Category: Art + Photography

The Art + Photography category showcases the work of trans creatives. I feature as much art as possible, all made by trans and gender expansive artists.

Supplication

Another poem this week.

I find myself a serf, in want of a Lord

Guess who’s still looking for work?

Image depicts a medieval engraving of a farming scene. A figure in a crown appears on the left side of the image, overseeing workers harvesting grain and plowing fields.

Tell me mother…

Complement this poem with another by one of our guest authors, or by exploring this interactive tale of trans bodily autonomy.

Some people are really out here not paying a shred of attention to the world around them

Photo by mostafa meraji

when i am misgendered,
beyond the sting and
the amusement and
the fear and
the numbness that follows,

i sense that
misgendering is entirely about
not me, but
the other person
and how little attention
they pay to the world around them

i have people –
from strangers to loved ones –
who see me
(in all my physical forms

i sense that
transness is Something
beyond medical

but it is worth stating that
transness is essential
to who i am
beyond the surface)

and that’s the Thing!
these people who recognize me –
who don’t misgender me –
they know me!

because transness is
woven into the fabric of the world
and they pay attention
to the world

i often say this is
one of my superpowers
as a trans person:

i sense
almost immediately
who is paying attention
and who isn’t

and i move towards
who is


Complement this poem with another work by Hal Sansone.

About the Author

hal sansone is a love poet, mystic, and pre-Nursing student with a love for trans caregiving. he currently spends his afternoons caring for dogs, cats, and critters. he spends the rest of his time existing in a vibrant and inter-dependent chosen family. he lives with two kitties – Fish, an anarchist witch, and Mr. Flamingo, her nervous but sweet protégé. he currently resides on Dakota homeland also called Minneapolis, Minnesota. he wants you to know that he loves you, whoever you are. forthcoming: featured poet (gris literatura), actor/maker in “Light My Way” (Sandbox Theatre), “winter garlic” micro chapbook (Ethel)

We say Pride was a riot, but let us not forget that it started as a night out

this month,
i made a queer joy playlist
for my friend because
it’s her first pride
as an out queer person

and i am moved by
how textured
how abundant
queer joy is
and not just queer joy
but queer love too

for one, the playlist was a gift to my friend
but her being gentle enough
to be herself
was a gift to me too

in a moment
when all sorts of “authorities”
attempt to decimate,
to flatten us
into nothingness –
and what celebrations
i’ve found instead
in just a handful of songs:

we know nothing!
we know something!
be in your feelings
feel the way you want to
delight in your body
indulge in new sensations
second (third, forth…) coming of age
you’re pretty
you’re handsome
refuse a label
love a label
you write a new story

pretty boys
handsome girls
sweet tooth
what a read
lip sync
oh it’s you – that first time

freak out
be freaky
shake that booty
embrace weirdos
have your own kind of sex

be held by friends
have crushes on girls
have crushes on boys
have crushes on non-binary cuties
choose your family
heal heal heal

we hurt so good
dream of utopia
see magic in the world
stay alive
take the ultimate risk: leave behind everything you know to love who you are
endless possibilities

you’re that bitch
you’re dramatic
find joy in words like “faggot” “queer” “bitch” “dyke” “monster” “tranny”
laugh in the face of oppression
be a star no matter who you are

let’s start completely fresh, yes?
hold our faith in the unknown
let a new name come to you
yield to softness
respect gentleness
defiance –
to spin hope out of anything and nothing

parties are a revolution
go wild
let’s hold hands
take a new form
find yourself where you least expect it
do whatever the heck you want
(as long as you don’t hurt anybody)
and let me know what i missed, okay?


Complement this trans love poem with a Spotify playlist suggested by the author and a deeper look into trans love.

