[Image description: A cut-up poem, pasted over a photograph of purple-toned clouds. Transcript is below.]

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weeks ago, i told you this was happening this utterly outrageous love for you I've never seen anything like it.

This growing feral tip of the spear. This is you? Christ, you're pornographic

We will be a monumental moment in time yet another war being waged

we'll go in violation of the law. threaten pastors to be sharing each other

We could strip and become churches remove the scripts you could pray in me

We are three and your hair is the color of starlight.

     We lie on our stomachs      on the floor of a ship      our postures, our outfits, our hairstyles identical      eyes wide and rapt as we watch the magic being performed before us      and I look at your soft blue eyes that sparkle with wonder

     and they are the most magical thing I have ever seen.

We are five and I am the main character.

     You always want to be the princess      and I am left to play the prince, the street rat, the hero      whether I want to play him or not            because there is only ever one girl in the movies      and I go home and I find the soundtracks and the tapes      and I listen, over and over and over and over      until I am word- and pitch-perfect

     and I can sing his half of the duet to you.

We are seven and you are leaving.

     Neither of us understands why      or where you are going really      or how far away Alabama is from Virginia      or what it is going to mean           except that it means we won’t see each other every week anymore      and we promise to write and to visit      and we pack up your room together      and you make me promise to take good care of the sofa           the one that was your grandfather’s and that your parents can’t take      and we hug so, so hard      and I pretend I don’t notice when my mother doesn’t answer my question           about when we can see you again

     and I sit alone in my room and I miss you for the first time.

We are thirteen and you remembered to write.

     You send me a letter about your school      and about the books you like and the stories you write,      and you send me a tiny, tiny picture,           your school picture,      and I stare at it for a very long time,      thinking about how we both wear glasses now      and that we both cut our hair shorter           but yours is to your shoulders and mine is to my ears      and I look hard but I can’t see your freckles anymore      and I think about sending you my picture in trade      but I don’t want you to see me           because everyone tells me I am fat and ugly           and I want you to remember me when I was almost as pretty as you      and anyway my mom forgot to buy my pictures this year      and I tell you that when I write back      and I talk about the same books that I love too and the things I write as well,      and I tell you I miss you      but I don’t tell you that I don’t enjoy Scouting anymore without you      and I don’t tell you about the girl I thought I could be friends with           because she had eyes and hair almost the same color as yours           but who turned out to say such nasty things that I can’t prove are mean                because she’s rich and popular and I’m not      and I don’t tell you about the cigar box I call my butterfly jar      where I keep all my special memories to make me smile when I’m sad

     and I keep going back to your picture.

We are twenty-two and you are getting married.

     I drive with my mother through seven states      and you greet me for the first time in fifteen years with a smile and a hug           and it’s like we’ve never been apart      and you laugh as you tell me how you met your husband-to-be      and we giggle as we realize we have the same opinions on Star Trek      and you’re so excited to show me the groom’s cake      and you tell me how much you love my new short hair      and I still have my glasses but you’ve shed yours      and I’m not a bridesmaid but that’s okay      because when you need someone to help you fasten your train up so you don’t trip           you ask me before you ask anyone else      and I come out onto the dance floor with you and the others to do the party dances

     and your smile is as beautiful as ever. We are twenty-nine and you are a mother.

     I don’t get on Facebook very much these days           I’m not even sure we’re still friends           because I think you might have consolidated your profile      but it’s fine because you’re still friends with my mother at least      and she makes sure I know what you’re up to      and she tells me about your beautiful children      and how proud your brother is to be an uncle      and what you and your family are getting up to      and one day you share a picture           of two girls swing dancing together      and you say that if you had stayed in Virginia      if you hadn’t moved away      that would have been us           you and me

     and I think about that sometimes before I fall asleep at night.

We are thirty-two and I know myself now.

     It’s been a long hard fight      and I had to learn a lot of words and unlearn a lot of other things      and it took time to find the courage to tell others      but I know who I am now      and I know what I can be      and I know what I feel and have felt and will feel again      but it took so long           and I feel like I lost so much      and I wish I could talk to you about it a little bit more      and I wish I could have talked to you about it before      and I wonder how much better I would know myself      and where we would be now

     if we had begun with one simple truth:

We are three and five and seven and thirteen and twenty-two and twenty-nine and thirty-two

     and I am in love with you.

