When I let myself wander–not wonder, for this for me always implies childhood amazement of the cotton-candy tinted variety–into the back parts of my mind, I ask–quietly and plainly–the questions: Who sings for the kid who never walked or threw or caught a ball? Who sings for the boy who is a speck of dust in a snow filled class photo but deemed soft and white on the inside when surrounded by his supposed reflections? Who sings for the boy with limp hands and a loose gait? Who sings for the boy passed around from one man to the next but is never asked his name? Who sings for the boy buying skin fade creams? Who sings for the boy too fat to ride the rides? Who sings for that boy still demanding love? Who sings for boys like these, outcasts casted out? Then it comes to me: I do. I sing for him with a voice of bird just escaped from the fire. But he shall hear the call and find it beautiful.

But, to ask, “who sings for the dark boy,” always and already places him in a position of need and dependence; moreover it is a useless question because we all know the answer, nobody sings for his body. The better linguistic movement would be to say: I sing for the dark queer fat boy passed around from one anonymous man to the next; I sing for him-looking-for-validation-in-the-dark; I sing for him because he is I and I am he so when I sing for me I sing for we. The question is not, nor has it ever been, who sings for the dark queer boy–we do and brilliantly–but why do you make a dedicated effort to not hear the truths of which we sing?

Magpie Songs

When I let myse…

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