ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

I have been disappointing my dad since I was born. Most recently in my inability to play floor hockey. Whether my coach is racist or my sheer lack of talent is that obvious, I’ll never know. As I sit on the bench praying that he wont sub me in when Patrick or LJ need a break, I mentally prepare my GRWM evening routine I’ll post later tonight. I have 22k on TikTok and nearly 14k on IG but that would never impress my dad. Actually if you want to know the truth I think he’s pretty ashamed of my videos. And I’m not surprised by that in the slightest. I wouldn’t go out of my way to show him my content, but I’m not hiding it either. That’s really not even the gayest part about me but anything even touching on the matter irks him.

I never had the chance to come out to my parents, they wouldn’t give me that privilege, that honor and ode to be me. But my sister, Joy, my biggest supporter, has made it pretty clear to them that if they have anything even remotely negative to say about my journey to becoming myself they’ll have to go through her first. She’s only 12 but she’s their princess and the centerfold of my family so pretty much whatever she says goes. I’m grateful I have her to protect me even though I’m her older “brother”. Gross. I hate that word. I, of course just want to be her sister but I’m not quite there yet either. It’s this limbo that really depresses me, if you want to know the truth.

“Chris!” I hate that name. “Tommy needs a breather, get in there!” Coach barks at me.

I guess my deer-in-headlights eyes are shining because he adds, “Just for two minutes, kid. You’re on defense.” Aren’t I always? My feet shuffle under me and move my body onto the court. I hear my mom cheering for a version of me that’s about to actually be played in a real live JV game. From the corner of my eye I see my dad sit up straighter and lean in closer, as if I’m about to preform something of meaning by wearing this jersey, holding this stick, and acting like a boy.

“Try not to fuck this up” says Haden. I lock and unlock eyes with him as quickly as humanly possible. You’ve never seen such a pretty shade of brown in your life. They perfectly match the C on his top left shoulder indicating he’s the best both on and off this court. He steps into his offensive position, the puck is dropped and slapped and I wish I could melt into the floor. I hunch over and try and look like I know what I’m doing, I think it’s working. The puck is slammed to the other teams goal and a buzzer sounds and just before the next play I’m called back onto the safety of my teams bench where I wait out the rest of the game. When it’s finally over I rejoin my team on the court and get into handshake line formation and fist bump the other team players one by one. As per usual I’m part of the winning team but I couldn’t feel like more of a loser if I tried.

I see my mom and sister waving to me from the stands and I try and smile up at them, my dad frowns back.

I head into the locker room to change. Taking off this heavy jersey and pads is sweet relief. I keep on my undershirt and leggings, I’ve never been comfortable to get even halfway undressed in front of all these guys. But here they are, mostly nude and confident. Oh! To be a freshman. Dillion, who’s been held-back at least twice in elementary school is showing off his new rib tat. I glance up and quickly back down again, not wanting to stare and never wanting to care, but curious none the less. It’s a big thorny rose with two daggers going through it. He said he got it for his Grandma but I’m pretty sure he got it for himself. My jealousy rises. Not at his shitty permanent body alteration but how I’m stuck in mine. How I long to change. To shed. To disintegrate this skin and grow a new one. Honestly, fuck my life.

The locker room door slams behind me and with my bag draped over my shoulder I make my way out of the gym and find my parents waiting in the atrium of my school. ST JOSEPHS ACADEMY FOR BOYS.

Absolutely no reason why I should go here but here I go.

“Chris!” My mom shrills. “You did great out there! Honey, didn’t he do great?”

“I didn’t see him do anything” My dad can’t help it. His disappoint is tenacious.

“Oh stop it.” My mom persists. I wish she wouldn’t. “Sweetie, you did great! Coach Jackson called you in! He could have picked any of you boys to sub in but he chose you!”

What a freaking honor.

“Chrissy I thought you looked really cool on the court” Joy skips to me and links my arm in hers. We walk to the parking lot, the sun setting over the rolling hills in the New England sky. From the backseat of my dads SUV I watch it melt away, wishing it would take me with it.

