trans

I looked at myself in the mirror today at work. And I saw something new. I saw a boy.

I was wasting time in the bathroom. They’d sent us home early, and I didn’t want to lose all that money. I could linger in the bathroom for a few minutes and be justified as I washed the dust and dirt off my arms. By and large, I don’t pull stunts like this… but it was like this every day this week. We were supposed to be working full time hours, but the company could get away with only giving us 4 hours in a day. So they did. Every single day for two weeks.

I was tired of it, so I was protesting in a very small way. 5 extra minutes in the bathroom, when I’d normally take only the needed amount. A pitiful defiance, really- the wasted time wouldn’t even buy a cup of decent coffee. But I stared into the mirror.

My face, masked as always at work during the Pandemic. Barely-visible, easily-dismissed eyes behind large glasses perched atop the face-swallowing mask. A blue mask, of course. Middling blue today. My hair, cut very short and near-freshly dyed: sapphire blue, fading a bit at the very front as some of my natural golden shine tried to re-assert itself. The result: a more seafoam blue at my forehead than the true sapphire I prefer.

I looked past my face, to my torso. My chest, with the breasts my genetics determined I’d grow. Not so large as to be intrusive and cause back problems. Large enough to not be missed. Broad, manly shoulders- a gift from my father’s side of the family. Most of me is built on a larger scale. Shoulders and hips to start, but legs too. I’ve been overweight most of my life, but because of how big I am, I carry it well.

I returned my own gaze calmly. I’ve been known to unsettle people simply by looking at them. Nobody’s ever told me why. I assume it’s the intensity of the expression. It comes in handy sometimes.

My clothes were work standard. A work t-shirt, grey today to match my mood in the morning. Brownish-grey cargo shorts. Underneath, a plain white sports bra (over a decade old- don’t fix what isn’t broke), and plain white underwear. By and large I don’t give a crap about undergarments. Other people do, and that’s fine. It’s just not my thing.

Bemused, I pressed down on my chest. With my breasts out of the equation, I looked even more like a boy. Inexplicably standing in the women’s restroom.

I don’t particularly identify as male. There’s nothing affirming about being told I’m “manly.” “Capable,” yes. “Strong” or “authoritative” perhaps. But masculinity and the toxicity that so often goes with it is really of no interest to me. I don’t love hunting or fishing or shooting guns or explosions. Or violence.

And really, masculinity shouldn’t be defined by those things… and perhaps it no longer is, as the times change. But it’s how I see it I guess. And gender is, after all, a psychological construct.

I’ve experienced moments of joy when referred to as “sir” or “young man” (by a half-blind older man as I held the door for him). The easy answer would be to assume that’s because I’m a trans man in denial. And that could still be it… but I don’t think so. The answer is a bit more complicated.

I think, thanks to the Internet, I’ve come to see “male” as the default human. When I was growing up, people assumed you were a guy in virtual spaces unless you specified otherwise, or your voice gave you away. Since I stayed away from voice channels, I was merely annoyed by the joke “there are no girls on the Internet.”

In time, though, rather than loudly proclaiming my identity as a vagina-haver, I simply let people think I was male. And thus, rather than bringing gender baggage into the equation, they were more likely to treat me like an equal and a fellow human. And so that was my default.

Real life doesn’t work that way. People of my generation and older look at a person and automatically assign them “male” or “female” based on presentation and physical features. Sex and gender are usually assumed to be one and the same. They are not, obviously.

But I think that mid-point is what I’ve been unconsciously aiming for. T-shirt and jeans or shorts are more “masculine” clothes, but they’re also what’s comfortable for me. I don’t experience dysphoria around my chest. I’d get rid of my breasts for being mildly annoying, but they’re attractive to more than half the world, plus the surgery is expensive. So why bother?

It was a strange, but valuable, experience. I understand a bit better why I identify as non-binary.