The Painful Privilege Of Passing

The night of my ‘passing,’ I realized I’d achieved in six months what some never achieve their entire lives.

“You are lovely.”

The man was clearly drunk, but still I smiled and looked down at my hands, pretending to be occupied with my nails. It was a gesture formed from years of being uncomfortable with direct eye contact, and one this man noticed.

“You’re very coy, aren’t you?” he continued. I replied with something I hoped seemed nonchalant and he went away, floating on an invisible cloud of cocktail-fueled happiness. His departure finally allowed my best friend and I to enjoy a breathtaking view of the Atlanta skyline. We had left my friends at their loud-yet-entertaining dive bar of choice, to sit here for a quiet moment and appreciate the evening.

We talked, but I don’t remember what was said. What I do remember is being barely able to focus for most of that night, because about 15 minutes before my encounter with the intoxicated gentleman, one of my girlfriends had leaned in and whispered with barely-contained excitement: “Do you realize no one can tell you’re a boy?”

Setting aside the misgendering (which I forgave when I realized, with much amusement, that my friend was very tipsy and very high), I was…