“Someone will remember us

I say

even in another time”

//Sappho, Fragment 147

E.M. Forster, from Maurice

Euripides

Herakles - Euripides (Tr. Anne Carson)

while I've been opening up more, allowing myself to be vulnerable and rejecting shame, I still find it extremely difficult, if not impossible, as a chubby trans man, to imagine someone loving me. The lack of media and artistic representation of trans men being loved is not insignificant to this. I cannot name a single book, movie, tv show, song, or other form of media (except visual art such as paintings) that explicitly depicts a trans man experiencing love. If there is clearly a lack of romantic sentiment towards trans men, why should I think I would be privy to such experiences? Why would I look at myself, someone who I am trying so hard not to hate, and think another person could look at me and see someone worth their heart?

DOESN'T MATTER 'CAUSE IT'S ENOUGH TO BE YOUNG AND IN LOVE

Mitski My Love Mine All Mine // Blade Runner 2049 (2017) dir. Denis Villeneuve // E.E. Cummings Collected Poems // Jane Eyre (2011) dir. Cary Joji Fukunaga // &TEAM FIREWORK // Joan Tierney The Elektra Complex // pinterest // 怪物 Monster (2023) dir. Hirokazu Kore-eda // pinterest // Taylor Swift invisible string // unknown // 刻在你心底的名字 Your Name Engraved Herein (2020) dir. Patrick Kuang-Hui Liu // Frank Ocean End/Golden Girl

accepting that love isn’t purely romantic is so difficult. but it’s true. love is everything and everywhere. its your friends. its the soft embrace of a warm spring breeze. it’s picking up a new hobby. it’s the sea spray during summer. it’s the small corner store you went to as a child. it’s everything. the world is built on love.

losing my mind over this, actually.

do any of my friends know the love I carry in every word i say to them. When I add too many words, drag on a joke that’s over, when I message them despite the fact the conversation barely ended five minutes ago? every word i speak is an intimacy that’s laced with outright adoration for them as people and all the little details that make them who they are. Do you know I love you? Do y’all know how much of you I try to commit to memory? How much I try to make you smile? do y’all know the love I feel for you?

We consent to moving, going beyond. to sex. i in them and their ethics in me: they are faith the world enshrined a direction contrary.

We both deny our parents By doing so im free their gender Is an expression of power and to them i am a religious object

gay hick romance

will you be the neil to my todd? I will write poems about how you glow in the stagelight until we die in each other’s arms

The Cannibal’s Canción by Gloria Anzaldúa, from Borderlands, 1987.

Abu al-Faraj al-Isfahani’s Kitab al-Aghani records the lives of a number of individuals including one named Tuways who lived during the last years of Muhammad and the reigns of the early Muslim dynasties. Tuways was mukhannathun: those who were born as men, but who presented as female. They are described by al-Isfahani as wearing bangles, decorating their hands with henna, and wearing feminine clothing. One mukhannathun, Hit, was even in the household of the Prophet Muhammad. Tuways earned a reputation as a musician, performing for clients and even for Muslim rulers. When Yahya ibn al-Hakam was appointed as governor, Tuways joined in the celebration wearing ostentatious garb and cosmetics. When asked by the governor if he were Muslim Tuways affirmed his belief, proclaiming the declaration of faith and saying that he observes the fast of Ramadan and the five daily prayers. In other words, al-Isfahani, who recorded the life of a number of mukhannathun like Tuways, saw no contradiction between his gender expression and his Muslimness. From al-Isfahani we read of al-Dalal, ibn Surayj, and al-Gharid—all mukhannathun—who lived rich lives in early Muslim societies. Notably absent from al-Isfahani’s records is any state-sanctioned persecution. Instead, the mukhannathun are an accepted part of society.

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Far from isolated cases, across Islamic history—from North Africa to South Asia—we see widespread acceptance of gender nonconforming and queer individuals. - Later in the Ottoman Empire, there were the köçek who were men who wore women’s clothing and performed at festivals. Formally trained in dance and percussion instruments, the köçek were an important part of social functions. A similar practice was found in Egypt. The khawal were male dancers who presented as female, wearing dresses, make up, and henna. Like their Ottoman counterparts, they performed at social events.

