Divergence

I joined the intergalactic space force in the name of discovery. While many alienkind, especially that of my own people, find themselves infected with a desire, a need to serve a purpose larger than themselves, I have laid the roadwork for my own trajectory, my own self serving mission. Our kind often fears selfishness, but I find that selfish pursuits tend to result in the benefit of the greater good.

Of course many Orobians aspire to see earth at least once in their lifespan, but my particular interest is much more specific, more uniquely defined than those of the others. Longing to view the atmospheric conditions, greet our ancestors of wings and sky, our kin of depth and sea, and our predecessors of rock and fire, these wants are nothing short of typical and unoriginal. There are various delights and meaningful driving forces in such an endeavor as space travel to Earth, many more than these small minded motivations. While our ancestry may reflect more of ourselves than we’d like to admit, my personal mission aims to reveal something about us all, unrestricted to our kind, but universal of all species and life forms. 

My craft careens through the Milky Way, disguised as an asteroid. Shooting stairs and supernovas dance around my small, gray, circular but not smooth, space ship. Camouflaged enough to fool the human satellites and microscopes with no electromagnetic fields, energy readings, or flashy lights, and sturdy enough to withstand the vacuum and instability of space travel at the speed of hundreds of thousands of light years, my journey shall soon end when my machines lands itself in a California desert.

My intergalactic space force uniform hangs from a rod across the ship from me. I stare at it in dismay. I do not wish to wear the skin suit that makes our kind appear monstrous and foul. We are simple people with simple builds. Petite, pink, rotund, and lacking in hair, horns, or claws. Rather than drape the heavy, red, spiked suit with grotesque talons over my three foot form to add an additional eight feet of height, I fashion a black leather skirt over my pink bottom and a yellow fuzzy cropped tank over my pink belly. I do not experience temperature sensitivity, and clothing selection is no more relative than the humans smoking of nicotine cigarettes. This form of expression lends itself to stylistic creativity, individual expression, and an addictive lane of social rebellion.

I have been traveling for approximately three months, and I’m finally nearing the earth’s atmosphere. Though I was sent with the intention of meeting world leader and fellow ET Vladimir Putin for the sake of militarization, strategics, and planning, I would first enact my own delicately crafted scheme, and I would do so fashionably. I held in my hand one of the great wonders of the universe - a plastic case, protecting a most precious plastic disc. The album cover art depicted a human hand holding an explosive in the shape of a bleeding human heart. Green Day’s American Idiot record, released in 2004, revealed to me many years ago the answer to the one question that continuously rattled my mind throughout my vast lifetime: Were all men gay?

Though the pink people experience no physical form of gender identified by bodily parts or fluids, we experience gender internally. Inherently, the reflections of ourselves come through externally as we exert our feelings of masculinity and femininity through use of language, movements, and stylistic choices. Without a gender binary, gendered norms or expectations, our people are free to flow from day to day without crass judgement or fear of otherness in our society. But, this does not exempt us from toxic masculinity or the disguising of sexual preferences.

However; the humans are very different in one regard. While their men rule their governments in crude suits that highlight their inflamed egos, I theorize that they are hiding the very thing that Billie Joel Armstrong encounters no anxiety in boldly confronting -  a deeply rooted fear of sexuality, much like the men of our planet and many others.

 Before my scheduled meeting with Putin, I would find him. I would test this theory, conduct on the ground research, and find the proof to convey my point. With a determination to interview my American Idol of many years, I would find him when I touched down. I would document every detail of our conversations for my personal intergalactic space blog, for the sake of universal messaging before moving forward with their plans. I kick the craft into over drive and begin preparing myself for landing. There is only so much time to spare, less they catch on to my divergence in plans.