you sitting there smartly dressed
in a stylish jacket and matching skirt,
pumps and stockings, your hair
and makeup expertly done, highlighting
a beauty in you I’d never seen before,
not sitting in the back row of a classroom
horsing around, making fun of old Mrs. Wilson
with the pocked face and tits out to ... well, you know ...
or passing notes and telling jokes, catcalls
at Becky Sue, hottest girl in school,
nor in feeding you the ball for an easy layup,
slam, dunk, and win! the easy tackle you made
in the backfield, your grace and finesse there.
But look at you now; you’re ... do I dare to say
how good you look? So confident, smiling there.
If I didn’t know you, I’d ask you out for a drink
or dinner, or something. But I know you, knew you,
and I don’t get it, I don’t understand.
It was hard being a boy when I didn’t want to,
feeling somehow that I wasn’t, by stereotypes and traditions,
softer and nurturing, playing with my sisters’ dolls,
happier in the company of other girls, sharing secrets
and talking fashion, hair styles, “girl things,”
the softness of silk and satin and lace, her dress
I’d taken and worn in secret, afraid of getting caught;
and harder still to keep it hidden, keep it to myself,
hiding it in the trappings of boys, rough and tumble,
manly pursuits of sport and hardened edges, fitting in,
denying it even to myself, who I really was, really wanted to be;
yet I was afraid and alone in that fear, no one to talk to,
no one to understand, no one who could know, just me,
and the pressure of trying to hide and trying to be, feminine
in a world that didn’t understand, couldn’t, wouldn’t,
driving me to depression, anxiety, and beyond,
all those days I missed school, too sick to show myself.
I hated myself, wanted to tell the world, wanted to be my true self
for once, to be loved as I am, as I am now, smartly dressed,
soft and unafraid, this feminine self, my self, but too scared to,
knowing the taunting, the bullying, ostracized
by those I loved, those I admired, like you, my best friend
I couldn’t confide in nor share this secret with, too afraid
to be that open, just too risky, too much to lose, then.
Yes, I’d have been the one to bully you, the name calling,
lewd comments, tormenting you in my own fear,
of you and of my own ignorance, of defending you.
I couldn’t have been seen with you, a risk even now, fearing
what people would have said, hanging out with you, might still say;
I couldn’t have taken the torment, just so much easier to inflict
it on you instead, if I’d known, then, which I didn’t, didn’t notice,
didn’t suspect, but I find sitting here across from you,
you haven’t changed, not really, still soft-spoken, and kind,
a champion to others before yourself, unafraid and bold,
sensitive, the same guy I know in the woman I see, changed,
but still the same; but why this though, this transformation?
But what was so bad about being a boy?
So bad?
Nothing, if you’re a boy, and I tried to be one,
tough and unyielding to the expectations of gender,
tried for a long time, long past the time I knew I wasn’t one,
nearing an edge I didn’t want to step across, tempted so often
to cross that edge of destruction, that edge perhaps of sanity,
an edge too close for far too long, but an edge not pulling me over,
but pushing me away, towards myself, to finding myself, this woman
that I am, giving me the courage to be what I’ve always been, myself,
for I have changed, really, no longer hiding, no longer afraid.
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