Symptoms of Being Human

  I bring up a picture of Derek. Looking at his face on the cracked screen rekindles my old anger; he shouldn’t have dropped me like that. I shouldn’t have let those girls get to me this morning. And Solo should have stood up for me at lunch.

  The thoughts ricochet frantically off the edges of my mind. The buzz of anxiety grows louder now, making my head hum like an electrified fence, threatening to break out and return in full force.

  I close my eyes and focus on the big three—the coping mechanisms Doctor Ann says I’m supposed to employ when I start to feel out of control. One: breathe. This part I seem to have mastered. I take a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. It helps, a little. Two: practice acceptance. This seems impossible after the day I’ve had. Who am I supposed to accept—the girl who called me “it”? Jim Vickers, who referred to me as a “tranny”? Or Solo, who sat by and watched it happen? No. I don’t think I can accept any of them just now.

  That leaves number three, the one I’ve been resisting since Doctor Ann insisted I start a journal blog, way back when I was still at Pineview: share. She told me that, in the old days, she made her patients keep journals; but for me, she prescribed an anonymous blog so I could interact with “people like me” in a “risk-free” way.

  So, when I got out of Pineview in the middle of September, I started a Bloglr account under the username “Alix,” which I picked at random from a baby name website, altering the spelling to make it more ambiguous. Over the past month, I’ve read and “liked” and reblogged dozens of posts by “people like me” all over the country. But I have yet to attract any followers, and the closest I’ve come to posting a single word of my own was this morning’s aborted attempt.

  But lying here, listening to the frenetic, unapologetic wailing emanating from my speakers, I figure desperate times call for desperate measures.

  Miss Kerns always told me she liked my compositions; she said it was a gift to be able to work things out with words the way I did. So maybe I can work this out. It’s not like anyone is going to read it.

  I sit up, pull my laptop toward me, and open the Bloglr log-in screen. The green frog logo blinks at me as I enter my password, and then I open a new post and begin to type.

  NEW POST: BOTH AND NEITHER

  OCTOBER 1, 4:45 PM

  My name is Alix. And the first thing you’re going to want to know about me is: Am I a boy, or am I a girl?

  Don’t worry. I’m used to it; it’s the first thing everyone wants to know—even when I’m standing right in front of them. And, even if they don’t come right out and ask, I can tell they’re thinking it, because they narrow their eyes or tilt their heads slightly to one side. At best, it’s invasive curiosity; at worst, open condemnation. Either way, they want an answer: Girl. Or. Boy.

  I look up from the keyboard and read what I’ve typed out so far. It sounds sort of defensive, almost like I’m pissed off at my imaginary reader—but at the same time, it feels good to get it out.

  Anyway, it’s not that simple. The world isn’t binary. Everything isn’t black or white, yes or no. Sometimes it’s not a switch, it’s a dial. And it’s not even a dial you can get your hands on; it turns without your permission or approval.

  “Okay,” people say, “but you were born one way or the other. Like, biologically. Anatomically.”

  As if they have a right to know! As if, since I’ve so rudely failed to make it obvious, I ought to wear a sign.

  Well, it’s none of their damn business.

  You think I’m unaware that my gender isn’t immediately apparent to you? You think I didn’t choose these clothes and this haircut specifically to avoid being stuffed into one pigeonhole or another?

  I’m gender fluid. Not stupid.

  /rant

  Okay. I’m sorry. I don’t actually want to antagonize you, imaginary reader. It’s just hard to explain—but I’ll try.

  Ugh. How do I describe this without sounding like a Wikipedia entry? I’ve read dozens of posts on Bloglr and sites like QueerAlliance, but none of them get it quite right—at least, not right for me.

  I walk over to the turntable and put on a new record, something a little rawer, and then sit back down at the keyboard.

  NOW PLAYING: “Where Is My Mind?” by the Pixies

  The truth is, some days I wake up feeling more “boy” and some days I wake up feeling more “girl.” And some days, I wake up feeling somewhere in between. It’s like I have a compass in my chest, but instead of north and south, the needle moves between masculine and feminine. I know it’s not like that for all gender fluid people—but that’s the best way I can describe how it is for me.

