Authors: Kristin Elizabeth Clark
Freakboy
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C
ONTENTS
My Brain Takes Me Freaky Places
At Home with Trick-or-Treaters at the Door
How Do You Know When the Time Is Right?
Gloom Seeps Over Different Expectations
Some Truths Don't Go Over So Well
So What if Last Night Didn't Go as Planned?
Sometimes the Real World Hurts
College Applications, Round One
Because Going Home Is Such a Ride
The Second-to-Last Present I Got
Gonna Ignore Those Bad Manners
Next Day, Shopping with Andy Sucks
Satin and Silk and Lace and Perfume
Brendan's Sick on New Year's Eve
But Cinderella Perfection Can't Last
Today Was Just Another Crappy Day
When (or if) to Disclose Birth Gender
Dateless, Friendless on a Friday Night
Funny Timing That Boys' Night Out
Thank You, God, for Everything
Five O'clock, the Most Beautiful Hour
Brendan's Mom and Stepdad Leave
Angel Was So Pissed Last Night
Even Predictable Explosions Are Scary
Vanessa's Car Idles Near the Bus Stop
You Know That Feeling of Falling
The Night Before Wrestling Finals
Nerves at the Sight of a Sweet Bungalow
Asking Myself the Biggest Question
Lillian Bruner's Having a Party
There Is No Tidy Ending for Someone Like Me
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To every Freakboy and Freakgirl out there:
You are not a freak.
And you are not alone.
Â
A
UTHOR'S
N
OTE
There are as many expressions of gender identity as there are individuals. No two are exactly the same. I would never in a million years attempt to tell
the
transgender story. All I can do is tell
a
transgender story and cross my fingers that people will be interested enough to start asking their own questions.
It is my hopeful intention that this will lead to conversation that will in turn draw us all along the path to a greater understanding and acceptance of gender's vast and lovely variation.
Peace and Love,
Kristin Elizabeth Clark
Pronoun
A pronoun is a ghost
of who you really are
short
sharp
harsh
whispering its presence,
taunting your soul.
In you
of you
but not
all you.
Struggling,
my own
He She
Him Her
I You.
Scared that
for scrambled-pronoun
Me,
We
might never
exist.
(BRENDAN CHASE)
The Name Is Brendan
Dinner table,
silverware gleaming.
Claude the Interloper finishes
telling a story.
Mom passes me steak.
                    “How was your day?”
She's chirping, despite
surgery two days ago.
I shrug
the missed bus,
shrug
the half-hour wait for the next one,
shrug
the wrestling practice that blew.
Don't bother to elaborate.
Mom hates Coach
(almost) as much as I do.
Freshman year
she wanted me to skip holiday practice
so what was left of our family
could go on vacation.
Coach described the importance of
“consistent training and conditioning.”
Said he always mentioned “dedication”
in his college letters of recommendation.
She wavered and then
he told her flat out that
I was the weakest link
and always would be if I was a
mama's boy who'd miss training.
She was ticked, but
we stayed in town
with the other manly
and dedicated jocks.
He was on my ass today
for getting caught
by a head-and-arm drag.
A crappy thing itself,
our faces so close.
Still he yelled.
And through all the drills
my head wasn't in it.
Wrestling Didn't Always Suck
Miller Prep Academy
requires a six-term
commitment to
at least one sport
and at first
it seemed like
less torture
than the others.
No ball to get nailed by,
or drop. No baton to fumble
in the last leg of the relay,
pissing off your teammates.
Just you and
your opponent.
Grappling
one on one.
But four years
of relentless splat on the mat have
brought out a bunch of little hells
I'd never even considered
so that now
I hate touching other guys.
I hate my own body.
And most of all?
I hate Coach Childers.
He calls me Brenda.
I Know What He's Saying
But I like girls. Always have,
even in elementary school.
Sandbox dust in my nose,
jungle gymâblistered hands.
Hanging with the guys,
