the sissy boy
Little Hyun couldn’t speak. Little Hyun’s voice was too small. Or maybe too big, too scary for everyone around him and for the world, so it was knocked out of him. Little Hyun committed the sin of being a boy with a too small and too big and too scary sissy voice.
Who is speaking for him now? Who speaks for the little faggy boys with voices knocked out of them with a slap and a fist with the force of disgust behind it? Why couldn’t they just become who they were meant to become? We will never know what they should become because we didn’t let them become anything, and aren’t we all meant to become?
I don’t want "acceptance". I don’t want to “identify” as anything. I don’t “identify” as a man or as a woman. I just want to be. I want to be a sissy boy that I never got to be. I want to be the puer aeternus.
I want to be in an environment that cares for me, like a fat rat in a cage. The food and water appears. I’m kept. I am alive purely due to the mysterious forces of a God beyond my comprehension. This God is on a scale that far exceeds me, and as a result I’m simply part of it. I don’t want to become, any more than the redwood tree wishes to become a man or a woman or a tiger.
Does the sapling wish to become a tree? Or is it simply being who it is, and its God rains truth and soils love onto it from all directions and so it simply has the task of being who it is, no more becoming as it is being.
But what dream could it have if the rain never comes and when it’s chopped down to make room for the silvery sugar canes and when the air fills with fumes and there is nowhere else to go? The rat unbound is yet in a bigger cage, the edges of which it cannot see. Every one of its rat friends agrees, there is no cage. What then? Without God’s help, have we no choice but to become? Something? Anything?
What sacrilege is it to wrest the plan away from an almighty, yet we have no choice when the plan-maker is absent.
But yet, I still don’t want to become. I’m still forever longing to be the fat rat. I’m a sissy. I’m sensitive. I’m twirling and giggling and innocent and naïve. I’m not a girl, because girls are strong, and aren’t afraid of the truth. I’m a whimpering, faggy little sissy boy, who physically can’t help himself from recoiling at the sight of this Godless earth we now tread.
I’m covering my eyes with my hand, I peek through a slit and it is the image of blood and guts on a big screen, O God, I shouldn’t be here, but all my boy friends are watching it here too, and none of them are covering their eyes, rather, they’re all laughing together, but me, I’m so scared. I’m frozen. I feel sick to my stomach. Or is it the image on a much tinier screen held in my hand, oh how could a whole genocide be contained in there, only to cascade down between my thirty-something fingertips?
Can I be a boy forever? Is there any option to stay here?
I was born into a cacophony of light, sound, and pure sensation, when all I wanted was the silence of the womb. They cut me out, and cut me open. Then they never sewed the both of us back up quite right. So we both try to become. We are trying to become whole in a world of broken pieces.
I always had this recurring dream when I was very young. I can still remember it so vividly. It was a pure sensory dream. The only visual was of a big massive blackness with a faintly perceptible but unrecognizable boundary. An infinite black whole. Something with so much mass that it was disturbingly incomprehensible. It drew nearer and nearer constantly, with no end. A perpetual anticipation of something. An endless descending of an approaching horizon. On a rational level, I wonder if it was a pre-natal memory I retained from when I was born, or maybe when I was anaesthetized during neonatal surgery.
Emotionally, the dream is hard to describe. It had a sense of dread, but was also warm and comforting, and tinged with excitement for the unveiling of the unknown something that lay beyond the blackness. It was like the feeling of looking over a tall cliffside where you couldn’t see the bottom.
I have long stopped dreaming this dream. But the feeling persists. Or perhaps, I can’t help but compare everything I feel that is terrifying and new, back to this reference point, my first feeling, which was that I was always on the cusp of something that is so endless and vast and otherworldly that it would obliterate me, and I would welcome it. Like Medusa, I would turn to stone if I were ever to look at it head-on, but with every turn of her head, as she tries to face me, in the spot where her face should be, there’s just another face-less side of her head.
I have no other way of being. The search for my becoming is that feeling, it’s an unpeeling of something with no center. If I ever succeed at becoming, then I will finally glimpse what lies beyond the edge of this supermassive chasm, and it will cause me to disappear, unable to exist in any other form than this perpetual peering at something that is nothing that is everything.
So what does the sissy boy become if not a man or a woman? All I have ever wanted to know is the answer to this question. But can I hold it and not crumble under its gravity?