Man in the Mirror

The mirror reflects a body I do not recognize. Minor details in the eyes that only the self could be familiar with, entirely alternative. My elderly folks say I chose to be this way, fighting my identity with the constants of time. A mental disorder, some suggest; others, too stunned to speak. I wish to be normal by the hour. A consistent voice circulating in my mind, screaming out the imperfect aspects of my outline.

I’ve always defined this feeling with the stroke of a paintbrush. A black, horizontal glare articulating every monstrosity I face in a day. Step by step, the piece comes together to picture, well, nothing visibly appealing or recognizable. When only the eyes of the oppressor can view it, my art is minimized into simply a messy configuration. However, my teacher sees right through me.

“Rowan, can I discuss something with you in the hall? It will only take a moment.” My teacher requested.

I obliged, preparing to be battered with more criticism.

“This piece you’ve created has me extremely – curious. What’s the story here? You seem to be the only one who really thought outside of the box.”

Typically, I wouldn’t even waste my words, but I try to give teachers a bit of grace in this broken world. With a slight delay in thinking, I finally replied, numbly. “It’s all I can see in my mind. A constant anger stewing with my identity. I can’t figure out who I am and the choice haunts me.”

“I see. Well, I think this piece was beautifully articulated. You not only reflected this pain through dark color, but you’ve shown it amongst the chaotic appearance. It’s mesmerizing, really, to envision the patience behind executing such madness.” She suggested.

I thanked her, as she insisted on presenting my work to her other students. Before I could politely decline, she had already made her way to the front of the room to start presenting for her next class as the bell signaled class change.

“Attention, everyone. I have a work of art to demonstrate for you all that may help expand your own pieces! I’m going to go ahead and keep the painter anonymous for their sake, but keep in mind this individual is a fellow student with an amazing talent.”

It was nice to watch my teacher air up my work, so much so that a few other students cooed in awe. Hearing myself referred to as anonymous felt the most correct, and led me to an inner sense of belonging with my creation. This glimpse of identity opened a large portal; one leading to immense, spiraling thoughts and fixations on who I was supposed to be.

..

Later that week, during lunch, I overheard a group of kids I recognized from the art room, quite literally, cackling. I caught myself vehemently hoping they were not laughing at me, but my wishes turned out to be worthless.

“It’s almost like she couldn’t tell we already knew! Who else would make a literal effortless painting and call it art?” One exclaimed.

“I heard she thinks she’s a guy, how embarrassing.” Others whisper, making it blatantly obvious I was the topic of discussion. Another even described transgender people to be ‘worthless creatures’ and deserving of death.

I had yet to face any public scrutiny on the matter in a school environment. The realization that others were catching on, knowing my masculine-presenting style led to such assumptions that were, deep down, the truth. This moment was equivalent to being caught in a lie indirectly, then experiencing a delay in confrontation. I didn’t want to be different. If it really were up to me as some believed it to be, I would choose to bottle the feeling and toss it right in the ocean, so it could float away with the waves.

I chose to disregard such dialogue, further hoping the commentary would simply become old news. Although this mostly became true, a melancholy demeanor followed me home each day forward.

As I unpacked my uneaten lunch, my mom raised her concerns. “Honey, did you not eat anything today? What has gotten into you? You’ve had me worrying extra here lately.”

In efforts to keep my mom happy, I attempted to brush off her discontent. “I’m fine, really. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Well, if I know anything, it’s that you’re not a good liar. Let’s sit down and have a conversation.”

Once again, I conformed, seeking expedition. My father entered the room and, surprisingly, they both carried the conversation with ease and calmness.

“Rowan, you know we love you. We want you to come to us for anything you need. I can see that you aren’t in a comfortable state to do so, hence this conversation. I know your grandparents can ruffle you sometimes, but we think it may be more than that, no?” My mom warranted.

I couldn’t deny the open arms in front of me any longer. After months of speculation and concern, I finally told my parents how I was feeling. Although hard, it allowed me to get a lot off of my chest.

“I don’t think I was meant to be a girl.” I blurted out. After some confusion, I elaborated further.