  But no matter where my internal compass points, my body remains the same. And some days—maybe half the time—I feel alien inside it. Like the curves and angles are in all the wrong places. Like I was born with the wrong parts. It’s a heavy, suffocating feeling—my doctor calls it dysphoria—and it makes concentrating in class (not to mention surviving in the halls) nearly impossible.

  On days when it’s really bad, dressing in a way that fits how I feel inside—a way that matches the direction my masculine/feminine compass is pointing—seems like the only thing that might relieve the dysphoria. But I can’t always present myself how I want to. If I show up feminine on day one, people will assume I’m always a girl. Then, if I show up the next day dressed like a guy, they’ll react: taunts, ridicule, even violence. I’ve seen it happen. Because I live in the most gender binary place in the known universe: Park Hills, California.

  And let’s not forget my parents. If I were to start ping-ponging all over the gendersphere, my dad’s blood pressure would skyrocket, and my mother would chew off her fingers—because I haven’t told them yet.

  I’m just not ready.

  So I have to settle for looking “neutral.” My safe zone is in the middle of the masculine-feminine continuum, somewhere between a tomboy and a feminine-looking guy; which means I always feel slightly fake, like I’m in costume. I can’t remember the last time I felt comfortable in my own skin.

  And, okay, I get it; it’s confusing. I understand why people wonder, and why they give me weird looks and ask me invasive questions. But the thing is, they do a whole lot more than just wonder and ask questions. People can be cruel.

  People can be very cruel.

  So, imaginary reader, while I’m certain that you’re a unique unicorn, you are not the first person to wonder what’s between my legs. And maybe this blog can be a place where I don’t have to address that particular issue. A place where my identity is not constrained by my anatomy, or by the gender binary confines of my concrete-and-stucco suburban prison. A place where I’m free to be what I am.

  Whatever that is.

  #firstpost #genderfluid #GenderFluidProblems

  I sit there for a minute with my finger hovering over the trackpad. My mouth is suddenly dry. Sure, I’ve disguised my identity by making up a fake username and choosing a vintage photo of David Bowie as my avatar, but suddenly, it feels like clicking Post is the equivalent of outing myself to school, Mom, Dad, and the entire US House of Representatives. I scroll up, delete “Park Hills, California,” and replace it with “Stucco Town, USA.”

  I click Post.

  Then I stare at the wall for a long moment, feeling something between excitement and terror. I don’t know whether to fall onto my bed and bury my face in my pillow or jump around the room, squealing like a guinea pig on meth. On the one hand, it feels good to have said it “out loud.” On the other hand, I feel exposed. Like I’ve just broadcast my darkest secret over the school PA system. It’s true, no one reads my blog. But they could. It’s out there now.

  I exhale a long breath and reach for the keyboard to log out, when I notice that there’s a little blinking icon in the upper right-hand corner of the screen. The text hovering next to it reads:

  yell0wbedwetter is now following you

  I feel a smile of satisfaction spread across my face—and that’s when I no
tice that the buzzing feeling has receded way into the background. It’s almost gone.

  Son of a bitch; blogging is therapeutic.

  I log out and close my laptop. I’m reaching for my French textbook when my mom suddenly calls up from downstairs.

  “Riley!”

  I flinch in surprise and drop my book. I didn’t even know she was home.

  “Are you going to hide up there all night, or would you like to come down and have dinner with your family?”

  I glance at my phone: it’s past seven o’clock. I was so involved in writing that blog post that I didn’t even hear the garage door. So much for homework. I call down to her, “I’ll be right there.” Then I flip off the light and head downstairs.

  The table is ridiculously packed with dishes—and, upon seeing my incredulous expression, Mom says, “Don’t judge me, it’s a special occasion.” No kidding, she gestures to the food on the table like the hostess from one of those blender infomercials, giving me a goofy smile. I sit down, and she sets a gargantuan plate of pasta in front of me.

