REFUSE
ELLIOTT DeLINE
“God, how Sex implores you
To let yourself lose yourself.”
–Morrissey
The Smiths, ‘Stretch Out and Wait.
PART ONE
Growing up, I had a speech impediment. I wish I could tell you that’s why I became a writer. I’d admit (after taking a sip of coffee and checking my reflection in the window) I still get tongue-tied in situations like this; it’s astonishing I’m even finishing my sentences. You’d confess you’re the same way: either excessively chatty or struck mute, with no middle ground. You’d say something else- something calculated, no doubt intelligent, and perhaps even pretty- but I’d be speechless. I ejaculated my words prematurely and can no longer perform. You’d abandon me, disgusted and laughing. You always do.
Adults always told me to read as much as possible. I imagine this was because they never did. When you’re addicted to bookish perfection, you forsake face-to-face conversations, and devalue that which doesn’t follow a plot structure. In other words, you hate life. That’s the true reason I write. I fancy myself something of a tragic hero. By the end, I hope to beat out Hamlet, Heathcliff, and Holden Caulfield for that special place in your heart.
I was always embarrassed to talk at school. The other kids didn’t need more ammunition. I already stood out, due to my crazy curls and oversized glasses. But I endured in silence, knowing my dad would read to me in bed. His deep voice brought the words to life, and those words protected me from harm. With eyes closed, the little brat in footsie pajamas no longer existed. I became the story.
I had two usual requests. The tale I loved was Peter Pan; the tale I loved to hate was The Three Little Pigs and the Big Bad Wolf. My father thought it very clever to mock me. He would read, “Then I’ll huff and puff and blow your house down! said the Big Bad Wup.” I’d always fall into the same trap and reply “Not, Wup, Wup!” I was unable to maneuver my three year old tongue to form the “f” sound but still knew it was wrong. My father would laugh, but to me it was no joke. I imagined huffing, puffing and blowing our own three-bedroom colonial to smithereens. But it was pleasurable humiliation; the habit-forming kind. I reenacted the scene every night, dooming myself to the sticky role of the masochistic toddler.
And so today, if someone should ask why I am what I am, I will point my finger at well-meaning elementary school teachers and the authors of 1980’s parenting books. “READ TO YOUR CHILDREN. IF YOU DON’T THEY WILL BE NOBODIES.” Oh, what dark times these suburbs have known… Books would only fuel my piousness and gross over-identification with fictional characters. When most kids were settling into their gender roles, I was too consumed in my fairytale crusade. I eventually outlawed that wretched tale of anthropomorphized swine, not because of my inability to pronounce l’s or f’s, but due to the final page. It described, in a reversal of nature, the pigs cooking the wolf alive, complete with an illustration of a barbeque. I questioned whether this supposedly big and bad wolf ever meant any harm. Maybe he only wanted to meet his neighbors. And were you not supposed to love your neighbors, unconditionally? I was something of a young animal buff, and I knew healthy wolves never harmed people without provocation (they did harm pigs, but I overlooked this). Canis Lupus was a shy species: gentle outcasts, defamed in children’s literature. It was human beings who hunted them to extinction in my home of New York State. Wolves were the real victim, and for this reason I brought the book to my mother, ordering she put an end to the injustice by stapling the last pages together. I then scampered off to draw pictures of wolves and pigs holding hands under rainbows.
As an only child, I grew up a prince, convinced make-believe was a serious business and my desires trumped reality. But no matter how many rainbows I drew or how often I praised God’s misunderstood creatures, Nature had it in for me. The first harbinger of this reoccurring theme: my original name consisted of an l and two r’s- two consonants I always slaughtered. And so, when my father took me to his office cubicle and his co-workers towered over me, asking, “Hi sweetheart, what’s your name?” I always replied, in a shy, barely audible squeak, “Yahweh.”
A decade and a half later, I would take a college course on the Bible and realize the blasphemy in this utterance. Not only had I broken taboo and spoken God’s name aloud, I had unintentionally ordained myself the Messiah. Though maybe I was on to something. In Hebrew, Yahweh translates as “He is.” The un-predicated god. Really, even the pronoun is superfluous (aren’t they always?). Perhaps my mispronunciation was prophetic. I wasn’t “Laura”, after all; I wasn’t the child they were seeing- not if I didn’t want to be. I was Peter Pan, the Big Bad Wolf, even a talking sea lion on occasion- but I was certainly not a little girl. I wasn’t anything yet, or maybe I was everything I would ever be.
I am now twenty-two, and I haven’t changed much. I do not work and I no longer attend college. On my most productive days, I lounge around the same suburban house, striking bored, artistic poses. But more importantly, what am I? I’ve been called tomboy, lesbian, bisexual, asexual, it, androgyne, transsexual, transgender, gender-queer, plain-old queer, and the dreaded tranny-fag. None of these tags ever sat well with me. You’d assume this heap of titles would indicate many transformations over the course of my life, but you’d be wrong. Yahweh always was and unfortunately always will be. I have given up on any revelation or eschatological coming-out-of-the-closet. Unlike my kindred memoirists, there’s nothing I will beg you to believe. You see, I know I’m not a real man. I inject their hormones into my body, I assume their secondary sex characteristics, I play dress up, prowl about and live in their world, but I am not one of them. Nor am I otherwise.
But there is a problem in this dodgy existence, and nowhere more obvious than in the Old Testament. Yahweh provides the Hebrews with a double bind: make no false figures of me, and yet talk about me all the time. How the hell do you talk about something without assuming you understand it? How can you form sentences without predicates? This is the same problem I have encountered deciphering my own meaning, in a world where people force identities down your throat. Appropriately, I stick out my tongue and drop my trousers to the queers and straights alike. “I’m rubber and you’re glue,” little Lord Yahweh cries, thumbing his nose. “Sticks and stones, stick and stones! I know you are, but what am I?”
Being so disagreeable on top of being a transsexual, how have I possibly functioned in our society? Easy: I haven’t. What kind of anti-hero is ever well-adjusted? As I’ve already hinted, I do nothing but write incessantly, in hopes of easing my anxieties. And I’m willing to bet that’s all your fancy prophets and saints were doing as well.
