In the late eighties, I went to school for the first time. I was named Sam, I was a boy, and I was seven years old. Meaningless information to my teachers. They were certain I was a four-year, maybe five-year old girl named Faron Levesque. It was just me and my mom then. She had to work late so I had to stay late. School days were very long. One afternoon some wild-eyed old kids gave me a creative writing challenge. “Write every cuss word you know on this piece of paper,” growled their leader. Challenge fucking accepted! The linguistic depths I mined were supple and sailorly. I presented my work to the old kids. Those narcs handed it directly to our teacher. Two weeks detention AND two weeks silent lunch. Little did those gluttons for punishment know that I reveled in the opportunity to have some calm, quiet time alone in the shrill yet stoic social space of school. While I was able to find some serenity as I opened my lunch box and spooned up some chicken and dumplings from my blue Mickey Mouse thermos, the collective betrayal within my first commons made me lose my appetite, gave me a deep ache. I didn’t yet have the words to describe the disquieting feelings this disciplining event spurred in me. Which is funny since it was all the words I did have that got me into big trouble in the first place. Turns out I would spend the rest of my life trying to understand the politics of knowledge production and the many silences that it requires of queer and trans kids. Sam was the name I gave me and I still carry that ache.
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Can definitely relate to some of this but it also feels very much yours. Enjoyed this Dusty
Wow. There's a book here 100! Excellent writing Dusty Sam Sam!