Men's Jeans
by Yeshaya Rawat Engineer
I walk through fluorescent strobing lights to the “Men’s” section
And bravely pull off the rack, jeans.
Jeans, blue.
Jeans, ripped to be cool — distressed, they call it.
Jeans, classic.
Jeans, new.
Men’s Jeans.
New clothes must be saved for a special occasion.
I will wear this out when I have something important to do;
Something worthy, worthy of my new men’s jeans.
Bowling, perhaps;
Or the movies with a girl.
A girl with soft hands, so unlike mine.
A girl with a kinder voice, but sharper words than mine.
A girl who would never wear Men’s Jeans.
"I’ll sit back straight. Straighter, so her head can rest on my shoulder and I will do what I have so / desperately wanted to; / I will be a man."
We will split a single tub of styrofoamy corn; over priced but I’ll offer to pay.
Hands will delve into pockets so deep they may drown; a leather square, the catch of the day.
Grab a drink or two.
And just like I’ve learned;
Studied, for years.
I’ll sit back straight. Straighter, so her head can rest on my shoulder and I will do what I have so
desperately wanted to;
I will be a man.
In Men’s Jeans
And when I breathe air
scented by her perfume, and popcorn, and Pepsi, and perfectly picked out seats;
It will burrow in my bloodstream and flow down to my thighs.
My thighs wrapped in jeans.
Men’s Jeans.
But as new dishes in the Mikveh
Or a child in holy water,
The new must be cleansed to come home.
To be a part of the tribe;
Of the group
And such is also true of my clothes.
Of my Men’s Jeans.
My thighs wrapped in my men’s jeans wage silent warnings of the imminent.
I ignore them, I am a man.
I ignore them, I am a man.
I ignore them, I am a man.
I ignore them, the credits roll, I throw my jacket over her shoulders, I walk her home, I walk alone,
I am a man.
I unlock my door, I am a man.
I walk to my room, I am a man.
I go to pull down my blue, ripped to be cool — distressed they call it, classic, new, Men's Jeans.
They are part of the tribe,
Of the group.
Baptised by blood,
By fire.
Christened red, my blue, ripped to be cool — distressed they call it, classic, once new, men’s jeans remind
me,
I bleed, am I a man?
About the Writer...
Yeshaya Rawat Engineer is a young trans man from Pune, India; currently studying at UWC Mostar in Bosnia and Herzegovina. He has called Frankfurt, Germany home since 2019. His interests include playing music, learning random new things, and writing poetry. He studies Visual Arts, Global Politics, and Environmental Science and is extremely passionate about climate studies and ecology.
About the Artist...
Yiming Low is a visual arts major at the Savannah Arts Academy in Savannah, Georgia. Along with traditional styles of realism, she enjoys experimenting with graphic design, photography, and printmaking.