allow me to reintroduce myself...

an important life update

Photo by Alexander Grey on Unsplash

I’m free. Finally. It took all 37 years to come home to myself, but I am back in my body. In my mind. In my heart. In my soul. *breathe* I’m free. I don’t have to be what anyone said I should be. I don’t have to be my mother’s dream. My father’s secret. My family’s shame. I can be me. Independently. Unapologetically. Magically. Me. This heauxlignment is a state of peace I’ve been searching for since my first memory. As far back as my bones can hold feeling, I have been chasing the approval of others. Wanting to be liked. Loved. Trying to be what I thought would gain me acceptance, belonging, celebration. But to make that happen I had to be other versions of myself. I had to be less feminine. I had to be less smiley. Less nerdy. Less dorky. Less me. And over the years I obliged, time and time and time again until there was no ME left. Or perhaps, scraps. Just shards of me, that didn’t fit together anymore. It’s like someone opened up a thousand different puzzle boxes, dumped them into one container, shook them up and then dumped them onto the subway tracks, and with the blinding headlights of an oncoming train, someone screeches over the MTA loudspeaker , “go find yourself!” At least that’s what I think they said. Now that I’m really thinking about it, maybe they said “go fuck yourself”. They probably did. Between the bigotry, white supremacy, capitalism, patriarchy, all of which informs beauty standards and dictates milestones of success–this world really tells us all to go fuck ourselves. And we do. We fall in line. By not questioning what we’ve been taught. Sold. We build our lives around the material, only to realize in our final years, the material never mattered. No amount of money can replace a hug from the person you love the most. No amount of power can replace someone saying “i love you” and meaning it with every fiber of their existence. To love and to be loved is everything. Sounds corny, cheesy, and fluffy. Because that’s how our culture has positioned it. It’s more profitable when people don’t love themselves. You can sell them all the things they need to become lovable. Clothes, make up, cars, zip codes. How dangerous for the powers that be if its civilians loved and embraced themselves, because then they’d love and embrace others. And a world of people loving each other, and valuing connection over material, is simply not profitable. That’s for a different conversation though. Today, I’m just gonna tackle “me.”

Four years ago I posed a question that would then become the thesis of my book; “Who would I be if society never got its hands on me?” I can’t remember when I first had the thought, but I have been on a search to answer that question for the last four years. In truth though, I think four years ago I was finally able to articulate the question, but I’ve been on the quest since becoming estranged from my Born-again Christian mother thirteen years ago. After the initial grief, I had two options–go fuck myself or go find myself. Maybe it’s the Taurus in me, maybe it was the ghost of my Grandmother, maybe it was all the bad margaritas my young twenty-something year old self guzzled; but I chose to find myself. Though I don’t think I knew that’s what I was doing. I just wanted to prove to myself that I was…good(?)

My homosexuality was positioned as a sin. And as a person who grew up loving Barney, playdates, and theater–the last thing I ever wanted to be was a sin. To be bad. I wanted to be the goodest person out there. I had been bullied for most of my life, so when I finally graduated college, had a beautiful community around me, and was pursuing acting, I felt good. And then shortly after my grandmother passed away, my mother stopped by my apartment that I shared with my then boyfriend, and read me bible verses declaring my life was a sin. Twelve minutes later, she was out the door. My entire sense of self was crushed in a matter of minutes. The same person who had built me up, made me strong, resilient…good, obliterated me without warning. Without explanation. Left me falling into an abyss of doubt, shame, confusion. I was reaching out to latch onto anything, but there was only air slipping through my clawing hands. My world was gone. Up was down, left was right, mother was betrayer. She turned on me. And because she was my hero/my standard of excellence/my example of goodness, I believed her when she said my life was a sin. I believed that I was bad. At least my mind did. But my body. My body was on a mission to prove her wrong.

I don’t have this next thought fully fleshed out yet, but it’s something I’m musing on. I think if you are in touch with your gut, then even if you’re not sure what quest you’re on, you’ll find your path to healing. Your body knows the way. Knows how to return home to itself. My mother taught me all about the gut. The intuition. Taught me how to trust it. Never would I have imagined a plot twist in which the person who gives me the tools to heal is the one who wounds me.

There’s so much I want to share about how I arrived back at myself at 11:30pm on Wednesday November 27th, the evening before Thanksgiving. But I’m still processing, and need more time to unpack. But what I will say is, for the first time, I was able to see my goodness. I didn’t realize the degree to which I was harboring a belief that I wasn’t good. Keeping my loved ones at a distance out of fear that I’d hurt them. That I’d betray them the way I was betrayed. That the ability to carelessly wound was some kind of genetic predisposition. Finally, I was able to see my mother’s trauma. My mother’s pain. I’ve known it intellectually for years now, but my body never downloaded it. Never accepted that my mother’s betrayal wasn’t about me. Wasn’t about my queerness. Was instead about her own fears. Her own pain. Her own shame. Her own limitations. She saw me taking flight, and needed to clip my wings. I think she thought it would keep me close. After all, grandma (her mother) had just passed. It was always just the three of us. Now with grandma gone, and me beginning my own life, where would that leave her? One would hope, with her own expansion. Her own big life. But grief is a muthafucker. Instead of finding herself, she fell back in line and then attempted to make me do the same. I’m grateful my body knew to journey back home.

