The mirage of youth
Run your fingers down my cheeks
Jawline smooth as sage
What makes you so sure my chin has always been so smooth?
Like river rock who was born perfectly skippable
Perfectly worn in.
You see a boy, can’t be older than twelve and a half
Well, double it, ma’am — I’m here for my pap smear.
Breasts molded into pecs
Like gourds grown in envelopes
And shoulders broadened by decades of hauling around a body
That has never been mine.
Like when a server brings you somebody else’s order
And shame hitches a ride to the scallops sliding down your throat,
(Un-adams-appled),
Unsolicited, tender flesh.
Except this time I can’t just swallow
When I have to calculate the fluid dynamics
Of the shallow breaths I let seep in through my binder.
Voice and hair discordant
Clear and gray like a prism on a cloudy day
A damn waste
Anachronism.
This piece was inspired by the July prompt in Lifeline: insecurity. I have put many hours of work into wearing down the insecurities that are intrinsically linked to my transgender identity. It has taken me six years of self reflection to start to recognize my whole self worth, but I am still not without daily insecurity over how others perceive me out in the world. In particular, I struggle being frequently read as a pubescent/pre-teen cisgender boy, when I am halfway through my twenties and have worked hard for many years to get to the place I currently inhabit. It is hard holding your head above the weight of imposter syndrome in your professional and personal life when everyone around you assumes that you have a 6th grade education and can’t say the word boobies without laughing (okay, maybe the latter is a little true…).
I was much happier than my friends when I received my first gray hair at around 19 or 20. Finally — a signal to the confused waitress who offered to hold my hand and show me the little boys room. I am actually not a little boy, and I don’t need you to hold my hand! Just to be treated with dignity and not second-guessed for the bathroom I am asking for directions to would be great, thanks. Today, I have a few patches of gray on the sides of my head and can only hope that they embolden my confidence as society becomes more and more aware that there are, in fact, people with short hair and smooth chins and squeaky voices and flattened chests who represent a myriad of genders and ages. And that we all deserve your respect.