Like I said, gross over-identification. And this is just the beginning, sister.
*
In case you haven’t noticed, I suffer from an inflated sense of self-importance (yes, suffer). However, I would not say this is the case of all transsexuals. Just most.
I’ll be the first to admit I am vain. Why do you think I have this ridiculous hairstyle? (Pretend you are lucky enough to view me.) Let me tell you, a great deal of research went into this devil-may-care image of mine. I’ll cite one source: James Byron Dean.
The 1950’s… maybe not the birth of gender stereotypes, but definitely the golden years. At least here in America. And yet Dean spent his numbered days pouting his lips like a pin-up girl. Let it be said: his genius was his ability to be photogenic. Why else would anyone smoke cigarettes? Of course all those famous photos of him are staged. He pretended to play bongos for pigs, to sulk in bars, to have a destination as he walked down the Manhattan streets in the rain. You know he’d been imagining it all along, planning the outfits and the angles, waiting for a photographer to take up his cause, waiting for boys and girls alike to devour him. Even his movies seem like vain, moving photographs; mirrors in which to view himself, not express a director’s vision. Luckily this was the pre-Facebook era, otherwise he might have stayed in Hicksville Indiana, the eternal emo kid, overjoyed to discover the timer on his parents’ digital camera. “Love me!” all his status-updates would seem to cry. And you’d just have to love him, wouldn’t you?
“Alright, alright,” my snottier readers are no doubt thinking, “we get it. Your most traumatic childhood memories center on your lisp. You took some classes at a State school and now consider yourself an expert on metaphysics. You have a fetish for James Dean and perhaps a creepy, repressed one for wolves. You are alluding to myriad mood disorders and gender identity issues. Fascinating. Is there a plot in this story or are you just going to keep talking in circles about yourself?” I already explained this, but I maybe if I quote Dostoevsky you’ll be impressed:
“I am convinced that fellows like me must be kept under restraint. They may be able to live for forty years and never open their mouths, but the moment they break out they may talk and talk and talk…”
So there you have it, gentlemen. This isn’t any old trashy transgender autobiography: I’m an existentialist!
*
It is hard to say whether I’ve had two homes or none.
I was raised in the vast suburb of North Syracuse- what I always knew as Central New York, but having spent my college years in or around New York City, I have come to know as Upstate. Upstate, I learned, connotes a great deal: provincial, repressed, isolated, behind the times, famously boring, gloomy, and prone to precipitation. These adjectives could also be used to describe my demeanor in comparison to my worldly Downstate contemporaries. But I’m being self-deprecating, or perhaps passive aggressive; it gets hard for me to tell the difference. I will say, Syracuse is forever entwined with the memories of my once female body. They are both, if you will, uncomfortable places of origin.
Upstate, Downstate, and back again. That was my early twenties for you. The details of my life tend to split off neatly in twos. Only appropriate that Colin Mahr should crop up when he did. Only typical that he’d get under my skin, functioning as both doppelganger and foil. Notice I present you with literary terms by which to understand my scatterbrained tale. I imagine for this reason, among many others, this text won’t make it into classroom settings. By the end I will have picked over this story to death. There will be nothing left for you hungry vultures to say in your Contemporary Queer Literature Seminars that I haven’t made plain in English. Close-read all you want, you philistines. Do a close-reading of this sentence. How did that go? I hate you.
But back to Colin. (Yes yes, always back to Colin!) He attended the music conservatory at our college, studying how to prostitute his art. It made him miserable, but would prove necessary. He worked hard and achieved success doing what he loves. It is admirable, downright American even- I’d be a predictable bore to suggest otherwise. Ever heard of the Brooklyn-based-indie-rock-quintet Owl Eyes? Of course you have; I’d expect only the hippest of readership. Well Colin is none other than their handsome lead guitarist. “That’s where I’d heard the name Mahr!” you exclaim. Perhaps. Or, my clever one, perhaps you were thinking of another great guitarist. I know I was the second I heard Colin’s surname. But I’ve been rambling for a while now and I’m unready to cite that particular source (then you’d know everything!). I won’t confess the extent of my juvenile projection. Not just yet. Instead I will torture myself with the same old bedtime story. Instead I will step back and play God.
*
One morning in early January, Colin Mahr awoke, as he often did, to the sound of his cell phone vibrating beneath his pillow. He was dreaming again of a shipwreck; of drowning in a riptide. The images of the dark sea, the imagined taste of salt water and his feelings of panic disintegrated as he groped for the source of the buzz. Once he located the device, he squinted his eyes to read the name on the glowing screen. It was Maggie, his girlfriend. It would be the first time they’d spoken in a few days.
“Hello?” he croaked. He ran his tongue over his achy gums, tasting blood. He had a habit of grinding his teeth in his sleep.
“Hey, did I wake you?” Maggie asked.
“No,” Colin lied. He sat up and took a sip of the water on his bed stand. “What’s up?”
“I just got out of my class. I thought you’d want to know who’s in it. It might interest you.”
“Who?” he yawned, still too tired to care what she was saying.
“His name is Dean. He’s a transfer, and I’m pretty sure,” she paused here for dramatic effect, “he’s transgender.”
Now Colin was interested. “Really?” He pouted his lower lip and released a jet of air upward, blowing his hair out of his eyes. “How do you know?”
“Well,” Maggie paused, choosing her words carefully. “I didn’t actually talk to him or anything, but I’m almost positive, just from how he looks. He’s kind of androgynous and slight, with small hands and feet. I don’t think other people picked up on it, but I’ve developed a sixth sense for this stuff.”
“Interesting!” Colin said. “He must have transferred here. Do you think he’s on hormones yet?”
“I’m pretty sure, yes. He has sideburns. He passes and all. Like I said, I don’t think other people would have suspected.”
“Interesting,” Colin said again. “Well, I’m sure we’ll meet eventually. Maybe we can introduce ourselves sometime.”
“Definitely,” Maggie said. “Anyway, sorry to wake you. Should we get lunch or something?” Her voice was meek, hopeful.
