by Dean Atta
alone again. I slip away, unnoticed.
I Want to Be a Pink Flamingo
Pink. Definitely pink.
I want my feathers to match
the hue you imagine.
I want to blend in.
Nothing but flamingoness.
David Attenborough would say,
“Here we see the most typical flamingo.”
Though I don’t want to be the most,
just typical. A wrapping-paper pattern.
I don’t want to stand apart.
Nothing different about my parts.
My beak just a beak, my head just a head.
My neck, body, wings. Simply fit for purpose.
Standing on one leg, just like the rest.
Pink. Definitely pink.
I go to the LGBT Society.
We sit in a circle and go round
saying our names and pronouns:
he/him, she/her, they/them.
How do you want other people
to refer to you?
A trans man called Seth,
with the pronouns he/him,
says he wishes his trans identity
wasn’t questioned
with regard to his body.
“I wish people would understand,
some men have vaginas.”
My turn: “I’m Mike, he/him.”
Some Men Have Vaginas
He said he was a gay man
with a vagina and I, penis heavy
and light of foot, wondered
if gay meant the same to him
as it did to me, wondered
if man was in mind or body.
Because I wear my man,
strip down bare to my man.
In the mirror, there, I am.
For me, man has merely been
a matter of circumstance,
not a journey or discovery.
I rarely had to fight for it,
rarely want to fight against it,
never wanted to shed skin
to reveal somebody else.
I never questioned it until
he said, “Some men have vaginas.”
I understood it to be true
but it left me feeling nothing
more than a tool, who knew
nothing about being a man
outside his own body.
I feel like Goldilocks:
trying to find a group of people
the perfect fit for me.
A group that’s “just right.”
I didn’t feel black enough
for African Caribbean Society,
I didn’t feel Greek enough
for Hellenic Society,
I didn’t feel queer enough
for LGBT Society.
But I’ve got to find a group
that’s just right for me.
I know I have to go
when I see the poster
on the noticeboard
in the Students’ Union.
DRAG SOCIETY
in capital letters
with a date and time
and a room number.
Why have I not noticed
this poster before now?
There’s a photo of a group
of people of many shapes,
colors, and gender expressions
in costume and makeup.
I make up my mind,
I’m going to do that,
whatever that is,
whatever that means.
Drag
I’ve seen Kinky Boots
and RuPaul’s Drag Race.
In advanced drama
we were told DRAG
stands for Dressed
Resembling A Girl.
It happened in theater
in original stagings
of plays by Shakespeare.
Women were not
allowed to perform.
Young men would play
the female roles.
No one is in costume but a forthcoming
performance is the reason we’re all here.
Drag Society feels different from any other
Students’ Union society I’ve been to so far.
If you didn’t know why we were here,
you couldn’t tell what brought us together.
No one person looks similar to the other.
We’re not just here because we’re “queer”;
we’re here to create a show together,
but first we must get to know each other.
“Here at Drag Soc,” begins the president,
“we use our drag names and pronouns
of our drag character. I’m Mzz Behavior,
em-zed-zed. You can call me Mzz B and
my pronouns are ‘they’ and ‘them.’”
I’m still getting used to they/them pronouns,
but they/them makes sense for Mzz B.
They are both handsome and beautiful.
They have faint stubble showing
under their light application of makeup,
mahogany foundation, purple eye shadow
and pink lips that match their outfit.
Their outfit reminds me of the Chanel suit
that Marge Simpson buys and then
feels really guilty about. Their hair is not blue
or Marge Simpson high but a perfect
round afro. Mzz B is already an icon to me.
Mzz B catches me staring at them
several times as everyone is introducing
their drag persona, one by one around
the circle, with names and pronouns.
I’m not confused; I’m just an overly
curious person. So when they say
the name and pronoun for their drag
characters, I want to ask: Who are you
when you aren’t in drag?
I think of the famous Shakespeare line:
“A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”
I’ve changed my name once already,
when I was seven.
Now nineteen,
I’m being asked to create
a new identity
for a different purpose:
a stage name.
