Phoenix

“Thinking gives off smoke to prove the existence of fire. A mystic sits inside the burning. There are wonderful shapes in rising smoke that imagination loves to watch. But it’s a mistake to leave the fire for that filmy sight. Stay here at the flame’s core.”
                                                                                        -Rumi

Confusion.

Confusion up till college.
Unsure. Shortly after meeting Gheri, a junior, she takes you to a house party, mixes you some 151 and coke. Later, she’ll climb into your lap too shitfaced to stand (while you’re too shitfaced to push her away) and lap dance her way into making out. It has the surrounding nerds stupefied, making the gossip rounds, but nobody gives you shit for it. Friendship spring quarter with a self-proclaimed “dyke” shows you just how out of your league you are. Maybe you’re just some try-sexual loser, who wants to make out with girls at parties for guy-attention.



Confusion in high school,
when you figure out boys equal as much adrenaline as girls, but half as much nervous
energy. Half as much work. When you figure out being black is bad enough, that liking girls would take it too far. High school produces an ethnic circle you are as a part of as you are excluded from. Within this tiny group of flies in the milk, you are beyond an anomaly. A dung beetle. Bisexual is un-acceptable. You’ll overhear a junior in the locker rooms balking about “lesbos”: “Like, can you imagine? In here, watching us undress and like…oh my god. Just like, gross.”



Confusion in a new middle school,
the one some inner city program for “gifted youths” gets you into. Or bussed out to. Call it suburbia, this Puritan brick campus with its lush lacrosse turf, and gold Championship tablets adorning every hall. As the only colored for what feels like miles, you’ll endure becoming the goat at the proverbial petting zoo. “Can I touch it?” they’ll ask, “your hair, I mean.” Family says ignore it. So maintain your grades enough to escape to a summer reading program up at Amherst, outside the city. There you’ll find Lucy.



Confusion in elementary school,
when “dyke” is fightin’ words. When Francisco, Puerto Rican player that he is, all fluffy brown curls and dimples, decides to date you and your best friend at the same time. Leaving tiny notes in your desk. He decides to make it up to you by stealing his mother’s old engagement ring, which somehow entitles him to “sax”. Feel entitled to kick him in the balls for thinking he was so slick.



Confusion since daycare,
when Adrian, the babysitter’s son, kisses you during Mario Kart, and some random shot of adrenaline shoots white-hot into your veins. Afterwards, at home on your block, there’s Eddy, the neighbor’s son. Freckle-faced and buck toothed, he turns red under the sun. It’s always his turn to be the red power ranger. Secretly, you want to be red too, but you never say a thing.

*

Confusion up ‘till college.
Shame as heavy as the bottle you spend every weekend inside. Malibu rum, 151, hookah, tree, whatever you need. Avoiding that sticky-nervous overthinking. Chasing that sweet adrenaline. One house party has them dragging you out too shitfaced to stand. Luckily, you won’t throw up. Unluckily, you will kiss Jia (or she’ll kiss you), which leads to the dissolution of her and Gheri’s friendship. Freshman year aches.



Confusion in high school.
Another program, this one about teen minorities in majority-white schools, puts you and a few others at the Hines Convention Center Downtown for an entire weekend. One activity involves those who fit the stated category rising from their seated place, and forming a circle in the middle. Many rise, shuffle across the thin carpet, static-shocking others when they finally sit. “If you are agnostic,” says the mediator, “walk to the center. See who is around you, and don’t feel alone.”



Confusion in a new middle school.
Golden Lucy from Cali, with skin like peach fuzz and hair like Niagara Falls. Maybe memory is tinged with unrequited want, but she even seems to laugh like wind chimes. Sweet Lucy. She produces adrenalin with a tight hug. Plays acoustic guitar, and poker.



Confusion in elementary school.
The summer of fourth grade will be marked by your favorite phrase: you wish. Feels harmless. And it’s your only comeback, insinuating the usually-female opponent was gay.
“Kiss my ass.”
“You wish!”