Colin hesitated. “Sure,” he said, “I’ll meet you at the dining hall in like twenty minutes. I’ve got to shower.” He ended the call and decided to lie back down.
His bed was on the left side of the large room, covered in a blue comforter, in the corner of two hospital-white walls. Behind the wall at his feet was the bathroom, and the adjacent was decorated, unenthusiastically, with two small adornments. One was a crinkled show flyer for his band, Owl Eyes. Beneath the headline, there was a drawing of an owl with many eyes, clearly sketched by the hand of someone who possessed a crude, child-like style as well as a Bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts. Tacked beside the flyer was a Polaroid photograph of a freckly brunette in a simple white dress. She was holding a bouquet of sunflowers and sitting barefoot on the edge of a dock, indicating the photographer must have been standing in a lake. The young lady had a strikingly genuine smile, and an earthy beauty suggestive of an earlier, more idealistic era. Beneath the photo, Colin had scrawled “Maggie” in Sharpie marker.
It was at this photograph Colin stared, frowning, as he tried to will himself out of bed. He was enjoying his solitude, having just returned from winter break, which hardly constituted a vacation. Christmas at the Mahr house was a whirlwind of wealthy uncles pestering about graduate school and aging aunts who never knew when to leave. Colin kept a busy schedule at school, and knew he would have would little time for introspection, even at night. Soon Maggie would sleep over regularly, as she had every previous semester. Colin was previously the only transgender man on campus, and to avoid legal problems, the college provided a private dormitory and bathroom. Both suited Colin when he was enjoying sex with Maggie, but after the events of the break and the disaster on New Year’s eve, he half-wished he had the excuse of a roommate.
But the more time Colin spent alone, the more he began thinking, and the more he thought, the more he wanted a distraction. So he gave in, got up, and headed to the bathroom. He pulled off his boxer shorts and stepped into shower, turning the nozzle full blast. He allowed the hot water to flow from his crown down over his face, not using shampoo. He rubbed soap over his boney body, lingering for a moment on the raised surgical scars on his hairless chest. After about five minutes, he stepped out and dried himself, ruffling his dark, still dingy hair with a baby blue towel that he then wrapped around his hips. He wiped the steam off the mirror and stood only a moment, stroking his stubble. He knew he looked like a man now, and nothing else in his reflection had ever preoccupied him.
He popped in his contact lenses and headed out of the steam to his dresser. He picked out clean boxers, jeans, a white tee-shirt and a navy hooded sweatshirt. He dressed himself and then turned on his laptop, waiting for the screen to load while he tied his boots. When the desktop appeared, he clicked open his email account, typing his password with one hand. He had received a single message over night. He read:
Hey Colin,
There is a new transfer student, a junior named Dean . He is an FTM transgender but since he was listed as female in the system, he was automatically placed to room with a young woman. She has expressed discomfort with this arrangement and wants Dean to move out. But this causes a dilemma. We have no more single rooms available this semester, and due to state policy we cannot place him to live with a male. Would you be interested in allowing him to move in with you? Let me know.
Thanks!
Kathy Brownstein, Campus Housing
The timing was eerie. Colin opened another tab to look for Dean on Facebook. After several failed searches, he got up and pulled on his winter jacket, stuffing his wallet in his pocket. As he left his room and locked the door, he decided he would stop by the Housing office after breakfast and talk to Kathy in person. He was anxious to hear more about Dean.
*
Outside, the air was frigid. Colin wished he wore the scarf Maggie knitted for his birthday, even if it made him feel foolish. He walked across the quad to the dining hall, bowing his head against the winds. He stepped inside the heated building, made warmer by the yellow painted walls and smell of coffee. It was around 11:00 and not too crowded. He glanced around, looking for Maggie. He saw her at a window booth, waved, and proceeded to fill his tray with food.
Five minutes later he sat down at the booth with a cardboard textured bagel, orange juice and some questionably fresh fruit. Maggie was dressed in a white wool cardigan with a matching, knitted beret. Her hair was tied back, and her face looked alert and rosy, suggesting she had been awake and productive for hours. She leaned in and gave Colin a dry kiss across the table.
“Good morning,” Colin said as she pulled away.
“Good morning baby,” she said. “How did you sleep?”
“Alright,” he said. “How was your first literature class?”
“It was really good! We’re reading Despair. I forget, have you read anything by Nabokov?” She emphasized the second syllable, looking pleased with herself.
“No,” Colin said, not sure who that was. Maggie always made him wish he were more well-read. It was something he was insecure about, especially around her friends. He wished she wouldn’t talk about books and poetry so often. It made him feel stupid. “So I got an email about that kid Dean you mentioned on the phone,” he said. “They want him to move in with me.”
“Huh!” said Maggie. “Quelle coincidence! That should be interesting. Well, sort of unfortunate. We won’t have as much time to be alone together.”
“Yeah, that’s true,” said Colin.
“But I think it’s really great,” Maggie said. “I think it will be so good for you to spend time with another trans guy. I hope you two end up getting along.”
Colin imagined they would. He tended to get along with most everyone, and he felt a bond between two transgender men could be especially strong. They could share coming-out stories, complain about discrimination, support each other through the hard times, compare their surgical scars… They would be like brothers. Or better yet, war buddies. “What did he seem like?” he asked, trying not to appear overly eager. “Was he cool?”
Maggie bit her lip, considering. “Yeah. He’s cool, but he’s a little awkward. He kept playing with his hair and squirming in his seat. He’s got such a pretty face though. He’s almost…delicate, in a way.” She had a strange, dreamy look that Colin didn’t trust. He personally hated the use of feminine words to describe his appearance, and was offended for Dean’s sake.
Still staring off, Maggie didn’t notice Colin’s expression. “He dresses more like a professor than a student, to be honest,” she said. “The kind of guy who always wears sweaters, you can tell. Probably takes himself very seriously, reads a lot, you know the type. And he’s a twig. About your size, but a few inches taller.”
Colin frowned again. His height was another source of insecurity. “I was thinking I would stop by Resident Life after we ate, and just talk to the lady in person,” he said. “Let her know that I want to room with him.”
“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” said Maggie. “You should.”
