Felix Ever After

by Kacen Callender

He’d already known for years, but he didn’t say anything because he was so afraid of what we would think. I can’t blame him for being afraid. The stories you hear.

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. I’m a freaking guy.

It’s like we’re all brainwashed from the time we’re babies to think that we have to be straight.”

“Why do you have to choose?”

bisexual / pansexual

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?

“Morality, at its essence, defines what is human,” I say. “Keeping questions of morality out of art suggests keeping humanity out of art itself.”

“There needs to be moral judgment in creation.”

In the meantime, can I see a handshake and a truce?” She’s taken things too far. Declan’s roll of eyes shows he agrees with me.

“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.

It’s easy to assign roles to people.

I did the whole coming-out thing, and I put my dad through so much.” “Okay, sorry, just—let me interrupt you real quick,” Ezra says. “You didn’t put your dad through anything.

“There’s just this niggling.” “Niggling?” “Yeah. A niggling. Like something isn’t quite right, you know?

“I love you, Felix. Okay?”

“Just let me know if I should use different pronouns for you.”

The parade is just a little too . . . emotional, I guess? Everyone screaming, people crying, those freaking floats where people are literally getting married and having their first freaking dance—I mean, I don’t know. It’s just all a little much for me, but Ezra loves that shit. He says that the Pride March is a place of pure joy. Whatever the hell that means.

“Don’t worry,” Ezra says. “You’re still my number one.” “Who’s worried? I’m not worried.”

“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.”

“Why do you want to go to Brown?”

I just want to prove, I guess, that I can get into Brown. That I’m worth an Ivy League school.”

“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.” I open my mouth to argue, but he keeps going. “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?” My mouth is still open, but now, no sound comes out. “I think you are,” he tells me, still watching me—totally unashamed

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.

Doesn’t seem super healthy.

This is its own particular brand of evil—telling someone that they can trust me, hoping that they’ll tell me something personal, just so that I can betray them.

“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.”

new. I noticed that you never paint yourself. Why is that?”

day. I never take selfies, and I barely like glancing at myself in mirrors. Dysphoria’s played a huge part in that.

What the hell is my identity? I’ve been looking up a shit

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.

everyone. 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 think it’s really brave of you,” Leah says. “I mean, I guess? I’m just being myself. There’s nothing brave about that.”

“We’ve still got a long way to go,”

“We should probably start making those changes with ourselves first, don’t you think?”

“I can still be a feminist and be trans,”

“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.”

What’s it like, to be in love and have that other person love you, too?

Can’t you love someone without them loving you? Yeah, of course, but is unrequited love being IN love, or is that admiration, love from afar?

“The issue is that we’ve never really gotten to see our own stories,” Declan tells me. “We have to make those stories ourselves. Even if a creator made a character to be straight, they put those characters out into the world, right? So those characters are mine now. And I say that Steve and Bucky are gay as hell.”

Ezra whispers. “Can I kiss you?” My gaze snaps up to his. “What?” He doesn’t repeat himself.

My first kiss.

How do we find and cultivate pride for each other and ourselves when we’re in a world that seems like it doesn’t want us to exist?”

It’s hard to feel pride for who I am when it feels like the rest of the world doesn’t want me to.

“I’m not looking for their approval,” Sarah says, obviously pissed by the question. “It hurts. That’s all I’m saying. It hurts to not be included, to be rejected—especially when it’s by people you thought would understand and accept you.

it. Create my own world, my own bubble, so I don’t have to be rejected by anyone else.” “The only issue with that idea,” Tom says, “is that not everyone has the privilege, or the ability, to create that bubble we all crave.”

“What should I be spending my energy on instead?” “Yourself,” he suggests. “Loving and accepting and celebrating yourself, and loving and celebrating and supporting the young women like you who will come next.

creating our own world, not just for ourselves in our bubble, but one that can spread to those who need it most—one filled with our stories, our history, our love and pride—that’s just as beautiful. That’s just as necessary.

“It’s just,” I say, clearing my throat. “It feels like there are so many options, so many genders. How do you know which one is right?”

“If this was a perfect world, and there wasn’t any transphobia or treating other people like shit for who they are, then maybe there wouldn’t be a need for labels. But the world isn’t perfect, and when I have to deal with ignorant bullshit, it helps me to know there’re other trans guys out there.”

“How do you know which one does feel right?”

“What if I never get that feeling?”