I’ve never really been sure what to do with it all.
You see I have this history, this ancient set of stories, that don’t align quite right with my identity now. I have the gay girl in a locker room stories, I have trying to reassure all my female friends that just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I like them stories, I have the sleep over stories, the too close for comfort stories, the sense of loneliness stories, even when you’re close as you can be with with your best friend. The longing for the thing they cannot feel for you, when you figure out this thing you feel for them.
But I can’t talk about any of it without sounding like I’m co-opting the stories of women. I can’t explain how it’s tied up now, more presently for me, with the feeling of utter monstrosity I live with sometimes, a legacy of being too “girl” for people who date guys and too “guy” for people who date girls. I can’t talk about the experience of how living as a lesbian for so many years before you figure out that you’re a trans man means this weird, tangled history, this alloy of struggle with these stories in my youth being the resident dyke and in my adulthood being the resident trans guy…i can’t speak without derailing an important conversation that queer women should get to have without me.
I can’t talk about knowing that sense of isolation, alone in your head with people who can’t love you the way you want. There’s a strange sort of irony to it, a fresh new kind of isolation.
Anyway, sometimes I cry watching music videos that are really more for queer women than me. And I can’t talk about that. I can’t talk about what it means, and commiserate with peers. I can’t feel a part of a community I’m not a part of, and rightfully so.
I just….I don’t know what to do with the stories sometimes. They well up in my throat and I feel like I might choke on them. So, I wrote this instead.