Back home and in my room I lock the door and set up my tripod and lighting. I take out my puffy lavender headband to push back my dirty blonde hair. I look at my reflection. When I was a little kid they called me Goldy Locks and I just loved it. I never wanted to stop being her. I stand about 5’6 and rising. I have some acne creeping in by my chin. I usually cover it with Tarte Warm Vanilla ™. Besides that my skincare routine is actually holding up really well. I have a sort of natural build that I hate because I wish I was scrawny looking like my sister. I have muscles that grow on my arms and I look way stronger than I am and more specifically than I feel. Objectively I am beautiful. I peel off two Ulta under-eye patches and place them delicately where their namesake suggests. I quickly brush my teeth, floss, and scrape my tongue. You don’t? I highly recommend. Then I start my recording. My nighttime routine can take anywhere from 15-30 minutes depending on if I’m filming it or not. I sometimes go over steps 2 or 3 times and then edit out whichever shot looks best. Content creation is an art form and it’s one of the only ways I give myself permission to enjoy being in my skin. I don’t call myself Trans Girl on a Mission but my followers know that’s exactly what’s up. Don’t get me wrong, I definitely get hate but the kind comments and even just the emojis filter out the negative. Social media has become my safe haven. In this digital world I can be who I want to be and not who my parents think they birthed.

I never meant to be such a disappointment. I never meant to be trans. But from my earliest memories I knew something was off. Hearing myself be referred to in an identity I didn’t ask for or fit into, was at first startling, and at second disturbing.

‘He’s over there!’ ‘He’ll be right down’ ‘I just saw him, he must be in his room’. It’s as though this life of mine was never mine to live.

Joy knocks at my door I go to unlock it and she swooshes past me in the door way and jumps onto my bed. Excitedly she reaches out her hand and waves it at me “show me, show me, show me, I must approve before you post!” She loves my Tik Toks and I do always consult her before posting. My editing skills are good but hers are better. As she’s scrolling through my camera roll highlighting which shot I should use and when, I can’t help but ask, “Do you ever think he’ll stop trolling me?”

“Who, dad?” She asks back without looking up.

“No, Haden Mathews. Yes, Dad! Why does he even show up to my games if I’m such an embarrassment to him?”

Now I have her attention. Her eyes look sad and I hate making her sad. But truthfully I have no-one else to talk to.

“He’s not embarrassed of you Chrissy. I think he just doesn’t understand you.”

“Well then that makes two of us because I sure as hell don’t understand me either.”

“You know yourself better than you think.” Joy states.

How did she get so wise, she’s 12!

“Chrissy” she continues, “You’re just stuck.”

I would omit the just. I plop myself down on the bed beside her and burry my face in a pillow wishing I had the guts to go all the way. Joy is back on my phone editing this entire piece for me.

“I found a really old song to use in the background. I think it’s perfect for you. It’s cheesy but it’s pretty catchy too!”

Piano keys start singing through my phone speaker and then a beat kicks in. Then the lyrics that spoke the depths of my soul out loud for the first time. I am the faker in the mirror and David Bowie’s ‘Changes’ became the psalm I never heard before. My head must have been bobbing and my eyes must have been crying because Joy brings me a tissue and says “You like it?”

“Not really. But we’re definitely going to use it.”

And we both start to laugh.

It was probably two weeks after that night that I told my mom I wanted to be a girl. That I’ve always wanted to be a girl and that I never fit into this boy body of mine. She cried which I understood and she was kind enough to break the news my dad already knew. I had to wait until I was 16 to start treatment but being able to try to be me out loud while I waited made it a hell of a lot easier. I started going by Chrissy and once I turned 18 I legally changed my name to Christine. Now I’m waiting at a cross walk in Greenwich to meet Joy at a bar downtown where she’ll have her first legal drink. I’m grateful I made it to this day, to have a chance to be there for my little sister in ways she was always there for her big one. I’m dressed in head to toe Maroon and my hair floats in the cold wind. I feel an arm link though mine.

“Hey pretty lady!” That shit never gets old. “I’m ordering a Sex On the Beach!” Joy declares. And when the little hand turns into a walking person, we follow their lead.

I want to thank God but we’re not quite there yet in our repaired relationship. I’m still forever pissed at Them for putting me in the wrong body to begin with but my therapist says it was all part of my journey. That I wouldn’t be who I am today without having gone through it all. It’s hard to accept, I know my dad still hasn’t and probably never will. But I’ve learned to father myself in many ways. And my mom is a trooper through and through. And Joy, well, she showed me David Bowie and David Bowie saved my life.