Symptoms of Being Human (4 page)

“Are you going to hide up there all night, or would you like to come down and have dinner with your family?”

I glance at my phone: it's past seven o'clock. I was so involved in writing that blog post that I didn't even hear the garage door. So much for homework. I call down to her, “I'll be right there.” Then I flip off the light and head downstairs.

The table is ridiculously packed with dishes—and, upon seeing my incredulous expression, Mom says, “Don't judge me, it's a special occasion.” No kidding, she gestures to the food on the table like the hostess from one of those blender infomercials, giving me a goofy smile. I sit down, and she sets a gargantuan plate of pasta in front of me.

“Vegan cashew-cream ravioli!” she says, her voice pitched high with enthusiasm.

I take a bite, and my eyes roll back in their sockets. “Oh my God, Mom, this is so good!” I say it with my mouth full, and it's true. My father tears into his bloody steak and grunts appreciatively. Mom, having received unanimous approval, takes her place at the table.

I sense an electric charge in the air, like the way it feels before a thunderstorm—an area of low pressure. Eager to forestall first-day-of-school questions, I turn to my dad and execute evasive maneuvers.

“So,” I say, “how did the session wrap up?”

My mother shoots me a disapproving frown—she's seen through my tactic—but it works on my dad, who promptly sets down his fork and clears his throat.

“It was infuriating,” he says. “The committee seems intent on stripping my bill of any real punch before it goes to the House. Or, they're stalling because they think it's a reelection tactic.”

“That must be so frustrating,” Mom says. She's doing her best to sound involved without stirring the pot.

“I just hope they pull their heads out long enough to prevent the collapse of public education,” Dad says, gesturing emphatically with his fork. “I doubt anyone in their families has attended a public school for four generations.”

I bite back a comment about how I hadn't, either—right up until five weeks before the election. Opponents of Dad's bill made a huge deal about my transfer, calling it “political maneuvering.” It's not a fair judgment, though. Not that I haven't been used as a pawn in Dad's campaign before—photo ops with his sullen teen make him seem more “real” to the voters—but in this case, I was as eager to leave Immaculate Heart as Dad's consultants were to get me enrolled at a public school. I wanted out because of the way the other students were treating me—so I agreed to do it, on the condition that they waive my PE requirement. So, as my dad would say, it was a win-win.

Except it's turning out to be no different than Immaculate Heart. I guess it was naive to think that kids at Park Hills would somehow be more open-minded just because it's a public school.

“But enough shop talk,” Dad continues, turning to me. “How was your first day?”

And, the questions begin. As practiced, I execute my casual shrug and say, “Fairly consistent with the impending collapse of public education.”

Dad smiles. “I see they haven't managed to tame the Cavanaugh sass.”

I shake my head. “Not yet.”

He picks up his fork and knife again. “Make any new friends?”

I glance up at him, watching the perfectly congressional patches of gray hair on his temples twitch as he chews—and I'm struck by a sudden urge to stand up and start spilling my guts. To tell them everything: my morning bout of dysphoria. Being called
it
the moment I set foot on campus. The lunchroom Gauntlet, Solo's betrayal, the boy with the lip ring and the bright-blue eyes.

But I won't. It would be what my mom calls “opening a can of worms.” Inviting a conversation I'm not ready to have. Because after what happened today, I don't know what I would do if my parents rejected me, too. So I just shrug, look down at my plate, and poke at the now-congealing cashew cream with my fork.

“Well,” Dad says. “Taking your time isn't a bad strategy. I did the same thing when I got to Congress.”

I don't reply, and the quiet stretches out for a long moment. Finally, Mom can't stand it anymore.

“So,” she says, turning to my father, “has Shelly finalized the seating chart for Thursday?” The question sounds rehearsed; something's up.

“What's Thursday?” I ask.

Dad clears his throat. “It's one of our last big dinners at the Grand Lido.”

My heart twinges. They're going to ask me to go. I know they are.

I
hate
fund-raisers. Between the noise and the crowd and the clothes I have to wear, I feel like an animal on display at the zoo. And the last time they asked me to attend one of these dinners, I couldn't handle the pressure, and I ended up riding to Park Hills Community Hospital in the back of an ambulance.

“Riley,” Dad says. He doesn't use his congressman voice; but that's probably a calculated choice. All of his choices are calculated. “I know these events aren't your favorite part of the process.”

“But you've been doing great,” Mom says. “We think you're ready.”

Dad nods. “This is a big one, Riley. We need you there.”

