Você é Um Menino, Moça. E Meninos Não Amam

Cá estou eu, sentada, olhando para a tela e me perguntando o que escrever; eu não sei exatamente porque comecei um blog em 2021, mas aqui estamos. Francis está sentado sobre a minha mesa, ele é a minha caneca, com a forma do crânio de Francis Drake, ou assim me disseram em Santo Domingo onde eu a comprei.

And this is the duo of whom you will read a text: a writing witch and the skull of a pirate. Congratulations! You officially have nothing better to do. However, I think the title brought you here, right? And now you’d like to know why I’m saying I’m a boy and if I honestly believe that men are incapable of love?

A resposta é não. E não.

Back in the day, I thought that men couldn’t love, yes. This resulted in me breaking the hearts of good boys, legitimately believing that they had no feelings, that they were only interested in what was under my pants. That particular part of the body could have been mine or someone else’s. So, it was okay to be rude and end from nothing, wasn’t it?

The fact is that in a society that validates mainly male characteristics, I ended up seeing myself as a victim of “inner misogyny.” The one in which you kill the Feminine within yourself to be taken seriously. Soon, I gave up and suffocated my female self to have my intelligence accepted.

Tornei-me um menino. E foi assim que tudo aconteceu...

Ever since I was a child, my community whispered in my ears, relentlessly and wild.

Repeating in haste their sticky words that smell like waste.

Like the ghost of a wicked misconception, every night, they haunted me to say a boy’s love is nothing more than a deception.

I disputed using Shakespeare, Byron, and Blake and realized soon enough they’d try to make me aware of my mistake.

“Oh, yes!… except none of it is true. Young lady, pay attention. They’ll deceive you too. Don’t believe that a man’s feelings would last, neither today’s nor those from the past. They all think with the wrong head; the only thing they really want is to get you into their bed. Listen to our advice, Miss, for society is never wrong: Cheat before you get cheated, make your statement very strong. There’s no need to feed a pig with a pearl; save yourself, for, in this world, the only one who loves is the girl.”

Acontece, que, por mera ansiedade, descobri-me, eu mesma um quase-menino, na mais tenra idade.

“

“Oh, yes, I see? If the boy is to be you, well, that means you cannot love too.

O fundamentalismo é um bumerangue de aço. Tenha certeza de arremessá-lo com força, pra que ele volte e te arranque o braço. Se você acha que pode pensar como um homem, trate de agir como um: não chore. Não se entregue. Minta. Não mergulhe. Negue. E não sinta.”

My society excluded me from the perfect life. I never mind; I had no intention of becoming a good wife.

If loving means a woman has to suffer, so may the gods allow me never to love; there’s no way I’m tasting this sewer’s supper! 

And so the boys waited for me. I was okay with my choice; the marriages I had observed were a curse, wasn’t I better off alone than to sign up for life at its worst? But don’t they prefer to be free?

“Don’t run. We strangle you so you won’t cry! … Just, please, please, good girl, don’t die.

Meet the expectations we have placed on you. Don’t be sentimental; cut off affection. To be a woman, who is a man, Miss, you must avoid connection. “

And so I let it go, no feelings alright, let it flow. In a relationship, you won’t get that far, for all love does is leave you a scar.

They said to let me be, but they went to the boys behind my back to tell ’em what I lack.

Hold onto yourself in prayer, and forget the smart girl, the one who stole your heart. Stay away from her! Her universe cannot be controlled; no good girl is going to be that bold. If she takes pleasure in freedom, bet she cheats you. A free girl’s mind always wants something more; she with a brassy brain ain’t nothing but a whore”.

My society does not give in, exceeds itself, and drains me in sin.

It tried to force me to do everything: flawless, perfect, pure, and clueless. I decided they had no right to expect, when I looked closer at the sum of its hypocrisies, they ended up losing my respect. And I refused to play along for my life is mine, and it should be my song.

Ela insiste, me agride. Cega em seu moralismo, perde a cor e não progride. Me esmurra sua covardia, se vangloria da picardia. Idolatra suas mortas instituições. Seca e afoga condenados corações.

It disgraces me, the boy she loves; for the crushing of the soul cannot stop until it hurts:

We don’t want to help; we want to judge your way.

Fundamentalism is a boomerang, Miss, and we don’t know how to play.

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