"You Never Told Me You Were Trans"
And yet I remember the day so clearly. Seven years ago, in our kitchen, shaking, I told her. I said that I had something to tell her. “What is it?” Well—I—uh-- … Can’t you guess?
“No, I can’t.”
I summon the courage to confess. ‘I think I’m trans’ I said, not really knowing what the word meant.
“No, you’re not” she laughed. “It’s just a phase.”
And so here we are, seven years later. A time that did not pass by in just a sentence. Days go by where I still shake and cry when she refuses to give me freedom. A freedom to go into the wrong section of the clothes shop. A freedom to have a hair on my head that has never seen judgement.
My hair has done nothing wrong. It just exists. It doesn’t deserve to live this way.
I want my hair to feel loved. To grow both strong and soft, to be protected. I want my hair to feel welcome. On my head where it keeps me warm, and entertains me when I’m bored.
My hair can be what it wants to be. Some of them are grey and spikey. Some of them are red and soft. Some of them have left their home. They’ve grown up and fled the nest. Not like me. A nest impossible to flee.
A nest that grew inside you, like a tree grows inside its captor. But a tree is never a plague, and I’m the one that’s captured. May be that’s the point. The nest and I are one and the same. We are both the captor and the captured. Tell me: can you hold memories, emotions, hostage?
I don’t think it matters either way.
"You Never Told Me You Were Cis"
And yet I remember the day so clearly. Seven years ago, in our kitchen, smirking, you told me. You said that you had something to tell me. “What is it?” You said. I guessed.
You’re not worth my time.
I summoned the courage to ignore you. ‘I’m worth your time’ I told myself, not really believing it.
“No, you’re not” you’re laughing. “You’re just a phase.”
And so here we are, seven years later. A time that passed by in just a sentence. Days go by in figurative motion, where I still am not worth people’s time. Where I am just a phase. Where I am without Their freedom. Their freedom to be something other than a displacement in time.
A human existing because. It just exists. Do I deserve to live this way?
I don’t want to feel loved. I don’t want to grow strong and soft, or to be protected. I don’t want to feel welcome. I don’t want to be warm, or to entertain people when they’re bored.
I just want to be what I want to be. I want to grow old and happy. I want to be young and angry. I want to leave my home – to finally flee this nest – to bring all of you with me. To build a nest that is possible to flee.
A nest that grows around you, under you, and if you like then inside you. You can take it with you, capture it like a photo in your mind. You are the point. Love and you are one and the same. You are both the creator and the created. But, I tell you, these binaries are not true. You just exist.
And you are/do matter (either way).