The Pink Imposter
People don’t believe who I am, y’all — for realz!
Getting excepted as a woman has been way easier than I ever imagined. People are more progressive minded than I gave credit. I’m talking the average people. Gender aside, it appears the difficulty is in the rest of my identity—like all this beauty and sex appeal can’t go with all the brains, creativity and accomplishment. It’s not exactly frustrating. Individually, heaven bless them, these people (ones who question my credentials) don’t register more than a blip. The pattern is, however, absurd (which is not to be confused with funny).
“On Tinder you told me you were something else.”
The subject was Barry, whose name I remember because my partner, Goddex, has a 15-pound Maine Coon named Barry. Barry’s complaint was I’d given two answers across two platforms to the question of my vocation. I could not blame Barry for the limits of his experience, and for being convinced humans can only do one thing for a living. I offered Barry a link to my website which included my Curriculum Vitae.
“You should be honest with people about who you are!” His advice read to me as endearingly righteous. I started to explain and insist he look me up, then I came to my senses, deleted the text and unmatched with Barry from two different apps. Barry’s loss.
It wasn’t the first time.
I appreciate skepticism on these “dating” apps. People are sketchy, which is why I try to be fully transparent, with template answers to questions I get regularly as a crazy queer Black radical trans woman. These include, where are you from? (Yes, bitches be assuming I am a foreign national); How long have you been single? What meds do you take? Do you ever dress up? Are you really 6’ 7”? How long is your clit? The way my identity gets questioned is routine AF. I can say that objectively. Taken individually, these interrogations amount to little. The puzzle is whether these isolated events reflect real beliefs in the real world of people who wield power. How many potential employers have looked at me with that suspicion?
I get it, I’m a remarkable person, but on a world scale, my material accomplishments (things generally accepted as markers for success like wealth, notoriety, and body counts), are not that impressive. To people who don’t know me, or people outside of my network of industry, I’m not all that. To those people my height, or other externals denote celebrity. Mind you, these are people who want to eat me for lunch. I guess it’s unsettling for anybody when your food not only talks, but can do it in three languages (one you never even knew existed).
Is a Black trans woman who knows what she wants sexually, and dresses like a stripper, not also allowed to be a college professor? Can’t she travel internationally to speak at conferences and perform at festivals AND wanna have great sex? Can I be comfortable (and slutty) enough to film myself giving the most amazingly sloppy deep-throat BJ and then follow it up with a Tarot reading and political talk? Can I play “baby” to a Daddy, and then share my opinions on modern child rearing? Does my sexuality, in the moment I am being sexual, disqualify me from all my aspirations. Does Blackness? Does my existence as an endangered species (read the statistics for violence against trans women of color), mean I can’t live my life as an expression of joy, liberation and self-love?
I don’t experience much resistance to my being this 6’ 7” bombshell, who loves to make a fashion plate of herself. People enjoy my sexy walk, talk and presentation. I am definitely a Goddess in the bed room (or dungeon room). The resistance is when I am those things and then demand acknowledgment of my whole personhood. Being authentic, the invisible limits become all too clear, and the gilded cage proves its purpose. I choose to brave the cold. Maybe my IQ as moderately gifted is just way to much to swallow, even for the one with a mouthful of me.
— Notorious Pink