  “Vegan cashew-cream ravioli!” she says, her voice pitched high with enthusiasm.

  I take a bite, and my eyes roll back in their sockets. “Oh my God, Mom, this is so good!” I say it with my mouth full, and it’s true. My father tears into his bloody steak and grunts appreciatively. Mom, having received unanimous approval, takes her place at the table.

  I sense an electric charge in the air, like the way it feels before a thunderstorm—an area of low pressure. Eager to forestall first-day-of-school questions, I turn to my dad and execute evasive maneuvers.

  “So,” I say, “how did the session wrap up?”

  My mother shoots me a disapproving frown—she’s seen through my tactic—but it works on my dad, who promptly sets down his fork and clears his throat.

  “It was infuriating,” he says. “The committee seems intent on stripping my bill of any real punch before it goes to the House. Or, they’re stalling because they think it’s a reelection tactic.”

  “That must be so frustrating,” Mom says. She’s doing her best to sound involved without stirring the pot.

  “I just hope they pull their heads out long enough to prevent the collapse of public education,” Dad says, gesturing emphatically with his fork. “I doubt anyone in their families has attended a public school for four generations.”

  I bite back a comment about how I hadn’t, either—right up until five weeks before the election. Opponents of Dad’s bill made a huge deal about my transfer, calling it “political maneuvering.” It’s not a fair judgment, though. Not that I haven’t been used as a pawn in Dad’s campaign before—photo ops with his sullen teen make him seem more “real” to the voters—but in this case, I was as eager to leave Immaculate Heart as Dad’s consultants were to get me enrolled at a public school. I wanted out because of the way the other students were treating me—so I agreed to do it, on the condition that they waive my PE requirement. So, as my dad would say, it was a win-win.

  Except it’s turning out to be no different than Immaculate Heart. I guess it was naive to think that kids at Park Hills would somehow be more open-minded just because it’s a public school.

  “But enough shop talk,” Dad continues, turning to me. “How was your first day?”

  And, the questions begin. As practiced, I execute my casual shrug and say, “Fairly consistent with the impending collapse of public education.”

  Dad smiles. “I see they haven’t managed to tame the Cavanaugh sass.”

  I shake my head. “Not yet.”

  He picks up his fork and knife again. “Make any new friends?”

  I glance up at him, watching the perfectly congressional patches of gray hair on his temples twitch as he chews—and I’m struck by a sudden urge to stand up and start spilling my guts. To tell them everything: my morning bout of dysphoria. Being called it the moment I set foot on campus. The lunchroom Gauntlet, Solo’s betrayal, the boy with the lip ring and the bright-blue eyes.

  But I won’t. It would be what my mom calls “opening a can of worms.” Inviting a conversation I’m not ready to have. Because after what happened today, I don’t know what I would do if my parents rejected me, too. So I just shrug, look down at my plate, and poke at the now-congealing cashew cream with my fork.

  “Well,” Dad says. “Taking your time isn’t a bad strategy. I did the same thing when I got to Congress.”

  I don’t reply, and the quiet stretches out for a long moment. Finally, Mom can’t stand it anymore.

  “So,” she says, turning to my father, “has Shelly finalized the seating chart for Thursday?” The question sounds rehearsed; something’s up.

  “What’s Thursday?” I ask.

  Dad clears his throat. “It’s one of our last big dinners at the Grand Lido.”

  My heart twinges. They’re going to ask me to go. I know they are.

  I hate fund-raisers. Between the noise and the crowd and the clothes I have to wear, I feel like an animal on display at the zoo. And the last time they asked me to attend one of these dinners, I couldn’t handle the pressure, and I ended up riding to Park Hills Community Hospital in the back of an ambulance.

  “Riley,” Dad says. He doesn’t use his congressman voice; but that’s probably a calculated choice. All of his choices are calculated. “I know these events aren’t your favorite part of the process.”

  “But you’ve been doing great,” Mom says. “We think you’re ready.”

  Dad nods. “This is a big one, Riley. We need you there.”

