Felix Ever After

by Kacen Callender

Two gay guys cuddling in the heart of Brooklyn shouldn’t feel this revolutionary, but suddenly, it does.

It’s fucked-up, but I have to admit that I’m jealous. Ezra’s got his entire life laid out for him on a golden platter, while I’m going to have to claw and scrape and battle for what I want.

My dad points at the roll of paper towels in my hands and says my name to get my attention—but not my real name. He says my old name. The one I was born with, the one he and my mom gave me. The name itself I don’t mind that much, I guess—but hearing it said out loud, directed at me, always sends a stabbing pain through my chest, this sinking feeling in my gut. I pretend I didn’t hear him, until my dad realizes his mistake. There’s an awkward silence for a few seconds, before he mumbles a quick apology. We never talk about it. How he doesn’t like saying the name Felix out loud. How he’ll always slip up and use the wrong pronouns, and not bother to correct himself. How some nights, when he’s had a little too much whiskey or beer, he’ll tell me that I’ll always be his daughter, his little girl.

Some trans folks have always known exactly who they are, declaring their correct gender and pronouns as toddlers and insisting that they be given different clothes and toys. But it took me a while to figure out my identity. I’d always hated being forced into dresses and being given dolls. The dresses and dolls weren’t even the real issue. The real issue was me realizing that these were things society had assigned to girls, and while I didn’t even know what trans was, something about being forced into the role of girl has always upset the hell out of me. I’d always tried to line up with the other boys whenever teachers split us up. I followed those boys around the playgrounds, upset that they’d ignore me and push me away. I had dreams, sometimes—dreams where I’d be in a different body, the kind of body society says belongs to men.

I remember thinking to myself, Hopefully, if I’m reincarnated, I’ll be born a boy.

Reading about J, it was like . . . I don’t know, not only did a lightbulb go off in me, but the sun itself came out from behind these eternal clouds, and everything inside me blazed with the realization: I’m a guy. I’m a freaking guy.

No matter how much he pisses me off sometimes, I wouldn’t have been able to start my physical transition without my dad. Maybe that’s what’s most confusing of all: Why would he pay for my hormones, my surgery, my doctor’s visits, everything—but refuse to say my real name?

Maybe that’s why I hate my dad deadnaming me, more than anything else. It makes me wonder if I really am Felix, no matter how loud I shout that name.

There’re some people who’re careful to only show the part of themselves they want others to see.

I wanted to date her so that I could prove I’m worthy of love. Instead, she managed to solidify this slowly growing theory that I’m not.

I feel like I’ve been physically attacked. Like someone took control of who I am. Took that control away from me.

I’m fucking around, procrastinating on my portfolio because I’m too afraid to actually get started—too afraid to try, only to fail.

“Use craft as a tool,” he says, “to find your creativity.”

“I want to be in love. I’ve never, you know—felt the kind of passion great artists talk about. I want that. I want to feel that level of intensity. Not everyone wants love. I get that, you know? But me—I want to fall in love and be broken up with and get pissed and grieve and fall in love all over again. I’ve never felt any of that. I’ve just been doing the same shit. Nothing new. Nothing exciting.”

Some people say we shouldn’t need labels. That we’re trying to box ourselves in too much. But I don’t know. It feels good to me, to know I’m not alone. That someone else has felt the same way I’ve felt, experienced the same things I’ve experienced. It’s validating.

It’s like I’m constantly trying to prove that I deserve love—but how can I, when even my own mom doesn’t love me?

“Astrology is real,” Tyler insists. “Listen. The moon controls the tides, right? The human body is mostly water. It’d make sense if the moon controls us, too.”

“Listen,” he says, “it isn’t easy to just suddenly switch my idea of who you are in my head. For twelve years, you were my baby g—” I cut him off before he can say it. “That’s never who I was. That’s who you assumed I was.”

My dad breaks the silence. “I’m trying,” he says. “I’ve shown you that. I’ve proven that. I don’t always get it right, but I’m trying to understand.” Sometimes, I don’t know if that’s enough. I feel like a shitty son, getting angry at my dad when he’s the one who paid for my hormones, my doctors’ visits, my surgery, everything—but every time I’m around him, I feel like I have to work hard to prove that I am who I say I am. It pisses me off that he doesn’t just accept it. That there’s something he has to understand in the first place. “I need you to be a little more patient,” my dad tells me. “I’ve had a certain idea of who you are in my head for twelve years. That’s a long time.” He hesitates, and I can tell he almost called me by my old name.