Confusion since daycare.
Eddy’s ex, the oldest girl on the block, is so beautiful she runs in that half-jogging Baywatch kinda way. Que bellisima dominicana. Her sun-streaked coils in undulating waves down her back, crashing over her hips. She keeps all the block secrets. It’s in her house you and Eddy first lock lip, albeit sloppy and quick. At night, dreams wind around her curls. In the day, Eddy’s freckles.

*

Confusion up ‘till college.
Liquor gets you in more trouble than its worth. One weekend, sophomore year, a stupid-high, party-type freshman is left alone with you (well on your way to shitfaced), in a friend’s new apartment. Hell bent on seduction.“Can you lose dyke virginity?” You’ll wonder, while Desiree fumbles with your shirt. Tugs at the buttons, giggling. The tomboy inside you takes hold, since she’s the girly one, because that’s how it works, right? You make her scream your name.



Confusion in high school.
Two girls from high school are with you, participating. They rise and fall: they are Catholic; they are Democrats. One is the gossip queen, resembling Ursula. The other is an ex-best friend.You are Ariel, sans voice, propped up against the rubber mats they tacked up around the walls. Watching the activity, and watching them.



Confusion in a new middle school.
Lucy confesses one night to being turned on by a girl once, and unsure about liking it. She’ll pluck at your emotions and play you electric. Strumming on the heart strings deft as her fingers on acoustic. Summer nights gives way to cicadas and lightning. Lucy will sneak down to the boys level, then show you the Plan B you’ve never seen in your eighth-grade life. She’ll gulp it down, and fall asleep beside you. Give you her number, never to be heard from again.



Confusion in elementary school.
You keep coming back with “you wish”, until a camp counselor blurts out: “Maybe you wish, you say it often enough”. Rolling her green eyes, she then helps the Crafts teacher clean up. The other girls burst into laughter while you burst into sticky, beet-red flame. Gathering up your materials. Sweat-drenched, you scramble for a new insult. You smell Elmer’s glue. From then on, all pixie-cut brunettes with narrow faces become “bitches”.



Confusion since daycare.
Eddy proposes. With a Ringpop ring, behind a neighbor’s F-150, on a blustery August night. Not long after, his pit will get out and slaughter your gimpy kitten. Eddy’s mother will toss Simba in with the garbage, and not say a fucking thing for weeks. She’s a bitch, too.

*

Confusion up ‘till college.
So, are you are a dyke then? Just a casual bisexual friend? Sex fiend? The freshman knows less than you do. She hates that you kiss with your teeth. The pillows steam lilacs and sweat. Not long after, the friend will return, with another boy. Desiree is technically his fuckbuddy, as are you the boy’s. She spills the beans, elated. You’ll shrug. The boys want to know: “Why couldn’t we join in?”



Confusion in high school.
“If you are questioning your sexuality,” the mediator calls out, “walk to the center”. Calf muscles twitch, but Ursula whips her head around like an owl. You settle into the carpet. Pretend to search the room for the exit, like you’re just looking for a bathroom. When you spot it, and rush off, Ursula leans into the ex-bff. They’ll giggle. You can smell yourself sweating. It’s bad enough being black. Better not make it worse.



Confusion in a new middle school.
So you keep dating boys, no problem, lose that virginity, big problem. You have to get rid of it. It’ll burn you, knowing all the other girls already have. You feel old. It’ll be fucking heinous, like cleaning your ears with a Q-tip and pushing too far into the drum. And there’ll be a cat crying at the door. Don’t stare up at the Wolverine posters. Just focus on the breeze sneaking through the open window, on the sound of cackling crows. It won’t take long.



Confusion in elementary school.
The oldest girl on the block has no idea how you feel.



Confusion since daycare.
You say yes to Eddy, and wonder if you’re divorced when he moves away.

*

Confusion.

One night, years later, you’ll confess all this to a true friend, passing blunts after a house party ends. High and hazy, he’ll mumble, “Maybe you’re pansexual, then. Either way, stop overthinking it, trying to find rhyme and reason. Don’t dictate passion, just exist in it…I know how easy it is to get caught up in labels, scrambling to match parts so you won’t be alone. But that’s bullshit. Stay true to your core. Whatever makes you hot, let it burn you the fuck up.”