Crossing the Intersection of the Lost Trans and Queer Childhood
Dismantling the traffic jam of grief to move forward
“Are you ok in there, Em?”
I stood in the changing room, mouth pursed in frustration and holding a bra. Even on my best days, my hands and I rarely get along. Any finer handiwork is a consistent ordeal — like, say, hooking together tiny clasps behind my back.
Perhaps sensing the bat signal had lit, Jake stopped outside my changing room. Given that we’re both transitioning in opposite directions, we’ve offered one another a leg-up on more than a few occasions.
The first time he wanted to shave his face, he planned to do so with nothing but hot water. A not-impossible task, I told him, better served by a quality lather and some post-shave moisturizing. One of the few things about manhood I’ve internalized for necessity’s sake is the art of a close, irritation-free facial shave.
This time, standing in the changing room, I was, and admittedly often am, the one in need of a little coaching.
“Actually, would you mind coming in? I don’t think I can get this on.”
