Life shatters all expectations.
I was a little girl once. I wore skirts and dresses with frills. I played with dolls and on the playground I would play hand games with the other girls. I still remember the rhythmic clapping of Miss Mary Mack as I straddled a bench under the playgrounds biggest tree. Life seemed as bright as the summer sun in Georgia. I was an exuberant and fiery little girl. Warm and open. I was what my mother expected; pure. Unadulterated by any outside sources. Then, inexplicably, I wasn’t anymore.
Life never fails to be that edgy kid in class that think he’s funny.
I was eleven or so; bright and curious. The evening seemed equally as bright. My mother was driving past the local YMCA downtown. On the radio, a man was criticizing a mother for letting her transgender daughter transition. I was instantly struck with unease, but I remained silent.
Maybe a month later, it happened again. Still eleven. I was watching Queer Eye for the Straight Guy (Oddly, a show my mother let me watch.) There was a transgender man on the episode. I wondered what “Gender Identity Disorder” was.
Again I feel like I’m a thirteen year old girl experimenting with her gender presentation. At the time, I was aware that I didn’t have to be a boy to dress boyishly, so that’s what I went with. I became enamored with crossdressing. I tried my hardest to become what I saw; Girls who easily were able to twist the perception of what it meant to be a man. I loved male clothing, specifically streetwear. Male clothing became all I wanted to wear. It made me feel confident, which was something I had never felt before.
“Maybe I’m just a butch lesbian.” It was a plausible conclusion. I knew what I was. I could look down and clearly see what the doctor identified me as. I liked women and I liked dressing as a male. So by that logic, I labeled myself a “butch lesbian.” But something felt off. I liked girls, sure but maybe I’m not a girl.
Dressing up for events suddenly became being forced into a box. I was constantly chastised for dressing like a male by my mother. The middle school dance was no different. I had to dress “nice”,not in a way that made me comfortable. The dress I decided to deal with, but not the bright pink nail polish. Sitting on the bed in her room, the cool liquid made me want to cry. Yet I was still uncertain why my mom painting my nails inspired such a feeling of disgust.
My breasts in a low-cut dress made me want to shove them back into my body. Yet I still wondered why I felt that way.
Now, it’s obvious. Back then? It wasn’t.
It went on from there. The world was evolving and I was finally old enough to comprehend it. People weren’t just boys or girls, they felt as if they were other. Maybe I was other. It fit. It felt right. Then, it was just an internet thing. People mocked it. People like me were just teenage tumblr users with nothing to do. “Genderfluid” was ridiculous, right? But it was how I felt. People could range from man, to woman, to agender. I figured out I was that. Agender. Neither boy or girl.
I was happy with how I identified myself. I had finally found peace.
Unfortunately, life just never stops, does it?
My mother didn’t accept me. It almost felt like hatred. I was no longer the kid she loved. It was painful.She rattled on for hours about how I had a mental illness. I’d never be a real man to her, and my genetics would prove it. The yelling lasted days, actually. Both my mother and estranged father telling me how changing myself was an insult to them. To them, I was just making a persona. Only my mother knew “who I really was.”
I just wanted her approval and not getting that shattered me.
I became impure and our relationship stopped there.My love for her spiraled into hatred and disgust. That’s the way it was and still is.
It wasn’t until June 3rd, 2018, that I found solace; My mother’s boyfriend. He’s a man that treated me with such kindness and understanding. For once in my life someone said who I was, was okay. Afterwards, I was treated no differently than anyone else. My coming out had gone successfully.
Maybe the world has stopped crashing down on me.
Pride month isn’t just flag waving. It’s a struggle. A time for the voices of the downtrodden to be heard. It’s a story and a goddamn good one.
I’m here now. Not a boy or a girl. Agender. Nonbinary and miraculous. (He/They.)
Authors note: Shout out to @ancapbarbie for getting the ball rolling.
Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash
