I’m a guy.

I mean, I’m an unusual kind of guy. And when I say I’m an unusual kind of guy, you probably assume I mean I’m a guy who is unusual for other reasons besides the fact that he is a guy. But no, the thing that’s abnormal is that I am a guy. Confused? Yeah. Me too.

Now. Imagine how confusing it must be to explain that to everyone you meet. People start to look at you like you’re Doctor Seuss. They start to think it’s a riddle. That I’m trying to trick them. That I’m a joke, something they need to shield away from their kids because somehow I’m automatically too much for the adults, let alone the children, to comprehend. Painful to think about, right? Now imagine saying that in the South. Where people don’t care much for being confused, for some new intellectual stimulation. Where they instantly label you as mentally disturbed. As another one of those gays. And meanwhile, they probably have a confederate flag swinging from the back of their mud-covered Land Rover. Their children in the back, covered with the scent of sucked down cigarettes and thoughts about crosses and being holy.

Every stereotype about the South, I assure you, is 110% true. The fact that I’m a guy, I assure you, is 110% true. How do the two collide?

I just so happen to live in southern Virginia. And be an unusual guy.

Now. How can someone possibly be transgender in such a bigoted town, where the N-word is used in every breath by every color of lips? Where the F-word is rewarded at just the slightest sign of male femininity? Where people can’t even begin to comprehend the definition of bisexual? How can someone possibly be transgender in such a bigoted town?

Easy solution. You don’t.

You just stop being transgender.

You just ignore the ache you feel every time where someone gets those pronouns wrong. You just ignore the stares you get when people wonder what you have down there. You just ignore the thoughts that ravage in your mind saying this isn’t you. This isn’t you. You just… forget. You keep living a lie in southern bumf*** Virginia, and you do what you can to survive. And you hope, just hope, that one day you won’t end up like everyone else in this town.

I watch them. It’s funny to watch how much of them are the same. White skin. Slightly mustached. Country drawl. Straight. Gun-carrying.

It makes me disgusted to want to be a man.

It makes me wonder why I even want to be a man.

“Hey.”

Chloe.

“Hey,” I croak, smiling. That hey jolts me out of everything. And I’m so, so grateful. And I’m even more grateful that it’s Chloe. Chloe, the only other tolerable non-cishet person in this school. I mean, the name Chloe is already pretty gay. Except she’s not gay. She’s a riddle, too.

She sits down daintily. Her pretty lips caress a beautiful, warmly toasted burger. She looks shyly at me. And with that, she lets out a glorious, “I f'ing hate Mr. Causi.”

“Oh, Really?” Snickers flood through me,  appreciatively biting the ketchup-flooded fries before me. “What could you possibly hate about the teacher who got into a debate with you about whether or not Elsa should have a girlfriend?”

She sighs. “He thought I was being homophobic. But the thing is, I really think she shouldn’t have a boyfriend or girlfriend.” She picks out the soiled lettuce from deep within her burger. “Like, no one talks about asexual or aromantic rep. She doesn’t need someone. She’s already so independent. We do need more gay though when it comes to the entire Disney-universe. But… Elsa deserves to be single, I guess. No single Disney princesses exist… except, like Moana. But in her words, she isn’t even a Disney princess.” She takes a deep breath. That’s it for logical arguments, time to roast Mr. Causi. “Well, today he kind of gave me this sad-ass head shake. You know? Like that smile, and a shake. Like I’m some kind of joke. And then on top of it all, he gave us a really hard quiz today. And I guessed on, literally, every question. There’s no way I passed. He’s just… ugh I can’t do this anymore. All because of a stupid Disney princess.” She takes a breath, as if she’s about to continue.

I smile. “You done?”

“No. Listen, we are so underrepresented. And-.”

“Hey. Hey, hey, hey.” I silence her mid-chew. “You listen.” Thoughts from that dark spiral flood my mind. “It’s Virginia. People can’t even comprehend even what being bisexual means.”

A sigh escapes her. A very done sigh. “Well… yeah… but… I don’t know, doesn’t it suck that we just have to take it?”

I blink. It’s almost like this conversation perfectly happened just because of what I was thinking about before. “Um, yeah. For sure.” I shove some spicy Cheetos down my throat. “Yeah.” Crunch. “Yeah.” Swallow. Silence.

“So,” she says. “Um… you okay?” My eyes meet hers. I feel like I know what she’s asking about, but I don’t say anything. I just stare, waiting for her to say it. Yesterday. “After… after yesterday?”

“I have to be, don’t I?” My fingers dance along the table, dusted red with Cheeto dust. “I mean, there’s no other option, really, so… yeah.” I smile, avoiding her eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine. I mean, I’m trying my best to be fine. It’s hard, and it sucks a lot, I just-.” She cuts me off with a hug.

A hug.

I stare blankly at the outline of her back. Memories. “Um… yeah, this… this is nice.” I forget instantly that I spoke. I just stare at her back. I just feel the pressure of her against me. Her beautiful black hoodie feels so nice against my fingers. It all feels so nice. It all feels so effing nice.

It feels so nice physically. And that’s the problem.

“Um. Um. Hi, yeah, cool.” I gently push away. “Thanks. Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m good. I’m fine.”

Her smile falls. “I’m sorry, was that too far?”

“Um…”

“I’m sorry.” She stares deeply at me. “Seriously, Jordi, I’m sorry. Crap. And…” She facepalms. “God, especially after yesterday… I’m so stupid.”

My eyes meet hers. They look hurt. And distant. And brown. “No,” I whisper. “Don’t be sorry. Just… keep talking.”

“You… you positive?” Chloe watches me. Looking for some sign that I want otherwise. Looking for some excuse to hate herself and what she did more.

“Yes. Talk.”

She talks.

I center myself. I watch.

The way her lips move, they just… they’re so… full of movement at every moment. They kind of tremble. They shake when pressure is put on them. When her lips are placed to a drink, the drink slightly shakes. But no one would notice if they weren’t looking very carefully. And… Chloe does wear hoodies a lot. Really soft ones. That’s why she probably thought I was okay with a hug, because cuddling with her is amazing. But sometimes I’m not okay with being cuddled. Sometimes any concept of touch, any thought of any bit of pressure on me… it’s too much. It’s too much to think about. Like right now. After yesterday.

She talks about someone’s birthday somewhere in the distance, while the thoughts flood me about yesterday. What that was. A year. A full year since I began the journey to being someone completely lost.

I enter myself.

And no one notices except me.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

I have a theory that some people are so perfect, they are designed by God or whoever created this shithole of a planet to have some kind of fatal flaw. Just so everyone has some reason to bully them. Just so everyone has the same right to every bad word, hate comment, and self-doubt. Just so everyone has something.

Chloe is the sweetest, most perfect person you will ever meet. She dresses in black and has the mouth of a sailor, yes. A badass. A true badass. But the sweetest person you’ll ever meet. And she couldn’t be more perfect. She actually couldn’t.

Except for the fact that she’s an asexual furry.

Whips. Chains. Fellow furry-ers. She’s one of the people who advocate that furries aren’t inherently sexual, and flaunts it in her secret little underground. And she’s hella good at educating people. They all surround her in her secret little word that barely anyone knows about. Chloe is perfect to nearly everyone. Until they learn that. She’s void from every strange glimpse, from every family judgement… she’s void from the self doubt. Because the only imperfection she seems to have is the one she is absolutely, positively okay with. The one she has accepted.

Me, on the other hand? I’m too selfish. I’m way too selfish, actually. And I don’t think anyone should be allowed to accept that. Maybe that’s the trauma talking, though. Maybe that’s not even me saying it.

A year and a day ago, I witnessed a traumatic event. October 29th. Two days before Halloween.

I think it was my fault.

I feel myself go through the processes of cleaning up my lunch, walking away from the table. Chloe doesn’t ask why. Chloe doesn’t notice my eyes tearing up. She only sees my back.

“Bye!” Chloe shouts. “Are you going outside?”

I stop. Not turning around. “Yeah.” She doesn’t see my tears, but some unhelpful country hick does. The girl is short. Pint-sized. Her hair is dyed blonde, easily covering her eyes and face from anyone and anything. I can’t do that anymore. My hair is gone. My hair is completely gone. I mean, I did that to myself. But it still makes me salty.

The girl approaches me. Gum snaps between her teeth. “You okay, hun?”

I’m shocked by her kindness. “Yes.” I smile. “I’m great. I’m wonderful. I’m going outside, so-.”

“Wait.”

I wait.

“You’re the unisex kid, right?”

This is why I hate southern bumf*** Virginia.

I smile. Grinning. She starts to smile, too. Laughs start to escape me. Oh my god, I actually can’t do this.  I just spit out a, “I’m not a tee-shirt,” and push past her. I can’t stop laughing. God, these stupid people are stupid. But they’re so funny sometimes.

My laughs don’t stop until I sit down on the bleachers outside. Hard. The pain of the pressure sears up my back. “Ouch,” I croon.

Ouch.

Pain.

It’s sad how a word can trigger a flashback, just like that. Just so simply. Suddenly, it’s like the entire night is happening again.

The day, from what I remember, began in a Halloween shop.

It was a nice Halloween shop. It was open for just the season, not all year round. I’ve always loved Halloween shops. There’s just so much to do everywhere you look, so many costumes and things you can possibly touch and look for. I love themes. I loved the themes. That’s what I think made me love it so much. The aesthetic, as the cool kids would say.

I really, really used to like the aesthetic of Halloween shops. I really, really used to. But now, they leave a sour taste in my mouth.

Now. My mom said the same sentence twice.

“What do you want to get?”

She said it once to my brother. And she said it once to me.

When she said it to my brother, it was as if you were witnessing the definition of the perfect mother and son relationship. It was like the chemistry was the perfectly concocted ionic bond. Such a good mother. Such a good son. She cood, “What do you want to get?” So soft. So perfect.

Then, she turned to me. And it was like I had slowly killed each and every one of her sisters right before her eyes. “What do you want to get?” She spat, trying to get the words out of her mouth as fast as she possibly could. She wouldn’t want to choke on them.

“Um… I want to get…” I eyed the food-themed costumes. “Hm.” Nothing really interested me. My eyes kept moving. Moving, moving, moving over to the typical masculine costumes. Construction dudes. Dinosaurs. Nothing outstanding. Moving, moving to the feminine stuff. Ah, the feminine stuff. The beautiful unicorn costumes. The wonderful princesses. The witches, and the dresses, and the slightly offensive culture costumes. So intriguing.

But… I am a trans guy. How could I possibly be so intrigued by that?

Isn’t that going against, like, everything? Isn’t it technically not allowed? Isn’t it like a gay guy dating a girl at some point in his life (AKA possible)? Isn’t it like an asexual person having sex? Isn’t it like an aromantic person crying during a love song? Isn’t it all completely some kind of scam?

But most importantly, isn’t it crazy that there are these silent bans of what you can and can’t do when you’re LGBT?

Crazy, undoubtedly. But my mom, deciding that she was now the new cishet  LGBT policer, took that moment to proudly flaunt her opinion to the entire Halloween market.

“You chose this,” she said. That part was kind of quiet. It was said in the way that it was on the verge of maybe being loud, but it wasn’t there yet. I tensed up. “Don’t you dare look in the girl’s section after I threw away all your close. They got louder and louder, as more angry passion filled her. I’d even call it hatred. Hatred towards me.

But who could possibly hate their son?

Isn’t that, too, going against everything?

I tense up, turning my back to the feminine side. Facing something that wasn’t really me . “I just… drag. Have you heard of drag?”

The amount of laughter I evoked from my brother and my mom was actually insurmountable from any logic, any kindness. They were so lost laughing at the mere concept of me in drag. And as if their laughter didn’t hurt enough, them speaking somehow hurt more.

My mom scoffed. “You can’t do drag. That’s for gay men. Not transvestites.” My brother and mom cackled. I just breathed. I kept breathing. That was all I had to do. I just had to keep breathing, and I would get it soon.

“All this money wasted.”

I hold my breath. Clothes thrown into my arms.

“All this f'ing money wasted. Because if it’s an expensive costume, that’s the only time it matters to you.”

Words being aimed.

“Knock it off or I’ll knock you out.”

Shots fired.

“Stop crying.”

Denied treatment for the wounds.

“Knock it off or I’ll knock you out.”  

Retaliation.

I can retaliate.

So I did retaliate. By throwing the costume on the floor and loudly saying, “Enough.” Capturing the attention of everyone. Sending every possible weapon on her side away. Leaving her helpless.

And that is why it was all my fault, what happened that night a year and a day ago. I left her helpless by standing up for myself. I retaliated.

That’s why she couldn’t stand up for herself when my dad came home. That’s why it happened.

That’s why my dad knocked her face in.

They had a fight about me. A fight about what to do with me. My mom insisted I did everything wrong. My mom insisted I was a fatal embarrassment. My mom insisted that she did everything right, and that she raised a demon. A daughter. That her real son was the only thing she did right. My mom would have said more. But my dad stopped that. My dad stopped that very quickly.

And in my mom’s words, it was all my fault. A year and one day ago.

