None of the bras truly fits her. They are all either too big or too small. The men’s jeans don’t fit either. The butt is too flat and the crotch too much. No room for what her mother calls her “birthing hips.” Trust her, she knows how ridiculous the phrase sounds. It’s even worse when her mother begins on what the men must think of them.
When James’ mother begins one of these conversations, she wishes she were a boy. Or something Other. Not boy or girl but something new. She would remove her uterus. No need for one of those when she doesn’t want a baby. She might keep her breasts. Maybe get a breast reduction to keep them out of her way.
Pink isn’t the devil like it once was. Nor are dresses, though she rarely wears them. They don’t feel like an extension of her body as they did when she was a child. Now, she feels vulnerable in them. It’s unfortunate that jeans under dresses went out of fashion a decade ago, for jeans give her a sense of protection.
No one told her that if they didn’t want to be a girl he didn’t have to be. They never said he could be something else. They only ever told them to accept these secondary sex characteristics and the leering that accompanies them. Eventually, she’ll love them. Or learn to suffer silently.
They never did say that anyone could be free. Only pretend to be.
Well, new year, new gender. Aren’t resolutions just broken promises in the making? Another set up for failure?
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