My dad won’t look at me. I don’t know if he even knows how to look at me. He can’t see me for who I really am—only who he wants me to be. Maybe this is fucked-up, I don’t know . . . but somehow, it’s his approval I need most, even more than anyone else’s. I need his validation. His understanding, not just acceptance, that he has a son. I’m not sure that’s something he’ll ever give me.

Why am I always the person who just sits to the side and watches? What is it about me that no one likes, that no one wants? It’s like it’s too much for other people—me having brown skin, and being queer, and being trans on top of that . . . or, maybe that’s just what I tell myself because I’m too afraid to put myself out there again, too afraid of being rejected and getting hurt. Maybe it’s a little bit of both.

“I see at least one thing a day that makes me wonder if the straight people are all right.”

“I honestly don’t care that much about labels. I mean, I know they’re important to a lot of people, and I can see why—I’m not knocking them. It’s just . . . I kind of wish we could exist without having to worry about putting ourselves into categories. If there were no straight people, no violence or abuse or homophobia or anything, would we even need labels, or would we just be? Sometimes I wonder if labels can get in the way. Like, if I was adamant that I’m straight, does that force me into only liking girls? What if that’d stopped me from falling in love with a guy? I don’t know,” he says again. “I get that labels can be important.” “They connect us. They help create community,” Leah says. “I can see what you’re saying. If the world was perfect, maybe we wouldn’t need labels. But the world isn’t perfect, and labels can really be a source of pride—especially when we’ve got to deal with so much crap. I’m really freaking proud to be a lesbian.” “Yeah, and that’s cool,” Ezra says, nodding. “I like that a lot. I just don’t really want to use labels for myself. I feel better without them.”

“Keeping questions of morality out of art suggests keeping humanity out of art itself.”

“So you would restrict artwork?” Declan asks me. “Censor it?” He nods his head at Ezra’s Judith I and the Head of Holofernes Klimt tattoo—Ezra blinks at Declan with a blank face, still half-asleep. “It isn’t exactly moral to cut someone’s head off. Should that piece never have been created?” I shake my head. “No, but there’s a line.” “What line is that?” “A line that could hurt people.” “Hurt people?” “Yes. Propaganda against different races, illustrations depicting groups of humans as lesser than others.

“There needs to be moral judgment in creation.”

“Listen,” he says, “I didn’t mean anything by bringing up the gallery. I was just making a point—” “You don’t get to use my pain to make your point.”

When someone hurts me, I either obsess over how to convince them I’m worthy of their love or obsess over how to destroy them.

“You didn’t put your dad through anything.

“First of all, I don’t know if you need to prove anything to anyone. Places like Brown and the other Ivy Leagues—they boil your worth down to a bunch of bullshit. You’re not your grades. You’re not your test scores or your college application or even your portfolio.”

“Second of all,” he says, “it doesn’t matter what they think. It only matters what you think. Do you think you’re worthy of respect and love?”

Why’re you pretending to be a boy? I stare at the message. There’s a whoosh that goes through me, and I can feel my emotions become still as numbness prickles. Besides the gallery, I’ve never really had to experience this kind of hate for who I am before—not directly. I always see it on the news. The ways the government is trying to erase me, the ways politicians try to pretend transgender people don’t exist, even though we do exist, and always have, and always will. I see the articles, the stories about transgender people being refused health care, students like me bullied and forced into the wrong bathrooms, teens my own age being kicked out of their homes, adults being fired from their jobs just for being who they are, so many of us attacked and killed just for walking down the street—so many of us deciding to take our own lives because we aren’t accepted. I know that, as a trans person of color, my life expectancy is in my early thirties, just because of the sort of violence people like me face every day. I know all of this—but somehow, everything’s always felt so far away. I can exit out of the articles online, switch the channel from the news, laugh with Ezra in the park and eat chicken wings and smoke weed and drink cheap chardonnay and only worry about things like my future and what I’m going to do with my life. I’ve felt safe, even with the mistakes my dad makes, even with a mom who I’m pretty sure doesn’t love me anymore, if she ever did. I’m ashamed of it, but t...

I’m not pretending to be a boy. Just because you haven’t evolved to realize gender identity doesn’t equal biology, doesn’t mean you get to say who I am and who I’m not. You don’t have that power. Only I have the power to say who I am.

I HAVE TO GET MY T-SHOT BEFORE I GO TO CLASS THE NEXT morning. I get one every two weeks, have been for the last couple of years. There’re a few different options to get my hormones, but this is the one that works the best for me. My dad offers to go with me to the clinic, just like he always does, and I don’t know . . . I guess that’s another weird thing about all of this. The way he’s supportive as fuck on paper, in all the right ways, but still won’t accept me as his son. I tell him I’m all right and head to the train on my own.

