DRAWS IN ONLOOKER THE

SW: How does the idea of “incendiary” connect with your career/creative passions?

AH: I feel that if I’m not generating some conversation with my art, then I’m probably not doing it right. That’s the name of the game, I think, since the whole point of it all is to approach the Other, to begin the Attempt, and so much of that Attempt is first made by language.

SW: How do you encourage your peers to be “incendiaries?”

JJ: Passion and agitation (/rebellion) can be encouraged through various means. One way to cultivate passion is to find a strong sense of purpose and actively pursue it. Agitation, on the other hand, involves questioning the status quo and challenging societal conventions. Cultivating passion and agitation requires staying true to oneself and one’s values, while pushing forward towards what inspires and motivates you.

Daddy’s Girl.

Exchanging heavy-handed love-taps.

Swallowing watermelon seeds. Eating the apple core just because. Flaunting each bruise, scrape, and scar like a badge of honor.

Gazing at sports games with heavy hubris, and letting everyone know you understood exactly what was happening. Afraid to wrangle bait onto the hook, but you’d never tell a soul. Wincing when you took a hard fall, but you wouldn’t dare shed a tear. You are a tomboy.

And if your dirty, chewed to death fingernails didn’t give it away, your persona definitely would.

“My dad says if you let the ball hit your hand, you’d better at least catch it.” You taunted the boys past the point of annoyance, and for that, they’d never once go easy on you. But you desired more than just an even match. You wanted a challenge. A rite of passage. Proof of your belonging. You wanted to emerge victorious with a head on your stake. You craved their respect. Fight after fight, win or lose it would never matter, Tomboy. You were still just a girl. And nothing you did could ever be so rough or so tough that they’d let you in.

Yet you still felt honored to be “not like the other girls,” why would you ever trouble yourself with something so frail and so unserious as the feminine? There was a great wisdom bestowed upon you. One only you could bare. And what a heavy burden you’d had, Tomboy.

Eventually, you’d settle with being the heroine. You felt like Kim Possible.

You were Buttercup, sometimes Blossom, but never ever Bubbles. Regardless, there was just one devas- tating flaw in your character. Both non-white and woman, you tried to see, to be yourself But the story was already told for you and no, you did not fit the part.

Your grit, strength, toughness all equated to one ugly thing, Tomboy. The you you fought so hard to forge would be chalked up to nothing more than a predetermined caricature.

The one fight you couldn’t win with force—what now? How would you counterattack, Tomboy?

Mom said shave your armpits

Grandma said, “women don’t say fart, they say flatulate.” You needed to be soft, sweet. Conclude each action with courtesy and a smile. Overcompensate for what they never allotted you—the feminine. You needed to be feminine. Or else.

The dread of allowing them to be “right” about you made you change, Tomboy. And you have become someone new out of guilt. fear. shame.

I’m here today to tell you it’s not worth it. They’d already decided who they would see you as and the rat race of binaries will only get you down. Tomboy, be just that. Exist in perfect androgyny. Reject what you’d internalized. Collect what’s yours. Tomboy, see to be yourself.

Writing: Kyndal Coleman