I don't look directly at either of them; instead, I let my gaze linger in the space between, and my eyes drift out of focus.

“Okay,” I say.

Dad nods and pats Mom's hand before taking up his fork and knife again. “This will all be over in five weeks.”

I try to smile, but I can't seem to fake it.

When I'm finished eating, I retreat to the kitchen, thinking I'll drop my plate in the sink and escape to my room—but Mom follows me in. It's an ambush. I give her a quick smile and try to move past her—one last attempt to avoid further questions—but she stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Hang on a second,” she says. “I want to talk to you.”

I stop and look at her. “Okay. About what?”

Mom sighs and reaches up to push my bangs out of my eyes. “I know how you must be feeling,” she says.

“Really?” I say, raising my eyebrows. “How is that?” I don't mean for it to come out sounding angry, but it does.

Mom opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. She looks ridiculous, like a spilled goldfish gasping for oxygen—and then I realize that
I
do the same thing when I'm at a loss for words, and my anger flares even hotter.

Mom shrinks back at the look on my face, and I'm immediately ashamed. The snarky retort I had on deck dies before it reaches my lips. She drops her eyes. “You're right. I probably don't know. I went to high school in another century.” She looks up at me. “Was it a really bad first day?”

“It was fine,” I say. I can tell she's not buying it, so I go on. “It's just . . . normal stuff. New-school jitters. That's all.”

Mom frowns; she knows there's more to it, but she doesn't know what or how much. I consider making up a story—some uncontroversial bad-day scenario that will alleviate her concern—but something in her look stops me. There's confusion on her face, but there's tenderness, too. My heart seems to swell, and I wonder if there's a way she could understand. If I just tell the truth.

But I'm pretty sure the truth would break her heart, and my father's, too.

I'm their only kid, and sometimes I feel guilty for being how I am. I think maybe they would have been happier with a son who would play football like Dad did. Or, maybe Mom
might have preferred a daughter she could paint her toenails with and take to ballet lessons. But instead, they got me—something they don't quite understand and tend to handle alternately like a glass figurine and a feral cat.

No, I can't tell her what's really going on. But I have to tell her something.

“It's . . .” My voice trails off. I don't know what to say.

Mom finishes the sentence for me. “The other kids?” she says, pretty much hitting the bull's-eye. But I don't want to go there, so I deflect.

“It's the campaign, you know. All the attention. I'm not . . . I just really want to blend in here.” This last part sort of slips out without my permission. I didn't intend to be so honest, and now there's a lump in my throat.

“Well,” she says, tilting her head to one side as she takes in my appearance. “Maybe ‘blending in' is overrated.”

I TRY TO SLEEP
, but little snippets of the day's events keep playing over and over in my head, like the looping DVD menu sequence of some bad high school movie. After staring at the ceiling for I don't know how long, I sit up and turn on my computer.

NEW POST: GENDER FLUID DYSPHORIA BLUES

OCTOBER 2, 1:04 AM

Dear Follower (singular),

I can't sleep. Right now, I'm sitting on my bed, hating my body. My arms feel wrong. They're not soft or supple, but they're not firm or muscular, either. My chest is, like . . . too slender to be masculine, but too angular to be feminine. I don't feel “girl” or “boy” right now, I just feel . . . other. I feel wrong. Sometimes this happens after
a long day of dressing neutrally; it's like I need to press Reset or something. I wish I knew how.

I need something loud to drown out this feeling, so I get up, plug my headphones into my record player, and drop the needle. And then I sit back down on my bed and start to type again. I read what I've written, decide that it's a load of self-pitying drivel, and almost delete it—but then I think about Doctor Ann, and how she says complaining isn't therapeutic, but
sharing
is. Fine, then. I'll “share.”

NOW PLAYING: “Transgender Dysphoria Blues” by Against Me!

I remember the exact moment I realized I was different.

It was my sixth birthday, and my dad took me to Toys“R”Us to pick out my own present. I was allowed to choose one thing, and I walked the aisles for what felt like hours to my six-year-old self. Finally, I narrowed it down to two possibilities. The first was a blue Power Ranger—I remember I wanted it because it had a shield that lit up when you pushed a button on his belt. The second was a Bratz doll. She had enormous brown eyes and long, dark hair with a purple streak running down one side. I was totally fascinated by that purple streak.

I held the two packages side by side, looking from one to the other, unable to decide. When I glanced up at my dad for help, his expression was . . . weird. I knew something was wrong, that for some reason, he didn't approve of my choices—but I didn't know why.

