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What does it feel like, to love someone so much that you’re willing to publicly bare your heart and soul with a black Sharpie?
mmm sure
“You would like my grandson, I think. You two seem like very nice, gay boys.”
idc about the purity i’m just wondering why you’re drawing on your sneakers?? like how does that work
no but let him cook
The pressure to get better grades, to pull off an amazing portfolio and college application, to make all the sacrifices worth it and actually get into Brown . . . it can fill me up sometimes, to the point where it’s hard to even breathe.
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
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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.
Hopefully, if I’m reincarnated, I’ll be born a boy.
It wasn’t until I was twelve, almost five years ago now, that I read this book that had a trans character in it: I Am J by Cris Beam. 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.
PERFECT GIMME 13 OF THEM RN
I’ve tried to wipe out all evidence of my past life: photos or videos where I have long hair, or where I’m wearing dresses, or anything society’s prescribed to girls. It just isn’t who I am anymore—who I ever was. It’s funny. In a way, I guess I did experience reincarnation. I’ve started a new life, in a new physical form. I got exactly what I’d wished for.
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.
OOOOH
“Well,” she said, “you deciding to be a guy instead of a girl feels inherently misogynistic.” She told me, “You can’t be a feminist and decide you don’t want to be a woman anymore.”
There’s a gallery on the lobby walls. There are always student art installations in the lobby during the school year, so I’m not really surprised. What does surprise me are the images. Photos blown up to about 16 x 16. Photos from my Instagram. Photos of who I used to be.
“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.”
FUCK OFF BOOOOOOO TOMATO TOMATO
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?
“I mean he knows that I’m a guy,” I say, ignoring the flinch of shame deep inside me—these days, I don’t even know if I’m a guy myself. “I don’t ever feel like I have to convince him of that. I mean that he calls me by my name: Felix.” “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.”
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.
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.
“Ezra,” Leah says, “are you bisexual, too?” Ezra’s a lazy drunk. He shrugs with a slow smile. “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
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“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.”
thekeanester123: I don’t really know, to be honest. I guess not knowing is a part of it all. Not even knowing what experiences I need to live to be inspired.
“Oh,” he says. He doesn’t say anything for a long time, and I think he’s
thekeanester123: I wish I could fall in love, too.
“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. Art for the sake of art, without any regard to other people—”
It’s larger, an artist’s hands with dried paint in the creases of his skin. Declan meets my eye.
very mature unlike SOME PEOPLE COUGH FELIX COUGH
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.
Because this is what’s weirdest of all. Sorry in advance. But I think I might be falling for you.
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’m not trolling you. I’m just telling you the truth. You were born a girl. You’ll always be a girl.
Everyone else has had years to figure themselves out already. They probably don’t question anything about themselves anymore. No annoying niggling thoughts about their identity. How did they know, finally, if they were a gay man, or a trans woman? How did they figure out their answers?
“I don’t know. Somehow, when someone is a jerk, their hotness level drops by at least fifty percent.”
day. I never take selfies, and I barely like glancing at myself in mirrors. Dysphoria’s played a huge part in that. It’s what Dr. Rodriguez first called the feeling I have when I see myself and I know that I don’t look the way I’m supposed to—the discomfort I used to have, in seeing my hair long and a chest that wasn’t flat. I’ve been lucky enough to see most of the changes I want to see, but I’m still the shortest guy of all my classmates, and sometimes, I can feel strangers’ stares
“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.”
I’ve been looking up a shit ton of terms, but every definition—every label—makes me feel more frustrated. 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.
I’m transgender, but I don’t feel like I’m a guy or a girl.
One of the results takes me to a Facebook event at the LGBT Community Center. The event is for a gender identity discussion group. It’s supposed to be tonight at eight o’clock, in about three hours. It’s a little too much of a coincidence, right? I click on “Going.”
You think it’s so cool and trendy to be transgender. It isn’t real. You’ll always be a girl.
“I figured it out pretty late,” I say, ignoring the tightening in my chest. It’s hard to ignore the question if I’ve actually figured myself out yet or not. “Late in comparison to all the stories I hear of people figuring out their gender identity when they were still in the womb, anyway.”
“I’m not saying anything against Felix, or trans people,” Marisol says, “but if someone decides they don’t want to be a woman anymore, to me, that just means they inherently don’t like women—”
“Everyone already thinks I’m an ignorant dumbass now. I wouldn’t have any reason to hide the fact that I did that stupid gallery.” “Do you know who it was?” “No, I don’t fucking know. But you know what? I’m happy whoever it was did it.”
“You’re jealous of me?” Ezra asks. “Or of Austin?” “Not jealous like that,” I say. “I mean—just jealous that you two even have each other, you know?”
u sure about that 🤨
“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 . . .”
It’s easier, I think, to love someone you know won’t love you—to chase them, knowing they won’t feel the same way—than to love someone who might love you back. To risk loving each other and losing it all.”
“I wasn’t lying before. I could tell Ezra wasn’t as into me as I was into him.” I frown, shaking my head. This isn’t the first time Declan’s said Ezra wasn’t into him. “What made you think that?” “Because I’m pretty sure he’s in love with his best friend,” Declan tells me. “That guy, Felix.”
His eyebrows are tight together. “It’s almost like you don’t want me to love you.” “I don’t,” I tell him.