About the Author

hal sansone is a love poet, mystic, and pre-Nursing student with a love for trans caregiving. he currently spends his afternoons caring for dogs, cats, and critters. he spends the rest of his time existing in a vibrant and inter-dependent chosen family. he lives with two kitties – Fish, an anarchist witch, and Mr. Flamingo, her nervous but sweet protégé. he currently resides on Dakota homeland also called Minneapolis, Minnesota. he wants you to know that he loves you, whoever you are. forthcoming: featured poet (gris literatura), actor/maker in “Light My Way” (Sandbox Theatre), “winter garlic” micro chapbook (Ethel)

All I Know Is Love

is love

All I know is love. Every feeling I have is based in love. I know I’m a romantic, but I cannot imagine making any decision that isn’t based in the timeless, endlessly-facted emotion referred to, in English, simply as love. The Ancient Greeks used at least eight distinct words for different brands of love, from the love of the self (philautia) to the withstanding love between long-term partners (pragma). Sanskrit famously collects 96 individual words to characterise the nuances of love, including erotic love (काम kama), maternal love for a child (स्नेह sneha), and the love between friends (सौहार्दम् sauhardam). In Arabic, there are eleven stages of love describing the initial attraction to another person (الْهَوَى al-hawa) through the heights of passion (اللعَاج sha’af) to the insanity of an obsessive love (الْهُيُوْمُ huyum).

My deep fascination with love as a concept can probably be described similarly to the Greek agape, a universal, unconditional love known in Christianity as God’s love for all humans, which, according to Encyclopedia Britannica, “necessarily extends to the love of one’s fellow humans.” I am so deeply affected by the emotions of other people. This could be the outcome of any number of things: Childhood trauma, being especially empathic, or just another symptom of underlying autism. But perhaps I just love and care for everybody I welcome into my heart so deeply that I adopt their feelings as my own. To understand, compassionately, the truth of the struggle they are going through, or to lighten their load, perhaps.

“Society says that love is one way and very black and white, but we all know that love is a bustling highway and bursting with all vivid colors…. We are all different with different beliefs and a different story to us all, but we are connected through that and our love for each other draws us closer.”

Cece mcdonald, trans activist

I fall a little bit in love with so many people I encounter throughout my day to day life. That love never entirely fades, like the ghost of erased pencil markings in a book, or a faint scar. Forgotten until observed. Reflected upon. Past friendships and lovers I no longer speak to still hold a space in my heart reserved always for them. I feel it would be insincere of me to dismiss the care and intimacy we once shared, as if all the private confessions we made meant nothing, as if I didn’t once feel at home in their arms. Love may change, but it does not disappear.

“Love is unending and cannot be avoided.”

cece mcdonald, trans activist

In recent years I have taken cautious (and occasionally fumbling) steps into the world of polyamory — romantically loving more than one person at once — and it has been both a profound and painful experience, at times. Nothing quite prepares you for the level of self-reflection this practice of love inherently elicits. What does it mean to love, really? What is love practically? How do people experience different kinds of love? How do we experience it ourselves? How can we make others feel the same? To discover, accept, and actively practice an expression of love outside the norm of our present society feels radical not only because I am acting against what is expected of me, but also because I am left with no choice but to turn inward, to explore new forms of self-love, and to unpack the darker corners of my feelings that endanger love for myself and for those around me. Jealousy, fear of rejection, sexual uncertainty, isolation from community. We grow into these shadow feelings, trying to shape the love we find to be the love we expect.

Of course, love is never what we expect. It never plays out like in the ninety-minutes of a romantic comedy or a family drama. Love doesn’t stop growing at a certain point. There are no goalposts for love. It is messy, eternal, fierce, and confronting. Love inspires us to be better people, to create a better world. Love inspires art, determination, transition — in all its forms. Love has made poetry spill from my pen, sweet nothings gush from my lips, fire course through my veins, and tears spill over cheeks that hurt from smiling. Love, for self and community, is where I found the strength to begin my transition at only seventeen, in a conservative country town, knowing no other trans people. Love is where my mother planted the seeds of freedom and identity after an abusive first marriage — she and her new wife now stand as pillars of my belief in love.

I don’t pretend love is always easy and beautiful. Love and hurt have such a close connection in our society, which values the individual, the isolated. We are forced to gamble with our hearts with no guarantee or understanding that exposing our vulnerabilities to the world has its consequences, its effects on other lives. Some of the occasions I’ve been most aware of how big and uncontrollable my heart can be, has been when it aches the most.

