Felix Ever After

by Kacen Callender

When I first met Marisol in class, I’d been impressed by her—and intimidated. There was something . . . I don’t know, intoxicating about her confidence. Marisol knows that she’s beautiful and talented and intelligent. She doesn’t question if she’s worthy of respect and love. When I asked her out last summer, just a couple of months after my top surgery, I was still getting used to my new body, feeling a little insecure with all the stares I would get, people clearly confused about my gender . . . and I guess I hoped some of Marisol’s confidence would rub off on me.

I’d startled, fear clutching my heart. I was worried I’d done or said something sexist without realizing it. “I’m sorry,” I said automatically. Then, “Why am I a misogynist?” “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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“You’re right,” he says. “I am privileged. And I can forget that sometimes. I’m sorry if I seemed ungrateful. I know that I’m really fortunate to have this life. But not knowing what I want to do, not wanting to be forced to follow my father’s footsteps and freaking out about it—that’s all real and valid, too.”

I think it might be my dad, asking me where I am, but I see that it’s a notification from Instagram. I get a bad feeling, and the feeling sinks even lower when I see who the message is from: grandequeen69. I already know that reading the message is a bad fucking idea, but I open my in-box anyway. Why’re you pretending to be a boy?

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 feel like I can’t look at anyone without thinking that they might be grandequeen69. It could’ve been Marisol, keeping up with her ignorant, transphobic shit,