AS the nights draw inexorably in and summer turns to autumn, I find myself dreading the grey wet gloom of the English winter. My heart begins to lust for warmer climes.
Yet, with the prospect of being blockaded by our European Friends and Allies as they chastise the United Kingdom’s temerity to act as a sovereign state, it is unclear where to go to relieve this impending late-year malaise.
Hope has come, however, from an unexpected quarter. On September 4, President Fernandez of Argentina signed a decree stipulating that 1 per cent of all public sector jobs must be held by someone hailing from the ‘T’ in the 21st century’s sexuality alphabetti spaghetti: Transgender.
‘But how,’ I hear my reader ask, ‘how does that benefit a 30-year-old, bald, English-speaking white man from the Midlands?’ Allow me enlighten you. I have a plan to secure myself a cushy sinecure in the Argentinian civil service and escape the bleak British winter once and for all.
Until the reactionary fascist forces of unrestrained evil (aka Boris Johnson, Dominic Cummings et al) decided otherwise, the British government was committed to the very reasonable plan of allowing people to self-identify their gender. This is how it would work: Now, I’m a man. How about now? I’m a woman. Try to prove otherwise, I dare you. So, a trans man I now am. But what else stands in my way?
Since changing one’s gender is as simple as the turning off and on of a light switch, what is changing one’s race or nationality? As we have seen, even the mildest of tans and the adoption of some elements of urban patoisis enough to declare yourself an inhabitant of Wakanda.
In light of this, my conversion to Latinx (if you don’t know the term, to borrow a phrase from the lexicon of wokeology, educate yourself!) should prove no real problem. Having bought a sombrero off eBay, nurtured a moustache and eaten tacos at least three times in the last decade, I am now Hispanic in the same way that a white Jewish child in suburban Kansas City is black.
Some reactionaries may try to deny my plans to become a Latino genderqueer transracialist by placing the barriers of normative linguistics in my path. True, I do not speak Spanish per se. This is merely due to my previous identity of an awful white male whose intellectual curiosity towards Spanish only got as far as cerveza, por favor!
In this more enlightened age, as we all now know, language is a social construct. If objective categories no longer exist (goodbye, you outdated concepts of ‘man’, ‘woman’, ‘truth’, etc) why should not hablo-ing Espanol be a problem? Words have no fixed meaning, after all.
Indeed, language is merely a tool used as a weapon by those in power. As a refugee to Argentina (yes, I have snuck that in there too to make my plan entirely foolproof) whose existence is already being denied, could the literal silencing of my voice make this any clearer? Anyway, I can use Google Translate if I have to.
As we have all seen in recent months, our history is only useful to us if it reflects our modern-day concerns. In this spirit, I have taken the liberty of updating Elizabeth I’s famous words: I may have the body of a bald 30-year-old, white man from the Midlands, but I have the heart and soul of a Latinx, transgender, linguistqueer refugee and aspiring civil servant.
See you in Buenos Aires, amigos.
PS: I am deliberating whether to self-identify as a person of retirement age upon arrival in Argentina. If any readers have a working knowledge of the Argentinian pension system, please get in touch.