Love has sealed my lips in fear of hurting another, and kept them closed when another’s love caused harm. I have been so afraid of losing love that I have sabotaged it before it could have the chance to destroy me. Is love, therefore, something to be feared? Something to step lightly around the edges, never diving in too deep lest we can no longer clamber back out to the safety of emotional distance? I don’t believe so.

We are constantly surrounded by love, constantly striving for it. My political worldview aligns with the international socialist movement, as this is the truest form of humanism I think there is, and because I want to create a world that is open for us to express ourselves truly, to be vulnerable and be loved for it. A world in which those living in hardship, oppressed economically and socially, are welcomed with open arms no matter where they place their feet, where we can achieve our dreams and feel the integral part we play in the lives of others. I want this world to exist simply because people deserve love and community. A German proverb states that “love is above King or Kaiser, lord or laws.” The arbitrary distinctions that are drawn up to separate us, to make us fear one another, breaks my heart. But love and solidarity can be found everywhere. It takes a fight to expand our capacity for love, to keep it glowing and alive, to share that light with others, no matter how different to us they may be. In the words of Che Guevara himself: “At the risk of seeming ridiculous, let me say that the true revolutionary is guided by a great feeling of love… We must strive every day so that this love of living humanity will be transformed into actual deeds, into acts that serve as examples, as a moving force.”

My heart is constantly overflowing with love. I know I love many — not just my two beautiful partners, but family, friends, classmates and supervisors, my doctor who prescribes my hormone therapy and the friendly pharmacist who dispenses it to me, the hospitality workers that keep me nourished, and every pair of hands before them who have built such a beautifully interconnected world. I can feel the love brimming inside me, but like anyone else, I am sometimes at a loss for how to harness and express all of that burning emotion. The best I can do is be kind to those who cross my path, do what I can to be there for my loved ones, and fight like hell for the world I believe in, that future predicated on love for all. Love, like revolution, is not easy, but it is necessary.

Wear your heart on your sleeve. Call your parents, your siblings, your chosen family. Hold your lover a little tighter. Hug your friends a little longer. Read a romance novel and squeal in delight when the heroes finally kiss. Join an action for an environmentally stable future. Stand up for your rights and the rights of other oppressed and exploited communities. Stand up for your own feelings when someone hurts you, strengthen that relationship. Love yourself. Tend to your needs and boundaries. Care for yourself the way you would care for others. Love is endless, in all of us. Share it as broadly as possible. Leave pieces of it wherever you go, you won’t run out. Find it in everything you see and do, in everyone you meet.

Find love. Breathe it, embody it, nurture it.

Love will always find you in return.

is love

Complement this read with another piece by a guest author called “Broken Boy Blue”, or with a short exploration of the concept of self-love.

The Act of Creation

the act of creation
Object Names: M16, Eagle Nebula, NGC 6611 Image Type: Astronomical Credit: NASA, ESA, and the Hubble Heritage Team (STScI/AURA)

I love that there are so many trans artists out there. The act of creation lends itself naturally to the trans experience. Not because we “invent” new identities out of thin air, but because the act of transforming one’s thinking about oneself necessitates some amount of creativity. Anyone that has made art for any amount of time can understand that art simply cannot exist in a vacuum. Every part of the process is influenced by innumerable factors, from the artist’s personal perspective, to the logistical limitations of the medium that one chooses for the piece.

Transition feels much the same. You can do your best to put your transness into a vacuum in your mind. You can try to isolate the feelings in an attempt to study and understand them, but this only works for so long. Eventually, many trans people (not all, but many), feel the need to bring these feelings into the world, and into the consciousnesses of the people around them. Art and the act of creation can facilitate this quite readily.

“To be an artist in the largest sense is to be fully awake to the totality of life as we encounter it, porous to it and absorbent of it, moved by it and moved to translate those inner quickenings into what we make.”

Maria popova

The Act of Creation Can Open the Door to Self-Exploration

Self-exploration through the act of creation was the impetus for creating this site as it exists now. Originally, this blog was going to be a “trans focused” business and financial blog. I know, even I’m laughing. I started writing generic business focused content with a “trans spin”, but that well of creativity soon ran dry. The content I was creating ended up being just another business blog, which I think we can all agree, the world really doesn’t need. And then it took a particularly bad day, but I had something of an epiphany.

