The Best of Me

As a little kid, I played dress-up in my mother’s red high heels, wigs, and her dresses, which touched the floor when I wore them. I loved it. I felt like the star of a show: glamorous and bright. My mom said I looked pretty. 

At school, I didn’t like anything the regular boys liked: sports; shoot ’em up games; playing tag, roughhousing. I was chubby and didn’t like exercise. I preferred sitting with my female friends in the cafeteria, drawing with sharpies, colored pencils, and even nail polish.

When I was 12, I moved in with my dad and stepmother, and around that time, I realized I was attracted to boys. Then came the Covid lockdown, and of course I went online. I found information about being a gay male and the “closet experience,” but I also found out about cross-dressing and transgender. The idea of being trans made sense. Why wouldn’t everyone get to decide who they are, like picking your avatar in a video game?

I never thought of myself as male or female. I had effeminate qualities and masculine qualities, but none of them seemed to add up to a particular gender. I found it strange that everybody was divided into one or the other.

I came out to my dad and stepmom as gay right after I turned 13. Back in school in the 9th grade, I began to wear vibrant clothes with graffiti designs, mostly unisex. That year, I met Lynx, who told me they were nonbinary. Lynx wore baggy clothes and T-shirts with obscure band names. We talked about gender identities, and how pronouns worked.  I decided I was nonbinary (but only told Lynx).

Around then I started wearing cropped jackets and shorter shorts. My dad said, “It’s OK to be gay, just as long as you’re not a tranny.” If I looked too feminine, he’d tease me, “You wanna be my little niña? And wear makeup and skirts like all the other girls?” 

What would happen if I said yes? 

I started to explore my feminine side at school with my girlfriends. I’d style my hair into pigtails, sprinkle star stickers across my face, and apply glitter lip balm. When I gossiped with my friends at school, I’d use slang like RuPaul did: “Yasss Diva!! Slayyy!!” “You’re serving!” “Gurl drop the tea!” My voice went higher when I switched to a sassy persona.

I also started changing into cropped T-shirts at school, then changing back before I went home. I’d also change the way I talked from energetic back to masculine and make sure not to put my hands on my hips or let my wrist go limp. 

It went beyond clothes and how I spoke. My father and the boys at school pressured me to be someone I wasn’t. Being masculine felt like following orders I didn’t like: Shut down your feelings. Don’t indulge in whimsy or joy. Don’t speak about yourself unless you’re bragging. Don’t use gay words or girly slang. Definitely don’t cry or act vulnerable. Talk about sports and girls’ bodies. I felt pressure to go along with crude, disrespectful jokes I hated.

Puberty

When I was almost 14, puberty came for me. It felt disgusting. All of a sudden I was growing hair everywhere at an alarming rate. Looking in the mirror, I saw my father’s reflection. And I hated it. 

I grew taller and put on weight, my hair grew out more and my voice deepened; clothes couldn’t hide my body anymore, and I felt out of place. I especially hated the mustache. Lip gloss didn’t look right on me anymore.

Puberty made me more self-conscious. It was gender that forced me to think about how I appeared to others, and that made me feel like I had to know who I was. I started wearing tailored button-up shirts and masculine dress shoes to go with my new grownup body, but at school I switched into girlier clothes like overalls and skorts. When I had no energy for any self-presentation, I’d wear baggie hoodies or sweaters. 

Trying on glitter and hairdos with my girlfriends had felt like play before, but now I didn’t fit in with the girls as easily. After puberty, my parents, along with everyone else, seemed more invested in my looking masculine. My mom thought I looked more together, with my hair in cornrows rather than loose. My father wanted me to wear tighter-fitting clothes rather than baggy ones, and he didn’t want me to shave.

But I shaved anyway.  When I shaved, I looked brighter, cleaner. Like a kid again. Being smooth-faced made me feel more approachable. 

After puberty, my parents, along with everyone else, seemed more invested in my looking masculine.

Having a beard made me look older and more serious, like it was time to follow the script of “man.” Masculinity seemed less fun. When I dressed male, I felt like I paid taxes and had a job. 

Occasionally, however, I did like to feel grown-up, and the beard helped. I wore the office casual clothes on those days.  I even drank coffee, but I loaded it up with sugar and milk.

I’d then ask my teachers why they liked their coffee black, trying to figure out why adults choose something so bitter. To me, black coffee tastes like suffering in a cup. Did adults always drink things they didn’t like? Do things they didn’t like doing?

