My inky nasty
There is an inky nasty that I have. But it’s all good.
I went through a rather extended fountain pen stage. I loved them. Scratching out words in my impeccable handwriting on nice paper. I loved the whole process of filling the pen and writing on paper…excited to see when the the ink would stop flowing and I could do it all again.
The part I did not like was when I would inevitably get ink all over my fingers. I would wash my hands trying to get off the ink…it didn’t work. But after a day or so, it was gone.
I also hated it when I would get a big bleed on the page. I was the type of person who would rewrite an entire pages of notes if I made a mistake. That black, blue, green, or brown stain was too much for me to handle. I remember MANY times in college when I would get home and re-write all the notes from a lecture that day because I had made a mistake!
I studied ways to avoid the ink issue…I watched videos and read entire books about calligraphy and the history of fountain pens…all trying to avoid the ink spill or stain or mess.
What a fucking metaphor, huh. So, let’s skip the bullshit.
The inky nasty? It fades. It doesn’t last. It is temporary.
I have an inky nasty. At least that is what I was taught growing up…by the church, and teachers, and family, and kids at school. There was a part of me that was just a massive ink bleed.
The issue is that I believed it…the message that I received so consistently for so many years.
So, I sang in church…I played the piano and the organ…I taught Sunday School…I got married…had kids…became a Deacon…you know the story. Little gay boy from Texas tries to get into heaven. A story told too many fucking times by too many fucking kids who have been fucked up by their little fucking towns while surrounded by small fucking minds.
I shall dip my pen in my inky nasty and tell my story. Because, god damnit…I tell it better than anyone else.
I fully acknowledge that it is a shared story - many of us had these experiences. But I want to be clear. This is my story as I have experienced it. My perception, my memory, my version. If someone recognizes themself and feels some connection or understanding or recognition, then that makes me happy. If someone wants to bitch that it is not right, or accurate, or…whatever…then they can write their own damn story. I do not claim to represent anyone else’s experience or align with their retrospective sense making. This? This is mine.
For anyone scratching their head about the fountain pen stuff at the top…allow me to elaborate. I have always had very nice handwriting. I always won the handwriting awards in elementary school. I have a distinct memory of my kindergarten teacher complimenting me on my handwriting. Well…that was enough for me! I liked that compliment and determined I would always have beautiful handwriting. I worked hard at it…stylized my handwriting for me…practiced and practiced. I loved it when the teacher would compliment me in front of the whole class. Little did I know that 5 year old boys can be really mean.
Those vicious boys were quick to pick up that I was the only boy being recognized for handwriting. Everyone else recognized by the teacher was a girl. My sense of pride and accomplishment were quickly bullied out of me on the playground.
“Will is a girl!” they would shout at me.
“Will writes like a girl!”
“He sounds like a girl!”
“You are a girl!”
Now, I knew I wasn’t a girl. There is some deep gender identity thinking that went on here…because I honestly did think that maybe I was a girl for like a split second. I am a Gemini…and somewhere early on in my childhood I thought that meant that I was a twin. And my twin had gotten lost or left at the hospital. Maybe he was the real boy, and I was the girl?
I didn’t hover here long. I knew I was a boy. But it become monumentally clear in that moment, that I was not like other boys. I had nice handwriting.
Just sayin’