On this bad day, I was so down, and dysphoric that I literally just typed the phrase “trans joy” into Google. This was around the time that Elliot Page posted that picture of his first time swimming in nothing but board shorts out by a pool. It seemed like every single media publication seized this photo and just plastered it around the internet as “the epitome of trans joy”. No shade to Elliot at all, he was just feeling himself and wanted to share that. What I had a problem with was that I needed something to which I could relate. A photo of an impossibly smooth-skinned, straight sized, white guy who was well into his transition and post top surgery was not something that inspired any particular joy in me, a trans man who will never be able to take his shirt off even after top surgery. I looked further afield than Google, but ultimately I was left bereft of a single substantive, relatable instance of trans joy that I could point to. I decided I would write myself into some trans joy, the fruits of which then became one of the cornerstones of this site.

Once I started writing about my relationship to transness, I was hooked. I realized this simple act of creation could be a key to understanding what I was going through. Just getting started with writing again reinvigorated my love of other forms of art, especially art made by other trans people.

Creation Can Inspire Connection with a Community

I am autistic. I do not generally enjoy much company, and I struggle with making friends. But, once I dove headfirst into creating I found that there were plenty of other people who felt similarly. There are so many neurodivergent trans people online, and online communication can be a bit easier for many people, myself included.

Beyond the practical aspects of connection, there is a spiritual aspect to the act of creation. Creative work can bring with it a sense of control when every other aspect of life feels turbulent. When I started writing again, it took a good long while but eventually, I felt like I had a handle on some part of my life, because I knew what I was writing and when. I was writing things that inspired me spiritually, and piqued my intellectual curiosity. It was this foundation of renewal and strength that allowed me to finally feel like I had the energy and space to reach out to other people. I have made a couple new connections with people that I am very glad to have met. These relationships are in their early days, but even if I never hear from any of these people again, I am very glad that my writing was able to facilitate these introductions.

Your World Expands When You Engage in Creativity

the act of creation
Samuel Jackson
The Dawn of Creation, 1830s

I credit my art with some of the biggest instances of personal growth I’ve been through. My first memory of intentionally creating artwork that was more than a crayon drawing was the first short story I ever wrote. One evening, eight year old me was bored and alone in my room, as usual. So, I sat down, pulled out a pen and paper, and wrote a short, slightly rambling story about an anthropomorphized cat who was himself an author. (I distinctly remember that this humanoid cat used he/him pronouns.)

This first call to the act of creation was the spark of passion which I still hold for art in most of its mediums. The next school year my teacher started giving free art lessons after school, during which she gave us a solid foundation on the history of Western art, and also gave me the chance to try drawing with pastels, and painting with acrylics for the first time. My teacher asked if she could submit some of my drawings to a contest at the county fair, in which I managed to get my first ever award. I was not an athletic child, and until that point had not won or even placed in any sort of competition. But with art, I was able to get my first ever “Second Place” ribbon.

The summer vacation following that school year was the first one my sibling and me didn’t spend with our father, so my mother had to arrange for a babysitter. This sitter was already slated to volunteer at some art classes at the community center, so my mother just told her to bring me along. This class also provided me the opportunity for many firsts. I worked with clay for the first time, and I think I still have the two little mouse figurines I made. I learned even more about art history, this time including art from cultures outside of Western Europe. While this was definitely not the first time I encountered art outside of the Western corner of the art world, this was the first time I studied anything other than Western art in a semi-academic context.

This class broadened my view of the art world, certainly, but it also gave me one of my first opportunities at independence. Because my sitter was a volunteer, she was busy at the community center both before and after the class, so I had a good amount of time to myself. My sibling decided they were old enough to stay home alone, so I was truly independent. Sometimes, I even had a little bit of pocket money because my mother would occasionally give me whole dollar for a snack. These are some of the few good memories I have of this time in my life, and it is not lost on me that art was always at the center of them.

Let’s fast forward to this past year. I started writing again, but I also started looking for other creatives to connect with. Once I started drawing through lines between the content I was consuming and the experiences of the people with whom I was connecting, I realized that my understanding of the world was more limited than I thought.

