Ari

This poem was written after attending my grandma's funeral, where I had to use my deadname. It explores the relationship between identity, my deadname, and my chosen name, within the context of grieving a loved one who didn't know anything about my queer identity.

Deadname

Today, I am deadname.

At re-introduction, deadname is the sound of clashing cutlery,

The assault of knives and forks hitting the kitchen drawer,

That pause you take to cringe as you wait for it to finish.

For a while now, deadname has been gravel against flesh after fall,

The peeling of skin from the knee as blood begins to pool,

The automatic smile “It’s okay. I know. You’ll get it wrong sometimes”.

At work, deadname is someone else entirely,

A multicoloured tower built from mismatched Lego bricks,

The necessary clicks to ensure this creation doesn’t crash to the ground.

But today, today deadname is a breath of relief,

The sea air of my childhood filling up my lungs,

The salt in my hair from the piers you once took me to.

Today, deadname is the only recording I have of your voice,

One of those daffodils you watered with ocean air and rosewater,

Grown in the garden you fertilised with your body.

So today, I am deadname.

Today, I am grown and I am proudly yours.

But tomorrow, I am who knows, who cares.

Tomorrow, I am growing and I am proudly mine…

As a second-generation Iranian immigrant, this poem explores the grief of losing my grandma who didn't know I was queer or non-binary. It deals with the hurt of knowing she likely wouldn't have accepted me and the complexity of loving her anyway, knowing that she pushed her depiction of a "modern woman" onto me because of the rights she lost during the Iranian Revolution. Some lines of this poem are in Farsi.

I Wish You Could Hate Me

As a child, I would refuse to go to bed.

I would tiptoe across creaking floorboards,

Rousing you from your slumber.

You would tell me to sleep and in my defiance,

Words flew up and down the ladder,

Culminating in the ultimate Persian punishment:

“You are no granddaughter of mine”

I would cry until I fell asleep,

And in the morning, you would wrap me in your arms, make me breakfast, and promise not to fight again.

As a teen, you raised me in the liberties of your loss:

Short skirts, red lips, green eyes, boyfriends, pre-marital sex, unchaperoned walks, singing, dancing,

and lingerie;

Freedoms bought with your sacrifice, your depiction of a “modern woman”.

And I tried. I promise I tried.

I tried to be that granddaughter of yours.

I kissed men until my lips were raw but the taste was always bitter. 

I wore dresses like a child playing dress up but dress up is supposed to be fun.

I wore smiles until my eyes cracked, but the clay burnt my cheeks.

I swam in your wishes until I saw their reflection in a blade.

As an adult, man rā bebakhsh, I have taken some creative licences,

I’ve replaced boyfriends with girlfriends, skirts with jeans, blouses with t-shirts, jewellery with chains,

and make-up with a smile that doesn’t hurt to wear.

This, too, is a freedom, azadi, that you bought me…

But I remember once before the clouds came, 

You told me that in my love of a woman, I would be disgusting, 

Again, ”No granddaughter of yours”

So, I wonder, is it okay now that I am just your grandchild?

Azizam, I’ve been so afraid of your rejection that I’ve starved for your love in the eyes of men I didn’t want.

It’s funny really because now, 

All I can do is wish that you could hate me.

I wish you could disown me again.

I wish you could call me the names loose on your tongue for people like me.

Because then, at least,

I could tell you how much I love you,

Kalamaat az vasf-e eshgh-e man be to aajezand.

I could tell you how I spray your perfume on my clothes though it burns my nose

And maybe then,

In the morning, you could wrap me in your arms, make me breakfast, and promise not to fight again.

But the “if only’s” and “what could have been’s” are buried in the earth now

And so, I will never know your feelings for the person that I am,

Only your love for the woman you imagined,

And in the morning, I will wrap myself in blankets, make myself breakfast, and wish we could have fought again.

Ari is a non-binary, autistic autism researcher, who creates art in their spare time, including paintings, poetry, music, and jewellery. Find them on: @arislittleartspace