Next Chapter
Flashback
Picture it: Northern Indiana, late 80's. Reaganomics were rebuilding a struggling economy for all white men that were already rich. America is captivated by dancing, dried out prunes that surfed. We were all on the brink of Crystal Clear Pepsi, a void that is still unable to be filled... I was five, getting ready to start kindergarten.
A mother and three children walk into K-Mart to peruse the clothing section. It's hoppin'.
Mom: Do you know what you want to wear?
Me: I don't need new clothes, Mom. I have neon-green biker shorts and my shirt changes color when you put your hand on it. I'm good!
Mom: No, we need to get you some new clothes. Why don't we get you a neat, new outfit for your first day? There are a few cute shirts that are already matched up with skirts you could wear! How about that?
Me: I DON'T WANT TO WEAR A SKIRT. I want pants like M.C. Hammer.
Mom: No, you need to look nice. Here, look at these. There's a red one with two bears shearing an ice cream soda, or a blue one of a bear cheerleader. Which one do you like best? I think the red one is nice...
Me: I guess I'll take the blue.
Mom: Why do you want the blue one?
Me: Because, blue is for boys. I'm a boy, so I can wear blue.
Mom: (Sighs and rolls eyes, immediately looking exhausted) No, honey. We've been over this. You're not a little boy. You're a little girl. Girls can still wear blue, though, so you can have the blue one. You'll see one day, sweetie. You're a girl.
Me: (Looking utterly appalled and offended) Why do you have to say that to me?
Mom: Because it's true, honey. (Smiles and laughs slightly) You'll see. One day you'll grow up and you'll want to wear skirts and look nice in dresses and you'll even want to wear a bra! (She says this teasingly)
Me: No. I won't.
Mom: You'll see.
Me: You'll see! When I grow up, if I get boobs, I'm cutting them off.
>End Scene<
IT IS TIME.
I can't remember how often it was mentioned when I was younger, that one day I would develop breasts, and that somehow these masses of tissues would usher me into my misplaced femininity. That with them would come a curtsy, painted fingernails and a revolving door of boyfriends. What was never promised to me, however, was that I would want these things.
It was embarrassingly late in the game that is Life (not to be confused with Milton Bradley's interpretation, although I would always have men marrying men in that game which will make for another entry another day...) that I realized the biological difference between myself and the neighborhood boys that were my best friends. It was even more embarrassingly late in the game that I realized I was done growing in the area I thought I was just a little behind in... A "late bloomer," as I had heard people that hadn't "blossomed" yet be referred to. I thought, for quite some time, that my penis had yet to reach it's potential. This led to many, many, MANY awkward moments in my life (and who are we kidding, still does!). One in particular led to the banishment of showering with my father. Apparently, I asked my mother when my tail was going to grow in "like Daddy's." It was tub-time with my sisters only after that. But, that little person grew up and never grew out of desiring things not meant for them. They grew and adapted and compromised and cried and lost themselves and felt lost to themselves. Then, they persevered, built themselves up with a community and found friends, hope and a voice. It's a shaky voice that's still unpredictable and can't carry a tune, but a voice nonetheless. And that awkward voice is making good on a promise made by a child that didn't know any better than to be true to themselves.
I am extraordinarily happy to report, I am making good on five-year-old me's promise: I'M GETTING TOP SURGERY.
The who's and how's and when's are yet to come, but it is a financial certainty, and finances have always been what has stood in the way. I have a letter, I'll have the money; now it's about finding who and when.
I cannot express how much I've wanted this. I've dreamed about it so vividly that I cried when I woke up and found myself to still have breasts attached. I've had to go through four agonizing years of binding; the cuts in my shoulders, chronic sweating and unneeded pressure on my bones. Taking off my glasses to look in the mirror because it just doesn't look right, like looking at a child's math paper where two plus two somehow equals five. With everything in you, you know it isn't right. They aren't your rules, you've just come to accept it as a truth that is non-negotiable. Two plus two is four, dammit, and if it isn't, the terrorists win.
Thank you to everyone who has supported me emotionally, spiritually, logistically, pragmatically and financially over the years. I would not have been able to keep the spirit of that adamant child alive without you all. I'll post when I know more for sure.
