The immorality of Mixedness.
What is in the colour of one’s skin?
Is a question that really means different things to different people.
Marriage, I guess is an institution rooted in the kinds of religiosity that don’t otherwise have a place in my life – but I guess it has its functions.
Marriage is not a moral requirement for anything really – as I see it.
The circumstances of my birth out of wedlock, to me, hold little bearing in how I understand myself
The bastardisation process through which I entered the world as my own separate being, seems to me to describe nicely the atmosphere I have always felt upon me in a society that either explicity or implicitly describes “mixedness” in it’s many forms as an act of immorality.
My being is ascribed an identity that is fundamentally compromised in some way that escapes any kind of logic that I can grab a hold of.
It is an existence that is to be pardoned, to be granted permission to participate in space that valourises the most foolish and insidious kinds of purity.
It was in 1990. The year of my birth, that interracial marriage became legal. By the book, in any case. I have come to understand that folks from the most unexpected places look upon families like mine with a gaze of criminal accusation. Then again, I have also come to understand that laws rarely should be seen as mirrors of the consciousness of the society they attempt to guide.
Imagine standing accussed. Of existing by the union of two people ensnared by self-hatred?
Imagine. Strangers, deciding that you are born of hatred? In not so many wods.
Declarations made through silent piercing gaze or careless questions or jokes that are fired in your direction for “curiosity” and land clumsily.
And those are just the ones you hear right?
As a bastard, I have come to understand that there is an air of apology that I would be wise to keep loaded in my arsenal. I carry a bag tricks and politics that must be used to fend off permanent suspicion of my allegiance.
Allegiance to what? I don’t know.
Through my short but visceral time on this planet I have come to understand what it is to occupy a state of ambiguity. After a long time, I learnt to reach out to others and found that my fears of uniqueness were absolutely unfounded.
“Mixedness” manifested in many strange, wonderful and unexpected ways from different people. A similarity in the stories told carries a tone of exclusion that feels familiar. Instead of exceptional.
Through this exclusion – a rejection of normality – we are collectively charged with the crime of immorality.
It’s funny how,
Differently we respond to these claims.
People try to trap you and attach you. In a distracted manner.
It’s funny how,
Acceptance can be such a temporary thing. How through slips of the tongue we can reveal to each other our suspicions.
As I try to clamp down and own the constructs of my identity, I cannot seem to shake the suspicion surrounding the immorality of my impurity. I feel the sharpness of a dagger pressing against my back. Permanently. A thought away from piercing me – >
Choosing to participate in the minefield that is identity politics became less and less of a choice as I continued to descend down the rabbit hole of reality.
Through trial and error.
Flirtation, friendship and experimentation.
Sifting through understands of experience and acceptance of,
“the personal is political”
I have come to learn that the politics of sex, for bastards like myself, is a messy world to navigate. Such is the chaos that is my poisoned mind, I guess – that some of these things are even questions, or thoughts.
But they are,
In so far as they pertain to my reality.
I don’t know.
Must we adorn masks to feign purity in order to survive?
Why must we be wise, using tact and guise so that we are not able to recognise each other’s mixedness?
Why do we allow ourselves to be bastardised by institutions we barely even recognise?
What can I do?
I am who I am.
And I, like you. Stand accused.
Immorality of mixedness.
– Don Quixote