What Radicalized Me? The Act of Creation

the act of creation
Button, Votes for Women, Women’s Political Union. PL*242991.017.

This title is a bit of an oversimplification, but the heart of it holds true. The act of creation is not the sole reason I am a radical leftist, but art has opened my eyes to the breadth and variety of “the trans experience”. Meaning, there is no singular “trans experience”. There simply couldn’t be. Trans people are present in every culture, tradition, family type, and race on this earth. Anyone, anywhere, at any point in time could be transgender or otherwise gender nonconforming.

If we accept the truth of this fact, we understand that trans art is one of the few actions that has the capacity to be a truly universal part of being trans. Every human has the potential to make art, and channel their personal experiences through an artistic medium. I also like to believe that every person has the capacity to appreciate beauty in some form. When we allow the creative works of others into our consciousness, we can open opportunities for connecting to experiences that are vastly different from our own. A white person, like myself, can never understand what it is to move through this world being coded as Black, but engaging with the creative works of Black artists is one of the many avenues people have to gain insight into what that artist has to say about their experiences.

The same can be said for one’s gender. Someone who has questions about themselves may do well to engage with the perspectives of people at all stages of their transition. This is one of the only viable remedies to the sometimes violent transphobia that many of us have been force fed. When I first went public with my transness (meaning I told my girlfriend), I was stuck on trying to figure out why I struggled so much with my gender as a kid. Among other things, a big reason I didn’t bother to address my feelings is because for a long time, I didn’t think I “qualified” as a trans man because back then, I wasn’t comfortable asserting myself to others as a man.

Of course, I now know I was terribly off base with this line of thinking. This is a textbook example of internalized transphobia. Art and engaging with the creative works of a variety of people, especially nonbinary people, was the main factor in changing my thinking. I now know that I am not obligated to insist that I’m a man, even though I do currently describe myself and wish to be described this way. I know that I am allowed to just exist as myself, in whatever way makes me the most comfortable and safe, because I have now seen many people who exist this way.

Once I accepted this ability to exist as a possibility for myself, it suddenly became very important to me that I help ensure all trans people have this possibility. This means that in order to make the world a safe, and healthy place for any trans person, we need to take into account the experiences of all trans people without expecting the most oppressed among us to teach the least oppressed among us how to do this. It is on white trans people who identify with the white cultural conceptualizations of gender (who some people call “binary trans people”) to do the leg work of expanding our own perspectives. In my opinion, engaging with art and in mutual aid actions are two of the most important and impactful means of making this world a better place for everyone.

Trying the Act of Creation Yourself

So, I cannot say that art, itself, radicalized me. However, I can say that it has been the biggest facilitator of personal, political, and intellectual growth in my life to date. Given this reality, I strongly encourage you to engage further with the creative works of others. Here are some examples of actions you can take to start this process:

  1. Follow the social media accounts of artists from all different backgrounds, races, and economic statuses. There’s a big, wide world out there. We can’t all afford to physically explore it, so the next best thing is to actually read and engage with art and creations from people who lead different lives from ourselves.
  2. Create something yourself. Find a medium that you’re curious about and are able to access. Social media works well for exploring the ins and outs of different mediums. Heck, even making pretty slime can be an artistic act.
  3. Engage in mutual aid. There are a ton of ways you can do this. If you are white and financially capable of doing so, I highly encourage you to educate yourself further on the matter of reparations, and give a portion of your income (1-2% per month) directly to BIPOC, or to a local mutual aid organization that supports these populations. But don’t get it twisted, monetary donations are not the only way to engage in mutual aid. Start a local carpool, offer to buy food for a neighbor, offer to text someone who is visiting with family that is difficult for them, or look into the myriad other ways to provide (and accept) mutual aid. Do what you can, with what you have, where you are.

“As my friend Julian puts it, only half winkingly: “God blessed me by making me transsexual for the same reason God made wheat but not bread and fruit but not wine, so that humanity might share in the act of creation.”

