Written for A Minor Contradiction, Aug 2014.
x
Marylyn Tan

first day of sexual orientation,
I’m the oldest kid in the room,
just like in church catechism class
because my father forgot to enroll me
the previous year.

I wonder if we have a buddy system,
and who is going to take me by the hand,
because we shouldn’t do that in public.
tell me where the staff room is,
because I can’t wait to be pigeonholed.
please inform the school nurse I’m feeling a little queer,
probably because of
a minor contraindication.

first day of sexual orientation and I don’t learn
it’s a thing that shouldn’t be broadcast
until it’s too late, until people project their own ugliness
onto filming two girls together
and getting them their own
cinematic release from school.

once my sexuality called and instead of taking the phone
I put it on hold for more than two years,
like I do to telemarketers who only speak mandarin.

somehow I bypassed some vital intermediate stage
and found myself simultaneously
needing a queer mentor and being too old
for one.
instead of queer mentors
I probably need to grow out of eating sweets.

I will not call myself a baby queer because there are
sixteen year olds out there walking and talking
and having actual thoughts on twitter

but still there should be a tradition
of scrapbooking our gaywakenings.
a spiral book titled Baby’s First Year of Pride Events,
a keepsake kit to preserve the shape of your first
wine bottle at pink dot,
diapers lined with fun absorbent patterns
that describe the aims of the wear white movement.

I got the impression that I should join
as many cca clubs as I could
to better show off my personality:
pansexual. switch. gay man in teenage girl’s body. unicorn-obsessed.
hard femme. just plain hard-up—

until we all became gayyyyyyyme of thrones characters with unending titles.
marylyn, queen of indiscriminate tinder swiping,
decrier of badly-written profile pages,
observer of cute shorthaired girls,
dampener of pillows,
holder of grudges,
honorary scribe, first-class nerd, taker of notes on the homosexual lifestyle.

in anatomy class I am more coccyx than cocoon
because I am learning to grow a spine
but still am unfurling to reveal a conspicuous lack of wings
the textbook says, contrary to popular belief,
bisexuals cannot really fly,
but glide using a membrane that spans from wrist to torso.
my emotions are convoluted as a duck’s corkscrew penis.

in art class I’m not sure how to feel
about depicting my parents as martial arts experts
who are able to swiftly sidestep uncomfortable issues
in our family portrait.
all I can do is wax as lyrical as a crayon.

but more and more I feel like that last frame
of a primary 3 composition
where they give you three pictures and a blank
and expect you to come up with a coherent storyline.

but you can’t plot for life.
you can’t rehearse, and you can’t read up beforehand.
because all the girl-on-girl fiction out there is aimed at men anyway.

I can’t even conduct field research
because ever since they closed down Play
it’s been difficult for lesbians to find a place to
possessively wind their arms
around each other on the dance floor
like clocks to whom time is very, very, very important.

I’m not sure when I will stop saying with utmost surprise:
there are so many attractive queer people in the world
but for now, my eyes are still wide
like a student taking in all the stalls at the school tuckshop
with all the pocket money in the world (1 dollar and 50 cents)
and the infinity
of a one-hour recess
before me.