I know grandequeen69 isn’t the only person in the world who would think my identity is based on the gender I was assigned at birth—to force me into a box, to control me for their own comfort, because they’re afraid of what they don’t understand. Because they’re afraid of me. To know that there are people out there who hate me, want to hurt me, want to erase my identity, without ever even seeing me or knowing me, just like there are people out there who hate me for the color of my skin—it’s enraging, infuriating, but it also hurts. The old hollow pain that burrowed its way into my chest the moment I saw that gallery of the old me is still there, and it feels like it’s growing every second, like a black hole in the middle of my body. And what’s worse is that I know I’ve been questioning my identity. My guilt and shame swell.

I’m not a girl. You don’t get to tell me who I am. You don’t have that power.

“You know, Felix,” she says before I can grab the handle, “I think that it’s fine to keep questioning your identity. You don’t owe anyone any answers. And,” she adds, “I’m sure you’re not the only person who’s ever questioned after they started transitioning. Maybe it’s worth doing some research online. See what comes up.”

“Self-portraits are empowering,” Jill says. “They force you to see yourself in a way that’s different than just looking in a mirror, or snapping a picture on your phone. Painting a self-portrait makes you recognize and accept yourself, both on the outside and within—your beauty, your intricacies, even your flaws. It isn’t easy, by any means,” she tells me, then shrugs. “But, anything that reveals you—the real you—isn’t easy.”

There’re so many ways for a person to identify . . . So why doesn’t anything feel right for me? Is it possible to not have an identity? To exist, without any labels to say who I am and who I’m not? Maybe that’d feel good for some people, but for me, I’d feel anchorless—drifting with no one to say if what I’m feeling is real—if this emotion is something that I’ve made up in my mind, or if it’s something that others have felt, too.

“There are too many expectations on gender roles, even within the transgender community. To prove that you’re a man, you must act aggressively. To prove that you’re a woman, you must be passive.” Sarah holds her head high. “I’m an aggressive woman. I won’t apologize for that.”

We can’t help who we are. There isn’t much point to passing judgment on our community. We already get enough judgment from others.”

“I can still be a feminist and be trans,” I say. My voice is pretty small right now, but everyone goes quiet and still, turning to listen to me. My heart’s hammering against my chest, and I feel like I’m seconds from crying, but I can’t do that—not here, not now, not in front of Marisol. “I love women. I respect women. I was proud to be a girl, before I transitioned—but I realized that just isn’t who I am. Being a guy now doesn’t mean I don’t still love and respect women.”

I WANT to be in love. That’s something I’ve always wanted to feel. What’s it like, to be in love and have that other person love you, too? Is it another level of friendship? Another level of trust, vulnerability, always telling that person your thoughts and feelings, sharing every little thing with them so that you’re so in sync that it’s like you’re one person? Is it like every time you see them, your heart goes wild, and you can’t think because you’re so effing happy? Is it like whenever they’re away, you feel like you’re missing a piece of yourself? Does knowing someone loves you fill you with confidence, because you know you’re the type of person who deserves love? And what’s it like to break up with someone you love? What’s it like to decide to try again, and let yourself fall in love with someone else? To decide to take that chance you might get hurt, but still want to try? I don’t know. But I want to.

“It’s like every identity I have . . . the more different I am from everyone else . . . the less interested people are. The less . . . lovable I feel, I guess. The love interests in books, or in movies or TV shows, are always white, cis, straight, blond hair, blue eyes. Chris Evans, Jennifer Lawrence. It becomes a little hard, I guess, to convince myself I deserve the kind of love you see on movie screens.”

“I guess it just feels like I have one marginalization too many, sometimes. So many differences that I can never fit in with everyone else. I can feel people are uncomfortable with me, so I end up feeling uncomfortable, too, and then I end up standing and watching everyone else make connections, fall in love with each other, and I . . .”

Does having a hard life give anyone an excuse to treat someone else like shit? I’m not sure I need Leah to humanize Marisol for me—that I need Marisol to become some sort of antihero in Leah’s version of everything that’s happened. We all make mistakes. We all have a chance to learn and grow from them. But we all also have the right to choose whether we’ll forgive someone for the mistakes they’ve made, and I’ve chosen not to forgive Marisol.

“I’ve never had a boyfriend before. I’ve never been kissed before. I want that, but the fact that it hasn’t happened yet—I don’t know, it makes me feel like those are things that are meant for everyone else but me.”

Why’re you attacking me? Just because you don’t understand my identity, doesn’t mean I’m not real. That I don’t exist.

“I’m not flaunting anything. I’m just existing. This is me. I can’t hide myself. I can’t disappear. And even if I could, I don’t fucking want to. I have the same right to be here. I have the same right to exist.”