TW: Transphobia
Imagine you wake up one day. Your gender is the opposite. (If you define gender by genitalia, congratulations! You are the proud new possessor of a penis/vagina. If you define gender by whether or not a person has a uterus, consider it swapped. If you like talking about chromosomes in the comments of Instagram posts, then you’ve exchanged an X for a Y, or a Y for an X. You get the idea.)
When you look in the mirror, you do not look any different. You look like you. Your bodywash—marketed to you as fit only for a man or a woman—surprises you when it does not make your flesh slide away from your bones and muscles. You show no sign of hives when wearing your usual robe or when using or usual towel. Your everyday lotions and soaps and toothbrush don’t care about your gender. You may not even notice the difference. You are simply you, going through your routine just like every morning.
But then you walk outside.
The first thing you notice is the stares. You wonder if you’re wearing an article of clothing inside out. (You aren’t.) You wonder if you spilled coffee on yourself without noticing. (You didn’t.) You wonder if you’ve painted yourself green from head to toe somewhere between your front door and this moment. (You haven’t.) Then you notice comments. You think they’re a case of the Mondays at first. (“Jesus Christ.” “Would you look…” “I can’t believe…”) Then you realize how some get quieter as you get closer. (Others get louder.) You wonder if this is all some horrible dream and you’ll be naked and taking a math exam any minute now. But you’re not. This is real life.
You get to work. Everyone gets quiet, uncomfortable. You wonder if someone died. Your supervisor takes you to the side, explains that if you want others to respect you, you have to respect them. You ask what this is about. They say that playing dumb isn’t going to get you very far. You ask again. You are sent home for the day, to get your head right and fix yourself. Someone trips you on the sidewalk on the way home. When you say sorry, they glare at you until you keep moving.
You check the mirror again. You just wore this same outfit two weeks earlier. Your hair isn’t any different. Your face isn’t any different. You feel like you’re losing your mind. You wonder if there’s something wrong with you, something that other people can see. You call your doctor’s office and arrange the next possible appointment.
In the waiting room, you take a photo of the fish tank. You once saw a half of a goldfish behind the little fake skull; he was being eaten alive by the other living things around him, being cleaned up and cleaned away so no one would ever have to think about him causing disruption to their delicate ecosystem again. You add a selfie of you rolling your eyes. You post the photos with the caption “Weird day! Wonder what’s wrong with me lol” as the nurse calls you back. The nurse asks questions about your intake form. You notice a tone, but you have no idea why.
It is a half hour before the doctor comes in to see you. He doesn’t look up. He asks why you’ve chosen this alternate lifestyle. He explains that he doesn’t prescribe hormone replacement therapy unless you are going through menopause. (You are not.) You want a diagnosis. The doctor tells you to calm down. You are confused. The doctor calls it hysteria. He offers anti-depressants. You want to know what’s wrong. He leaves without giving you anything. You notice that the sex you picked on your form has been corrected by either the doctor or the nurse.
When you get home, you check your phone. You have more notifications than you ever have before. At first, it is the one bright spot in what has been a truly horrendous Monday.
Then you read the comments.
You consider telling them that this is all just some misunderstanding. You know what you are. You can show them the birth certificate, the driver’s license, any proof they might want. But even in your head, it is too defensive. Even in your head, you know who—what—you sound like.
You want to say you agree, you want to tell them you’re not like The Others. But why would they believe you?
You know. You know. You know.
The question haunts you, even as you keep scrolling. If a BLANK gets a transformation into a BLANK, does that make BLANK a BLANK?
You wonder what your chromosomes are now. You wonder how someone even finds out such a thing. There must be some kind of a litmus test, right? Like for your blood type or the flu. Where would someone even go to find out such a thing? How much would the cost be?
To think about something that another suffers is to suffer yourself. You know what you’ve always told others: if They just kept quiet about all this, no one would care, and no one would bother Them. They’re the ones who can’t shut up about it, so really, they’ve brought it upon Themselves… right?
Facts, not feelings. Facts, not feelings. Facts, not feelings.
You remember the mantra well, but now it burns in some place deep inside, like seawater washing up under a bleeding fingernail. It feels different, and you’re not sure why, but you are certain that you don’t like it.
What if you wake up tomorrow and you’re still in this body?
You wonder how this all started. You wonder when it will end. You feel like it will never end.
Audrey T. Carroll is the author of What Blooms in the Dark (ELJ Editions), The Gaia Hypothesis (Alien Buddha), Parts of Speech: A Disabled Dictionary (Alien Buddha), and In My Next Queer Life, I Want to Be (kith books). Her Twitter/Instagram is @AudreyTCarroll and her website is http://AudreyTCarrollWrites.weebly.com.
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