Just like Onika Tanya Maraj
became
Nicki Minaj
and Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta
became
Lady Gaga.
But Madonna, Beyoncé, and RuPaul
didn’t need new names: they simply dropped
their surnames, left them backstage
in the wings with their family and friends.
It’s my turn. I don’t know what to say.
I can’t explain what brought me here today
apart from that poster; I don’t know
if the people on the poster are the same people
here in this room; no one is in costume.
I don’t want to assume, I feel too shy to ask,
but when I saw that poster I simply knew
that Drag Soc was something I had to do.
I didn’t realize I would need to decide
my character as I stepped through the door.
Only one name comes to mind. It’s like
I’ve said it before: “I am The Black Flamingo
and my pronouns are he and him,” I declare.
I’m sure of this for the first time ever.
They look at each other, then at me.
Then Mzz B asks, “So are you a king,
a queen, or . . . ?”
“Neither,” I say. “I’m just a man and I want
to wear a dress and makeup onstage.
I want to know how it feels to publicly
express a side of me I’ve only felt privately
when playing with my Barbie as a boy.
It was only at home that I’d play with that toy;
I knew Mum loved me more than
anyone else and with
her I could be myself.
I didn’t think boys could do ballet, certainly
not a black boy and definitely not me.
I was already suspicious that people were
nice to me despite me being different.
I never wanted to take my difference too far.”
I continue,
“Before I came here
I didn’t want to wear a dress,
I didn’t want to be that stereotype.
I know that’s wrong,
my thinking was wrong;
the different ones
are often the most strong.
I know trans
and gender-nonconforming people
started our movements,
won our freedoms.
I’m a man
and I want to be a free one.
I’m a man
and I want to put a dress on.”
Mzz B says,
“Great monologue!
Keep that.
You can use it in your act.”
I feel safe in this room
with my new drag family;
I carry this room with me
for the rest of the week.
This room has many other
functions to other people,
just another room in the
Students’ Union building,
but when we meet here,
it’s a place without fear.
Campus is full of white
guys with locs.
There’s something about it
that doesn’t feel right.
There’s something about it
that makes my locs not
feel right either,
even though I’m not white.
I don’t really know
what this hairstyle means
but it looks good on me,
shoulder-length and neat;
most white locs look a mess,
strands of straight hair
sticking out everywhere
and their roots coming undone.
I tend to my roots daily,
twist them with beeswax
to ensure they endure
wind, rain, and the shower.
I wash them weekly,
tighten them neatly
so they grow strong—
but do they belong?
It happens on campus
and when I go into the city.
Black people notice me.
We nod to acknowledge
each other, and sometimes
we smile. It’s odd to me
coming from London.
It’s a nod that says, “I know
we are small in numbers
but we are watching over
each other.” It’s a smile
that says, “We don’t have
to know each other to
show each other love.”
It’s a nod I get in London
but only from Rastafarians
who’d assume I am part
of their religion, but here
in Brighton locs is a hairstyle
with different connotations.
For weeks we are
in the same English lectures
and don’t speak.
At most we nod
if our eyes meet
elsewhere on campus.
In the Students’ Union bar,
when a mutual acquaintance
doesn’t introduce us,
we do it ourselves.
She is astonished
we don’t know each other.
The only two
black men in a course
of over two hundred!
Lennie looks fully black,
not mixed like me.
He is only a little bit taller
than me but he’s stocky—
I can’t tell if it’s muscle or fat
because he wears a baggy
black Nike tracksuit.
He has locs like me
but longer and thicker.
Lennie looks strong.
After our lecture the next day,
we walk together and
I say, while passing the spliff,
“I didn’t want to speak to you
just because we’re both black with locs.”
I say, “I don’t like white people
to know I smoke weed—
they assume I’m a dealer.”
Lennie says, “I only smoke weed
for my chronic back pain.”
I applaud
his clever use
of the Dr. Dre reference.
He doesn’t know it.
I say, “How can you not know Dr. Dre?”
Lennie replies, laughing,
“Why aren’t you a drug dealer?”
Lennie and I laugh about white people
always trying to touch our hair.