The scene plays out in my head, in this lonely little spot outside of my school. On this cold bench, in the cold air. In my cold mind. Everything is cold. But I can’t feel it all. I just know it’s cold. It’s snowing in this shitty town, where nothing ever happens. Where country accents and guitars are the only sounds of music you hear. Where the frogs might as well be throwing homophobic slurs and the flags might as well be the symbol of another country. Because every flag has mixed up stars and stripes and blues and reds. Every flag is a flag of a place I don’t know. Every flag is a flag of a place that I don’t belong. I don’t belong here. I never did. I never will. Riddles don’t belong in towns where people can barely read.

I breathe in. They always tell you to breathe. But you don’t need air in your lungs. You need a warrior in your mind.

Or a warrior from the outside.

The cold bites. My mind quiets. And my warrior appears.

Chloe’s eyes meet mine. She sits down, deeply bundling herself into her warm black jacket. And suddenly, the memories flash of how we met. In this exact spot. October 31st.

My warrior came just in time, three hundred sixty four days ago. A year later, she’s still here. Still fighting for me.

“Distract me,” I whisper, leaning on her shoulder. A tear falls.

She looks at me, concerned. But she melts into me and starts. “Plae, name, or famous American sport star?”

“Um… say the last two again.”

“Why’d you choose the name?”

I grin. “My dad sent me a list of names. But then… I chose one that kind of ended up being a pun. You know the country Jordan?” She’s silent. She’s obviously not a history buff. “You know the country that we learned about this year, that Mrs. Goodall talked about? Jordan?”

“Oh yeah! But… oh…” Her smile falters, as if that was the reason.

My hand traces hers. “It used to be named Transjordan. The old name of it.” I start cracking up, and so does she. “Yeah, that’s kind of how I figured it out. It’s kind of a boring name but… it’s me. Not many people get to choose their own name, I guess.” She stays silent as I pause, so I keep talking. Calming down. Thoughts erasing from my mind. “I do have a funny story, though, about how I figured out I was transgender.” Silence. “Hey.” I poke her, staring deeply into her unphased eyes. “You good?”

“Yes. I’m good. Tell me.”

I melt into her, wrapping my arms around her. “So. It was Halloween last year.” Hearing that word just makes me tense up. Knowing I’m about to talk about what happened, knowing it’ll have to involve me talking about the twenty eighth. The twenty ninth. The thirtieth. The thirty first. Having to explain everything. Knowing it’ll be impossibly hard. Knowing I’m strong enough to get through it. Because I am strong enough to get through it. I know I am. I smile. I breathe. And I stare at the field. Empty for us. “And… I was at a costume store. I told you before that yesterday was crap because my PTSD? I never really said why. This is kind of explaining why. So yeah.” I smile. I’m doing so well. “And… I was in the store. I looked at the feminine section, and my mom… kind of freaked out. So at the end, I settled with a Donald Trump costume. Um… stuff happened, and we didn’t get to celebrate Halloween the way that the town set it up. You know, with every store bringing out candy on the thirty first?” I acknowledge her silence. “Yeah, not then. We did it the thirtieth. At… a shelter. Where there were little girls and boys.”

This silence is different. For a moment, I think maybe it’s a sad one. But then she asks the question that makes everything so much harder.

“What kind of shelter?”

I freeze up. My limit is reaching. I let my eyes burn. I let the fear settle through me. I accept that she will be there to catch me if I fall, if my limit breaks and I’m left with nothing. “Um… a domestic violence shelter, for abused women and men. We had to go there. We had a celebration of this little mini Halloween thing. They didn’t buy much candy, though. Just a couple Starbursts. And Snickers. I hate those a lot, though. And… yeah.”

A beat of silence.

“Hey, Jordan?”

“Yeah?”

“How the hell does that have anything to do with how you figured out you were transgender?”

I start snickering. “Wow, that was really off-topic I’m sorry. Um. Yeah, duh, of course. Oh my god, you must be so confused.” Part of me is hurt that that’s all she has to say about everything I just said, but I forget. I think I forget. “Um, yeah so I got the Donald Trump costume. I wore it. People began, like, calling me a guy though. Like, they said I was a he and said stuff like ‘look he’s dressing up as Donald Trump.’” I smile. “And… then it began just feeling right. I feel like my entire life, I was just a blank slate with nothing written on me. I feel like I was just… I don’t know, I was just some kind of gender-nonexistent blob where everything I liked, I feel like it was just because my parents gave it to me. I don’t know, sometimes I’m confused. And it’s only because I’m scared of being an inconvenience here, of people being stupid and saying stuff because…” I sigh. Those thoughts about those twisted flags and country hicks bubble up from before. “Because I don’t belong here, I guess. I don’t belong here. The gender and the abuse and on top of it all, it all being in such a shitty environment, it just…” I trail off into silence. We just hold each other. I am drained. I have pushed my limits. I have made it. But I have not forgotten what I said.