“Ever since high school started in the fall, I haven’t stopped thinking about what it would be like – to be a boy, I mean. I’ve nonstop tried to envision the happy little girl coloring pictures for you guys, but it’s almost like my memories are tainted with this constant overlay of tension and anxiety. When I look in the mirror, I don’t even see myself anymore. I see a version of me that I can’t let go of without giving up my autonomy. Some kids at school today were even saying people like me deserve to die. No one warned me how hard high school was going to be, and I suppose I’m just struggling to grasp that fact.”

My parents immediately comforted me. Through many stutters, tears and fears, we pinpointed the problem together.

“Kiddo, the journey is subjective to everyone. We will always see you as our child that we love, no matter the gender. Just remember, normalcy isn’t one size fits all. There is no rule on conforming to traditional values or norms; you make your own moral compass and remain who you are internally. Your dad and I can both agree it’s not fair for you to simply suck it up, but without confidence, you will sink. Neither of us want to see you this way.” My dad said.

After airing out the previous concerns, I felt a weight lift off my chest. The buildup of dismay leading to that conversation had finally deconstructed, allowing me to ask a rather exciting question.

“Mom?”

“Yes, honey?” She replied.

“Do you think Aunt Val would mind if I wore a suit to her wedding this weekend? I don’t want to overstep too soon. It’s her wedding, after all.” I asked eagerly.

With almost an immediate yes to my question, I later showed up to my aunt’s wedding in said attire. A few attenders stared, some laughed, but the only eyes that mattered to me had already validated my choice; I was content. The sense of confidence and excitement I had as a child came flooding back. I could feel my own smile again, along with the smiles of my family. Even the smallest step led me to an ounce of happiness, which soon became life changing.

..

My previously declining attendance at school came to an end, with sudden excitement in the mornings to go to art class. I had begun working on a new project: posters for an upcoming political rally at the town’s courthouse. This was new turf for me. Not by the means of actual ground, but ground-ing. I had yet to be vocal about my transition. Even more so, the common misconceptions circulating my town were oftentimes too gruesome to face. I also lacked in the friend department, so seeing myself as an activist wasn’t really an attainable ideal.

Each poster spoke volumes on current issues in the world.

“America was built by immigrants.”

“When injustice becomes law, resistance becomes duty.”

“Democracy dies in silence.”

And, my personal revelation, “Smash the cis-tem.” Not discrete, but quite the latter. My ears could finally hear my voice again and this time, respond.

My art teacher greeted me with a smile each morning, excited to see my array of ideas come to life. She encouraged me to share my work with my parents, something I beat her to. In fact, my dad had suggested that we protest in the first place, taking initiative to show up for the community right by my side. I brought my posters home each night to work more collaboratively.

“Kiddo, you’ve really impressed me here lately. I’m truly inspired, not to mention intrigued by your passion. Your mom and I love you dearly.”

“I love you too, Dad. Thank you for accepting me. I don’t think that’s normal in a town like ours.” I responded.

“Again, normalcy is subjective. I’m sorry you couldn’t come to us confidently, but I will do whatever it takes to reassure you that I’ll always accept you as you are, and now, we get to show the town how powerful that can really be.” My dad reassured me.

..

I was pleasantly surprised to be faced with hundreds of people in attendance at the rally, a crowd large enough to cover the roads entirely. Everything from the signs to the smiles was perfect. My dad shouted passionately amongst the group, as promised. I even made new friends who were also facing a transition. My sense of community had been restored, reissuing the original confidence I bestowed.

“I’m glad you came with me, Dad.” I insisted.

“Me too, Rowan. You’re an amazing person; you always have been. I’m beyond proud of you for seeing that, too.” He replied.

Amongst my oppressors, I learned the only valuable senses were my own. No one else could determine my identity, but that exact fact led me to a major personal discovery. I had begun to embrace my newfound identity and be outwardly proud under any circumstance, drowning out any external voices that were previously heard as screams. Regardless of the disgust and shade ruminating around, I made it my future mission to further advocate for other individuals like me.

..

Facing the mirror with reminiscence, I now see my reflection clearly. The man in the mirror stares back at me with a beaming smile. I’m ready to conquer all sorts of conflict, knowing confidently it won’t be done alone. Forever forward, I will carry the fact that choice never lies within emotions, but whether you choose to embrace or suppress them.