, i was counting the starry touch of his stubble, counting each breath I managed to breathe, counted the seconds til he looked at me looked at me, he looked at me wonderful and odd under the peering sky, the moon was white in his eyes and yet, he looked as if i had dove head first into its specter, as if I wore it vectored on my aching face and i, i i i looked away, and wondered if i had.
The Lord, My Father dear chastising, almighty, using religion as reason to abuse dear apostles adamant to cleanse me in what looks like dirty water dear preacher insistent that today is worse than yesterday like two girls kissing is equal terror to a school shooting dear father, you found god in the front seat of your car looking down the tunnel of a handgun dear father you found god, pressing your youngest daughter’s face to the bathroom floor because she wore a cap for boys dear father, telling me boys cannot control their cruelty; they are blessed with god’s dominion dear father, you told me in the confident silence of your car that you stifled your love for another boy
dear father, you told me to repent, suspecting I was guilty with the sin of the flesh as if being gay might melt the skin from my bones dear father, you ask me nightly, riding home from work if I’m content to remain blind, if I’ve made my peace with existing nocturnal to god Quiet, I stare up through the clouds, and I reach for the moon.
Mother I Mother, loving wonder, my aching, gaping wound, I miss the little prison of your pendulum I miss your swing
growing pains My mother wanted a daffodil for a daughter, I can only imagine her surprise when she sprouted a weed.
dyke sound dyke pops hot on the tongue, it’s in baby pops, it’s the color that makes it pop, it’s in pop, it’s poppin’, there’s no stopping this pop from your fist, pop! dykes droppin’, but there’s still no stoppin’, we’re poppin’ back up, pace yourself this pop don’t stop pop, pistol pop, it’s poppin off but dykes don’t stop, we strap up, we make it pop, we’re droppin’ but we’re still poppin’, that’s pepsi, we pop, we make time stop hubba bubba pop we poppin’, that pink pop, that gumdrop, that good shit, that smack n’ pop, that whole pack pop that dyke pop.
Biography De’Aunna Booker attends Tennessee State University in hope of Graduating with a Bachelors of Arts in illustration. Though she began her college career with an interest solely in illustration, it has expanding to hopefully pursuing other creative platforms such as poetry and printmaking. De’Aunna perseveres towards graduation from Tennessee State University, and the continuation of her creative career. She hopes to continue to inspire and be inspired by the world around her, and plans to continue to offer perspective on the queer experience in drawn mediums, as well as her poetry. Enlightenment means a lot to her, and she hopes to forever offer her personal perspective as a small voice in a large conversation.