Identity

The way he says identity politics—as if claiming any identity 
is something moderately pornographic, a Congressional 
tabloid where everything is dirtier than he is. Never mind 
his own proud proclamation: White male. Lover of guns 
and rare steak and good bourbon. Openly misogynistic, 
ageist, and, oh how he hates those diversity murals with black 
and brown faces ruining his view. And the philosophy behind it! 
Working out means contest, showing up young fools because 

he can lift more, lift faster (simultaneously admitting he’s too 
old to join the competition, that he learned to take and give pain 
in the military, and while he knew it wasn’t fair, convinced complicit
management to let him in). And every day on Team White Supreme 
repeats, a familiar factory: cranking out trite product faster 
than government can write a decent policy, faster than a culture 
change, faster than the proverbial speeding bullet, and ever more 
powerful than anyone left there could be. And you see, there’s no

way you can make a change when you are still in this environment, no 
way to make human impact or metamorphosis unless you confront 
the stainless man who towers over you, who keeps the gap opened
at the chest buttons so everyone can see his muscle, who declares 
friendships—no, alliances—as if these are not its own identity. And 
you wouldn’t even know it is this bad until you start to recognize 

it is the same scenario playing over and over again, that you’d seen 
this all before: the disdain for anything other than his narrow rule
of law, scoffing at status quo, conniving to buy used semiautomatics 
and reputation out of a car trunk, assembling and dissembling 
weapons, and calling it relaxation. And if you think replacing every 
face with one that looks like yours, driving a costly, virile vehicle 

over the feet of anyone standing too closely in your way is something 
admirable, something that will earn you a kind of purple heart, I think 
there really is something more wrong with you than anyone ever wants 
to see, that somehow you manage to get by because of your blue 
and gray allies and friends and not because you ever were strong. And while 
you triggered the past in me, the one that had made an exit long, long 
ago, reintroducing ghosts of every ism known to the country, I am not sad 

to be rid of you and yours, the way you wanted to make my life more than
a living, breathing hell, mocking my identity, subtly then not so much, 
pushing against my weakened bone and sinew, never realizing that I won’t
be afraid of no gun-toting ghosts no more, I ain’t afraid to call you out, 
and while there might have been a slight delay—because you know, you 
have to be sure of what’s really happening—this is my anthem of telling 
you who I really am, who you really are, who has aligned with me, saluting
my side of the story while I decide to go public, and you can just fuck off.

Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, copyright April 6, 2024, all rights reserved