There are specific markers in my life, flashing buoys at critical points of my developing identity. Even though the day-to-day experience of my life was experienced as though I was a constant unwavering being, I can delve into memories and pinpoint “ah-ha!” slices of time where the tiny little sidestep has significance.
Thirteen was an important age for me: much of my identity was solidifying, even if I wasn’t always conscious of it at the time. This is when I realized that I would rather be taking care of the household instead of bringing the bacon when playing house. This is when my body started developing, although I didn’t do much with it. Yet.
This is also when I realized I did not care to grow up to be a parent. No kids for me.
In terms of gender? It was still vague. But it was already plural. Mostly, it was an amorphous blob floating loosely about my brain, detached from my physical being.
At this point, my gender identity, as much as it existed, was purely an internal experience and conversation. This wasn’t driven by fear or isolation, it simply was that way and I assumed it was a normal thing to process this way.
It is important to mention, this is also the time of a jarring event that pushed most of my youth into boyish presentation, even if I didn’t know how to succeed as a boy at boyish things. That can be read about in more detail here, as I have no need for a longer distraction in this entry.
The concept of pluralness within myself never threw me off, never confused me. I didn’t learn to repress it; I learned to keep it to myself. I learned to cherish and treasure and celebrate it, quietly to myself. Sometimes it leaked out of my pores and horrible boys and popular girls could smell it on me as “different” enough to mark me as a target throughout junior high school and into high school, but my gender identity was secure and safe, if maybe held in stasis.
I knew my truth and held it close to my vest, but it gave me the strength to know that I could survive the bullies. That they didn’t know themselves well enough to have influence over the person I chose to be. Over the person I think I always was. I knew that I would survive the pushing and names, but I would be ended to turn away from my truth and become normal. I held my breath. I cried. I stood up again the next day. Eventually, all that shit fell away…
And I was there, still standing with my truth, even if a little bruised.
quantum man 