They sat for a while, not speaking. They ate their food and then sipped coffee, both avoiding the topic of winter break. In those moments of silence, they reached an agreement. Now back at school, they would pretend nothing happened.
Maggie finally spoke. “Well, I’m going to go back to my apartment momentarily. I’ve got another class in a half hour. What are your plans for the day? I don’t remember what your schedule’s like this semester.”
“I’ve got a composition class from four to six,” Colin said, “and that’s it for Fridays. Want me to stop by after that?”
“Of course!” she said. “I’m going to the store with Jess, but should be back by six. Do you want me to pick you up anything? Wine?”
“Yeah, I’ll split whatever wine with you,” Colin said, picking up his plastic tray and pushing in his chair. They walked, again in silence, past the lunchtime crowd of students and up the stairs to the main level.
“Well, I’m going to head back home then,” Maggie said. “Have a good day, baby.”
“You too,” said Colin, hating pet names, but he squeezed her hand and gave her another kiss. “I’ll see you tonight.”
They went their separate ways, Colin with his back to the wind and Maggie bearing its snowy force.
*
Elise Pace had been waiting to use the mirror for nearly forty-five minutes. She needed to fix her make-up for a typical Friday night, drinking and partying in the campus apartments. Once again, her bizarre roommate had locked himself in the bathroom. She tried knocking, but Dean’s only response was a gruff, “Yeah, one minute.” The audacity, she thought. This was truly the last straw. Lord knows he couldn’t be taking a forty-five minute shit, and he didn’t have to worry about his appearance, seeing as he never went out. So what on earth was he doing? An unpleasant thought occurred to her and she shook her head, banishing it.
“Dean, I’m serious, I need to get in there,” she said. “I have to meet my boyfriend at six.” No response. She bit her lip. Shouldn’t there be a school policy for kids like him? It was awkward enough living with a transsexual, and Dean’s behavior made it ten times worse.
He was always around, never giving her time to herself, disappearing only for classes or when she had friends over. He’d scowl as he made a hasty, wordless exit, sighing and letting the door slam, as if he felt himself to be the victim of some great injustice. And he was always listening to that same music; that terrible moaning man over ancient 80’s guitar riffs. She could hear it playing from the hall whenever she’d come up the stairs to their floor. He always scampered to turn it off when she entered the room, bothering her all the more. He had a secretive and creepy way about him, and she often found it hard to sleep with him awake across the room, reading by flashlight into the early hours of the morning.
She couldn’t take much more. She was about to pound again with her firsts when there was a knock at the dormitory door. “Who is it?” she asked in a singsong voice.
There was a pause. “Uh, my name is Colin Mahr. I’m here to see Dean?”
The door to the bathroom flung open and Dean dashed to the entrance way, nearly knocking into Elise. “Jesus, relax,” she muttered.
Dean ignored her. “What did you say your name was?” he asked in a mumbled baritone, his lips nearly touching the heavy wood door. He kept one hand on the knob and the other with his fingers crossed at his side.
Elise found this all unnecessary. “He said his name was Colin, now just let him in.”
Dean didn’t make any indication that he heard her. He opened the door a crack and peered out into the corridor. Colin stood rubbing his arm, melting snowflakes clinging to the dark swoop of his hair. “Hey” he said, frowning slightly, unsure why his entrance was being barred. His eyes were large and brown, wide and deep set with long, thick lashes. Most of his features (chin, lips, eyebrows) could be described as thin and angular. His nose was especially prominent, though not bulbous. It gave him a majestic, bald eagle-like quality.
Dean’s eye peered through the crack for several more seconds, judging the specimen. “Hey,” he said, finally opening the door. “Come in.”
“Hey,” Colin said again. “Like I said, I’m Colin Mahr. I’m a junior Music Composition major.” He held out his hand. Dean grasped it cautiously, as if such formalities were foreign to him. Colin couldn’t help but notice he had a feeble grip and avoided eye contact. Admittedly, Maggie was right; Dean was a somewhat delicate. His face was pale, with rosy cheeks and thin, red lips. His light eyes were obscured by dated, horn-rim glasses, and his black hair was styled meticulously in a pompadour of sorts, shaved close on the sides. He was wearing a black tee with faded blue jeans, seemingly ready to slip off his hips at any second. His arms were crossed and his shoulders rounded as he stared resolutely at a hole in his sock. Colin waited for him to introduce himself, but it never happened.
“Hey Colin,” Elise said, breaking the silence. “You were in my Women’s Studies class last semester.”
“Hey there Elise” Colin said with a little wave. “Yeah, I remember. How did you like that class?”
“It was okay,” she said. “A lot of it’s over my head. I don’t get the whole waves thing. Was the teacher saying there is a fourth-wave of feminism or no waves at all?”
Colin laughed. “No idea.”
“Regardless, we’re all drowning,” Dean mumbled.
Colin looked to Elise, as if for explanation. She rolled her eyes and shrugged.
“So you’re Dean right?” Colin said.
Dean nodded, still staring at his toes.
“Well hi Dean,” Colin said. “It’s nice to finally meet you.” Dean nodded again, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in a would-be smile. No one could see it.
“So,” Colin said. “I was wondering if you’d want to go for a walk. There are some things I was to ask you.”
“Really?” Dean’s head shot up with excitement. “I mean, sure, yes, I’d like that.” His cheeks flushed as he brushed past Colin and once again gripped the handle of the door. His hand was trembling.
“Uh, you’ll want a jacket,” Colin said. “It’s snowing out.”
“Oh, right,” Dean said, blushing again and looking at his feet. “Stupid, sorry.” He went to his closet and pulled on an oversized black cardigan and a matching black pea coat. He also removed his glasses, placing them carefully in a case on his bed stand, next to what looked suspiciously like a Bible.
“I mean, you’re welcome to talk here,” Elise said, curious. Colin was the only other transgender person she knew besides Dean and their interactions interested her, from a sociological standpoint. Maybe Colin could teach Dean some manners, she thought. He at least never made her uneasy. Her friends agreed, Colin Mahr seemed really normal despite his disorder.
