SOILED LIKE ME -Flash Fiction

SOILED LIKE ME

 

 

She said I was one step above a murderer. Really? Me, who serves at St. Francis' soup kitchen? Me, the president of the youth's Sunday school committee? And my heinous crime, what is it?

I am transgender.

I sit below the massive sequoia tree as it reaches the heavens. This tree is endangered, and so am I.

I grab a handful of dark soil, its heat warming my hand while little clods of dirt drop to the forest floor. I smear the rich brown against my white shirt.

"Soiled, like me."

The brilliant white shirt will no longer shine. It is soiled. -Like me.

"Mom, if only you were here to guide me. Strengthen me against the pious Christians of the world."

I still believe in God, and I have met some fabulous Christians. Christians willing to love me because they love God. But not all Christians, or non-Christians accept me.

I rub the deep brown dirt along my arm.

"Mom, what would you tell me to do? Are you in heaven waiting for me, or am I too soiled to enter the pearly gates?"

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Above me, a woodpecker pecks into the Sequoia.

"How old are you, mighty tree? What have you withstood? What have you seen?" Sequoias are said to be thousands of years old.

The heartless woodpecker continues to deface the gorgeous specimen.

"Here you are. Thousands of years later, still standing. You have had birds leave their scars. Surely, bugs have burrowed through your bark. Fires have raged by, and yet, here you stand."

I move my fingers along the rough bark. 

"Your armor."

I rub the dirt along my arms, making it my armor. My armor against what?

My God has taught me I have value. I have worth. But others try to take that from me.

"You are one step above a murderer."

Why? Because I don't conform to the social norms of what my gender should be. Mom loved me for who I was. She knew my intimate thoughts and goals. She was proud of me. Am I really soiled?

I look around at nature's temple. All you have to do is look in nature if you want diversity. God created flowers of a million varieties. Fabulous birds that are all unique.

God created me.

He created me to feel the way I do.

"I am not soiled!" I yell.

Vigor swells in my chest, confirming I have worth. I have value.

"I will not let you take my joy!" I yell to the lady who had so painfully wounded me. 

The Sequoia carries its scars for thousands of years, yet they are no less beautiful, no less exquisite.

I am exceptional, just like this tree. I will carry my scars, but they will not break me.

I take another handful of dirt and paint it on every inch of bare skin.

"I am not soiled. I am ME!”