“What is your favorite weapon?”

Nobody has ever actually asked me such a question. I wish they did though, because I could go on and on about my weapon of choice.

So I have decided upon myself to ask and answer this very dire essential question:

My favorite weapon is a spear. A spear is a uniquely crafted weapon usually made by the bearer with any convenient materials they utilize that build the spear to be as strikingly effective as it is.

I have deep endearment for spears for the reason the head must be built by sharpened bone or stone, or they can be made by a range of different types of overlooked metal scraps; Or they can be made of arrowheads abandoned as their previous purpose is no longer needed. I would, however, rather use any type of weapon in lieu of my precious spear except for a gun.

I despise any and all types of guns. A gun comes pre-made, handed to its undeserving bearer ready and unoriginal, with the ability to kill several in the span of a minute with the simple action of pulling the trigger. I have had several guns held to my head since the moment I was brought into this earth. Who I unwillingly am has seemingly placed me on the battlefield for as long as I can remember. And for every person I have met that has wanted to kill me, they held a gun while I held a shield trying to bear the life that was made out for me before I had a chance to stand up and name myself. These people used ammunition that could strike out an innumerable amount of humans who committed the crime of existing with every glowing part of their spirit. My higher self has been violently aware that I haven’t reached my full potential because the complexity of my identity is a scare factor, enough to ward off those who are intimidated by my strength, confusing my breakthroughs as my setbacks. Still, the pigment of my skin, the patterned hair my scalp sculpt, my desire for queer affection, the faith I devote myself to, and the chemical disorder of noradrenaline in my brain seemed to have me at an advantage by those who look opposite to me. Yet and yet again, I have been buried in rubbled bias because it is more convenient to have man hold space in office rather than a cunt; Or perhaps it’s better to have blonde hair to face you at reception than a towelhead. Of course, I do not deny that I used to put my hands in the air when these guns were pointed at me. I found myself to be parts of many inconvenienced communities while growing up, this was always very clear. Needless to say, the diversity of my essential self was attacked one by one leaving a scarring wound on every part of my identity. Refugee, I was, yet I was left to retreat into myself as each site of asylum I seeked had rejected my heart, if not my soul, if not my mind and had not welcomed me as whole. Had I known, I would have been stripped for parts just to fit into a box, I may have dropped my shield and licked my wounds much earlier. The First Amendment reads, “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.” I wish to thank Mama and Baba for having me to be born in this country, but the thick North African blood that runs through my body still appears thinner than the rainbow enveloping my heart. Even then, does the pigment in my skin make it look more and more pregnable thus not being exposed due to lack of melanin? Goodness, may the moment I choose to wrap my hair for my dear Allah be seen as another especial feature that multiplies my divisions, rather than a distinction that is portioned off to each coterie... Did you seem to forget that my blood still runs red as does all and sundry. The complexity of a spear is so pleasantly eccentric, that I knew that this was the weapon for me. I used to think that I was born to hold and shield and nothing else, but as I picked the parts that were once picked apart, I rebuilt the spear I was always meant to have. I learned to attack with the mere strength of my arm, and I realized that I have no bullet to fear because it has never mechanically been able to shoot through my willpower. I cannot stop the production of guns, a continuous industry made to serve those who were born above me, suck on pacifiers instead of their own thumb. But the satisfaction that my weapon is distinctively made by me, to serve as my personal defense, I have overachieved contentedness. So that's why my spear is my favorite weapon.