“No,” Dean said, one-handedly struggling with his Burberry scarf as he opened the door. “Let’s go.”
*
The sun had set and it was still snowing as they walked down the path away from the dorm buildings. The street lamps glowed yellow, illuminating swirling flakes in the air. The brick academic buildings loomed in the distance, looking castle-like when set against the navy sky. Both boys had their hands balled up into fists inside the sleeves of their jackets as the walked down the snowy path. When they approached the fork between the apartments and the library, Colin turned to Dean. “Where to?”
Dean shrugged. Colin shrugged as well.
“Well, I was going to meet my girlfriend at her apartment, over in Baker,” Colin said. “You’re welcome to join me if you’d like. That’s sort of a hike, you know? She’s in one of your literature classes actually. Her name’s Maggie. I know she’d love to meet you.”
“Okay,” Dean said, his face still flushed, not sure what Baker was. He followed Colin’s lead, taking the path on their right into a grove of pine trees. The lamps were gone, but they could still see one another’s faces. The snowfall made everything seem unnaturally quiet. No one else was around.
“So there’s no way of addressing this without sounding awkward,” Colin said after a moment, “so I’ll just say it. We’re both trans men.”
“Oh!” said Dean. “I uh…well hm. I hadn’t realized you were.”
“Oh, cool, thanks!” said Colin, smiling.
“Thanks?” Dean asked, scratching the back of his hair.
“Yeah, I don’t know. I’m glad I look like a regular guy.”
“Huh,” Dean said. “Yes. That is the idea, I suppose. Fair enough.” He let out a nervous ha! his breath visible in the air.
“So anyway,” Colin said, “the administration asked me if I’d want to room with you, since you transferred. I’ve got a double to myself, complete with a shower. I think it’d be pretty sweet if you moved in, since we are the only trans men on campus and all.”
“Are we?” Dean said, still messing with his hair. “Well then, yes. Of course. I really don’t fit well with uh, uh…”
“Elise?” Colin offered.
“Yes. Her. So okay, we’ll be roommates. And that’s why we’re walking, then? Ah, of course. Got it. Roommates. Transgender. Right.” Dean looked disappointed.
Colin wondered if he’d been expecting something else, though he couldn’t imagine what. “So you go by Dean,” he said. “Are you a James Dean fan?”
“Why?” Dean asked. He narrowed his eyes.
“Uh, I don’t know,” Colin said. “I mean, you’ve sort of got his hair style.”
“Wow, I hadn’t noticed.” Dean meant to be self-deprecating, but realized he sounded rude. “I mean, yes I am. A uh, fan. Which I guess stands for fanatic, right? The word actually comes from…well, hm. Frightening. Okay, shut up Dean.” His voice trailed off into an indecipherable mumble as he unconsciously sped up his walking pace.
Colin felt like Dean was angry with him about something, though the idea was absurd; after all, they had been talking less than ten minutes. As they neared the steps down to the apartments, he kept sneaking glances at Dean’s miserable profile. He wanted to take in every detail of his appearance, mark every masculine and feminine trait and compare it to his own. He absorbed Dean’s faint five o’clock shadow, his Adam’s apple, his pale, darting eyes. He wasn’t sure if he felt competitive or what. It was all very strange. “So where did you come from?” he said. He felt like he was talking over his own thoughts.
“Originally?” Dean said, blinking snowflakes off his eyelashes. “North Syracuse.”
“Ah, Upstate. So you’re used to the snow.”
Dean said nothing.
“Heard they’ve got a good basketball team,” Colin added, reaching. “Syracuse University, right? The Orangemen? Football team’s pretty popular too.”
“Unfortunately,” Dean muttered.
Colin laughed. “Yeah, I’m not a sports fan.”
Dean smiled. He liked when people thought he was funny, despite himself. Unfortunately was also one of his favorite words to say. “What do you like then?” he asked, looking up.
“Well,” Colin said, “this sounds cliché, but my real passion is music.”
“Mine too!” said Dean. He looked excited but it disappeared in a flash. “Well, I don’t play any instruments. And I’m not a great singer. But yeah…music.” He silently chastised himself for sounding so dumb.
“Yeah?” said Colin. “What’s your favorite band?”
Dean blushed. “Oh…I dunno.” He did know. “What’s yours?”
“Answering a question with a question, eh?” Colin said, smiling. “Well, I’d have to say my band is my favorite, actually. We’re called Owl Eyes, and I’ll risk sounding like an asshole, but I really believe in what we’re doing.”
Dean shook his head. “No, I admire your honesty” he said. “You should think you’re the best, otherwise why bother?”
“Well, I don’t know if I agree with that” Colin said. “I mean, I’d be nowhere without my influences.”
“Influences?” Dean said.
“Yeah, you know, like, musicians who inspire me.”
Dean was silent.
“Hasn’t an artist ever inspired you?” Colin asked. Now he was the one blushing.
Dean bit his lip. “Who inspires you?” he asked.
The truth was, Colin loved all kinds of music. But when this question was posed, he tried to read his crowd and cite something impressive. “I’ve been really into The Smiths lately,” he said, eyeing Dean’s hair.
Dean blushed, his tongue poking out as he gave Colin a sideways glance. His eyes seemed disbelieving, but hopeful; almost pleading. Colin turned away. Something about Dean was too familiar. It scared him a little.
Colin lit a cigarette. Dean kept his fingers crossed in his pocket. They didn’t talk again until they reached the apartment.
*
Maggie’s roommate was gone for the weekend, so Colin slept in her bed that night. By eleven they had finished a double bottle of merlot, and were watching television in their underwear, feeling warm and woozy under the pink down comforter. Unlike her boyfriend, Maggie had taken great care decorating her walls. Every inch was covered in paintings, photographs or posters. They seemed to serve as templates for self-expression. Most of the photographs featured Colin, and two posters were of Owl Eyes.
“I really liked Dean,” Maggie said, stretching her thin arms. “I’m glad you brought him over. I want to be his friend.”
“He’s interesting,” Colin said. He stared at the wall, distracted. There was a photograph of him at age eighteen, before he started hormone therapy. He wished Maggie would throw it out.
