Koi Miyoshi

To Whom It May Concern

Forget the name-change, the pronouns, the presentation. Abandon my corrections, my efforts, past conversations. Allow the discomfort. Breed the resentment. Let’s undo the clock.

I am female at birth. Foreign until death. Figuring out how to live, in a world that asks me to do otherwise. I read the news. I listen to podcasts. I hear the hate beneath the cashier’s breath.

On the exterior, I am one out of millions. A face in the crowd. I am not special, nor singular. I am not a one case incident. When I leave my home, I am not alone.

But my front door has two locks for a reason. When people say ma’am, I know why I don’t say sir. In a neighborhood that carries bumper-stickers and overt flags, I’ve learned that the best way to survive is to stay silent. Sometimes, fighting means living another day.

I could sign my name, but I’d ask which one. If I issue my complaints, I don’t know who I’m doing it as. In America, under this regime, still trying to find a sense of hope, I don’t know who I am. Or, who I’m allowed to be.

To whom it may concern,

I live in a glass-house body.
Outside, they’re throwing stones.