  I don’t look directly at either of them; instead, I let my gaze linger in the space between, and my eyes drift out of focus.

  “Okay,” I say.

  Dad nods and pats Mom’s hand before taking up his fork and knife again. “This will all be over in five weeks.”

  I try to smile, but I can’t seem to fake it.

  When I’m finished eating, I retreat to the kitchen, thinking I’ll drop my plate in the sink and escape to my room—but Mom follows me in. It’s an ambush. I give her a quick smile and try to move past her—one last attempt to avoid further questions—but she stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

  “Hang on a second,” she says. “I want to talk to you.”

  I stop and look at her. “Okay. About what?”

  Mom sighs and reaches up to push my bangs out of my eyes. “I know how you must be feeling,” she says.

  “Really?” I say, raising my eyebrows. “How is that?” I don’t mean for it to come out sounding angry, but it does.

  Mom opens her mouth, then closes it, then opens it again. She looks ridiculous, like a spilled goldfish gasping for oxygen—and then I realize that I do the same thing when I’m at a loss for words, and my anger flares even hotter.

  Mom shrinks back at the look on my face, and I’m immediately ashamed. The snarky retort I had on deck dies before it reaches my lips. She drops her eyes. “You’re right. I probably don’t know. I went to high school in another century.” She looks up at me. “Was it a really bad first day?”

  “It was fine,” I say. I can tell she’s not buying it, so I go on. “It’s just . . . normal stuff. New-school jitters. That’s all.”

  Mom frowns; she knows there’s more to it, but she doesn’t know what or how much. I consider making up a story—some uncontroversial bad-day scenario that will alleviate her concern—but something in her look stops me. There’s confusion on her face, but there’s tenderness, too. My heart seems to swell, and I wonder if there’s a way she could understand. If I just tell the truth.

  But I’m pretty sure the truth would break her heart, and my father’s, too.

  I’m their only kid, and sometimes I feel guilty for being how I am. I think maybe they would have been happier with a son who would play football like Dad did. Or, maybe Mom might have preferred a daughter she could paint her toenails with and take to ballet lessons. But instead, they got me—something they don’t quite understand and tend to handle al
ternately like a glass figurine and a feral cat.

  No, I can’t tell her what’s really going on. But I have to tell her something.

  “It’s . . .” My voice trails off. I don’t know what to say.

  Mom finishes the sentence for me. “The other kids?” she says, pretty much hitting the bull’s-eye. But I don’t want to go there, so I deflect.

  “It’s the campaign, you know. All the attention. I’m not . . . I just really want to blend in here.” This last part sort of slips out without my permission. I didn’t intend to be so honest, and now there’s a lump in my throat.

  “Well,” she says, tilting her head to one side as she takes in my appearance. “Maybe ‘blending in’ is overrated.”

  CHAPTER 5

  I TRY TO SLEEP, but little snippets of the day’s events keep playing over and over in my head, like the looping DVD menu sequence of some bad high school movie. After staring at the ceiling for I don’t know how long, I sit up and turn on my computer.

  NEW POST: GENDER FLUID DYSPHORIA BLUES

  OCTOBER 2, 1:04 AM

  Dear Follower (singular),

  I can’t sleep. Right now, I’m sitting on my bed, hating my body. My arms feel wrong. They’re not soft or supple, but they’re not firm or muscular, either. My chest is, like . . . too slender to be masculine, but too angular to be feminine. I don’t feel “girl” or “boy” right now, I just feel . . . other. I feel wrong. Sometimes this happens after a long day of dressing neutrally; it’s like I need to press Reset or something. I wish I knew how.

  I need something loud to drown out this feeling, so I get up, plug my headphones into my record player, and drop the needle. And then I sit back down on my bed and start to type again. I read what I’ve written, decide that it’s a load of self-pitying drivel, and almost delete it—but then I think about Doctor Ann, and how she says complaining isn’t therapeutic, but sharing is. Fine, then. I’ll “share.”

  NOW PLAYING: “Transgender Dysphoria Blues” by Against Me!

  I remember the exact moment I realized I was different.