Rhapsody in Violet

Shawn’s POV I am writing my obituary. Yes, you heard that correctly. I sit at the little desk in my new bedroom and flip on the desk lamp in front of me. I am surrounded by boxes. My whole life boxed up and moved from Atlanta to Brooklyn, and I am more than fine with that. In fact, I donated or otherwise got rid of more than half of my belongings because they just would no longer suit me. I kept my collection of soccer balls. Soccer was the only sport that I ever enjoyed or was good at. It was perfect that they play it all over the world since we have lived in so many places over the years. Moving to wherever they have stationed my father. Of course, where we lived in Atlanta, they often teased me for not playing football or basketball. They were what most of the boys were into, but I never could get the taste for them. My father was the one who had pushed me to play sports. He had pushed me to walk straight and tall, lift my chin high, use a firm handshake and look everyone in the eye when greeting them, along with other things he thought made me more manly. I know I am a disappointment to him with my purple curls and sassy attitude. If he only knew that I had been sneaking out to hang with drag queens for the last two years and taking dance lessons in secret along with my friend Cassie for a year before that. I am sure he would have a heart attack, especially after his true colors came to light during the divorce trial. Flashback (3 months ago): “Why should she have the kids? She is the whole reason that my son is a f*****g faggot! Have you seen the way my only son looks!? How he dresses? I tried to teach him how to be manly, but she pampers him and gives in to his every whim to be more girly!” My father, Theo Jackson, screams at the Judge who had asked my parents to each explain why they should have custody of us kids. Well, technically, just me since I am 17 and Adia is 19 and can live anywhere she wants. I refuse to cry. I will not cry for the hatred dripping off my father’s voice. He is angry at my mother and disappointed in me. Seeing him for the first time in months and having my hair dyed purple and lip gloss on hasn’t helped. I blink away my unshed tears and lean in to my mother requesting that her lawyer let me speak on my behalf about what I want. I am not a baby! I can state my thoughts and opinions about whom I would prefer to live with. I hadn’t noticed the commotion in the back of the courtroom where a pretty blond woman stood up. She shouted, “Not your only son, asshole! But you would know that if you returned my phone calls! Ethan is your son, and he is 3 years old tomorrow!” Ooh! The drama! I knew my father was a cheater. That’s what prompted my mom to file for divorce, but knowing I have a half sibling whose mother looks like she is only a few years older than my big sister is really bringing some perspective. After getting some order back in the courtroom, my mother’s lawyer forwards my request to the judge and she agrees to let me speak. I offer to speak on the stand rather than in her chambers. I feel that if my father can be so callous as to tear me apart in front of everyone, then I can be bold enough to speak my mind for all to hear. I take the stand and, as requested, state my full legal name. “Deshawn Javier Jackson, your honor, Ma’am!” I state with a nod to the judge. She implores me to speak my mind and I comply eagerly. “I know my father has cheated on my mother; I do not need to know, nor do I care to know the details of his philandering. However, I do not want to live with a man who can not accept his child for who they truly are. I have spent my whole life up to this point in his shadow. He pushed me to do sports, and I found one I can not only like but love and am pretty good at. I stand tall and walk with my head held high as he has repeatedly instructed, but I refuse to stop swinging my hips and swaying my waist. I was born this way, baby! I can be no one other than who I am and to force me would be abusive. So if I could have my way, I would want my mother to have sole custody of me. Thank you very much!” End Flashback: That was the first time that I openly declared any inkling of my true self, and it still wasn’t the full picture. So, here I am writing an obituary for myself while looking at my still unpacked life in this apartment above my grandparents' bodega in Brooklyn, New York. I look at the self portrait I painted last December, when my parents first separated, and I first dyed my hair. It’s not the ‘me’ I am anymore. I pull out the paper and a pen and I write. ‘ Deshawn Javier Jackson, on this day, has been laid to rest. His friends knew him as Shawn, and few as they were, they were his truest supporters. They never judged his taste in music or flamboyant style, they often encouraged his creativity and love of dancing. Shawn was a bright boy with good grades and a shy demeanor in his youth, only growing bolder as he got older and grew a sassy mouth and attitude to match. Shawn knew from a young age that he wasn’t quite like other boys. He never liked to play rough or tease girls. He rather enjoyed being friends with them, especially Cassie. Cassidy Clearwater was his best friend. They met when his father was stationed in Germany when he was 7. He was thrilled when she came back into his life when he was 14, when her father was stationed in Atlanta. They were both “army brats” being moved around the world to wherever their fathers were currently stationed every few years. He and Cassie even tried dating briefly, however, it soon became clear that kissing Cassie felt more like kissing his own sister, and that was just wrong. Shawn never really discriminated in his attractions based on gender. Having crushed on both girls and boys; he wasn’t sure he really had a type…or maybe that would be wrong. Shawn had a type. Artists and musicians, creative and passionate and beautiful people. Shawn loved soccer and dancing and listening to music while he sketched in his sketchbook or scribbled poems. Shawn snuck out to hang out with drag queens or attend dance class or go to clubs with Cassie, often, but never could tell everyone his whole truth…’ That ends now. Sitting up from my desk, I sigh. Stretching, I mumble to myself, “It all ends now.” I vow to photocopy the obituary and send a copy along with a letter explaining to Cassie, as well as to plaster a copy to my vanity mirror. The vanity in my room had been my auntie’s. Adia has mom’s old vanity, and I got Aunt Rosa’s. Mine has some stuff still in the drawer and after I unpack, I may just see what it is all about. There is a notebook and journal along with the old eyeliners and lipsticks (the old makeup is going in the trash, that s**t grows all kinds of nasty germs and stuff over time). I stand and unpack the only box of clothing that I have. These are the things that I truly like; although still not fully expressing myself, these will hold me over until I can go school clothes shopping with Adia and mom Saturday. I had saved up everything I earned while working at the drag club that I used to sneak out to. First, I had acted as an assistant: helping the queens into their costumes and with any quick changes and wardrobe help. But eventually I started performing myself. It was fun and I may do it again when I find a club around here, but I don’t think that it is where my true calling lies. It is time to live my truth. I hang my few shirts in the closet and carefully fold the stack of skinny jeans, placing them into my lower dresser drawer. I need to get myself cute panties. These boring boxer briefs have got to go, but until then they go in the top drawer. “Shawn! Are you done unpacking? Dinner is ready!” my mom shouts from the other room. I scoff. “Shawn is dead, mom!” I shout, then sigh. “Shawn is dead.”