Felix Ever After(46)

Your son/child/still to be determined,

Felix

I sit cross-legged on the sofa, Captain curled up next to me. My dad’s taking his usual afternoon nap, and Ezra’s texting me about a Pride party Marisol invited him to, but I put my phone on silent. I bite my lip, then bring up Google. I don’t even know what to type—not at first. Am I transgender? feels like a stupid question to ask, when I know for a fact that I am, even if being labeled a guy doesn’t feel completely right, either. I know that I’m not a girl. That’s the only thing I know for certain.

I’m transgender, but I don’t feel like I’m a guy or a girl.

The results are overwhelming. There are medical articles on transitioning, entertainment sites about Laverne Cox and Janet Mock, Instagram posts showing #transformationtuesday with side-by-side images of people years ago and their photos now, a Tumblr post with a bunch—feels like hundreds—of transgender terms, labels I didn’t even know existed.

One of the results takes me to a Facebook event at the LGBT Community Center. The event is for a gender identity discussion group. It’s supposed to be tonight at eight o’clock, in about three hours. It’s a little too much of a coincidence, right? I click on “Going.”

I’ve only ever been to the Center once before, way back when I was just starting to wonder about my identity. I didn’t go to any groups. I didn’t even speak to anyone. I just walked up the front steps and into the reception area before I got so nervous that I turned right back around and left.

I walk back into the reception area again now. Not much has changed. White walls, white benches. There’re older folk sitting in a café area, speaking with low voices. Two teens closer to my age sit nearby, heads bent together as they share earbuds.

I walk up to the desk and ask the receptionist where I should go for the discussion group, and she sends me up to the second floor and into a broiling room with wooden floors and faded peach-colored walls and large, open windows. Floor fans hum and push the hot air around. Metal folding chairs are set up in a circle. There’re already a few other people here. An elderly man with crossed legs, reading a newspaper. A tall woman with brown hair, bright red lipstick. Someone with pink hair waits at the door with a sign-in list and a smile. Their name tag reads Bex, with they/them pronouns scrawled beneath.

In my research online, even back from when I was just starting to question if I was trans or not, I remember reading about the nonbinary identity. A lot of people who use they/them pronouns don’t feel like they’re a boy or a girl, which is something that could maybe, possibly, describe that niggling feeling—that being seen as a girl definitely isn’t right, but being seen as a guy isn’t totally right, either. But there’re also times when I know, for a fact, that I definitely am a guy, and I feel like I’ve just imagined the niggling, the questioning, the confusion. I don’t know if it’s okay for me to say that I’m nonbinary if there’re still days when I know that I’m a guy, too. But if I’m not nonbinary, and I’m not a guy, and I’m definitely not a girl, then what am I? I came here for answers, but it just feels like my questions are growing.

I write in my name without writing any pronouns and sit at the chair that feels farthest away. I wrap my arms around myself and cross my legs, knee jiggling. I don’t know why I feel so uncomfortable. Like maybe someone will walk into the room, point right at me, shout, “Fraud!” and escort me from the premises.

A few more people filter in, of all different ages, races—but it becomes pretty obvious that I’m the youngest by far. Only Bex looks like they might be in college. Everyone else is an adult. I start to worry that I’m not allowed to be in here if I’m under eighteen. Would someone tell me that I’m too young and ask me to leave?

Time moves agonizingly slowly, before Bex claps their hands and stands in the center of the circle.

“Welcome to the LGBT Center gender-identity discussion group,” they say. “Let’s go around in a circle and introduce ourselves. Say name, pronouns, and where you’re from. I’ll start. I’m Bex, I use they/them pronouns, and I’m from the Bronx.”

There are four others. The elderly man—Tom—folds his newspaper in half and rests it on the empty chair beside his own. The woman with the bright red lipstick, Sarah, sits beside a woman with pockmarked skin, Zelda. A man with a Final Fantasy shirt and a patchy beard says his name is Wally. When it gets to my turn, my heart’s hammering so hard that my voice shakes.

“Felix. Um. I’m not sure about pronouns right now.” I pause, waiting for someone to say that I should leave, but everyone just stares at me without blinking. “I live in Brooklyn—no, ah—I moved. I’m in Harlem now.”

Bex gives me a reassuring smile.

I already know that I have exactly zero plans to speak up. I came here deciding I’d do nothing but listen—listen and learn, try to find an answer to my questions.

“There are too many expectations on gender roles, even within the transgender community. To prove that you’re a man, you must act aggressively. To prove that you’re a woman, you must be passive.” Sarah holds her head high. “I’m an aggressive woman. I won’t apologize for that.”

“You can’t blame people for defining their identity by traditional gender roles,” Zelda says.