[ted 영어공부]Lee Mokobe: A powerful poem about what it feels like to be transgender

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The first time I uttered a prayer was in a glass-stained cathedral.

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I was kneeling long after the congregation was on its feet,

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dip both hands into holy water,

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trace the trinity across my chest,

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my tiny body drooping like a question mark

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all over the wooden pew.

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I asked Jesus to fix me,

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and when he did not answer

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I befriended silence in the hopes that my sin would burn

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and salve my mouth would dissolve like sugar on tongue,

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but shame lingered as an aftertaste.

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And in an attempt to reintroduce me to sanctity,

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my mother told me of the miracle I was,

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said I could grow up to be anything I want.

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I decided to be a boy.

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It was cute.

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I had snapback, toothless grin,

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used skinned knees as street cred,

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played hide and seek with what was left of my goal.

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I was it.

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The winner to a game the other kids couldn't play,

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I was the mystery of an anatomy,

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a question asked but not answered,

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tightroping between awkward boy and apologetic girl,

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and when I turned 12, the boy phase wasn't deemed cute anymore.

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It was met with nostalgic aunts who missed seeing my knees in the shadow of skirts,

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who reminded me that my kind of attitude would never bring a husband home,

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that I exist for heterosexual marriage and child-bearing.

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And I swallowed their insults along with their slurs.

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Naturally, I did not come out of the closet.

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The kids at my school opened it without my permission.

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Called me by a name I did not recognize,

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said "lesbian,"

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but I was more boy than girl, more Ken than Barbie.

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It had nothing to do with hating my body,

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I just love it enough to let it go,

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I treat it like a house,

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and when your house is falling apart,

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you do not evacuate,

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you make it comfortable enough to house all your insides,

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you make it pretty enough to invite guests over,

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you make the floorboards strong enough to stand on.

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My mother fears I have named myself after fading things.

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As she counts the echoes left behind by Mya Hall, Leelah Alcorn, Blake Brockington.

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She fears that I'll die without a whisper,

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that I'll turn into "what a shame" conversations at the bus stop.

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She claims I have turned myself into a mausoleum,

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that I am a walking casket,

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news headlines have turned my identity into a spectacle,

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Bruce Jenner on everyone's lips while the brutality of living in this body

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becomes an asterisk at the bottom of equality pages.

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No one ever thinks of us as human

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because we are more ghost than flesh,

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because people fear that my gender expression is a trick,

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that it exists to be perverse,

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that it ensnares them without their consent,

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that my body is a feast for their eyes and hands

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and once they have fed off my queer,

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they'll regurgitate all the parts they did not like.

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They'll put me back into the closet, hang me with all the other skeletons.

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I will be the best attraction.

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Can you see how easy it is to talk people into coffins,

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to misspell their names on gravestones.

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And people still wonder why there are boys rotting,

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they go away in high school hallways

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they are afraid of becoming another hashtag in a second

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afraid of classroom discussions becoming like judgment day

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and now oncoming traffic is embracing more transgender children than parents.

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I wonder how long it will be

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before the trans suicide notes start to feel redundant,

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before we realize that our bodies become lessons about sin

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way before we learn how to love them.

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Like God didn't save all this breath and mercy,

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like my blood is not the wine that washed over Jesus' feet.

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My prayers are now getting stuck in my throat.

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Maybe I am finally fixed,

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maybe I just don't care,

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maybe God finally listened to my prayers.

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Thank you. (Applause)