was like this. I hadn t heard any similar stories besides from distant people on the stories were far removed from my life; I didn’t know them personally, and so it was e them off as make-believe. And thus, my desires determined unrealistic, absurd, magica e don’t exist—or at least that’s what I convinced myself. She is merely a legend, a my ty. My feelings are made to be malleable. My body meant to be molded to god’s design. body, and feelings were never mine. I am only a child. What do I know? d spend “too much” time with my mom, my relatives would mark me a “mama’s boy.” They d in a demeaning way as if it were wrong. My dad went to the YMCA practically every morn to be strong, physically. This notion was strengthened by my brother, who, when frust estle with him, would yell at me “gordo! gordo!”—a term he was all too proud of learni spanish class. I was in 4th grade and had no context or understanding of the word. My rstood the word perfectly well, did nothing. To his credit, which is absolutely none, heavier than the rest of my classmates. insecure, out of place, on the basketball team. Around 7th grade, the last year I pla ll, my teammates began growing vines out their armpits. I did too. I wanted it gone. T s ever said—I never asked if I could hack down the vines—it felt wrong. To say somethi be to out myself as one of the mythical beasts that betrayed god’s work. ence, one side drawn with thorns, the other blossoming with lush, pink lilies emerged. I was assigned never felt right. It hurts, but it's better than the taunting. I’d rath walk in the room labeled MEN. Shut eyes face the mirror. Eyes are the window to the ion is brought to bushy brows and barbed wire hair that sprout like weeds above and be mouth and to unpierced ears and hair too far from shoulders. chool posted brightly colored signs on the bathrooms with large arial print reading MA losed my eyes so that I couldn’t read it. I got a haircut the next day; I hated it. I hours. I ripped the bathroom signs down the next day at school. 6FB2CE aseball with a kid named Carter. Before I did, Carter was a part of musical theatre. H tice one day with the residue of eyeliner from a previous show. That was wrong. Men do akeup. I envied his sin; he looked so pretty, angelic. I wanted it. I laughed at him. in theatre. A glorious place of privilege, I’m told. It’s true. Getting roles, gettin ficantly easier to me than it does others—so long as I am a man in theatre. The first for, I got a lead. To give up the trait that makes me so successful is privileged and y would call me a fool. Oh, but what irony: to play a role granted by playing another. ater, there are two dressing rooms. One for MEN, one for WOMEN. Walking down the hallw t is the women’s, and your second is the men’s. Between the two lies a giant double do the double door is so that sound, voices, murmurs do not pass through the hall easily. angelic voices guard one side of the doors. Bassy, hideous voices the other. t affectionate. They don’t hug for as long as women. But I like long hugs, they feel w comforting: safe. used to hug every morning. We’d share breakfast conversations, and she’d ask me abou was feeling. My mom and I used to say I love you in the morning. I got scared to tell he more I learned about myself, the more the shame built. At some point, she gave her you’s to someone else. I didn’t say anything. I wanted her to still love me. ke of their relationships with their siblings. Most had something to share: we just fo we went to the movies together, he helped me with my math homework. I wanted to say so o tell them about Thanksgiving, how he held me in a headlock; how I thrashed my arms, cursing that he let go of me; how my nose bled from the pressure he placed on my neck, ran to the bathroom, ashamed my nose was bleeding, praying none would drip on the ca s left on the carpet. My aunt yelled at me later for leaving one, single drop of blood counter. No one asked what happened. No one asked if I was okay. I could’ve told my fr brother, I could’ve told them the story. But then I would’ve cried, I would have just
Ellie Lin
@dynojelatoe
I value creative expression and how it enables me to grow as a student, artist, and individual. My art and writing allows me to visually communicate with my friends and family which has helped me to strengthen those relationships.
@meredithsanderss @meri.psd
Meri Sanders
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SAVVY ZINE March 2022
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