PILATE TO JESUS
It is nine o’clock when I am writing this, all full of typos and about being a number of things which amount to a new thing. About this blackness, this queerness, this Catholicism, this communism, this practicality that makes up me, these lines done in red from my fingers typing fast the misspelled rough draft.
Firstly, what are we doing? I left my ex though he may say he left me. He will also say he is not an ex. See. Our worlds cannot touch because our stories do not meet. By his account and a straight account he is not an ex, though the straight world, if given details of our relationship will have to admit—unless it insists on loud, loud denials, that there was something less than ( I will say MORE than) straight about our relationship.
But, at any road, the mind of my ex is mad now because he has decided to be straight. Everyone wonders if you are born queer? He did not even know the word. I ask if someone can be born straight. It’s what he decided and when he decided to be straight he changed the whole story of us. The story he tells, which will be his official story, will remain the truth until it breaks his mind with madness and either snaps or experiences what is commonly called coming out .
So yes, I write so that someone else will not have the official story, so that I will have the official story, or the more interesting story. Women, Blacks, Browns, Queers, the wetbacks, the squint eyed, the too short have lived under an official story. There will be other stories now. Like, there will be my story. And I do not claim that it is the truth. Rather it is A TRUTH, it’s A STORY. It is my truth. That’s all I’m responsible for. And also, maybe it is a truth that will help. There is the truth you tell to restrict and there is the truth you tell to free. I’m a little more interested in the latter.
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