Around the time I started high school, I decided that I wanted to grow my hair out beyond the short bog I was forced to maintain on my head. When it was time for me to get a haircut, I playfully asked my mother, “Why do you want to make my hair ugly again? All my friends think I look better with longer hair.”
“Why do you want to keep your hair long? Are you a girl?” my mother countered.
Her words pierced my heart.
“No! I just think it looks… nicer…” I said, mumbling the end of the sentence. I tried to say something along the lines of you never let me do what I want with how I look, but it didn’t come out properly.
“Why do you care about your hair?! The Quran says…”
And then she went on a tangent about what Allah intended with men and how having long hair would go against my religion.
It wasn’t even like I wanted anything specifically feminine. I just thought long hair looked nicer. Growing my hair out would’ve meant so much to me but, I thought, it shouldn’t have mattered to my mother.
More than anything, my hair reminded me that every aspect of my life, big or small, had to go through my parents first. I hated how my life was predetermined—from birth I was expected to go to the mosque whenever I could, keep my hair short, have an arranged marriage, start a family, have space in my future home for my parents, and the list goes on. All because I happened to be born into a family that uses the Quran to justify wanting control.
Finding Solace in Fantasy
I did have one major solace: fantasy stories. Media series like Pokémon, Avatar: The Last Airbender, and the Percy Jackson books make me feel alive. It doesn’t matter how many times I replay, rewatch, or reread them, they never fail to bring me comfort.
Seeing the characters in these stories take on problems far bigger than themselves let me think that my problems with my family, school, and my appearance were small—that if Aang could stop the Fire Nation, Percy could deal with all-powerful gods on behalf of the hundreds of demi-god children they abandoned, and the 10-year-old Pokémon protagonists could fight against terrorist organizations, then I could certainly deal with my conservative parents.
Realizing I Wasn’t a Boy
After starting high school, I noticed that I was much more comfortable around girls and queer people, like my sisters, friends I met online, and most of my friends at school. I felt uncomfortable being seen as “one of the boys” and acted differently when I was with guys my age. The idea that I was transgender had passed through my head in middle school, but I denied it, telling myself that it was unfair for me to wish I was born female because the women and girls around me had it so much harder.
Near the end of freshman year, I finally accepted that I wasn’t a boy. Then it clicked for me why I hated haircuts so much.
With my family, I learned to get used to the stinging feeling I had every time I was called a boy. There was no way they would ever accept me as trans. I don’t even think my father would be able to comprehend the concept, and even if he did, he would join my mother in using our religion against me.
I was also too anxious at first to tell my friends, fearing they and others at school wouldn’t accept me. All I did was change my pronouns to “Any Pronouns” in my Instagram bio.
I didn’t really feel anything about this change—in a giant high school of 6,000 people, hardly anyone acknowledged a few changed words on someone’s bio. But looking back, I think this was a bit more courageous than I had thought at the time. First steps are hard, after all.
In January of my sophomore year, I decided on a chosen name based on a character from one of my favorite fantasy video games. I was happy with my new name, but I continued to keep quiet about my trans identity at school; I just kept living as a boy. I didn’t have the strength to tell people what I would like to be called, but I also didn’t have the strength to deal with being misgendered and dead-named either.
Isolating myself made me avoid the ways that I was different and that I had trouble with the simple task of talking to other people. I could pretend to be the quiet boy at the end of the class who people forget exists.
I kept turning to fantasy, as it was still the thing that made me feel the most free.
Delicious in Dungeon
One weekend, I picked up a new story, Delicious in Dungeon, a manga, or Japanese comic, that has also been adapted into an animated series on Netflix.
I had at least a day to ignore everything else, and just be me. I opened up my laptop, bouncing my knee in excitement, and hurriedly closed all my school tabs before they got me in a foul mood.
I opened the tab with an issue of Delicious in Dungeon, and I was immediately transported to a whole different world. Every horrible thought I had during the week faded away.
Inspired by the role-playing game Dungeons & Dragons, the story follows a group of adventurers on their journey to save one of their party members in a fantastical dungeon. This story is occasionally ridiculous, but the characters are some of the most realistic and well-written I have ever read. Many are queer-coded, meaning they exhibit actions or thoughts that lead fans to assume that they are queer, or otherwise don’t conform to societal norms.
The main character, Laois, is neurodivergent. He hyperfixates on dungeon monsters and doesn’t understand social cues that seem obvious to other people.
As I kept reading, I reflected on the story. Laois speaks without a filter but manages to get through to and lead people, proving again and again how valuable he is to the team in all his strangeness.
