weighty is

i hated pink.

it carried this culture's baggage of femininity:

soft,

weak,

frail.

a "girly" color indicating frivolity and unseriousness.

the heteronormative adults in my hometown suffered from a terrible urge to force me into the once hellish hue.

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

stashed away, hidden until the next

dance recital,

concert, or

homecoming — none pink.

i never 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 old three-article rule.

i carried these burdens for a time,

most of my life, actually.

i rarely allowed myself to engage with the color on anything, even when drawn to it in my later years.

when i took the time to learn different histories, pink changed.

i associated it with

transition and renewal,

strength and love,

resilience and revolution,

tenderness and calm.

i threw myself a bone and began to indulge the desire to wear it.

it was only an accent at first, long before it was the focus of an ensemble,

but now?

my,

oh, my—

i've come so far.

i thrive with the color pink!

before my beard,

before my flat chest,

before my deep voice.

i hated it.

or so i thought.

i feared it.

the obligatory feeling 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

signaled

something to this society that i thought i wanted no part of:

the feminine.

now?

i grasp at those fragments as a sign to my community.

now?

i welcome the feminization and the faggotry.

now?

i embrace its entirety.

now?

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

now, no color feels more like me.