WOO-HOO!
Picture it: Northern Indiana, late 80's. Reaganomics were rebuilding a struggling economy for all white men that were already rich. America is captivated by dancing, dried out prunes that surfed. We were all on the brink of Crystal Clear Pepsi, a void that is still unable to be filled... I was five, getting ready to start kindergarten.
A mother and three children walk into K-Mart to peruse the clothing section. It's hoppin'.
Mom: Do you know what you want to wear?
Me: I don't need new clothes, Mom. I have neon-green biker shorts and my shirt changes color when you put your hand on it. I'm good!
Mom: No, we need to get you some new clothes. Why don't we get you a neat, new outfit for your first day? There are a few cute shirts that are already matched up with skirts you could wear! How about that?
Me: I DON'T WANT TO WEAR A SKIRT. I want pants like M.C. Hammer.
Mom: No, you need to look nice. Here, look at these. There's a red one with two bears shearing an ice cream soda, or a blue one of a bear cheerleader. Which one do you like best? I think the red one is nice...
Me: I guess I'll take the blue.
Mom: Why do you want the blue one?
Me: Because, blue is for boys. I'm a boy, so I can wear blue.
Mom: (Sighs and rolls eyes, immediately looking exhausted) No, honey. We've been over this. You're not a little boy. You're a little girl. Girls can still wear blue, though, so you can have the blue one. You'll see one day, sweetie. You're a girl.
Me: (Looking utterly appalled and offended) Why do you have to say that to me?
Mom: Because it's true, honey. (Smiles and laughs slightly) You'll see. One day you'll grow up and you'll want to wear skirts and look nice in dresses and you'll even want to wear a bra! (She says this teasingly)
Me: No. I won't.
Mom: You'll see.
Me: You'll see! When I grow up, if I get boobs, I'm cutting them off.
>End Scene<
IT IS TIME.
I can't remember how often it was mentioned when I was younger, that one day I would develop breasts, and that somehow these masses of tissues would usher me into my misplaced femininity. That with them would come a curtsy, painted fingernails and a revolving door of boyfriends. What was never promised to me, however, was that I would want these things.
It was embarrassingly late in the game that is Life (not to be confused with Milton Bradley's interpretation, although I would always have men marrying men in that game which will make for another entry another day...) that I realized the biological difference between myself and the neighborhood boys that were my best friends. It was even more embarrassingly late in the game that I realized I was done growing in the area I thought I was just a little behind in... A "late bloomer," as I had heard people that hadn't "blossomed" yet be referred to. I thought, for quite some time, that my penis had yet to reach it's potential. This led to many, many, MANY awkward moments in my life (and who are we kidding, still does!). One in particular led to the banishment of showering with my father. Apparently, I asked my mother when my tail was going to grow in "like Daddy's." It was tub-time with my sisters only after that. But, that little person grew up and never grew out of desiring things not meant for them. They grew and adapted and compromised and cried and lost themselves and felt lost to themselves. Then, they persevered, built themselves up with a community and found friends, hope and a voice. It's a shaky voice that's still unpredictable and can't carry a tune, but a voice nonetheless. And that awkward voice is making good on a promise made by a child that didn't know any better than to be true to themselves.
I am extraordinarily happy to report, I am making good on five-year-old me's promise: I'M GETTING TOP SURGERY.
The who's and how's and when's are yet to come, but it is a financial certainty, and finances have always been what has stood in the way. I have a letter, I'll have the money; now it's about finding who and when.
I cannot express how much I've wanted this. I've dreamed about it so vividly that I cried when I woke up and found myself to still have breasts attached. I've had to go through four agonizing years of binding; the cuts in my shoulders, chronic sweating and unneeded pressure on my bones. Taking off my glasses to look in the mirror because it just doesn't look right, like looking at a child's math paper where two plus two somehow equals five. With everything in you, you know it isn't right. They aren't your rules, you've just come to accept it as a truth that is non-negotiable. Two plus two is four, dammit, and if it isn't, the terrorists win.
Thank you to everyone who has supported me emotionally, spiritually, logistically, pragmatically and financially over the years. I would not have been able to keep the spirit of that adamant child alive without you all. I'll post when I know more for sure.
WOO-HOO!