my reflection gazes back at me

"Is this for you?", the cashier says, pointing at the plain pinkish t-shirt on her counter.
"I- umm...", why would she ask that? Of course she would ask that, it's her job. Umm answer, quick. "Yes. Me.", I spurt out. Wow nice answer, great job me.
She eyes me, then says, "That'll be this much after the discount."

I hurry out, holding several plastic bags. Averting people's gazes like I was smuggling illegal substances into some secret stall at this shopping mall. In a way, it did feel illegal, twisted the right way and it could actually land me into trouble. What a warming thought - I think - as I avoid eye-contact with the security guards posted at the gates.

Onto the streets I go, through the sidewalks, past a couple of red-lights that felt way longer than they had any right to be, and I make it back home. Well I guess not "home", temporary residence is more accurate. But I have no time to think over the semantics of it all, I just need somewhere safe. Somewhere I can be alone. For a moment.

Okay, is my roommate here? The empty bedroom answers no, he's probably out until dark, but I lock the door just in case. I spill the bags' contents. In them lies some toothpaste, triple-A batteries, the T-shirt from before and some... hair ties.

The shirt comes on, its soft tones overlay my pale-brown skin, the color so utterly alien to me, and my usual closet. It doesn't look good, but fashion will have to wait. The hair ties, umm, there, we have yellow, blue, and... pink. I yank a shrub of hair at the back of my head and wrap three awkward rounds of hair tie around them. My hand reaches and opens the closet, so I can slide over and face the mirror behind its doors.

I gaze into my reflection.

Well... isn't that interesting.



When I was just a kid, my mom asked me if I knew why she hugged my sister more than she did me. I assumed it was because my sister was a mere babe, and I knew how to walk. "Not just that." - she said - "It's because you're a boy, a bigger brother." Yes, I thought, that's an accurate description, I thought. "Boys just don't hug, or hold hands. Girls do that. Boys don't express love by touching."

A question hangs in the air, "Then how do they?", but I haven't learned such exquisite skills like questioning authority and asking follow-ups, so I didn't say anything. It was just one more thing I knew nothing about. One more thing on the list of things that was simultaneously everything and nothing to me. I just listened.



When I was a preteen, I stubbed my toe. It bled and hurt so bad that I felt like I was disassociating the entire day. Yet, I still recall one detail. As people came to help me, I noticed their eyes. How they looked at me with concern for my injury, but also something else.

It took me some time and hindsight, but eventually I understood. They were recoiling from the sounds I made. The shout of collision, the whimpering of pain. "Calm down, stop screaming." - they would say, hesitant to help me, because what? The blood? No. Just the pitch of my voice. It was, a bit too high.

So later that day I practiced, priming my instincts so that, even if I was in pain, my tone would be deep and full of growl. If I wanted people to help me, it should be a good "Argh", and not "Ahhh".

Argh.



When I was a teen, I came out. I had just recently learned what "gay" meant, and subsequently took 1 (one) whole minute to decide that yes, that indeed was accurate, I did indeed like boys, and that label made me feel seen. I felt an identity, a community, an entire culture. And I learned that "gay" wasn't just some preference, it was apparently who I am, it was my core, it was how I would find love and happiness.

But being "gay" came with the mandate that you also had to be a boy yourself. And so I was. I realized life was easier being masculine homosexual, sometimes even easier than being a heterosexual boy. As long as I wasn't flamboyant, was competent at appropriate stuff, and did my part to be a proper boy, apparently I could date whoever I wanted, zero "why are you gay" nonsense.



When I was an older teenager, I cried. What for? I can't remember. But it stood out in my memories, because it had been so long. Going on years without crying is pretty common on this side of the gender. And it's pretty mainstream knowledge now to understand that "boys don't cry" is less a description, and more a command. And as a boy, I followed that command very closely.

It wasn't like I pushed all my feelings down somewhere, bottling them up until I inevitably vomit them out on one rainy day. Because I was a smart son of a bitch, I had come up with a better plan. Why contain any emotions, when you can just never have them in the first place? Just lose some of your emotional intelligence, you can't feel sad if you don't know what to be sad about. Limit every relationship you had to mere acquaintanceship, never become attached to anything, no characters, no family, nothing. Rationalize everything into another emotion that's more masculine: rage, anger, depression. I just took the path of least resistance, so that even if I wanted to cry, what was there to cry about?



When I was gazing at my reflection, I realized maybe all this hadn't been working out for me. This... boy-ness, let alone man. Technically I'm man-age now. But was I a man? Could I become a man? What is a man?

Is it the muscles, the short hair, that defines a man? I never liked muscles, and I had long hair once. How I loved feeling the wind through my hair, fluffiness of it all. I only ever stopped because... people didn't like it, not as much as my short hair. And people liked it when I show my forearms, and yet I love sweaters, jackets, long-sleeves. I love the feeling of coziness, of warmth, even if it means sweating my brows off every sunny Tuesday.

Is a man the role he plays? A father? I never had a good father figure, I still don't understand what a father does, except help out your mother in things that she does way better. Is a man just a source of money? Is that what I want to be?

No. I know better. A man can be anything, anyone, he can do anything and still be a man. I could be a caring man, who gives good advice and tells good stories. I could be an intellectual man, who's knowledgeable and reliable, an expert, white beard on his chin. But then what's the point? If a man can be anyone, why be a man?

But I've seen enough coming out stories. I know this isn't what a man would think. They don't need all these nonsense questions, they just... get it. Two decades of experience, only to realize that I can't even internship for an entry position at the Masculinity Bureau. A laugh escapes me. Ha. Funny joke. Like I finally got the punchline to a joke that's been going for 19 years.

It's almost obvious now. I have queer friends. What was the saying again? "Gender is fluid." I didn't think that also applied to me. I consider the possibility. Of not being a man. All the conversations I might have. All the problems I might encounter. And just on cue, dread and doubt barge into my mind. What if I regret it? What if I tell people and then I realize I was wrong? What if this is not who I am?

But who was I? Being a boy decided everything for me. If you cut someone's hair, choose their clothes, hide their emotions, force how they act, change their voice, box their personalities... then what is left? What part of me was just me, and not boy? Did I ever hate pink? Or was it decided for me the moment someone printed some letters on a piece of paper.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying that I always felt like I never fit in, or that I was always miserable, I wasn't. Maybe in some other alternate universe, I would have stayed a man forever. Perhaps if I hadn't been exposed to certain people, to certain ideologies, I would have sat exactly where they had put me, and learnt to be happy regardless. Just as I wasn't born a man, I wasn't born not a man.

So this is a choice. I choose to let go of that label. Because I don't want to follow those rules, don't want to put my identity into words I don't understand. Not anymore.

...

My reflection gazes back at me. It raises a hand and waves.