“What baffles me,” I say, “is when they ask
but their hand is already there.”
He adds, “Or when you tell them No
and they get so offended about it.”
“Exactly!” I say. “They feel entitled
to touch us just because they were gracious
enough to ask.”
“That’s just their general entitlement
and privilege,” says Lennie.
My flatmate Kerry appears:
“Am I interrupting the Black Panther meeting?”
And I’m not sure if she means the revolutionary
organization or the Marvel superhero.
Lennie seems to see I feel awkward;
he defuses the situation: “Did you know
that a black panther is not actually a species?
It’s a melanin variant of any big cat.
In Asia and Africa they are leopards,
and in America they are jaguars.”
I give Lennie the Wakanda salute.
He raises a fist to give the Black Power salute.
Kerry giggles, uncomfortably.
“Are you walking toward our flat?”
“Yeah, but I’m just talking to Lennie.”
“Oh, okay,” she says, “I’ll see you later.”
She speeds off ahead of us.
Lennie asks me, “If you could have
any superpower, what would it be?
I joke, “To be invisible to white people.”
Lennie:
“But then your mum couldn’t see you.”
“Sometimes I’m not sure she does,”
I say, and I don’t know if I’m still joking.
My phone buzzes.
I pass the spliff back to Lennie.
It’s my calendar, a reminder for
“Open mic night.” Tonight!
I haven’t arranged to go with anyone.
“Lennie, have you got plans tonight?”
“Are you asking me on a date?” Lennie says,
with a mischievous smile.
I pause. Thinking if I did ask him on a date,
would he be interested? Would I be
interested in dating Lennie? “No.
I want to go to open mic night tonight.”
“That sounds awful.” Lennie laughs.
“I’d rather smoke on my own
and listen to quality music, not awful covers
and wannabe singer-songwriters.”
“There’s poetry, too!” I say enthusiastically.
“Stop! You’re making it worse,” laughs Lennie,
passing the spliff back to me. “Mikey boy,
you’re on your own.”
I decide I like how Lennie’s chosen
to call me Mikey.
I arrive just in time
to sign up for the last of twelve open mic slots.
The night is exactly what Lennie said
it would be. The Students’ Union bar
is usually so busy, but it seems people have
avoided it tonight.
It’s mostly just the performers;
only some of them have a companion.
The host looks like a rock star—
black leather jacket, skinny jeans, long hair.
He can’t sing but he “warms us up”
with three songs on his guitar before
the open mic begins.
Out of twelve of us, the only other “poet”
is a white guy with locs called Vegan Warrior,
and his poem compares eating meat
to the transatlantic slave trade. It’s terrible.
I don’t pay much attention to the singers,
partly because I’m nervous, partly because
they’re not very good, and partly jealously
that I don’t sing anymore.
It’s my turn. I step up to the mic and read:
I Come From
I come from shepherd’s pie and Sunday
roast, jerk chicken and stuffed grape leaves.
I come from traveling through taste buds
but loving where I live. I come from
a home that some would call broken.
I come from DIY that never got done.
I come from waiting by the phone
for him to call. I come from waving
the white flag to loneliness. I come from
the rainbow flag and the Union Jack.
I come from a British passport
and an ever-ready suitcase. I come from
jet fuel and fresh coconut water.
I come from crossing oceans
to find myself. I come from deep issues
and shallow solutions.
I come from a limited vocabulary
but an unrestricted imagination.
I come from a decent education
and a marvelous mother.
I come from being given permission
to dream but choosing to wake up
instead. I come from wherever I lay
my head. I come from unanswered
questions and unread books, unnoticed
effort and undelivered apologies
and thanks. I come from who I trust
and who I have left.
I come from last year and last year
and I don’t notice how I’ve changed.
I come from looking in the mirror
and looking online to find myself.
I come from stories, myths, legends,
and folktales. I come from lullabies
and pop songs, hip-hop and poetry.
I come from griots, grandmothers,
and herstory tellers. I come from
published words and strangers’ smiles.
I come from my own pen but I see
people torn apart like paper, each a story
or poem that never made it into a book.
