A real man would wait. I learned that during my self-taught boy boot camp this summer. I had some serious catching up to do, especially in the dating department. I spent late nights at my computer poring over girl advice on Reddit and watching rom-coms. I even read some of those cheesy pickup-artist books. Most of the “advice” in the books was bad and borderline illegal, but I did learn some things. And all my research would advise me to make her wait.
Mom comes through the door, arms full of bags from her Target score.
“A little help here, please,” she says.
I jump up, pocket my phone, and grab the bags from her arms. It takes five trips from the car to the kitchen to unload everything; it’s like a clown car of Target bags. I drop the last load on the table—a month supply of LaCroix—and wipe the sweat from my forehead. Mom is sitting at the dining table, flipping through the latest O magazine. She looks up and smiles.
“Thank you, honey. How was your first day of school?”
I got a girl’s number.
“Fine,” I say.
A booming voice comes from the front door. “I’m home!”
Dad announces himself when he walks in the door after work. Every night, without fail, he comes into the kitchen, gives Mom a kiss on the cheek, loosens his tie, and grabs a beer. He is all army, all the time. Even home life is a routine. He’s tall and strong with a tight crew cut, and he walks with a slight limp.
“What’s for dinner?” he asks, just like he always does.
“I picked up some Thai on the way home,” Mom says, opening the paper bag and filling the room with the smell of curry and ginger. Dad heads upstairs to get out of his work clothes, and I grab the plates and utensils to set the table. Eating a pound of pretzel M&M’s won’t stop me from enjoying some pad Thai and green curry. Also, family dinner isn’t optional around here. We sit down at the table with no TV or phones and eat like a family from 1953.
He reenters the kitchen in full Dad drag—frayed cargo shorts, an ARMY shirt stretched over the hint of a beer belly, and socks pulled up to his calves with sandals. He’s the very definition of a man’s man. It was completely naive of me, but I thought he would be happy that I was transitioning into a boy. He always wanted a son, and then he got one.
Once everyone has filled their plates, we go around the table and talk about our days. Answering this can be like tiptoeing though a minefield of potential explosions from Dad. Most nights, I try to gauge his mood and tailor my answer to that.
Tonight, Mom goes first. She is “feeling the heat” from coordinating the yearly fund-raiser for Meals on Wheels. That’s my mom for you, always thinking about others and trying to help.
They both look at me. My turn to report on my day. Dad seems distracted tonight but generally happy. I swallow a mouthful of creamy chicken curry and blurt out, “I got a job.”
Complete silence. Record-scratch moment. This is new information for my parents.
My mom tilts her head. “What will you be doing, honey?”
“I’m working in the movie business,” I answer.
They bust out laughing. I realize we didn’t discuss my official job title at the interview. I’m terrible at this.
“Personal assistant,” I guess. “I’m helping an old actor get his stuff in order.”
“Oh! A famous hoarder?” Mom loves celebrities and gossip.
“No, he’s . . . dying.”
Another record-scratch moment. I’m going for a high score tonight.
“How sad.” Mom covers her mouth. “What’s his name?”
“Ted?”
She gasps. “Danson?”
“No,” I assure her. “I mean, maybe. I don’t actually know his last name yet,” I admit.
“Why the need for employment all of a sudden?” Dad asks with an ominous tone.
“I need money,” I say.
“For what?”
“You know for what, Dad.”
“Don’t take that tone with me,” he says.
Mom jumps in. “Well, I think it’s great.” She’s always quick to defuse a heated moment between me and my dad.
“What does it pay?” he asks.
“Enough,” I say flatly.
He grunts. “Sounds weird to me. Some dying old man all alone in some house, and he wants to pay my daughter—”
Not your daughter.
“—to go clean and do god knows what. Helen, do you think she should do this?”
Not she.
My blood is boiling now. All my little pronoun victories from today gone.
“Dad,” I say.
“What?” he asks, faking innocence. His eyes meet mine; he’s ready for a fight.
Mom places her hand on his. “I’m fine with it, as long as your grades don’t suffer.”
And with that, Mom has ended this conversation. Dad goes back to eating.
After finishing dinner and clearing the plates, I head upstairs to my room and kick off my shoes. I find myself in the full-length mirror and watch as I unbutton my shirt, revealing my binder. I wear it under my clothes to smooth out my chest.
I had already developed boobs when I started taking hormone blockers. I was a year too late. I hate saying boobs almost as much as I hate having them. No, I hate having them more than just about anything.
Gender-affirming compression binders come in all shapes and sizes—the most popular fit looks like a sports bra—but I prefer the more masculine tank top. It’s basically a medical bandage undershirt made of thick polyester that’s so tight it restricts breathing and squishes my organs together.
Exactly what you want to wear for twelve hours on a hot summer day.
I have read stories about trans men developing medical issues from wearing cheap binders for too long. Serious stuff like collapsed lungs and broken ribs.
To me, it’s worth the risk. No matter how much I complain about these polyester torture traps, I wouldn’t leave my house without one on. Binders have become my protective layer, my second skin, my shield that makes me feel safe and more myself. This is the discomfort that I put myself through to feel more comfortable.
The term everyone is using now is gender dysphoria. It’s a fancy way of describing the distress of being in the wrong body. The level of dysphoria that a transgender person feels varies and often causes depression, anger, insecurity, and sometimes suicide.
I bind my chest to ease my discomfort. Chest binders aren’t a solution to my dysphoria, just an incredibly uncomfortable Band-Aid. The solution is top surgery, but I would need to rob a bank to afford it.
Removing the binder from my body is no easy task. (Putting it on is no walk in the park either.) I grab at the bottom like I’m removing any other shirt and take a quick breath to suck in my stomach. The trick is to yank the binder up and over my head in one smooth movement. Most of the time, the polyester clings to my body like it has abandonment issues. And occasionally, just to keep me humble, the binder gets caught around my shoulders, covering my face and trapping my arms over my head. I hop around like a bad magician unable to escape his straitjacket.
I count to three in my head and pull. The binder peels off easy this time. My skin goes cold and prickly, happy to feel air. I throw it across the room and take a deep, unrestricted breath. I’ve been waiting to inhale.