Four years ago, I realized I was non-binary. I kept it to myself for a few months, and then shared publicly with my new he/they pronouns. I’ve said, and even wrote in my book, that my he pronouns were for the world, and they pronouns were for me. I always felt like I had a lot more barriers of oppression to navigate that were more pressing than which pronouns to use. I didn’t have the capacity to correct people or engage in gender studies discussion. Especially ones where people want to discuss the grammar of “they” and whether it can be used in a singular. (Spoiler alert: IT CAN!) But I’ve also been navigating my instinct to take care of people instead of myself. My fear of losing people if I ask for what I want or share who I am. (Are we seeing the connection to my mother?) So much of me has been wrapped up in proving that I’m good. More specifically a good son. And after thirteen years, I’m finally ready to lay that cross down. I’m ready to just be. Because I can confidently say, when I’m being myself, I’m being good. My homosexuality or queerness is not a sin just cuz some white men said so. (Hello somebody!) Just cuz my mother agreed. If being myself makes someone angry, scared, disappointed, so be it. I will remove them from my orbit so I can make space for people with taste. Tu-huh! I’m not shrinking anymore.

On Thanksgiving, I found myself awake far earlier than I wanted to be, so I got out of bed, stepped into the living room, and began my morning meditation. As I took my first breath, an intrusive thought rang out, PUT ON THE MACY’S PARADE! Girl, what?! I haven’t watched that since…I don’t know when. It used to be my favorite, but I haven’t watched it since…my grandmother died. It was her favorite too. So that morning I put it on, and watched the floats, performances, and Daddy Al Roker. Actor/writer and star of the hit Broadway show “Oh, Mary”, Cole Escola was on one of the floats. As the camera was capturing them atop a colorful Flamingo, the NBC anchors spoke about Cole using They/Them pronouns.

I stood in front of my television gooped. Shook. Emotional. The seven year old in me perked up. A signal that it’s okay to be different. It’s okay to not feel like the boys and girls. An affirmation of the gut feeling that there’s more to life than these boxes everyone is trying to put everybody else in. Hearing “they/them” on my television on Thanksgving morning cracked me open. I felt suddenly, I don’t need to take care of “the world” anymore. I don’t need to fit in. I don’t need to be seen as a “he.” I just need to be me. Brandon. Of course I’ve been saying this for years. Intellectually I’ve been moving towards it. Trying various ways to express myself, but the world noise would always yell back, “you’re a man.” So I’d try to wear skirts, heels, put make up on to prove otherwise. All of which I love, but not in my everyday. I’m a cozy cardigan, soft pants, fresh sneakers kinda doll. I dress kinda like a “boy” I guess. I dress kinda like my grandmother and kinda like my mother too. I have my moods. Some moments are more fem, more masc, more me. But the internal noise of “I’m not nonbinary enough” was so loud, I couldn’t see myself. Told myself I was taking up space for people who are “more non-binary” (whatever the fuck that means.) Ironically at the same time I’m preaching to everyone that there is no such thing as “queer enough!” Always reminding people that however you show up is queer enough. I needed to believe that for myself. I know I’m queer enough, gay enough, but I am also non-binary enough. *breathe*

I’m ending the fear of rejection era that has plagued me, robbing me of my joy and bravery. I’m done caring what others think. Dictating my career around it being a “leading man”. Believing I’d be less desirable to hire because some person in charge would not understand “non-binary” or be annoyed at my pronouns. Truth is, I don’t want to work for or with those kinds of people. So why should I care to appease them? Why should I continue diluting myself?

I shouldn’t.

I won’t.

So, allow me to reintroduce myself. My name is Brandon Kyle Goodman. My pronouns are they/them/theirs. I’ll give you all the grace when you slip up. It’ll be a gentle transition for both of us. When in doubt you can always use Brandon, B, BKG, or (messy) mom! It is my great honor to be on this journey back to myself. I’m grateful to share it with you. To love you and be loved by you. To all the messages I received saying, “proud of you”, thank you! Me too! Proud of the younger versions of myself that trusted me to come back for them. Proud of the current version of myself that waded through the subway tracks and found every single piece of the Brandon puzzle. Proud of how imperfect and incomplete that puzzle is. There will be more to share and unpack as I process, but this is a liberating start. Thank you for being here. ily

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To send me questions, comments, or share a messy story please email TellMeSomethingMessy@gmail.com

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Find my book You Gotta Be You at local bookstore, Reparations Club

And in case you haven’t heard it yet today, you are so deeply loved. I love you.