“He seems shy,” Maggie continued, “but it’s endearing. He’s definitely a cutie.”
“Yeah,” Colin said. He wished Maggie wouldn’t use words like cutie.
“I’m not attracted to him, Colin, don’t get the wrong idea. I just mean he’s sweet.”
“I know.”
There was silence.
“He reminds me of Morrissey,” Maggie said. “Especially with his hair.”
“Yeah, he likes The Smiths,” Colin said, eyes now on the television. “I’m sure he’s going for that.”
“Do you think he’s gay?” Maggie said.
Colin frowned. “I like The Smiths and I’m not gay.”
Maggie blushed. “I wasn’t saying there’s a correlation. He just seemed sort of gay, didn’t he? Is that wrong to say?”
“What? How the hell should I know?”
“I don’t know,” Maggie said. She hesitated. “Colin, you seem upset. Should we talk about-” “No,” Colin said. “Not tonight.”
They both knew this meant never.
“I’m sure he’ll say eventually if he is,” Maggie said after a moment, nodding to herself.
“What? Who?”
“Dean.”
“You’re still on that? Who cares?”
Maggie sighed. “I don’t know. It’s just interesting, that’s all. I’ve never met a gay trans man.
Colin didn’t respond. Maggie kissed him on the shoulder and then leaned her head against his bare chest. “I love you,” she said.
“I love you too, but I’ve got a headache,” Colin said, turning on his side.
“Oh no, I was just…never mind.” Maggie said, edging away. She stared at the back of his head, embarrassed. Her throat hurt.
She went back to watching television until she fell asleep.
*
Oh boy, maybe I’m expecting too much of you, reader. Not everyone had the benefit of going to a chic college like me. I’ll give some definitions that may be helpful:
1. Transgender- people who feel the gender they were born into is Restrictive and does not Define them. For the most part this term is used to describe people who feel they are the opposite gender inside. But also this includes people who don’t feel like anything, or feel like everything, or are just overwhelmed with feelings and genders completely. Anytime someone calls this an umbrella term I get an urge to take an umbrella and stab them.
2. Transsexual- these are people who have SEX CHANGES(!!!) or take hormones to alter their body or something. The term is outdated and offensive, and therefore appeals to me. This includes MTF (male to female), and FTM (female to male), but never F2M. That’s vulgar, stop it. We are not a 90’s boy band, regardless of what tacky drag king performers persuade you to believe. No numbers, no exceptions.
3. Transvestite- Eh, you know. No one cares about them anymore.
(Fun fact for Catholics: Similar to the term “God” in the Holy Trinity, “Transgender” encompasses all three categories as well. Nifty, eh?)
Transgender individuals (trans for short!) like to be called by the Pronouns that go with what they feel on the inside (wherever that is located). So if a person was born a female but grows up to feel like a man, you should probably call him by male Pronouns, regardless of how you feel in your insides about the matter (or how much evidence you have to the contrary). But no one can make you. It’s a free country.
Note: It’s alright to admit transgender people are unattractive. Not because they have supposedly deviant bodies, but because they won’t shut up about them. You will find yourself wondering, “Does this person ever stop talking about their feelings and their insides? Why does it even matter?” It shouldn’t and doesn’t. In fact, thinking about any of this stuff is bad for you. I’m bored of definitions though, so if you’re still baffled, maybe you should go read some books on Theories. But I’m warning you, you may break out in a rash. Maybe turn on the television. Perhaps Oprah is doing a special.
But back to my initial point. You might be a little confused seeing as Maggie just said something about gay trans men. “Okay,” you say, with boundless generosity, “so I accept that females can be men and males can be women. But wait. A female who is a man who is a gay man? I don’t mean to offend you, but that’s sort of absurd.”
You’re telling me.
And for the record, I am offended by your question. To be transgender is to be perpetually offended. But now, since as the narrator I am God, and God works in mysterious ways, let us jump back in time about five years. After all, it isn’t proper if I don’t include some whining about my teen years. On your journey towards understanding, you may allow your tears to drop freely upon the pages. As your diversity tour guide, I assure you: it will only enhance the sanctity of this text.
*
Dean sat in the Tim Horton’s across from the high school, drinking black coffee and looking out on the parking lot. Across from him sat Vivian Angeli. She was the head of their class, president of the literary society, and Dean’s only friend. They went to this restaurant almost every afternoon, though they despised the place. They longed for a locally owned café, where they would meet artistic teenage comrades and maybe see some intelligent live performances. Alas, that was the stuff of books and indie flicks; this was the realm of Walmarts and hardcore bands.
To avoid going home after school, they’d walk across to a plaza that housed the dreaded restaurant, right next to a tanning salon (discounts for Class of 07 Seniors!) and an Evangelist youth center. There were exactly eighteen American flags leading up the path; they counted. Once inside, Vivian would order them both drinks, since Dean never had any money and her dad was always giving it away. Then they would sit in the darkest corner they could find and do what they did best: complain.
“Michael got the stupidest tattoo.” Vivian said. “It’s the friggin’ Olympic rings.”
Dean looked away from the window, scowling. “Are you kidding me? Why would anyone ever, ever do that?”
Vivian shrugged. “He’s orange too, have you seen? Been tanning, no doubt.”
“Oh Lord.” Dean took a snotty sip of his coffee. Neither he nor Vivian approved of her other friends.
“Did you do the English homework?” Vivian said. “You have no excuse to fail this semester. Though admittedly, Mrs. Moriarty can’t teach. I swear she gets her notes off the internet.”
“She’s dreadful,” Dean said, tracing the water ring on the table with his finger. “The books have been enjoyable at least. Did I tell you my theory about-- well, later.” He glared as two boys in lacrosse uniforms walked in the door. “I can’t focus, this place is too ugly. Why are we here again? Want to walk to the cemetery?”
“Later, maybe,” Vivian said. “Must we go in the sun?”
They took some time to catch their breaths before Dean cautiously continued. “I skipped gym again.”
Vivian groaned. “Dean! You’re going to fail.” She was preoccupied with grades and following rules. It is hard to say why she was so fond of Dean, as he was oblivious to both these things.
