i used to hate pink

it carried the cultural baggage of femininity:

softness,

weakness,

frailty.

a "girly" color indicating frivolity and unseriousness.

it's true. i used to hate pink.

the adult heterosexual urge to force me into the once hellish hue was strong in my hometown.

frilly, lace, or sequined dresses lay crumpled in my wardrobe,

stashed away, hidden until the next

dance recital,

concert, or

homecoming,

but i never even let so much as a pink sock enter my room.

i may have had to wear girls' clothes, per mother's law,

but i made sure those clothes were saturated in blue.

1:1

mother's law:

for every article of boys' clothing i buy for you to wear,

you must choose one article of girls' clothing to purchase, too.

her own version of the three-article rule.

i carried this burden for a time,

most of my life, actually.

rarely allowing myself to engage with the color on anything, even as i found myself drawn to it in my later years.

when i

associated it with

love,

playfulness, and

calm,

i began to indulge the desire to throw myself a feminine bone.

it was only an accent, long before it was an ensemble,

but now?

my,

oh, my—

look how far we've come.

a quarter of my closet is pink!

but,

i used to hate pink.

before my beard,

my flat chest,

my deep voice.

i hated it.

i didn't need another reason for people to call me a girl.

or so i thought.

maybe it was the obligatory nature of it?

the inescapability.

the social pressure.

the complete and utter loss of choice.

the expectation.

like a brand on a bull or a log,

pink

was a sign

for something i wanted no part of.

the feminine.

now?

i grasp at those once repressed fragments

as a signal to my community.

now?

i welcome the feminization and the faggotry.

now?

i've never felt more seen than when i wear pink.

no color feels more like me.