Truth

It was drag day at Rock-N-Roll High School on Friday. There were, of course, a few freaked out straight boys doing their best to make sure all the world knew that even though their girlfriends and friend-girls had dressed them up they were NOT gay. But there was also some seriously fabulous Drag-- boys who really looked firece, girls who even I mistook for dudes! But my favorite was the contingent of self-described "geek" boys who dressed as the girls they might have been. Picture long, lovely skirts, cute matching tops, modest breasts, and their usually very bound pony-tails now long and lose, and no make-up. There were a few girls who were truely excellent Kings-- a few with very compelling facial hair who manifest stout and convincing walks to match the costume.
Since it was a Friday there was a performance in the theater after lunch/before afternoon classes. There was an award section for out kick-ass Mock Trial team, and then a preview for the african drum and dance troupe that all ended early. It was clear that we needed to fill the last 15 minutes with something fabulous. With only a blip of hesitation I sashayed my high femme ass up to the stage (oh yes, I was in drag, too) and once the yelling died down invited all those who were in drag up for a little parade! Meanwhile somebody was able to put their hand on that silly song you know you all love "I'm Too Sexy" and the kids made a little magic. It was a day of great joy for this queer teacher-- especially, as one colleague noted, in other schools boys can be sent home for wearing skirts and dresses. But no no not at R&R High. We dedicate an entire day to the fine art of questioning gender expression!
In the spirit of the day I asked my classes to discuss a poem by Margaret Atwood about telling true stories and telling lies. It seems to me that outside the oasis of places like Rock and Roll High most folk, especially teen agers, who want to express their gender differently than what convention dictates are at the least ostracized and at the worst in danger of violence. It was cool to hear them digging around this big ole' word, since TRUTH is such a high and heavy word loaded with the baggage of religion, law, and personal philosophy. In any event, we wrote poems in the style of the Atwood one and here is mine:

i
Don't ask for the true story
Why is it necessary?

Truth isn't universal or clear
it isn't on my back like a tattoo.

What I'm walking with
holding like sharpened steel

isn't luck, or fire, or kind words
that tick like my heart telling a tale.

ii
The true story was lost
during that terrible snow and howling hail

when shoes and clothes and hair were
a dark tangle of cues on the outside

a crystal refracting the light of so
many millions of years old light.

Light blurred by salt and the
tiny footprints of Athena's silent fowl.

iii
The true story lies
among a jumble of colors

like specimen on wax tablets, like
sounds, like that owl's kill.

The true story is chrulish
and snide and mythical,

and besides, truth is
improbable, and floats

like pollen in the spring.