“Deewart.”
“Deewart.”
My 8th grade face starts burning. I feel the heat start at the base of my neck and creep up until my ears are on fire. I look straight ahead. Trying to learn about DNA or genes or plants or something science-y. The teacher either does not hear the teasing or thinks that ignoring it will make it go away. I have this same hope, but it only makes it get louder, more frequent, and more insistent.
These boys used to be my best friends. These athletic, popular boys who played with me during recess for the previous seven years. These boys who are dating my female friends and have been banned from hanging out with me. These boys who are now jealous because their girlfriends sometimes cancel plans to hang out with me. These boys who used to affectionately and respectfully call me by my middle name, “Dee.” And even “D-man.” These boys who allowed me to be in their group even though I was a girl. And these boys who treated me like “one of the boys.” These boys who used to make me feel like I belonged somewhere.
But these boys aren’t affectionate and respectful anymore. Now they are my tormentors. Calling me names and making fun of me as I flee down the hallway. And I have become easy fodder. Awkwardly trying to look feminine. Informed by my mother that I can’t be a tomboy anymore (perhaps she was worried about my safety in this small, rural town). Regardless of the intention, I now have to be girly. And I am suddenly shy and scared and insecure and full of self-doubt.
Gone is my confidence and ease of being; my self-security and playfulness. All of it erased by makeup, uncomfortable clothes, nail polish, curly, long, blonde, permed hair, and my feminine facade. Dresses have replaced pants and insecurity has replaced courage. With every application of lipstick, I find my sense of self melting away.
Seven years later, I chopped off most of my hair during a J-term in Ireland. The preceding day I had visited the Cliffs of Moher and admitted to myself that I was not heterosexual. The next thing I did was rid myself of my unwanted feminine, long hair. I replaced my uncomfortable contacts with my glasses. And I started the process of re-incorporating clothes that felt better on my skin.
The biblical character Samson lost his strength when his hair was cut, but I reclaimed mine with every lock of hair that fell to the ground. I sat up straighter. Looked in the mirror. And smiled.
And, now, I never let my hair get to a length that dampens my power. I wear clothes that feel “right.” And I support other human beings in whatever gender expression feels right to them, whatever pronouns they want to be called by, and whatever names are theirs.
I have reclaimed the middle initial that used to torment me. And building relationships with healthy humans has caused me to FINALLY feel like I belong.