Daniel Mallory Ortberg, Something That May Shock and Discredit You

The Quiet House

Solon H. Borglum, born Ogden, UT 1868-died Stamford, CT 1922
Smithsonian American Art Museum, Gift of Mr. and Mrs. A. Mervyn Davies

There is a squat house in a small clearing. Something you would miss if you weren’t looking for it. The siding, which was once a light blue, has deteriorated to nothing more than an inscrutable paleness. There is never a light on inside this house. The clearing rests in perpetual darkness, shrouded by thick trees through which there is no obvious path.

I was hiking one day when I lost the trail and stumbled into the eerie silence of the clearing. As my eyes adjusted to the lack of light, I caught a brief glimpse of a curtain shifting back into place in the window. I called out to ask if anyone was there who could help me. The only response was more silence.

I approached the screen door to the small porch, reached out, pulled, and found it was open! Peering in, I called out into the blackness, asking if anyone could help me get back to the trail.

Stillness.

Entering the screened in porch, I saw piles of clothes, books, boxes of toys, the ephemera of a full life. I looked to my left and saw something strangely familiar. Sitting atop an open box of old toys was my Susie! A small rabbit-like toy, with the softest ears that were perfect for catching my childhood tears. I had forgotten but Susie had a little pattern of stars on her body that glowed in the dark.

As I reached through the dim light for her, she seemed to disappear! I thought I saw a small hand snatch her away from me, and my suspicions were confirmed when I heard a door latch close. It was almost silent, but my ears had adjusted to the quiet enough for me to get a general direction of the small click.

I charged through the darkness in the direction of the door, stuck out my hand, and made contact with a doorknob. A quick twist and a strong push got me into the main part of the squat little house. As I walked forward, the inside didn’t feel familiar, but once my eyes adjusted slightly to the crushing darkness I recognized what I thought was my grandmother’s kitchen table. I felt for the familiar design on the back of the wooden dining chair. There it was! I pulled it out and sat down.

“I’m not here to hurt anyone, I just need your help getting out of here.” I told the quiet.

A slight scraping sound followed by a small creak broke the stillness. All of a sudden, a familiar face popped up opposite me at the table. It was a small, tow-headed child’s face examining me with a mix of intense fear and curiosity.

“No one comes here. Why are you here?”

“I got lost. I need you to show me how to leave.”

“You tried to take Susie.” the child said flatly, while still trying to size me up.

“I wasn’t trying to take her. You see, she used to be mine when I was your age. I just wanted to say hi. Can I come over and say hi?”

“NO! You stay away from me and Susie!” The child roared and waved something in my direction now. The glow from the toy glinted off of something shiny, and sharp.

“Look, I just need to know how to find the trail.” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, and low. This seemed to be a measured enough response to allow the child’s curiosity to get the best of them. A small scrape and another short squeak told me the child had hopped off their chair. As they rounded the table and got closer, I could see that old Eeyore nightshirt covering the belly that hasn’t been that small since.

“You look like my grandpa.”

“I’m sure I do, but can we put that down for a minute?” I said, pointing to what I could now see was a steak knife.

The child hesitated, but decided they could trust me enough to set it on the table for a minute.

“You have a beard like my dad.”

“Yes, do you like it?”

“It’s prickly!” the child exclaimed while running a palm across it.

“Just like dad’s, huh?”

“Yeah,” they said, much softer now.

“I promise I’m a lot nicer than dad.”

“Okay…did you really need to go?”

“I do, but if you show me the way to the trail, I think we could go together.”

“I don’t think so…” A thick blanket of quiet hung between us now. “But, I’ll show you the way.”

A tiny, soft hand guided me through the house, my boots thumping along behind the silent, padding steps of the child. I was so big and heavy the house shook slightly with every footfall.

“I hate that noise”, the child’s voice cut through the ever deepening quiet.

It took only a minute to get back to the screened in porch and the cool night air. The hand continued to guide me all the way up to the tree line.

The child pointed into the forest, “Just keep going through there, you’ll make it out.”

“Come with me.”

Grasping their tiny hand a little tighter, we set off into the trees. Shortly into the walk an almost deafening CRRAACCK burst through what had become a comfortable silence. Off in the distance, a dead tree had finally given way to time and rot.

