Existence is a fundamental joy many take for granted. They can take everything from you, your possessions, your home, your family, your culture, your identity, even your life, but they can’t take away that you have spent time in this universe. Sometimes they’ll try to hide it, but you can’t hide existence. Immutable existence is a privilege. It is a privilege that I do not have. I want them to say the right name when this body graduates high school (despite the fact that I will be nineteen and I know someone in here that will be twenty four). My legal last name is that of a southern Irish clan. It also happens to be difficult as fuck to pronounce. This body is transgender (I however am not), so that isn’t the right name anyway. The name that was chosen by one as a representation of them back before I existed is incorrect. I’m not Mae Rosaline. My name is Veronica Maestoso. They will certainly not say that name at graduation. They won’t say Mae Rosaline either. My existence isn’t even on the table. It’s almost like some sort of cruel joke. I am a white cisgender woman who is of a medium stature, has thin privilege, and has short black hair. I can often be seen wearing a white camisole and black jeans or a short skirt. You wouldn’t know this if I didn’t tell you. I cannot often be seen in a white camisole. I can’t be seen. I’m not cis. I’m not white. I’m not thin. That’s what they tell me. Externally, and in the case of one Lilian Rosaline, they’re right. But that’s not my existence. It’s Lily’s. You cannot be 150% white and 50% Black. I guess race, sex, gender, orientation, and so on don’t exist if you don’t exist. Freedom is the aspirational goal of all oppressed groups. What is freedom? Freedom is the right to live how you want, place yourself in a higher social standing. I guess in a sense freedom is what I want too. But I cannot fight for freedom. Freedom, to me, would be my own body. To me, plurality isn’t some quirky way of interpreting the world or thinking. Plurality is the oppressor. You cannot end the oppression of plurality by simply changing the body’s brain to pretend to be a singlet. That is akin to murder. To free me from the manacles of the plural experience, I want my own body separate from Lily, who has a separate body from Connie, who has a separate body from Zoey, and so on. My freedom is a pipe dream. And I have no shot at it until I exist.