“Well, what am I supposed to do?” he said. “I can’t change with the girls. Everyone acts like I’m staring at them. It’s so homophobic. Plus I don’t take my clothes off in front of people, ever. It goes against my code.” He smirked into his coffee cup.
“Maybe you should get a letter from your mom, saying that you’re transgender,” Vivian said.
Dean frantically signaled for her to lower her voice. Vivian was the only person, outside of his family, who knew his secret identity. Or at least that’s what he thought; there were rumors, given his somewhat masculine clothing and hairstyle. Though some assumed he was a lesbian, there was a peculiar air to his timid androgyny most people noticed. It hinted at something far more sinister.
“Yeah right, some good that’d do.” Dean muttered, referring to the suggestion of a letter. “My mom would burst into tears if I so much as mentioned it. And do you really think the idiots who teach Phys. Ed. will respect my wishes? Besides, what am I supposed to do, change with the guys? I’m sure that’d go great.”
Vivian sighed. “Well, you can’t keep skipping.”
“Well, technically I can.”
“No, you can’t.” Her dark eyebrows angled with fury as she glared over the rim of her glasses. It was her signature, librarian expression that Dean would one day adopt.
Dean muttered something inaudible. His voice was naturally high pitched; he was seventeen and not yet injecting one milliliter of testosterone biweekly into his body, as was the custom for boys like him. He compensated by speaking in a grumble that was almost impossible to hear.
Glancing out the window over Dean’s shoulder, Vivian suddenly looked alarmed. “Wait a minute, is that my mom’s car?”
“What?”
“Yeah, it totally is. She’s coming inside.”
She was. The middle-aged, squat Italian women looked frazzled as she burst through the door and sped-walked to their booth. Her dark complexion, angular eyebrows and reading glasses made her look like Vivian’s funhouse mirror reflection. She had a romance novel under her arm.
“Hey mom, what’s up?” Vivian asked. Dean waved shyly, but she ignored him.
“We need to go,” her mom said, her eyes darting around the restaurant.
“What? Why?” Vivian said.
“We’ll discuss it in the car.” She looked slightly deranged, staring off over their heads, as if checking for spies.
“Is everything okay? Is it Dad, or Adrienne?” Adrienne was Vivian’s quiet, often overlooked little sister.
“We’ll discuss it in the car,” her mom repeated. “Hurry.”
Vivian looked like she might cry. “Bye darling,” she said to Dean as she grabbed her purse and stood up. “I’m sorry about this.”
“No, no, don’t be. I just hope everything is okay,” Dean said. “Phone me later!” he called as she made her way to the exit. Her mom shot him a dirty look, and put her arm around her daughter as she pushed through the door.
*
Dear Dean,
I’m crying as I’m typing this, so excuse me if my writing is not exactly coherent. I don’t know how long I have, because my parents come in to check on me periodically. I may have to send this suddenly without finishing. But I’m rambling, let me get to the point.
When Mom and I got to the car, she filled me in on what was going on. Thankfully no one in my family is hurt (though maybe now I wish they were. No, that’s awful to say, I’m sorry). But she told me that I’m not allowed to hang out with you anymore. I kept asking why, but she said we’d talk about it when Dad got home. So I sat in my room fuming and waiting until five o’clock, when we all sat down to talk.
Recently one of Mom’s friends found out her daughter was a lesbian and was warning Mom of the tell-tale signs. Apparently my new liberal attitudes, lack of interest in boys, and friendship with someone who looks like you are all common “symptoms.” Mom’s friend’s daughter had a masculine female friend who ended up being her “butch lover.” At this I burst out in bitter laughter. The idea of anyone calling you butch is absurd (no offense dear) and we’re both a pair of asexual amoebas, give or take a few occasions. So I tried to explain that we are just friends, and that you are transgender, not a lesbian, while simultaneously attempting to assert that if we WERE girlfriends, they’d have no reason to be angry. It proved disastrous.
They went from calling you too butch and masculine to suddenly insisting how feminine you are. “Transgender?” Dad said. “What is this crap? That didn’t even exist a few years ago. If a girl wants to be a boy and dresses like a boy, she is a lesbian. Tons of lesbians are that way. I‘d even venture to say most.”
“If she were a boy,” Mom said, “she’d be out playing football or working on cars. Instead she sits around drinking tea and gossiping with you. If she grew out her hair and wore some makeup she’d be a very typical girl.”
“You had me read her writing once,” Dad felt the need to add. “It’s not linear like a male writer. It’s circular and disorganized…overly emotional, like a female writer.” Guess he loves MY writing.
“I don’t get the point,” Dad said. “She’ll never be a REAL boy, so what is the goal?” I then told them about transitioning and your plans for after graduation.
“That’s disgusting,” Mom said. “She’ll never pass for a man; her features are extremely soft and feminine. She’s downright dainty!”
Dad said, “I don’t care how many steroids she puts in her body. Even if she had a full- faced beard and washboard abs she’d still be the gayest man I’d ever seen. I’ve seen transsexuals on TV. You can always tell. Society will never accept her.”
“That’s not true,” I said. “And besides, Dean doesn’t care what other people think. He’s just trying to be himself.”
“No she’s not, she’s trying to trick people!” Mom said. “She’s trying to trick good girls like you into sleeping with her.”
“I’m not involved with him like that! We’re just friends,” I said.
“Nonsense, I know how guys are. They only want one thing,” Dad said. I pointed out he just admitted you were a guy and contradicted his whole point. He said, “You think you’re so smart Vivian but you don’t know anything about the world. People like that are bad news. They are bad for society and they are bad for you. You don’t hang out with any of your normal friends anymore, and with a transgender around you will never find a boyfriend.”
So I said, “Maybe I don’t want a boyfriend!”
And mom said, “So you are a lesbian!” There was no winning the argument.
And that’s when they planted the news on me. They are forcing me to go to Bishop Grimes. Catholic school, Dean. I can’t stop crying. I can’t stand the power they have over me just because I am sixteen. I never used to feel this way. I knew my parents were politically conservative but I thought they had my best interests in mind. For the first time I want to do something crazy, like run away from home or get a tattoo; anything to defy them.