- In South Asia, the hijra were and are third-sex individuals. The term is used for intersex people as well as transgender women. Hijra are attested to among the earliest Muslim societies of South Asia where, according to Nalini Iyer, they were often guardians of the household and even held office as advisors.

- In Iraq, the mustarjil are born female, but present as men. In Wilfred Thesiger’s The Marsh Arabs the guide, Amara explains, “A mustarjil is born a woman. She cannot help that; but she has the heart of a man, so she lives like a man.” When asked if the mustarjil are accepted, Amara replies “Certainly. We eat with her and she may sit in the mudhif.” Amara goes on to describe how mustarjil have sex with women.

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Historian Indira Gesink analyzed 41 medical and juristic sources between the 8th and 18th centuries and discovered that the discourse of a “binary sex” was an anachronistic projection backwards. Gesink points out in one of the earliest lexicography by the 8th century al-Khalil ibn Ahmad that he suggests addressing a male-presenting intersex person as ya khunathu and a female-presenting intersex person as ya khanathi while addressing an effeminate man as ya khunathatu. This suggests a clear recognition of a spectrum of sex and gender expression and a desire to address someone respectfully based on how they presented.

Tolerance of gender ambiguity and non-conformity in Islamic cultures went hand-in-hand with broader acceptance of homoeroticism. Texts like Ali ibn Nasir al-Katib’s Jawami al-Ladhdha, Abu al-Faraj al-Isfahani’s Kitab al-Aghani, and the Tunisian, Ahmad al-Tifashi’s Nuz’ha al-‘Albab attest to the widespread acceptance of same-sex desire as natural. Homoeroticism is a common element in much of Persian and Arabic poetry where youthful males are often the object of desire. From Abu Nuwas to Rumi, from ibn Ammar to Amir Khusraw, some of the Islamic world’s greatest poets were composing verses for their male lovers. Queer love was openly vaunted by poets. One, Ibn Nasr, immortalizes the love between two Arab lesbians Hind al Nu’man and al-Zarqa by writing:

“Oh Hind, you are truer to your word than men. Oh, the differences between your loyalty and theirs.”

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Acceptance of same-sex desire and gender non-conformity was the hallmark of Islamic societies to such a degree that European travelers consistently remarked derisively on it. In the 19th century, Edward Lane wrote of the khawal: “They are Muslims and natives of Egypt. As they personate women, their dances are exactly of the same description as those of the ghawazee; and are, in like manner, accompanied by the sound of castanets.”

A similarly scandalized CS Sonnini writes of Muslim homoerotic culture:

“The inconceivable appetite which dishonored the Greeks and the Persians of antiquity, constitute the delight, or to use a juster term, the infamy of the Egyptians. It is not for women that their ditties are composed: it is not on them that tender caresses are lavished; far different objects inflame them.”

In his travels in the 19th century, James Silk Buckingham encounters an Afghan dervish shedding tears for parting with his male lover. The dervish, Ismael, is astonished to find how rare same-sex love was in Europe. Buckingham reports the deep love between Ismael and his lover quoting, “though they were still two bodies, they became one soul.”

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Today, vocal Muslim critics of LGBTQ+ rights often accuse gay and queer people of imposing a “Western” concept or forcing Islam to adjust to “Western values” failing to grasp the irony of the claim: the shift in the 19th and 20th century was precisely an alignment with colonial values over older Islamic ones, all of which led to legal criminalization. In fact, the common feature among nations with anti-LGBTQ+ legislation isn’t Islam, but rather colonial law.

Don't talk to me I'm weeping. I'm not Muslim, but the grief of colonization runs in the blood of every Global South person. Dicovering these is like finding our lost treasures among plundered ruins.

Queer folk have always, always been here; we have always been inextricable, shining golden threads in the tapestry of human history. To erase and condemn us is to continue using the scalpel of colonizers in the mutilation and betrayal of our own heritage.

Go Away and Then Come Back, Martha Sprackland, in '100 Queer Poems, an anthology' (2022)

[text ID: When I creep back and try to greet it / the sea flinches from my hand. / I was treacherous / in my abandonment. / All the poets were falling / in love with the sea, at once, like baby turtles / and I was landlocked away. / I did and did not want to be held. I wanted to have the wavelets reach for me.]

Sweet mother, I cannot weave-

Slender Aphrodite has overcome me with longing for a girl

- Sappho