En text jag skrev för att få ur mig lite av den klyfta jag känner mellan mig själv och cispersoner som grupp. Tyvärr är den på engelska, jag försökte översätta den till svenska, men blev inte så nöjd med resultatet.
To my dear cis people (No, not you, if you're "understanding")
Hello, this is Alien calling; can I land safely on your planet? Usually it slips by me, a sad regretful feeling in my chest when it passes through, and I reach out and try to catch you, grasping with fingers in the air, never truly connecting, as if we were from different universes, different planes and only saw ghost images of each other. The measurements we get on our instruments are so different. You say you don’t see in black and white, but I see you ignore the grey zones, over and over. And I cannot connect, to your world, cannot reach common ground. And you’re not even trying. But I couldn’t stand where you are, even while trying, even with my life on the edge, because I was always alien there.
The ‘standard model’ people, the mainstream well ploughed road made my feet hurt, with every step my life blood coloured the bricks red. No, I was always one for walking barefoot in the soft grass, I love feeling earth beneath my feet. I find you as strange as you find me, believe me. I’m an artificial cyborg passing for human in your little playground where androids doesn’t exist, mere fairytales and stories to scare children with. I had changeling fantasies that never passed away, monster boy undercover, a child who could never belong. I do not wish to be ‘part of your world’, it doesn’t suit me, I want my own, a place where my expectations to conform are at a low minimum. I’m not flattered or impressed by the honorary human card I am granted for falling inside the norm enough to appear as a person to you and not a walking label, I’d rather be a monster boy then. Do you understand? I’m embracing my darkness, my disadvantage, in a desperate hope to turn it into strength. I have to love my body, myself, even if there will always be pain, because nobody will do it for me.
Because my depth and integrity, my way to melt away and try to form myself as the one I am and the one I could be are but shallow mutilation in your minds. It’s you who can only see surface, not me. Common sense is fabrications grinded into you since before you could walk, not absolute truth, written in Arial Black on our skin. Words and thoughts can never be objective, because there’s a subjective behind them. And it’s in the subjective we can reach out and try to understand, trying to fit into each other’s shoes for a while so I promote it. No statistics can show you as much as my life, as a multitude of lives in all ranges of possibility about the diversity of living beings.
Hello, this is Alien calling; can I land safely on your planet? Usually it slips by me, a sad regretful feeling in my chest when it passes through, and I reach out and try to catch you, grasping with fingers in the air, never truly connecting, as if we were from different universes, different planes and only saw ghost images of each other. The measurements we get on our instruments are so different. You say you don’t see in black and white, but I see you ignore the grey zones, over and over. And I cannot connect, to your world, cannot reach common ground. And you’re not even trying. But I couldn’t stand where you are, even while trying, even with my life on the edge, because I was always alien there.
The ‘standard model’ people, the mainstream well ploughed road made my feet hurt, with every step my life blood coloured the bricks red. No, I was always one for walking barefoot in the soft grass, I love feeling earth beneath my feet. I find you as strange as you find me, believe me. I’m an artificial cyborg passing for human in your little playground where androids doesn’t exist, mere fairytales and stories to scare children with. I had changeling fantasies that never passed away, monster boy undercover, a child who could never belong. I do not wish to be ‘part of your world’, it doesn’t suit me, I want my own, a place where my expectations to conform are at a low minimum. I’m not flattered or impressed by the honorary human card I am granted for falling inside the norm enough to appear as a person to you and not a walking label, I’d rather be a monster boy then. Do you understand? I’m embracing my darkness, my disadvantage, in a desperate hope to turn it into strength. I have to love my body, myself, even if there will always be pain, because nobody will do it for me.
Because my depth and integrity, my way to melt away and try to form myself as the one I am and the one I could be are but shallow mutilation in your minds. It’s you who can only see surface, not me. Common sense is fabrications grinded into you since before you could walk, not absolute truth, written in Arial Black on our skin. Words and thoughts can never be objective, because there’s a subjective behind them. And it’s in the subjective we can reach out and try to understand, trying to fit into each other’s shoes for a while so I promote it. No statistics can show you as much as my life, as a multitude of lives in all ranges of possibility about the diversity of living beings.
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