Remember that slogan from the ‘80s—“Love Sees No Color?” And the newborn PC sentiment that to be a good little liberal was to be completely blind to any defining characteristics whatsoever? We were all supposed to be one big happy beige smear of colors and cultures, orientations, abilities and sizes. I never got that. Doesn’t being Kenyan count for something? Isn’t being a man who makes love to men interesting? If I know three Jennifers and am referring to the one in the wheelchair, why do I have to call her “the blonde”?
There’s something so mincing about pretending that everyone is exactly the same, not to mention how condescending and precious it is to ignore any distinctions between You, Me, Him and Her. If it’s verboten to mention orientation, ability or race, doesn’t that imply there’s something inherently wrong with said orientation, ability or race? Why can’t I admire someone’s Mexican-ness as one essential part of them? Do they not know that they’re Mexican? Is it a secret?
Wouldn’t it be so fine to have a good time, to just be, while the world applauded? I mean really get your groove on—be your black self, your gay self, your fat self, your half-Samoan-half-Brazilian one-legged snaggle-toothed self, quirky and singular and eccentric and true. Wouldn’t that be grand?
When I look into your face I don’t want to see a mirror; I know me, through and through. I want to see you. If society seeks to make you shrink, shroud, adapt or demur, I say fuck society. There’s only one you, there’s only one her, there’s only one him—our intention should be to meet and greet every goddamn one of us out there. There is no norm—put it right out of your pretty little head. There is no majority—just 6.3 billion individuals looking for a full belly, a quiet place to nap and someone to make out with.
Personally, I sleep better at night knowing that everywhere on the planet people who look, think, smell, feel, sound and act absolutely nothing like me are doing whatever it is that they do. I’ll be able to read all about it, hear all about it, imagine it and envy it. I can listen to them tell me over coffee, through their art, on the radio or in a book. I can empathize, be mystified, find myself outraged and swoon with delight, all without having to be more than my own exhausting self.
If I were the boss here, everything you want, everything you are, every little thing you do would be one more reason to kiss you on the mouth. Exceptions would be exceptional. Differences would be gifts, your proclivities sacred. You’d be admired rather than scrutinized, adored rather than assimilated, encouraged instead of maligned. You’d be draped, bedecked and hugged around the neck like sailors after D-Day, handsome.
Whoever you are, whatever you love to do, keep it up. Never you mind those who would ignore, deride or silence you; I’m all ears.
populargirls@tabletmag.com
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