Felix Ever After(37)

I open up my Instagram once I have a seat. When I’d woken up, I saw that I’d gotten a new Instagram message from grandequeen69, one that I’ve been too afraid to read. I tap on the message.

Why’re you pretending to be a boy?

Who are you? Why’re you trolling me?

I’m not pretending to be a boy. Just because you haven’t evolved to realize gender identity doesn’t equal biology, doesn’t mean you get to say who I am and who I’m not. You don’t have that power. Only I have the power to say who I am.

And the new message:

I’m not trolling you. I’m just telling you the truth. You were born a girl. You’ll always be a girl.

Pain sparks and fury burns through me. It’s no one else’s right to say who I am, or what I identify as—but not everyone believes that. I know grandequeen69 isn’t the only person in the world who would think my identity is based on the gender I was assigned at birth—to force me into a box, to control me for their own comfort, because they’re afraid of what they don’t understand. Because they’re afraid of me.

To know that there are people out there who hate me, want to hurt me, want to erase my identity, without ever even seeing me or knowing me, just like there are people out there who hate me for the color of my skin—it’s enraging, infuriating, but it also hurts. The old hollow pain that burrowed its way into my chest the moment I saw that gallery of the old me is still there, and it feels like it’s growing every second, like a black hole in the middle of my body. And what’s worse is that I know I’ve been questioning my identity. My guilt and shame swell.

Something tells me that I should just delete the messages and block grandequeen69, but the urge to argue, to make them understand, to make them see grows.

I’m not a girl. You don’t get to tell me who I am. You don’t have that power. What do you get out of messaging me like this?

There’s no immediate response. A part of me is relieved, but there’s dread there, too, at having to wait for the next time this evil piece of shit messages me again.

I get off at Fourteenth Street. It’s a little chilly this morning, gray clouds covering the sky, strong gusts of wind almost blowing me off my feet. Callen-Lorde is in one of the more expensive neighborhoods of Manhattan. The block is lined by brownstones with vines and lace-curtained windows. Queer folk are everywhere. Two women openly hold hands, and another guy zooms by on a skateboard wearing a rainbow Pride shirt.

I get to the tinted glass doors of Callen-Lorde and push into the lobby of stained tile and walls plastered with flyers for Pride month events. I go around to the back to grab my prescription. The waiting room is full, and the line wraps around. There’s always a line at Callen-Lorde. It’s one of the few clinics and pharmacies specifically for LGBTQIA+ folk in NYC, and there are so many people desperate for good health care that Callen-Lorde even reached capacity and had to close its doors to new patients. I was one of the lucky last few who managed to get an appointment two years back.

As I get into line, I try not to stare at the people around me. There’s a man with white hair in a blue business suit, a couple of women speaking in Spanish, a tall college-aged girl with purple hair—she catches me looking and smiles—an older man with a cane. I never get tired of seeing the patients who come here. So many different sorts of people, all of us connected by this one thing, our one queer identity. I’m a little bit in awe, I guess. But I’m also a little jealous. I’m the youngest person here. Everyone else has had years to figure themselves out already. They probably don’t question anything about themselves anymore. No annoying niggling thoughts about their identity. How did they know, finally, if they were a gay man, or a trans woman? How did they figure out their answers?

I grab my prescription and head to the elevator, getting off at the second floor to sign in with the youth center’s receptionist. I’m called into the back, prescription bag crinkling in my hand, palms a little sweaty. I’m always nervous before my shot, even though it’s been two years now.

My nurse Sophia is waiting for me in the hall. “How’re you today, Felix?” she asks as she leads me into one of the rooms. She has pale skin, dark brown hair pulled into a loose bun. I hand her the prescription bag.

“All right,” I mumble. I’m also still a little shy to get my shot, even after all this time. I unbutton, unzip, and pull down my jean cutoffs before taking a seat, knee jiggling as Sophia rips open the bag and does her thing, grabbing the needle and wiping my thigh with a disinfecting cloth.

“So cold today, right?” she says brightly. “Ready?”

I hold my breath and nod.

She jabs the needle into my thigh, so smoothly I barely feel a thing—Sophia’s always the best at giving me my shot—and she injects the testosterone. I stare at it as it drains into my leg. It’s strange, to feel so grateful to some yellow fluid, but I kind of feel like it’s my elixir. I know it’s going to give me the changes I want to see—the changes I need others to see, too. Back when my dad was arguing with me over whether or not I should take testosterone or get the surgery, he’d asked me if I would still want to do any of this if I were on a deserted island.

“What if it were just you, with no one else around to say what your gender is?” he’d asked.

“But that’s the point,” I answered. “I’m not on a deserted island. I don’t want people to look at me and decide what my gender is, based on how I look now.”