Kids and Babies and Being Queer/Trans/Masc/Man-like

Originally posted on August 18, 2024

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Last week, I found ease on an expensive couch in an historic, adorable neighborhood in the city where I live. At age 34. I sat tall and breathed without effort, as my friend’s toddler squished the side of his little body next to mine. We were two books on a bookshelf. He stayed just for a moment, then settled into his own tall seat a few inches away from me. His curious eyes were glued to the TV the whole time, as he gazed in adoration, transfixed by Elsa’s strokes of blue, shiny gown, and powerful vocals. She built a castle around her, a sanctuary of ice and snow and glitter and rage. She built a tower of love and protection, freeing herself from herself. Freeing herself from the way people make her feel about herself. She let go. I want to do that. 

Before my transition, the world assumed I was a woman. In fact, the world told me I was a woman. Since before I could remember. Quite literally. When my mother announced her pregnancy, legend has it that my sister – who had two brothers already – prayed endlessly that God would give her a little sister. If she was good enough. If she prayed hard enough. Allegedly, God delivered. Well, and so did my mom. 

The hospital said, “it’s a girl!” They even printed it on paper and informed the government. I can only imagine the pride beaming in my parents’ faces to spread the Good News. To announce to my sister that God is real, Jesus loves her, and Lo and Behold! Her prayers were answered. Before I had a chance to even observe the world around me with my own eyes and being, a few people with the most power over who I might become told me — and each other — who I was. What I was. The ways I was supposed to act. How a lady behaves. When I am supposed to speak. When I am supposed to be quiet. How to move. Don’t move. Think. True thoughts only. What to feel. Not feel. 

Do not feel too loud.

I can’t blame my parents or my siblings for succumbing to preconceived (pun intended) notions of gender, of misogyny, of sexism. This is systemic. This is conditioned. This is internalized. This can also be unlearned. I know this to be true from my own experience, because I grew up with the same messages. And today, I get to unravel my unlearning more and more each day. I get to uncover who I really am. How I really feel. How to express those feelings. How to take up space. How to take space, and how to listen. How to choose who to listen to. How to trust myself. How to trust others. How to choose who to trust. How to allow myself the freedom to develop my own beliefs. How to access my intuition. How to feel my body. How. to. feel. my. body. 

As Elsa’s final note echoed through the living room and the dancing stopped, this beautiful family of three (four including the dog) began their evening rituals to move towards bedtime. I stood up to leave, finding a gracious exit, as we exchanged a few sweet hugs and bid each other heartfelt good-byes. I wandered down the sidewalk as the sun began to set. I felt bewitched. A light flickered inside me, a gentle yet firm reminder that some dream of building a family of my own is still alive somewhere. That I’m allowed to want that. And perhaps it could be as gentle and familiar and silly and simple as this. Perhaps I could build a bookshelf, or borrow a blank space in the stacks of a library, for a volume of books who stick together. 

Before I started gender-affirming hormones, my expression had shifted into a masculine era. I smashed my triple D chest into a binder, layered under 2-3 shirts in the dead of the Texas summer, scraped up $9 for a pair of knock-off vans from Walmart, and capped off my looks with a backwards hat and whatever pair of BOY jeans I could get my hands on from secondhand stores. I bought a men’s wallet. I did notice the irony of buying a wallet with my last few dollars and not having anything of value to store inside it. But I wanted to show people. I wanted the world to see. I wanted people not to see.

I remember the first time I scared someone. I remember feeling affirmed. Men are scary, so this person must have perceived me as a man. That was a lot to take in. I opened the screen door at the same time they emerged from the inside, and I could feel the hairs raise on their body. They were surprised. So was I. They gasped. We laughed. It wasn’t funny.