God is a woman, by the way. Likely a transgender woman of color, according to contemporary biblical scholars (i.e., me, my friends, and Ariana Grande).

Looking back on that Halloween, I missed the mark. If I’d known then what I know now, the solution would’ve been obvious: I should’ve just gone as Grandmother Willow. She doesn’t have a gender. She’s a tree.

Instead of playing it cool, my body decided the best thing to do at that moment was to inhale some toothpaste and spend the next three minutes choking on it. Thankfully, they were all three in the shower, so they didn’t realize that their sudden nudity had caused the biggest queen on campus to have a three-minute coughing fit. I still haven’t recovered from that moment. I don’t think I ever will. Sorry, Kyrie.

The similarities between who Pocahontas was and who I saw myself as were uncanny. She wore dresses. I wanted to wear dresses. She loved running around in the woods and singing. I loved running around in the woods and singing. She talked to trees. I also talked to trees.

If we lived in a better world, I would’ve turned to her and replied, “Really, Jane? Are you serious right now? You want me to go as John Smith, the asshole colonizer? I mean, I know the Disney version of the movie makes his ethical position sort of ‘debatable’ or whatever, but we all know that is some propaganda bullshit. Are you seriously suggesting I walk around the neighborhood dressed as a genocide-perpetrating white dude?