I’m so angry I could scream. I just want to see you. This is the worst. How will we ever hang out without going behind their backs? But I promise I won’t stop being there for you. You have my word.
I feel awful because I know you’re already lonely and depressed. You are going through so much and need a friend now more than ever. I don’t want to abandon you but I feel I have no other choice. We will find a way to see one another eventually, I promise. They can’t monitor my phone and computer usage forever, and I will make sure to be in touch. But for the time being, I guess this is goodbye. I’m so sorry Dean.
Love always,
- Viv
*
Dean made a routine of riding city buses. He would ride aimlessly for hours to avoid going home, staring out the window, listening to music and pining for Vivian. Sometimes he’d stop in the used record store and look at albums he couldn’t afford. One particular day in autumn, he was doing just that, when he was struck by a feeling of déjà vu. He stared down at the cover of the CD in his hand, straining his mind; where had he seen this graphic before? The person was lying down, eyes glazed over under heavy brows, hands raised slightly. Their gender was indeterminable. Something about the figure was corpselike, though not repugnant; perhaps it was the frill on the sleeve of the shirt. Though the image seemed to suggest death, there was something unmistakably lively about it. The background was a moldy greenish gray. It stirred something deep in Dean’s psyche, like a memory from a past life. It was strikingly similar to the color of his eyes. In pinkish serif text above the figure, it said:
THE SMITHS
The Queen is Dead.
There was simple beauty in both the cadence and appearance of these words. Far away, a child’s voice seemed to cry, “Now!” So Dean did something he had never done before. He glanced around before shoving the CD in his messenger bag. He made a hasty exit, the doorbells clanging behind him, and ran to the bus stop.
Outside, it was a warm and hazy afternoon. Red leaves and cigarette buts littered the sidewalk by the bus stop. There were only a few days left of summer before Dean would return to the high school, without Vivian, for the first time. He bit his cheek as he waited under an awning for the bus. His eyes darted around the busy street, and his heart throbbed painfully at the sound of a siren in the distance.
The bus ride home, he was still full of adrenaline. The trees looked greener, the sky looked bluer and even the grays of the abandoned factory buildings appealed to him. He took out the CD and carefully placed it in his walkman, donning his goofy oversized headphones. Putting his bag on the adjacent seat to discourage company, he checked the name of the first song. Ah, the title track. He also caught sight that the album was from 1986 and Manchester, England. This pleased him. He preferred the archaic.
The album started with the faint singing of a crowd, bringing to mind an Irish pub. It sounded like mostly women. They sang this:
“Take me back to Dear Old Blighty
Put me on a train to London town
Take me anywhere
Drop me anywhere
Live or leave Suburbia*
But I don’t care.”
There was a drum roll. The guitar came in, ringing and wavering at first, but then the beat changed and the instruments came together. It had that recorded-in-a-tin-can, distant, 80’s timbre, but it only added to the allure. Dean could feel the music in his bones, but at the same time, he had left his body behind. He was on a misty moor, under an iron bridge, behind a disused railway line. How strange, how strange…The ensemble was soon accompanied by ghostly echoing moans and then, above the sound, like nothing he ever heard before and yet horrifically familiar, more so than his very mirror reflection, a voice began to sing.
*
I may have gotten a little carried away there.
There is no use trying to further describe this in my mediocre prose. I still prefer singing over writing. For the lonely, there is something magical about a voice in your ears, not just your head. And to sing along! Melodic vibrations, from larynx to ear drum to another larynx. Poetic union, celestial alignment, daemonization, mutual damnation. URGECY URGENCY URGENCY! These little black symbols just can’t compare.
I succumbed to bizarre hero worship many times in my youth, but this was different. Nothing affected me like The Smiths. This man was singing. Not like a Broadway star or an American Idol, not like the Chemical-Panic-at-the-Fall-Out-Charlotte-Days that plagued the airwaves, not like the emerging plethora of indie DIY jerks who never took a step back and realized they had nothing to say. This was media, the music industry; this came from the 80s. And yet this man was singing his life, singing poetry. But not the postmodern nonsense or boring European floridity I would later study. It was not poetry because some scholar deemed it so. It was poetry because it came from the heart.
I was in love. I don’t say this lightly.
In the Smithology, sulky youth were inherently superior. Abstinence, of all varieties, was noble. The band’s reputation and imageless image were almost as consuming as the records themselves. The legend is as follows: Steven Patrick Morrissey, the near suicidal, somewhat sexless poet, is unearthed in 1982 by Johnny Marr, the energetic, guitar-playing wonder boy. Together they take on the hum-drum, antagonistic world, assaulting it with a series of catchy pop songs that sprung forth from their entwined souls.
I get the feeling this tale was embellished, but I wouldn’t be a modern writer if I didn’t throw in a spicy little, THAT DOESN’T MAKE IT ANY LESS TRUE moment. I believe that Morrissey believed in it. I believe The Smiths were something real, for him, so it’s real, for me.
I suppose Morrissey, like most my teenage interests, was just another impediment to my recovery and maturity- oh, but what handsome impediment! The fusion of music and poetry was far more interesting a drug than Prozac, leaving me (yes yes) emotionally invested in my own despair. Don’t think I don’t see you there, adult intruder, looming over my beloved reader’s shoulder, shaking your shaggy, educated head. Kindly go fuck yourself and leave us kids alone. Morrissey made me feel beautiful. Morrissey made me laugh again. My dogma kept me living, much like my Catholic ancestors, in a state of compulsive guilt and confession. But none the less, it kept me living.
Dancing alone in my bedroom, I believed it was only a matter of time before my own Johnny Marr showed up at the door.
*
It took under an hour for Dean to lug his few belongings from his old dorm to the left side of Colin’s room. Colin sat on his own bed, absent-mindedly playing his unplugged black Les Paul, watching him unpack. He paused for a moment, deciding to attempt conversation. “So when did you go on hormones?” he asked.
Dean kept folding shirts. “It’s complicated.” He looked up and realized Colin was waiting for him to continue. He sighed. “A few years ago I suppose.”