They say that it's only a stage, something I'll grow out of. Church communities cast disgusted looks. People shake their head, girls whisper behind their hands. For to them I am the outcast, the social reject, the freak. Queer, faggot, disgrace. And those are the nicer terms.
When I was in seventh grade, my teacher asked me what I wanted to be when I was older. I wrote down a single word, "Accepted." Because by middle school, I was discovering and truly understanding who I was. Society wasn't as accepting.
The religion I once believed in tossed me aside for something beyond my control. The God I was taught to believe in abandoned me on the front steps of the Methodist church I had attended for years.
What was my sin that deemed me undeserving of entrance into the church? I was different, someone who didn't conform to gender norms, finding myself in the strange place where ones gender identity didn't always match my biological sex. It wasn't until I was older that I learned the term for such. Genderfluid. One word that fit me perfectly. It described the times I felt masculine, feminine, both, and neither.
That wasn't the only thing. I began to understand my attraction to people, regardless of their gender. Of course, the church couldn't stand the thought of a male kissing another male, despite the total innocence of it, that crush that lasted long enough to teach one about love. It taught me that I wasn't wanted.
Imagine going home and and trying to explain to your parents that you didn't want to wear the opposite genders clothes. Image explaining as a male you not wanting to wear makeup or as a girl telling your parents you wanted to wear a dress. Imagine society looking at you in disgust. "Your a man, you must wear makeup. Girls don't wear dress." Well, that would put you in my shoes. Nail polish was a passion, but one not allowed in my parents house, because my father refused to raise a "fucking queer." I had female friends bring me clothes to school, feminine shirts, high heels, skinny jeans. It was all an attempt to bring myself to feel comfortable in my own skin on the days that being masculine didn't describe me. 515Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡNxSBhLv7BH
I couldn't go into the boys restroom, for fear of mockery, or having to fight for the ability to piss in peace. The girls restroom certainly wasn't an option, nor was I stupid enough to try it. The only gender neutral restroom was in the nurse's station. In public it wasn't any better. Apparently having purple nail polish on my nails barred my entrance to the men's restrooms time and time again. Family restrooms, or genderfluid restrooms weren't always available and more and more I came to realize that I didn't belong.
I've made friends who understand,but that doesn't take away the pain and anger brought on from too many hateful words and teasing remarks. There were times the only release was when fist connected with metal filing cabinet, brick wall, and once a glass door.
You don't have to agree with my sexuality, my lifestyle, my gender. You don't have to like my use of the singular they pronoun. But you don't have to cast me to the wolves, toss me aside like yesterdays trash. Because at the end of the day, are we really that different? After all, we all breath air, we all bleed red, we share the same planet...or maybe the world is as fucked up as I think it is. Because even if you disagree, is it any of your fucking business what I do with my life, who I date, or what clothes I wear? Does the fact I wear blue jeans ripped at the knees with a white shirt and purple nail polish ruin your whole day? Or are you just jealous that I can dance better in heels than you?
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