I Was a Boy. I Was a Girl. I Was SEVEN.
Transgender trauma, white-knuckled.
It’s stunning, really.
I was SEVEN.
I was seven when I first wished I had been born a girl.
I was seven when I first tried on women’s clothing.
I was seven when I first walked into the world after one shameful night.
I was seven when I first felt terrified about what everyone would think.
I was seven when I first realized this wasn’t a joke.
I was seven.
SEVEN.
At seven I was in second grade.
Did you hear me? SECOND GRADE.
By second grade, I had suffered through a couple years of suburban school yard activity. This is a place where gender is on clear display. Second-grade boys comparing machismos while the girls formed cliques of their own. Long since systemically sorted by genitals. No doubt, kids have a sense of gender identity before seven. And I desperately wished I could stand in the other line. Away from those I perceived as beasts that I was doomed to be paired with. Gross.
From this era, my memories as images are no longer super clear to the mind’s eye. I have now added years upon years of memories marked by different images, creating a sort of patina on the lens of history, distorting what once was so fresh and new. In sepia tone, these images don’t pop quite so as the newer ones. But there are a few memories that are crystal clear — emotions I felt at the time still cling to my soul.
In the late 70's and early 80's, a school recess game called smear the queer was popular. The game was stupid simple and somehow also simply stupid. A thing (often a Nerf football) was thrown in the air for the group to attempt to catch, much like it is in a game of 500. Except that when playing smear the queer, the item is most often not caught but rather run from. The person nearest the item (the “queer”) must pick it up and then run to avoid getting tackled (“smeared”) by the rest of the group. Once smeared, the queer throws the item again and play resumes.
I really hope I do not need to go into any detail for you to understand in just how many ways this game is so not OK. It was the early 80’s, what can I say? We were all just so lucky to escape the 70’s alive! The bar was low.
And also, I cannot emphasize enough just how much I feared getting anywhere close to the fallen queer-making item as it took flight overhead. It haunted me long after recess, or that day… or my entire childhood. I rationalized in my head over and over again — if I had to pick it up and run, I would run like the wind! I was a good runner, but I lacked all confidence to think that I could actually outrun an angry mob of 2nd graders gleefully yelling “smear the queer!”
All of us girls hated this game. We all tried to steer clear of this game if we could. Most of the boys loved this game. They all puffed out their chests like martyrs, reveling in “having” to run from the mob. They weathered the smearing decidedly and proudly with a red face but NO tears, and mightily heaved the item back into the air — or heaved it directly at anyone avoiding the melee just to spite them.
Especially us girls. Of course no one ever actually smeared a girl, that would lead to cooties or detention or both. But those assumed to be boys standing around with girls, way over there by the wall so as to find solidarity in our mutual disgust in boyhood snips and snails…? Without question. We were smeared.
…uh, yeah. Like I said, second grade. It was then that it was clear to me — something had gone terribly wrong.
Absolute clarity on this point sure might have been a rather convenient truth on which to noodle at the time. Along the way it could have helped me shape many decisions, instead of what ended up being more of a meandering path for way too long. Meanwhile I was weighed heavily by the existential internal conflict brewing within. If only.
But, despite the lack of clear definition to these feelings, I was acutely aware that I already had a closet. Seven. And sometimes once you think a thing, you can’t un-think a thing. The darker the thing, the harder it is to shake. I wish I was born a girl? That I couldn’t shake.
Seven. Freak.
In order to survive I began a struggle that haunted me day in and day out.
I grew up and got old. I wish I was born a girl.
I switched elementary schools. I wish I was born a girl.
I was captain of the boys swim team in high school. I wish I was born a girl.
I played co-ed water polo in college. I wish I was born a girl.
I had a hippie phase and so loved my vices. I wish I was born a girl.
I got a job. And another. And another. A career.
I wish I was born a girl.
And so I made a decision.
This is crazy. What I want is unattainable. I just can’t. And, so.
Never. Ever. Tell. A. Soul.
I slowly learned to bury my thoughts away. I could get through whole days at school without thinking about it. I wish I was born a girl. I was gawky because I was running everything through a filter. But I was terribly shy, opening up only in small groups, and definitely only with familiar people. I was the follower in almost every friendship I had. I was rarely the one. I was the plus one.
I stressed over my appearance yearning hoping to fit in somewhere. I was picked on frequently for being uncool until junior high. Chasing cool is a fools errand. I struggled to find clothes that matched the images in my head. Some of the images I had to filter — ignore — definitely not talk about. I wish I was born a girl. Once in a while I would make a guffaw, and my confidence would be shaken.
It wasn’t until my sophomore year in high school that I had any confidence at all. I had friends, and we honestly shared interests. I would have grown up a bit tomboyish for sure. tried to make good on everyone’s assumptions, until I couldn’t anymore. I tried to be the boy they thought I was. I wish I was born a girl. I was good at it, but underneath I wasn’t able to move beyond that thing I thunk that I can’t un-think.
It ate at my cortex like a dog on a bone. My nerves were constantly frayed from struggling to hold the closet door shut despite the growing pressure from within. For decades I found some modicum of success, but by 40 my girlhood was oozing out from under that door uncontrollably, melting everything in it’s path into pink fluffy cotton candy. I wish I was born a girl.
These years were hard on me. All of them. To move beyond childhood in America we must make commitments. We forge official relationships with people and organizations. These are all based on trust, and most of us learn early lessons that that trust is so — so fragile. There were in fact many times where I considered whether or not to allow those entrusting me with my most private of thoughts in return. To do so was sure to incite armageddon, and so I locked this one away. Certainly no workplace need know about this. That would be crazy talk. I wish I was born a girl.
And of course like yours my intimate relationships relied on trust — a couple may have no intimacy without it. So there were little peeks into my world over the years. I wish I was born a girl. I skirted with how to let these people into that last unlocked vault. I wanted to. But I struggled greatly in this area because the repercussions were always so grave. Fear of the potential loss overcame my good senses. I felt certain of the doom that would come.
In the end, I wasn’t far off.
I married. Twice.
I divorced. Twice.
I had a baby. Twice. They are quickly growing up too.
I really did talk myself into white knuckling this for the rest of my life. For my wife, I will make it go away. I can do this for her. I owe her at least that.
And I tried. She knows. I tried. I just couldn’t anymore.
Love,
Nicole