It took me a second to notice that the tiny hand wasn’t in my own anymore. I wheeled around to see the pale figure of the child sprinting back through the trees. I gave chase but they disappeared into the forest, and I had to turn around. Eventually I made it back to the trail and found my way home. But I couldn’t shake that stillness. I started to crave it after awhile.

These days I regularly make my way back to the quiet house. It’s a bit of a hike, but once I’m there I take my boots off at the door, settle into an old rocking chair on the porch, and wait for the child to join me. I made them their own little rocking chair, and we like to sit together for awhile just taking in the silence.

the quiet house
Photo by Dejan Zakic on Unsplash

Complement this work of short fiction with another great piece by an awesome guest author, or a peek into the old trans survival strategy of “spontaneous transition”.

BROKEN BOY BLUE: A Thought

Original art by Elodie Belcourt

There once was a boy named Blue.
Blue had been told that he was broken.
Blue wore sunglasses at night, and sundresses to gym class. He took his math book to biology and his chemistry book to social studies. He laughed when he was sad and cried when he was happy. He ate jam and toast at night, and fettuccine alfredo in the morning. On Saturdays, Blue went to school, and on Monday mornings he slept until noon.
“Look at him.” The other kids jeered.
“What a loser.” They pointed.
“What’s his problem?” They laughed.
“What’s he wearing?” They gossiped.
Blue hid in his room all day and went out exploring at night. One night, he found an old car in the middle of the woods and pretended he was flying to the moon when he climbed inside.
Sometimes, Blue forgot how to get home, and slept in the woods, or in the park, or in the middle of main street.
“It ain’t safe out ‘ere for a boy yer age!” The constable scolded.
“Home?” Blue shrugged.
“It’s all an act.” The adults shook their heads.
“There’s nothing wrong with him.” They rolled their eyes.
“He’s just looking for attention.” They scoffed.
“Maybe if his parents were more attentive.” They whispered.
Blue’s parents didn’t know what to do with him. They fought and yelled and cried when he wasn’t at home.
“Do we take him to a doctor?” His dad whimpered.
“What if we’re bad parents?” His mother sobbed.
One day, Blue moonwalked into the woods behind his house and climbed a tree. He sat and sat and sat some more. He sat until he couldn’t sit any longer, then sat for another day or so. His parents came out into the woods and called to him.
“Blue, please come down!”
“Can’t.” Blue replied.
“Blue, honey. You’re scaring us. We’ll get you some help.”
“Don’t.” Blue looked up and away from his mother and father.
“Blue, just come down and we’ll figure out what’s going on, I promise.” His mom pleaded, but Blue climbed higher into the tree, so his parents ran into town to get the constable.
Blue sat and thought. He thought and thought and thought some more. He thought until every thought he could think had been thunk, and yet he continued thinking. Eventually, he thought there would never be an end to his thinking.
“Hello.” A voice from above called down to Blue. Blue looked up to see a woman sitting on a branch just above him. “Hello. How are you?” Blue looked at the woman, puzzled. Her clothes were too small, and she had a beard that hung down past her feet.
“Hello.” Blue said.
“Beautiful day, don’t you think?” said the woman.
“Sure.”
“What’s your name?”
“Blue.” Replied Blue.
“That’s a beautiful name.”
Blue pointed at the woman. “You?”
The woman sat and thought for a moment. “You know, for the life of me I can’t remember.” She laughed. Blue smiled. “Oh well, my name’s not important. Tell me more about yourself, Blue. Where did you come from?” Blue pointed down at his house. “And what brings you up here?”
“Broke.”
“Broke? Well, I wouldn’t worry about it, I don’t have any money either and I’m doing fine.”
“No. No. Me.” Blue pointed to himself. “Broken.”
“You’re broken? What do you mean?”
Blue shrugged. “They…” Blue gestured to the town at large. “Said.”
“Who said you were broken?”
“Them. Parents. Kids. Teachers.”
“Well, you look fine to me.” the woman reassured.
Meanwhile, down on the ground, Blue’s parents, and the constable, and the deputy constable, and the police dog, and the principle, and the teachers, and the students, and the bullies, and the neighbours, and the mayor all searched the woods for Blue and his tree.
“Where is that blasted tree?” Shouted the constable.
“He’s too high up to see!” Blue’s dad cried in exasperation.
