Felix Ever After(47)
“I can if those traditional gender roles are harmful,” Sarah says.
“I guess we have to decide what’s most important,” Wally tells us. “Validation through traditional gender roles, or the destruction of those roles.”
“Well, those roles are what got us into this mess of a patriarchy in the first place,” Sarah says.
“But, then, why have any gender at all?” Zelda asks.
Tom speaks for the first time, and I can tell by the way the room quiets that he holds a lot of respect here. “Some of us don’t have any gender at all,” he says. Bex smiles.
“Is that the answer, then?” Zelda asks. “To destroying the patriarchy and misogyny? Eliminate gender altogether?”
“I don’t think anyone’s suggesting that,” Tom says. “Though that’s the answer for some, it doesn’t have to be the answer for everyone. We can’t help who we are. There isn’t much point to passing judgment on our community. We already get enough judgment from others.”
Everyone else nods.
I have so many questions, so many swirling thoughts flooding my mind. My heart’s almost out of my throat and in my mouth. My knee won’t stop jiggling, and I’m sweating so much in the heat and from nerves that my shirt’s sticking to my back. Bex meets my eye, and even though I look away from them, they say my name.
“Do you have anything you want to add?” they ask, and when I only swallow, blinking, they say, “Or is there anything else you’d like to talk about?”
The others watch me expectantly, almost bored. Zelda checks her nails. Wally scratches his beard. There are so many things I want to talk about—so many questions I want to ask—but they’re all a tangled twist of words and feelings in my mind, impossible to translate. The silence, as it grows, echoes in my head, and the longer I don’t speak with my mouth hanging open the more bored everyone is, staring at me and wondering what the hell is wrong with me—
“I’m sorry,” I manage to say, my voice breaking. “I have to go.”
No one says anything as I scrape my chair back, stand up, and walk out the door. I hurry down the hall, and embarrassment fills my chest and my throat, reaching my eyes. I’m almost crying. I run out of the LGBT Center lobby, but the summer heat doesn’t do anything to help the growing pressure in my chest. Turns out no one needed to actually point and scream, “Fraud!” at me—I took care of that myself just fine.
I’m barely down the block when I hear my name. I spin around. Bex has followed me.
“Jesus, you run fast,” Bex says as they slow down, slightly out of breath.
Shit. I can’t even look at them.
“Are you okay?” they ask.
I swallow and nod, staring at the sidewalk. There’s a crack with a weed pushing through.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot. I just wanted to be sure you felt welcome. And you are. Welcome, I mean,” they say. They give me a smile. “I remember how hard it was when I was a teen, surrounded by a bunch of know-it-all adults, ignored and . . .”
I’m fidgeting, pulling on the end of my tank.
“I have to get back to the room,” Bex says. “But I wanted you to know that you’re always welcome to join us. The group meets every Wednesday at eight o’clock. If you have any questions, or if you just want to come in and listen—anything’s fine. All right?”
I glance up, meeting their eye for a second, and I can see that they really mean what they’re saying. They want me to come back, to try again. And even though I’m still dying a little inside, I don’t know—a part of me really appreciates that, too.
I nod. “All right.”
It’s going on nine o’clock and getting darker, the sun starting to make its way down. I’m already on my way home, walking toward the A and being bumped into by every single person on the street, when my phone buzzes in my hand. I have a new Instagram message. I’d never responded to grandequeen69’s last message—but it looks like they decided to send another one anyway.
You think it’s so cool and trendy to be transgender. It isn’t real. You’ll always be a girl.
It’s too much. The discussion group, and now this. I can’t even stop the tears that sting my eyes. “Fuck!” I yell. A few people startle, turning to look at me. I wipe my eyes, my nose.
What do you get out of being a transphobic piece of trash? Does it feel good, to try and belittle someone because of who they are? I guess it must be a rush of power for you, attacking someone and making them feel like they don’t belong. But I know who I am. I know that I’m trans. Transgender people have always existed. Trans people are everywhere through history, even if society tries to erase us. We’re not a trend, even if it makes you feel good to pretend that we are. I know that I’m not a girl. You don’t get to say who I am and who I’m not. Now leave me the fuck alone.
I press send, breathing heavy, tears still building and threatening to fall from my lashes. When my phone buzzes in my hand again, I almost jump—dread fills me, and I think it’s grandequeen69 again, but this time, it’s a text from Ezra.
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU??? Papi Juice is hosting for Pride at warehouse. Come thruuuuuuuuuuu.
I forgot about the Pride party. I’m so, so fucking tired—emotionally exhausted from the train wreck that was the LGBT Center discussion group, the never-ending swirling tide of questions filling my head, and now from this latest message from grandequeen69, too. But before I can even respond, Ezra starts calling literally three seconds later.