/suː-mɪŋ-iː-sɪŋ/ | soo-ming-ee-sing
iloko | to appear/ to rise
⢀. ⣀⣤⣴⣶⣶⣦⣤⣀⡀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⢀⣴⣿⠿⠛⠉⠉⠉⠉⠛⠿⣿⣦⡀⠀
⢀⣿⡿⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⢿⣿⡀ ⢸⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⡇ ⠘⣿⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣼⣿⠃ ⠀⠙⢿⣷⣤⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣤⣾⡿⠋⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠉⠛⠿⠿⣿⠿⠿⠿⠛⠉⠀⠀⠀
FALL
2026
|
star / estrella / ☆ castro | they/he
@dulce.delaluna
Beverly
2026
Without shame, we hooted and hollered at the firemen driving by in their truck. Those grown men honked their horn in reply, waving and laughing at our catcalling. What a strange sight we must’ve been: a swarm of septum piercings, shaggy mullets, and My Chemical Romance merch fawning over hunks twice our age. I’ve always enjoyed men in uniform, and that afternoon, I wasn’t embarrassed to announce it.
While the DILFs drove away, we continued on our quest to the public beach. (From our dorm building, we could walk to the beach!) As was typical for suburban New England, the world remained chilly and gray, even in mid-July. The rocks were alive with squishy moss and half-suberged in ocean. Dipping my toes in the Atlantic, I was The Birth of Venus in a thrifted white bikini. I had arrived.
My pre-college program was a brief moment of adolescent liberation, a taste of what higher education had to offer. I had the privilege of studying intensive courses on painting, drawing, and photography at a local art school. It was one of the few in-person programs offered that year, since most of life happened over Zoom in 2021. During those three weeks of pre-college, I stayed in an apartment-style dorm with five randomly selected strangers: Sadie (a.k.a. Wasian Rapunzel), Lily (The Baby ButchTM), Lydia (connoisseur of all things British), Ally (cosplayer extraordinaire), Jacob (introverted Discord furry)... and Alex (our honorary roommate). Although we didn’t choose each other, these queers from across the country immediately became my community. Together, we yearned for floppy-haired skateboarders, cackled at niche Twitter references, and made shitty art.
Pre-college was my first opportunity to reintroduce myself as Star, in all of my trans glory. Our token cis boy, Alex, gave me my first tarot reading. For my future, he pulled the Star. Supposedly, the card represents concepts like hope and inspiration. It was an affirmation that embracing gender nonconformity was the right path. After all, it was written in the stars.
When you’re seventeen, everything feels special. Including, but not limited to:
1. Sadie’s masterclass on applying false lashes in the middle of a Dollar General
2. Sufjan Stevens’ Carrie & Lowell album late at night in Lily’s bed
3. Hyperrealistic depictions of Prince Philip on Lydia’s blanket, tissue box, kitchen cabinet
And of course,
4. The beach, frequented by local families and aspiring artists alike
We visited the beach almost every day. Like most kids, we liked to draw in the sand with big sticks, climb precariously over slippery boulders, chase each other up and down the coast, collect pretty shells, tell silly stories, lick melting ice cream, sunbathe, dance, sing, play. Repeat!
On this particular day, the heavens graced us with a blood moon. The whole earth blushed pink at the sight of such a lovely evening sky. From the sandy shoreline, my pre-college friends admired the rosy reflections in the water. There was no bite to this salty sea.
At Sadie’s request, the two of us separated from our group. I sat on a stone wall between the shore and the street as I posed awkwardly for Instagram. There was nowhere to hide the folds of my stomach in my skimpy bathing suit, so I pretended it didn’t matter. I’d never posted such revealing pictures of myself before. I pushed my long hair out of the way, committed to showing as much skin as possible. My burst of confidence was supported by an insistent Sadie, who didn’t work out in a gym, but every time she brushed her teeth, she did at least ten squats. Midweek, her favorite pair of skinny jeans ripped on the right butt cheek. She spent that evening hot-gluing her pants back together, determined over what others would deem a lost cause. With the help of Sadie’s delusional positivity, I ignored my insecurities in favor of preserving precious memories.
Within minutes, the moment was lost.
“Let’s go back to the besties,” Sadie said. Her face and tone gave nothing away, but she yanked at my wrist with force. Easily convinced, I leaped off of the ledge, and we ran barefoot towards the water, hand-in-hand.
When we made it back to where our friends splayed out on their towels, Sadie explained in hurried whispers what she’d witnessed. Apparently, an adult had taken his own photo of me (of my ass, to be more precise). He looked like he was around my father’s age, and he was just as smug. We couldn’t prove what he’d done, and confronting a stranger didn’t seem like a viable option. It seemed like a losing battle without the authority of a grown-up. Sadie’s word was more than enough reason for me to get the fuck out of there. Quickly, we shimmied into our jean shorts and packed our tote bags.
I did my best to avoid eye contact with the man, who stood watch by the sidewalk, burning holes through my clothing with his gaze. We left the beach as calmly as possible, but once we crossed the street into the nearest neighborhood, my body instinctively chose flight rather than fight. Unfortunately, our choice of footwear was less than ideal. I remember the sound of struggling sandals flipping and flopping. We didn’t yell, but we were a chorus of panting breaths. Alex lagged behind, while the rest of us sprinted wildly, like panicked prey escaping predator. I was paranoid, believing wholeheartedly that a sedan was chasing after us. His car, or maybe that of another man who wanted to rid me of my virginity and possibly my life. Nightfall was approaching more rapidly than we could run.
We slowed to a jog once we reached our dorm building. A single light illuminated the front lawn. Home at last, Alex finally asked, “WHY ARE YOU GUYS RUNNING!?”
The answer seemed obvious to me. We were convinced that some middle-aged man attempted to cause us harm. I say “us,” but as far as I knew, the harm was intended for me. I was running, and my friends were running with me. Except for Alex, who hadn’t detected any danger at all, who was spared from the horrors of an AFAB imagination.
I was out of breath, out of shape, out of my mind. My throat burned with sour bile. As long as my body was soft and curved, it was naive to settle into safety. As long as I was who I was. I decided that summer would be the last time my hair reached down to my hips. In elementary school, a boy wrote a poem about my long, black hair. I’d begin my senior year of high school with a pixie cut. Classmates would mock it, and family members would mourn it. The universe would revel in the violent collapse of a newborn Star.
I knew that coming of age meant becoming an object of desire. Still, I want to reclaim control. I want to sit on the beach and say goodnight to the full moon, without shame. With joy!
⢀. ⣀⣤⣴⣶⣶⣦⣤⣀⡀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⢀⣴⣿⠿⠛⠉⠉⠉⠉⠛⠿⣿⣦⡀⠀ ⢀⣿⡿⠁⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠈⢿⣿⡀ ⢸⣿⡇⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⢸⣿⡇ ⠘⣿⣧⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣼⣿⠃ ⠀⠙⢿⣷⣤⣀⠀⠀⠀⠀⣀⣤⣾⡿⠋⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠉⠛⠿⠿⣿⠿⠿⠿⠛⠉⠀⠀⠀
Star / estrella / ☆ castro (b. 2004) is a chicago-based artist from central massachusetts. castro is a diy curator, performance artist, writer, and draw-er. they believe in the body as a historical archive. they treat artmaking as an extension of what their body can hold. his practice is an attempt to document power and process, in order to learn and work towards a cooperative future. his work is an active conversation with his community, and an act of love for those whose memories were lost to time.