An Introduction to Vivian

Okay. The issue isn't that I'm going to prom. It's that I'm going in a tuxedo. Why so surprised? Are you from Arkansas, too? Are you from the un- "natural state" as well? A lot of people come to Arkansas for the rugged beauty, the pure unindustrialized air, the green country, and the simple blessed people of the Bible Belt. But don't be fooled and hang on to your hats because the rugged beauty is so rugged because of years masking the terrible beast within our soil, the pure unindustrialized air is heavy with the silent screams of the afflicted, the green country is but dried grass with the oozing vomit of Hell seeping into its roots, and the simple minded people aren't so simple at all. We're all disguised prejudice and secret hypocrisies. The same demon that possesses America is upon us, too, and we are its bowels. All waste lingers here, trapping honest pleas and rejecting the rights of the outspoken. You believe it's hard to be different where you live? Try living here. On second thought, just take my word for it. To live here is to die here. To be born is to be buried. And I want to wear a goddamn tux to the prom... so I shall.
Are there places in the world safe for a homosexual? a bisexual? a pansexual? Are there places anyone can be themselves, not fear persecution, kiss their lover without the terror of discovery? Maybe there are places like that. Arkansas is not one of those places.
"If you're like that, I'll disown you," he says to me. My father, the critic.
So I'm not "like that," I'm like this: Me, Vivian, pansexual, seventeen, and terrified. I don't want to lose my father, but most of all I don't want to lose myself ever again. And I'll wear that tux because it makes me feel beautiful, even though my father did not as he frowned when I tried it on and marveled at how comfortable I felt, breasts in a tuxedo jacket! I am a girl who doesn't want to be a girl or a boy, but both. A tuxedo in heels, lapel with a rose, men's glasses and a bow in hair. Vivian Chaos: Because I'm never quite what I seem and all is in disarray. Vivian Chaos: A beautiful little mess.
And who can help here now that she's born into a world that hates everything she is? Oh Arkansas, mark Vivian's lament as you would mark the faded tattoo of "sinner" onto her forehead and bosom.
Vivian becomes Vivian: She can be nobody else.
I sit here in torn jeans and my first pair of heels mourning the embarrassment of falling in the hallway at school (twice!) and making a note of learning more thoroughly the art of walking gracefully. But more than that I sit here planning the future me, the me I may not even be prepared for. My name's not Ashley! I'm not on the verge of 220 pounds, 5 foot 7 inches, scarred, and crooked toothed. I'm Vivian fucking Chaos and I can be me for the Ashley who strides soulfully beneath my olive skin. She'll love me in a tux, and on into the summer. But first I have to learn to walk in those damn heels.