Why did everyone have to keep changing??

Who Am I?

I wondered if I could keep a mix of both personalities. Be youthful, yet composed. Mature yet expressive.

I tried different hairstyles for my feminine look. Hair straightened, natural hair out, hair in a high bun. Over the next few years, I started to wear makeup: concealer, highlighter, and when I was feeling bold, mascara. When I was giving masculine, I’d just dab a little concealer on my eyebags. 

I still did my hair, makeup, and clothes experimenting at school, though, because my parents were not accepting. One day in spring of 11th grade, when I thought they’d still be at work, I came home wearing a pink sweatshirt and pink pants. Not only were they home, but they also had friends over!  My stomach dropped when I realized I’d have to walk past them all.

“What the f*ck?”my stepmother said, vocabulary colorful as always. 

I played dumb, which often helped disarm a situation. “What’s wrong? You don’t like it?”

“No! You’re a man,” my mom answered. “Men don’t wear pink! And those are women’s pants! What are you? A tranny?”

“I’m not trans,” I lied. “I just thought it looked nice. These are men’s jeans,” I lied again.

My dad’s friend defended me, “Men wear pink; it’s a spring color.”

My father answered, “What’s next, dresses? You have any idea how dangerous it is to dress like that outside? People get shot for looking like that.”

“Dad, I’m old enough to pick my own clothes.”

My mom glanced at my dad, and it was clear that they didn’t want to shut me down. We were all still trying to recover after my coming out to them as gay, but they didn’t know what to do with their disapproval and their desire to keep me safe. It’s like playing Twister, trying to be myself while avoiding their scorn. 

Luck Is Genderfluid

That summer, I visited my step-aunt Lucky. She asked if I’d met “anyone special” yet.

“No. I haven’t found the right partner.”

“Partner? Are you gay or southern?” she laughed.

“I like boys.”

“Oh. That’s good. I like good women myself.”

From there, I told her everything: I was attracted to boys, but I wasn’t sure I even was a boy myself. It was like opening the floodgates of a dam. 

She listened, and she told me her pronouns were “she/they.” From that point on, we talked every few weeks. I’d visit and update her on my life. Other times I’d text her when I was having a particularly bad day.  It felt so liberating to talk to her; I loved her. 

She was who I wanted to be, someone who was kind, caring, accepting and had found her own place on the gender binary. I decided to change my name, and I became Luck. It was to honor her, but I also liked that it didn’t have a gender, and I felt lucky that I had this chance to be open and to be exactly who I wanted.

At the beginning of 12th grade, about a year ago, I began to explain to close friends that I am genderfluid and that my name is Luck. Some days I feel masculine, other days, feminine, sometimes I feel nonbinary. It’s a relief to not have to be consistent; “genderfluid” lets me be however I feel on any particular day.

My Best Self

I need to make the rest of this journey on my own, without my parents and without fear of judgement from my peers, who are also becoming adults. 

When I tried to explain “they/them” to my parents, my mom’s response was sarcastic. “I only see one person: What are you, DID?” she asked, referring to dissociative identity disorder, what people used to call multiple personality disorder.

When I tried to explain nonbinary, it felt like they didn’t care. They said they had done enough to accept me. That being gay was OK, but anything else was too much for them. I was too much for them. 

So I keep that part of myself separate from my parents, but I keep trying out different clothing. Recently, I wore a short black wrap skirt and eyeliner to a movie with my friends. My friend Skylar said it looked good on me, but I realized I prefer flowing dresses to short skirts. 

I don’t want to hide myself, but sometimes I have to adjust my appearance. This fall, I started college at a commuter school, with lots of older people. I searched, but I didn’t find an LGBTQ club, and people in my class don’t seem receptive to my feminine or expressive side. They seem cold and like they don’t want to interact with me. I miss my girlfriends from high school. 

So when I go to classes now, I dial back my style a little. I’m wearing more “normal guy” T-shirts and darker colors. I wear bright clothes when I feel safer being expressive.

But even if my look is toned down, I know I am Luck.  As Luck, I can be open, bright, cheerful, happy and not fearful. I show a good representation of a gay and trans person. I am freed from the pressure to play sports, date girls, have sex, make light of sexual assault. Freed from the pressure to bottle up my emotions. As Luck, I choose to reject those aspects of “manliness” that have never felt right. That’s true no matter what I’m wearing.