Sometimes I remember the spiral staircase in Melbourne in 2009.
Not just because it was dramatic in its structure and
the words I shouted echoed off the rails
I would have admired it in different circumstances.
My legs rushing, following every turn and bend with the height of emotion.
This heart pounding.
Hollering at the top of my lungs, where I lacked in stature, boy could I make some noise, at 22.
''I am not a ******* lesbian'' were the words my broken heart chose, not my finest moment,
could be construed as misogyny,
but there was direct personal truth in that statement.
Wrongly having that identity enforced by a virtual stranger
would never bode well, while amped-up with testosterone, seething with rage. I could not fail to fight my corner.
Faced with a feminine man whose maleness was established, respected when I was jealous, truth be told, could only vaguely imagine a future being level with him. I would have made a full meal out of any leftover scrap of validation, he couldn't find it in himself to throw my way, in a position of privilege, but to suggest I was not even anywhere on the male sphere, but a masculine woman.. Well, that hurt, my ego, my heart, my minds vision of myself, any effort I had consciously made to present myself to the world.
Sometimes I remember the spiral staircase in Melbourne in 2009 and remember just how far I have come