That Time I Thought I Might Be Trans
When I was in elementary school, my life revolved around recess. Half the time, I was playing some particularly spirited soccer with the guys, and the rest of that hour was devoted to giving face time to the classmates I found especially interesting (the girls at the tetherball thingy). I always made sure to show them how rough I was out there (read: grass-stained knees, sometimes a good scrape), and how go-hard I could be (read: exaggerated panting as I ran up to them, making sure to let my sweat run down my face and neck). I had a few chick-buddies who were used to my schtick … but the new girl, who wasn’t particularly interesting anyway, thought she’d have some back when she asked: “Are you a boy or a girl?” I was shocked at the question, embarrassed into silence.
“That’s not nice,” one of my friends said in my defense. “Elle is a girl.”
The new girl tried to play it off like she honestly didn’t know, but it was clear that I was female. I had the long hair, the touch of pink in my tennis shoes, and I just … didn’t look like a dude, dude! (Right?)
That evening, I couldn’t shake this weird feeling that I might actually look like a boy to her because I was presenting myself as a boy through my actions. I mean, no other girls ever dared to get rough with the guys on the soccer or football field. None of them read comic books or talked at length about Ninja Turtles episodes, obsessed over Super Nintendo games, or built ramps to jump a bike on. I had no hangout buddies who were female. I did absolutely nothing with other girls but flirt. (That was actually a golden age for the young lesbian me, as the dudes hadn’t come into their own and couldn’t give two shits about girls.)
However, in the coming years, the guys sprouted upward and started taking notice of the ladies — especially at our sacred space: the skating rink. Now, instead of horseplaying on eight wheels, the guys kept their sneakers on and tried to get girls to a darkened corner for a very different kind of play. And the girls took to that like ducks to water, which infuriated me.
If I were a dude, they’d be doing that with me, I realized. This isn’t fair! I told my Mom that I was supposed to be a boy, but she didn’t buy it. Still, she let me cut my hair short, in defiance of my feminine locks. I stopped wearing anything that came from the girls’ aisle. I was supposed to be a dude and God royally screwed me out of my proper body. Although I had no idea about transfolk back then, I would’ve certainly considered myself of their ilk. I was a boy trapped in a girl’s body, and I felt every bit as uncomfortable as that would be. I was angry at times, and depressed at others.
This went on for awhile, until I eventually entered middle school and went long-hair, dirty-flannel grunge. I was in a garage band (weren’t we all?) and found one of the (hot!) neighborhood chicks hanging around a little more than others. I thought she was into the frontman, but when she started walking me home, it dawned on me: She’s actually digging you, ya dummy! One night after practice, she said what I’d needed to hear for a few years: “I like when girls do things that usually only guys do, like play drums. Tomboys are cute.”
Tomboy? Tomboy! Yes, of course! (Why didn’t I see that earlier?) I’m actually supposed to be a girl, because I couldn’t be a “cute tomboy” if I were a dude. And man, did I fall in love. I fell ass-first into the stuff and she did the same. She’d watch me as I played, smiling and bobbing along. She’d ignore the guys as they made suggestive comments. She’d come over and wipe the sweat from my brow during a break and relish in my new version of grass-stained knees.
I still think of this from time to time, how gender identity is some powerful and mind-f*cking stuff if you have issues with it. Some transfolk still get the “Are you a boy or a girl?” business from grown-ass people, and can easily and understandably succumb to rage and depression. The stats on trans suicide (and homicide) are tragic, enraging, and depressing as hell.
What I mean to say is that, in a small part, I empathize with my trans brethren. Being treated as an outcast was something I (kinda-sorta) outgrew once I found my footing, but others aren’t as fortunate. So to all my trans buddies who feel out of place, go hunt down a tomboy and know that many of us wouldn’t mind wrapping an arm around you and hoping we can be there as you find your footing, too.
