Last night, I watched a filmed performance of Billy Elliot: The Musical, which is adapted from the movie of the same name. And, oh boy, I cried multiple times from joy, grief, love, nostalgia, and recognition.
Like Billy, I was a poor kid who grew up in working class poverty.
Like Billy, I left my hometown in pursuit of an artistic dream.
Like Billy, I chose a life that would be radically different from my tribe and my ancestors.
Like Billy, my loving parents and siblings let me go.
Like Billy, I've spent years in the spotlight (which has been wonderful, difficult, and devastating).
I've seen the original movie many times but I felt real anger when I watched the musical.
There are far too people out there—my leftist compatriots—who’d argue that my identity as a Spokane Indian kid raised on the reservation is radically different than that of a British kid from a mining town.
Well, I say, "Fuck that."
How about all of us poor kid writers and artists stand up and say, "I am Billy Elliot."
Sherman, you’re dangerously close to exposing capital’s most powerful weapon: identity politics.
How could a poor white boy possibly have a similar life experience to a poor native boy. None of this fits in the hierarchy of oppression I was taught in college.