When that thought flowed into my head, my fingers rose up and I stopped flipping through the pages. I wobbled over to the light switch on the other side of my room. I stood there for a bit in the brightened room with a new sense of clarity.
Bare feet on the damp wood floor, I walked the same U-shape around my bed over and over again, with one thought recurring in my head.
What if I spoke without a filter? Would it be so bad to be myself?
Watching so many people look to Laois for guidance even after learning he was a monster-obsessed freak made me start thinking that maybe people did want to see me, and that isolating myself was the wrong move.
Finding Community in Fandom
I remembered some of the artists I followed on Instagram talked about Delicious in Dungeon, so I started surfing the internet for other fans. I spent hours scrolling through posts of fan art, headcanons, and whatever else I could scrounge.
Many of the posts were about Laois being neurodivergent; it seemed that the story attracted a lot of neurodivergent people, no doubt because of heavy implications that Laois was autistic. Fans also were quick to read Marcille, a queer-coded character, as a lesbian. It was so comforting to see so many people embrace her.
Nearing the end of the school year, after the anime adaptation came out on Netflix, I convinced a friend I often had lunch with to start watching Delicious in Dungeon, and she loved it.
One day during lunch, I pulled up a picture of Izutsumi, a cynical teenager who is also a cat. My friend hadn’t gotten up to her appearance yet, but she gasped when she saw her.
“Oh god, she’s so cute.” she said, then launched into a bunch of questions.
I shifted gears to shield her from spoilers by making a joke: “All the transgenders love her. Because trans people lo-ove cats.” I paused, and then said, “Including me.”
We looked at each other for a second before she finally seemed to comprehend what I said. “Wait, you are?”
I snorted. “Yeah? Do I act like I’m cisgender?”
This was the first time I told someone so openly that I was transgender. I don’t know where such a snarky attitude came from, but it felt safe to share with someone who loved Delicious in Dungeon.
My friend looked down. “Oh. Sorry, I had no idea.”
I was taken aback. Why was she apologizing? “Uh, I couldn’t care less. No blame here. I look like this, man.” I waved my hands at my face, highlighting my facial and ingrown hair and everything else I was too tired to hide.
She looked up at me. “It shouldn’t matter how you look. I saw you change your name on Instagram. I should’ve noticed.”
I looked at her for a second, before muttering a thanks and moving on with the conversation.
Despite my lackluster response, that conversation still rings in my mind. It reminds me that I don’t have to look the part to expect people to respect my identity, nor did I have to make being trans seem like such a big deal. I could just casually bring it up in conversation and have it be known. No dramatic coming out scene, just a simple “of course I am.”
My friend Sophie and a couple of their friends started a group chat dedicated to the story. Many of the members are also queer. While I don’t do much more than send a ton of fan art into it, I value that group so much.
Whether we are plumbing the deeper meanings behind the story or ranting about the characters, I value the friends I’ve made through fandom. I know that it’s safe for them to know the real me, rather than the person I force myself to be at home or at school.
I’m also still afraid that people offline won’t accept me when they already know the person I made up to fit in.
Even on Twitter, (or X now, I guess) which I don’t use too much, I am part of a group called the “Izutsumi Hive Mind” for people who have Izutsumi as their icon. I’ve never talked to anyone there, but I got curious and scrolled through the profiles in the group. Most of their bios included the sky blue and pink transgender flag, and that made my heart jitter all over again.
Breathing Room
Just the presence of the community and their wholehearted acceptance of characters who don’t fit into social norms would have been enough for me, I think, to feel seen and accepted. But my friends in this community tell me directly that my identity is valid, which makes it feel so much more real, like that fantastical safe space is starting to merge with reality.
Delicious in Dungeon and its fandom taught me that it would be better for me to open up to others, but it’s hard to accept, and probably will be for a long time to come. I don’t want to fake being myself anymore, but I’m also still afraid that people offline won’t accept me when they already know the person I made up to fit in.
I’m still figuring out my gender identity and who I am in general. But whenever I imagine the future, I see myself as androgynous leaning towards femininity. Someone who could pass as a boy if they told you, but at first glance you would just assume they have estrogen in their body. I don’t know exactly what that means about me.
It takes a lot of courage to go out there and say that you don’t know what you are, and as much as I respect the people who can say that, I would prefer to keep my gender identity secret until I know for sure.
Although fantasies like Delicious in Dungeon may not solve all my problems, they give me the small breathing room that allows me to keep pursuing my true self, at my own pace. I think that’s enough for now.
- Gender & Sexual Identity