“Things must be strange for you, Blue.” Offered the woman. “You’re growing older. You’re changing. You see things you never thought you’d see in ways you’ve never seen them. You’re doing things you never thought you’d do in ways you’ve never done them. That doesn’t mean you’re broken. That doesn’t mean you need to run away and climb a tree.”
“But…” Blue hesitated. “You’re… in… the tree.”
“You got me there, kiddo! And I’ve been here for ten years. You see, I once felt broken too. I felt like no one knew who I was, and that made me forget who I was. I walked differently, I ate differently, slept differently, I got angry for no reason, and nothing made me happy. Everyone was trying to tell me who I was. Everyone had their own idea of who I was supposed to be. And so, I threw it all away. I climbed this tree and I forgot about everything. And soon enough, everything forgot about me. I don’t mean anything to anyone anymore. I’ll never accomplish anything. Never fulfill the wishes of my parents and my peers. But I’ve been defined. People know what to expect from me, which seemed to make everyone happy, and then everyone left me alone, which made me happy, so I just stayed up here.”
Blue was confused. “What… do you… do… all day?”
“I sit here, and I look across the canopy of the forest, and I think of all the possibilities. That’s how I spend my day. Thinking and thinking and thinking some more. Sometimes I think I’ve thought all the thoughts there is to think, Blue. But I’ll never stop thinking. About who I was, who I could’ve been, who I am now. About my dad and my other dad and my sister and
my cat. About my friends at school and the teachers who didn’t care, and the ones who did. It’s a full-time job thinking about things, you know.”
“You’re not… bored?”
“Sure. All the time. But then I remember to keep thinking. The mind is a fabulous thing, Blue. It goes inwards forever and ever, further than the edges of the very universe. Anything you believe is possible, and everything you believe is impossible, can happen inside your mind, and believe me, it will! But it’s up to you which thoughts you choose to focus on.”
“Up to… me?”
“Absolutely, my dear child! You have a mind like no other. It would be a waste to use it the way other people are telling you to. It’s not their mind, after all, is it?”
“It’s mine!” Blue lit up.
“Now you got it!” The woman clapped. “But the tricky part is holding onto it.”
“How… do I?”
“You keep thinking! Think about this. Think about that. Think about you, and me, and us, and them. Think about her, and him, and it, and fey, and xem, and elle. Think old thoughts and new thoughts, and thoughts that go up and down and sideways in every direction. Just don’t stop thinking.”
“You should… write a book.” Blue laughed.
“I’ve certainly thought about it! But who would read the damn thing? Who would listen? Who would care, Blue?”
“I would.” Blue smiled.
The woman took a moment to think, and then: “Well, if my work can connect with just one person, then it’s worth it!” The woman hopped down to Blue’s branch. “Shall we?” She offered her hand to Blue, and they climbed back down the tree together.
Blue’s parents were so happy to see him they forgot to punish him for running away. The woman wrote her book, but everyone said they wouldn’t read it until she shaved her beard, so she burned every copy, walked back into the woods, and climbed back up the tree.
This made Blue think that everyone else must not be thinking, and if they weren’t thinking, how could they know who they are? And if they didn’t know who they are, how could they know who he was? Blue took the woman’s advice and kept thinking and thinking until he thought that maybe he wasn’t broken at all. Maybe the world was broken, and maybe he could help fix it. Then he thought anything he did in order to make that fix couldn’t be the wrong thing to do.
So, Blue kept wearing his sunglasses at night, and his sundresses to gym class. He kept bringing his math book to biology and his chemistry book to social studies. He kept laughing when he was sad and crying when he was happy. He ate jam and toast at night, and fettuccine alfredo in the mornings. On Saturdays, Blue walked to school, and on Monday mornings he slept until noon. The other kids kept making fun of him, and the adults kept belittling his parents, but it didn’t matter, because Blue was still thinking.
And every once in a while, Blue moonwalked out to that tree and climbed up to say hello to the woman, and they sat in silence, and they thought together, and they were free

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