I read the diaries of David Wojnarowicz and there was one entry that had a pretty profound effect on me, and makes me think of
where one's "place" lies in a political sense. Wojnarowicz is out “crusing” in a New York City park, and this disheveled man
approaches and sits next to him. Wojnarowicz is disgusted by his appearance, described as having a “hideous skin rash…greasy
temples.” The man is super nervous, can’t look Wojnarowicz in the eye, but wants to engage in the "activities". He says “how
does one come out?...I wish I had someone to teach me.” Wojnarowicz is irritated at this point and wants nothing to do with
this man, and tries to brush him off with short, terse answers. Finally the man, fidgeting and nervous, asks Wojnarowicz, “do
you want to get to know me?” Wojnarowicz says “no”. The man (according to the diary entry) digests the knowledge that he’s
been utterly rejected, by Wojnarowicz but also by this culture, and gets up and walks away into the night.
I probably would have reacted the same way were I in the shoes of Wojnarowicz, but nevertheless I’ve found that I empathize
and in a way identify with this “Scabby Man” (that’s what I’ve been calling him since reading this). Wojnarowicz lived and
worked in a culture that was marginalized by those in power structures, but at the same time he had his “own” culture, which
identified those who were at “home” within it, and those outside it, “foreigners”.
We're all sort of all "scabby" aren’t we? Trying to find our way in the world when others around us appear to have their lives
all together. We're fumbling along, trying new things and falling on our faces. We struggle for the language that we know we
can speak and mean in our heads but the words don’t come out quite right.