I spin around a couple times, the colors of the movie posters plastering my walls blurring together. I stop and return to the full-length mirror nailed to my closet door. Nothing more honest than a head-to-toe mirror.
My shoulders aren’t wide enough, and my posture is hunched from trying to hide my boobs all those years before binders. I wouldn’t say my body has curves, but my hips are round. There’s no exercise to unround hips; I checked. No body hair. And—I’m missing one important body part.
I hate that I hate my body, but I hate it.
Like Photoshop, I wish my body came with the Copy/Paste function. I’d paste a male chest over mine. Then I would drop in some abs with just a hint of six-pack, broader shoulders, and that trail of hair that starts at the belly button and goes down.
Most importantly, I would add a dick. Any size, don’t care.
After that was done, I would cut that body out and paste it on the beach. Swim trunks and no shirt. Girls spread out on beach towels checking me out. I am comfortable and happy and normal. I open my eyes and frown at the mirror. I am so far away from the body I want. This is my dysphoria.
I throw on a shirt and head over to the crown jewel of my room—an extra-large flat screen. My only present last year for Christmas. Worth it. I dig into Netflix and decide on a comfort movie (Kill Bill), saddle up to my desk, and crack open my laptop. First stop—without fail—is Twitter to catch up on anything that happened today, but the only trending topics are some celebrity’s spinout at a Shake Shack. I move over to Facebook and scan through the posts in a private group for trans teens from all over the world. There’s always good discussion on binding, dating, testosterone, and all sorts of random crap. Even though I joined the group over a year ago, I have yet to write one post or even a comment. I guess I’m stealth online, too.
Just for fun, I type Georgia Roberts into the search on Instagram. She’s got a couple hundred pictures and nearly a thousand followers. For context, I have sixty-three followers. The most recent post is a TBT picture of her at a football game, in which she’s getting hugged by a big fuzzy bear—183 likes. And here’s one of her at a concert with friends—122 likes. I’m careful to not accidently like any of the photos. And farther down the feed, a picture of some guy—a handsome guy—with his arm around her and a Christmas tree photobombing in the background—270 likes.
Reality comes crashing down on me. There’s no chance for me—a secret trans guy who looks nothing like that guy in the picture—with someone like her. I’m mad at myself for thinking I had a chance. I close out of Insta and take a deep, binderless breath.
It’s getting late. I’m fading fast. There’s one thing to do before hitting the sack. To be honest, I have put it off all day. I open Gmail and click on the email I have been trying to avoid:
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: August 26 at 3:40 p.m.
SUBJECT: Re: Transgender top surgery
Pony,
Thanks for inquiring about gender-affirming chest surgery.
To answer your question, here’s the checklist of what you will need to qualify for the procedure:
Mental health professional note documenting gender dysphoria
If under 18, letter of parental consent
Gender markers changed on legal documents
Down payment estimated at $12,500 (half of the procedure cost) with the remaining balance to be paid the day of surgery.
Let us know when you are ready for a consultation. Dr. King has years of experience in this field, and we are confident you will be happy with the results!
Thanks,
Trisha
They do not make this easy.
The doctor’s note and having the F(emale) changed to M(ale) on my birth certificate and social security card will be annoying. Lots of waiting in long lines at government offices. But doable. My parents will never consent to the operation, but that won’t matter in eight months when I turn eighteen. It’s the money. My new job will help, but it’s going to take years to come up with that amount. I have begged my parents for a loan with interest to no avail. I can still hear my dad: “Not one of my dollars will go to this, and that’s final.”
They think I’m going through a phase, and I’ll regret any permanent changes. If they only knew how it felt to live in this body, even for a day, they would be writing checks and driving me to the hospital. I hit Reply.
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: August 27 at 10:01 p.m.
SUBJECT: Re: Transgender top surgery
Hi Trisha, thank you for the information.
I will get back in touch when I am eligible for a consultation.
Have a great day,
Pony
I push around the little plastic dog toy on my desk that poops jellybeans. There’s only one way to get this surgery. After I graduate, I’m going to delay college and get a full-time job. Otherwise, I will be in binders for at least four more years, and I can’t even wrap my head around that possibility.
I get up from my desk, zombie-walk to bed, and spread out on the cool sheets. I crack open the assigned reading for AP English, The Catcher in the Rye, but keep reading the same sentence over and over, thinking about Georgia.
My studying is interrupted by shuffling feet outside my door.
“Mom?”
She peeks her head in. “Didn’t want to bother . . .”
I set my book down. “You’re never a bother, Mom.”
She comes in and starts picking up clothes off my floor. “So”—she lowers her voice—“are you going to be all right working with someone who won’t be around much longer?”
I have only been though one death—my grandma’s. She passed when I was a sophomore, and it was awful. It was so sad that Rocky almost cried. A sight I have never seen. She might have been born without tears. But I knew Nana all my life and loved her. I won’t know this guy, not really. And I need the money.
“Yeah, I guess,” I say. “Ask me again in a month.”
“I will, honey.” She sits down on my bed. “You know, your father tries. He does. It’s harder for him.”
“I know, Mom,” I say, because I love her.
She runs her hand through my hair, messing it up.
“Thank you, Mom.” I don’t need to explain why.
“I love you, son.”
Son.
TWO
Wednesday, August 28
GEORGIA, 7:10 A.M.
My phone alarm wakes me—OMG, it’s so loud. I’m pushing around the magazines on my bed in hopes of locating my phone and stopping the madness. I zonked out last night while reading an article in the New Yorker about the drama behind the curtain of a Broadway musical.
I find my phone (under my pillow), stop the alarm, and see a text from an unsaved number. It must be Pony. On the record, I don’t usually give my number to a guy that quick. Off the record, I blame all the endorphins running through my body from the prank. And how cute he looked.
I open the text: Hope u had a good first day, Georgie.
Why would Pony say that? And why would he call me Georgie? We aren’t there yet.