PINK and BLUE
2014
Andrea Jenkins
She loves me, she loves me- not!
That’s what I kept telling myself each night after dining with her. It’s been seven months and we still haven’t kissed; sure there have been lingering hugs that feel really good- and glancing smiles that melt my heart to stone. She loves me, she loves me not.
I got time, and she – has no freedom. Our choices are dictated by the forces of our artificial environments- busyness for the sake of being busy; and then there is art, creation, culture. But even more than that, they are shaped by the societal norms that have been so deeply embedded in the trenches like journalists in the War on Terror, that we don’t even recognize it. Only the Shock and Awe is real; does damn people with their monthly ideologies, snap judgments and those stares, that bore right through you. “Can you believe she’s with him, (uh, I mean her) - what’s up with that?”
I want to tell her it’s okay to love me- I want to say let go and follow your hearts desire. I want to say we can be the new Modern Family (Post Modern) even. But- I don’t say that. And each time I give up and think to myself this can never work out, she calls and that dusky voice says, “I’ve got a couple hours on Thursday evening…” I’m all caught up in it again.
She loves me- I think she’s attracted to my masculinity or is it my femininity? Or is it the dual nature of my identity that is drawing her in; is it the fact that I can offer up adventure just by being? Her mind is sharp and bright, she loves food from different cultures and art in multiple genres- not that different from me in that aspect. She is a dancer in a symbolic choreography that suggests, “I am open to all the universe has to offer.”
She loves me not- I think I am attracted to her interior life- the side that few are privileged to witness- the life that is bound up with constrictions, ropes and restraints. The part of her soul that wants to be controlled- to a point- and only after consent; I think I am attracted to that part that wants more. More sensuality, more carnality, more abundance, more love.
She loves, she loves me not- that’s what I keep telling myself each time I want to reach out and take her hand and hold it in mine, and look into her tiny eyes and say the words that want to come out but don’t. The words that would inform her about the complexity of my life; a life that has been shaped in a restrictive society that forced me to be someone that was not me. A life that took on a life of its own- this feeling of being female while living in a male body. This life that few ever experience but those who do have insight into something beautiful in the context of human experience. And yet I am hesitant to place her hand in my hand and to look into those tiny eyes and say those words.
People are willing to accept the fact that I have successfully made the transitional journey from male to female- in fact many are in awe of this, they call me things like “Brave, Confident, Courageous, etc. What they are not willing to understand is that I am still attracted to beautiful. Duality has been a part of human nature since the beginning of recorded history- in Hinduism the god Shiva- simultaneously represents Creation and Destruction. In ancient Egyptian society one of its greatest rulers was Queen Hatshepsut- who ruled as a Pharaoh and embodied both male and female qualities- in the Universe we witness duality on a daily basis- night and day- positive and negative, good and evil; neither can exist without the other.
She loves me, but not really. Maybe she is in love with that which I represent and I- I am in love with her- really? Don’t get me wrong, it would be nice to find someone who is willing to take a chance with me, too maybe do a little samba dance with me- someone who is willing to take a stance for me- yes that would be nice. It has been said that teamwork requires trust, a willingness to believe that your partner has your back- and is ready to fight to salvage the only (true) love they have ever known.
The last time we drank Riesling from plastic cups- there were two cups, one pink and one blue (well actually it was pretty dark and we really couldn’t tell which was which) but there was a choice to be made to made- and we sat in the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden and she chose blue- “does it matter?”, she asked. “Yes”, I replied. “Why”, she said. “Because it’s always the little things that really matter”, I said. Small gestures have a way of sending signals. Yet in our politeness we often miss them, or maybe I should only speak for me, since that is the only person I can speak for. Sometimes it’s just a look, that says so much more than words. How long have I waited, waited just to hold you, wrap my love around you; to say I love you to someone who does not have my blood running through their veins? And then I see that look, that laughs and weeps, the look that longs for connection with another soul- that look that seeks direction, protection; and what I fear most is- rejection.
She loves me?
She loves me not?