So I put down both toys and walked on to the next aisle.

Looking back, it probably wouldn't have been that big of a deal if I'd chosen one or the other. But that uncertain look in my dad's face—that was the moment I knew there was something different about me.

We ended up getting some stupid Pirates of the Caribbean board game; I was disappointed, but I could tell from my dad's body language that it was a safe choice. And that's what I've been trying to make my whole life.

Safe choices.

Until I turned fifteen. There was a local news story about a transgender girl who sued her school district for the right to use the girls' locker room. I must have read the story on five different news sites, and then I voraciously inhaled every blog post and YouTube response I could get my eyes on. At some point during my research, I came across the term “gender fluid.” Reading those words was a revelation. It was like someone tore a layer of gauze off the mirror, and I could see myself clearly for the first time. There was a name for what I was. It was a thing. Gender fluid.

Sitting there in front of my computer—like I am right now—I knew I would never be the same. I could never go back to seeing it the old way; I could never go back to not knowing what I was.

But did that glorious moment of revelation really change anything? I don't know. Sometimes, I don't think so. I may have a name for what I am now—but I'm just as
confused and out of place as I was before. And if today is any indication, I'm still playing out that scene in the toy store—trying to pick the thing that will cause the least amount of drama. And not having much success. Which leaves me with this question:

What would it take to change something?

I rub my burning eyes and stare at the question I just typed out. As I read, the words seem to lose their meaning. I glance at the clock.

Holy crap, single follower, it's almost two a.m. I guess we'll have to wait for an answer to that question.

Good night, Bloglr.

#genderfluid #GenderFluidProblems #GenderDysphoria #AgainstMe!

I click Post and lean back against the wall. I haven't thought about that day in the toy store since I was a kid. I'm not even sure I remembered it until I typed it out—but now, the details hover, fresh and vivid in my memory: the rough denim of my dad's jeans against my cheek as I clutched his leg. The dark lines that formed between his eyebrows as I looked up from the toy packages, seeking his approval. That sensation of compression, of being trapped, of knowing there was something wrong with what I wanted, and that I had to hide it from everyone—especially my dad.

And then, sitting there on my bed, remembering—it's like a dam breaks, and a dozen other memories flood my mind at
once: staring at my reflection in one of those angled shoe-store mirrors when I was six or seven, thinking there was something wrong with my body. Glancing up to gauge my dad's expression as we picked out books in the children's section at Barnes & Noble. Riding home from the salon with my mom, hating my new haircut. Sorting through paint swatches the summer we moved here, watching her face for that smile of validation as I picked out colors for my room. Struggling to choose the “right” eighth-grade elective. Shopping for clothes. All the decisions I made to hide the feelings I didn't understand—and every single choice altered by the fear that I would choose wrong, and that my parents, or my teachers, or the people at my school would reject me. My whole life, designed around hiding.

But today, even with all my careful forethought, I couldn't hide. People at school still knew something was different.

I grab my phone and turn on the selfie camera so I can look at myself. I run a hand through my messy hair, brushing my bangs out of my eyes and watching them fall right back into place. A cracked image stares back at me, and it doesn't look anything like I feel.

The clock on my laptop changes from 1:59 to 2:00, and I decide I'd better try to get some sleep unless I want to wake up tomorrow looking like an androgynous harbinger of the zombie apocalypse. I'm about to log out of Bloglr when a little red envelope icon appears in the upper right-hand corner of my screen, indicating I have a new message. I click it, and a new window pops up.

Anonymous: your a fag

And suddenly, I feel very awake.

Alix: Dear Anonymous, while I'm eager to illustrate for you the difference between sexual orientation and gender identity, I think we had better start with a more fundamental concept:

Apostrophes.

What you meant was, “You're a fag.” “Your,” sans apostrophe, is possessive, as in “your devastating lack of creativity,” while “you're” is a contraction of you + are, as in “you're a homophobic asshole.” I hope this sheds some light on the misery that is your life.

Love,

Alix

#genderfluid #homophobia #grammarpolicearrestthisperson

I could reply privately—but I decide that this particular anon would benefit from a little public smackdown. So, with a rush of righteous triumph, I click Post. I watch the screen for a solid minute, waiting for a snarky reply to pop up, but nothing happens. Apparently, even the trolls have gone to bed, and so should I. Like leprechaun gold, the triumph is fleeting, and now exhaustion takes its place. I close my laptop, drop my head to the pillow, and fall asleep.