“Do you have dance today?”

“No,” I whisper, nuzzling into her.”

“You’re coming to GSA.”

I sit up straight. She falls into my lap, staring at me. Wondering what could possibly evoke such a reaction. “What?”

“I’m not going to GSA,” I say. “I’m not. I went there twice. Everyone was weird. And there are only three other people besides you. And...” I think of the last reason. I can’t say it. I can’t talk about that again. It’ll hurt too much.

She’s silent. And not the thoughtful silence, where she leans on your shoulder and just thinks and feels. I mean the silence where she gets off you as fast as she can, emotionally and physically, and has silence to herself. Where you aren’t part of it. Actually, no. Maybe you are. But it’s only because you didn’t say that one thing right. It’s only because you just somehow broke her heart a little in some kind of way.

I’m talented at being a heartbreaker. In that kind of way, at least.

I stare at her. She refuses to look at me. I  think and ponder over what I said, trying to pick it apart piece by piece. I’m not going to GSA. I’m not. I went there once. Everyone was weird. And there are only three other people besides you. What did I say? Where did it go wrong?

And that thought sends us into our own little silences. Where we are just merely two people sitting next to each other, lost in our own little worlds.

She sighs. “Um… I just really was excited. I was really excited for you to come. It means a lot to me and I think it would help, and… right now with all your trauma and all your queer-ness, I think it would help.” I feel her look at me. I feel my heart drop. “When I realized I was aro-ace, I didn’t want to tell anyone. Because I wasn’t technically LGBT or whatever, right? I would never date another girl, or someone who was nonbinary, or someone who was… whatever. I would never be transgender. I was just me. So how would I be LGBT if I didn’t fall for a woman, or couldn’t fall for women or being on the gender spectrum? How could I be LGBT if I didn’t fall for anyone at all?” She plays with her hands. “So… I refused to tell anyone. I refused to go to any clubs, any anythings. I kept trying to date just to date, just to feel anything.” My face burns. A lot. “And… it was just really important to me, I guess, and… yeah.”

Anger boils in me. I feel it in my throat, about to bubble up and dance with my tongue. To perform cruel words and say every truth in my mind. It’s at the back of my mouth. It’s rising to my lips. What I’ve wanted to say since December 23rd of last year, god knows how many days ago that was. But I still feel it.

December 23rd, the day Chloe asked me to be her boyfriend.

December 25th, the day Chloe asked me to have sex with her.

January 12th, the day she brought me to GSA and flaunted me.

January 19th, the day she brought me to GSA and broke up with me.

January 19th, the day I lost her as a friend.

January 19th, the day I realized I just lost my virginity to someone I dated for less than a month.

October 21st, the day she finally told me why.

I support her. I love her. But she ultimately shattered my heart. But… pretending to be happy in a relationship where she wasn’t, that must have broke her a thousand times more. It must have broken her body as we made love, wondering why she couldn’t feel emotionally invested into it. It must have broken her mind as it fought with her heart, trying to coax some romantic feelings from it. It must have broken her. Her mind. Her heart. Her soul. It must have broken her a thousand times more than it broke me.

My eyes swell with tears. It’s a year later. But I can’t get over the fact that I spent over six months wondering what I did wrong. That it took her this long to tell me.

I can’t get over the fact that I still love someone who will never love me.

The anger turns to sadness before I let a word out. She doesn’t say a word. I want to say thousands. But I can’t. I can’t say how I feel. I can’t make her feel worse. Because no matter what my heart thinks, her heart isn’t going to change. I can feel whatever I want, and I can break however I want to break. But ultimately, forcing someone to love me isn’t okay. Making the person feel guilty because they don’t love me isn’t okay. And as the sadness turns to acceptance, I hold her tight. I connect our silences again. And I say what I really want to say.

“I’ll go to GSA.” I smile. “Because I want to support you.” My mind flashes back to her tears. Her guilt. Her pure remorse. “I’ll go to GSA because I’m tired of seeing… us, and them. I’ll go because I want to change.” I breathe. “Just… it does remind me of a year ago. And that hurts a lot. A lot, a lot, actually. And… I’m glad you told me what was really going on. And I’m so glad I didn’t lose you.” I hold her close. “Because I don’t want to lose you.” She starts to cry. We hold each other close. Everything starts to make sense. Everything starts to alleviate. “I don’t want to lose you. Not now. Not ever.”

And on the bleachers outside of this shitty school in this shitty town, for once, I see a bit of light.