Fresh Ink: An Anthology

by Fresh Ink An Anthology (v5. 0) (azw3)

  When I see Parker’s car pull around the corner, I frantically open the door and start moving. I don’t want to walk in with anyone. That would require too much conversation. I mean, maybe Parker would be okay. He’s always been nice to me. We even studied for the PSAT together last fall. But I don’t feel like dealing with the questions, even well-intentioned ones. I grab my plain black swim bag and hop down from the truck. Eyes glued to the pavement, I make for the entrance.

  As soon as I walk into the building, I’m confronted by two doors: the left marked MEN and the right, WOMEN. I falter, remembering my words from Saturday’s post: “And I am proud of who I am. Please refer to me with he/him/his pronouns….”

  I can feel Parker’s presence behind me, but I hear only my own breath rushing in my ears. The panic is deafening and I want so badly to disappear, into the familiar misery of the women’s locker room. But there is no going back: 502 likes on my coming-out status tell me that most of my friends—my entire world—know.

  “Hey, Tommy,” Parker says. The word Tommy glows in my head. This is the first time anyone outside of my family has used my new name. There is no hint of difference in his voice and I find the power to move forward again, pushing open the door on the left. He walks in behind me.

  The layout of this locker room is entirely different from the women’s. There is only one sink and one stall. There are the urinals, of course. And it smells decidedly worse. I head straight into the stall to pee. Parker stays quiet as several other guys shuffle in behind us. I can see their shoes underneath the bathroom door. My hands revert to their clammy nervousness. Thank god I’ve already changed, I think. Enough firsts for one day.

  “What’s up, cunt?” Roman’s voice is obvious. Parker mumbles a response. Roman’s pack chuckles at what I imagine is Parker’s fear-filled face. I finish and open the door, backpack slung over my shoulder. Everyone falls silent.

  “Oh, look, it’s our little fag!” The words hit me harder than I had expected and I bend over slightly, feeling all the air leave my body. I look up at Roman, holding back my tears. I say nothing. The locker room seems to freeze for a moment. In the silence, I hear the muffled voices from the pool. The pool! Peace. Silence. Disappearance. They pull at me, beckoning, but I resist. Stand tall, I tell myself. Stand tall, even when they hurt you.

  Roman says nothing, and after a few more moments, the staring competition is over.

  “Hi, Roman,” I say. And leave.

  * * *

  • • •

  When the chlorine air rushes into my nose, I relax. The water is perfectly still—no one has broken its surface yet. A few girls are standing at the edge of the pool, reading the workout on the board. I keep my eyes on the concrete deck. I adjust my straps, thankful that this is the last week I’ll have to wear the women’s suit.

  When I look up, I’m face to face with Coach. He nods, not meeting my eyes. My “Hi, Coach” doesn’t get a reply. He’s not the wordy type. His wiry black hair seems to complement his terse manner. He’s over six feet tall and still has the ropey arms and thick thighs of the champion athlete he once was. He’s the best coach I’ve ever had, but I’m terrified of him.

  I came out to him about a week ago so that he’d have adjustment time before I told the team—and the world—over Facebook. “You can be whoever you want,” he’d said, “but I can’t have any distractions on my team.

  “None of that rainbow bullshit or you’re out.” I’d almost laughed—I was out! That was the whole point of all this! But I had kept my mouth shut and nodded.

  “I just want to swim. This is one of the best programs in the country. I want to keep swimming here.” It had taken every ounce of my pride not to cry. He hadn’t said much else. With a nearly imperceptible nod, I’d been dismissed.

  I wrote him an email later that night, detailing some of the things from our conversation. I’d already started hormone therapy. The mastectomy was scheduled for the end of the month. Six weeks of recovery would allow me to return wearing a men’s suit.

  * * *

  • • •

  Today, more than ever, I just want to get in the pool. People are staring. Their conversations stop as I walk up.

  “Tranny—” The insult is mumbled under his breath, but I know exactly where it came from. No one responds.

  I’m the first to dive in. The water rushes to encircle every inch of my body. It fills every curve, every crook, and I feel the tension slip away. As my teammates fade into silence underwater, I relax. Roman’s words are gone. Beneath the surface, I am not the girl everyone says I’m supposed to be—in fact, I’m not even sure I’m a person. I’m just swimming. I am a singular action, proof that I am alive and powerful. Under the water, their taunts have no sound. My body has no gender. I am just me.

  As I warm up, I slip into the past—summer cannon-ball-diving-board afternoons and old national competitions. I get stuck in a memory of my first travel meet three years ago. Wide-eyed and tiny, I remember staring straight up to see his face. I must have been a third his size. At about eye level, his Olympic rings and Michigan tattoo were peeking out of the top of his Speedo. He had already signed my bright green LONG BEACH GRAND PRIX OF SWIMMING shirt.

  I’d awkwardly thanked him and he’d said, “Good luck, little fella.” I’d felt a twinge of happiness that was quickly overcome with the familiar shame. I could hear Mom’s voice in my head, correcting him: “She’s my daughter!” I wanted to disappear then, too. I faded into the crowd of people pushing shirts, caps, and papers at him to sign, shouting, “Michael! Michael! Mr. Phelps!” and wandered off to the bathroom. As I approached the door marked WOMEN, I took off my shirt—like I always did—to expose my one-piece women’s swimsuit so people could see that I was in the “right” bathroom.

  Girls were flowing in and out of the door. When I was only a few steps away, I began to walk more purposefully. I’d learned that pretending I belonged in there made other people more likely to believe it, too.

  My entrance stopped the conversation of a group of girls getting dressed around one of the benches. I could tell they were older because they used deodorant. Kids my age hadn’t started doing that yet.

  I hesitated as I walked toward the stalls, just long enough for one of the girls to get over her confusion. “What are you doing in here? This is the girls’ room,” she had snarled, practically spitting out girls. My body flooded with white-water pain—rapids of adrenaline rushing through my veins. I mumbled something, eyes glued to the floor. I decided going to the bathroom wasn’t really that important. I bumped into a few other girls who gave me looks of horror as I tried desperately to get to the safety of the pool deck. When the gust of chlorine air smacked me in the face again, I let out a deep breath, exhausted.

  It was during those days that I fantasized about digging a hole exactly the shape of my body. I’d lay in the ground, in this hole I’d dug, the earth hugging me tightly from all sides. Time frozen and the world forgotten, I’d lull myself to sleep in this fantasy, the weight of the cool soil holding me as I relaxed into the depths of the earth until I disappeared.

  In those days, the water was the closest thing to my fantasy—touching me from all sides, in every way. I would sink into the water, imagining I was fading into nothingness.

  * * *

  • • •

  But today, there is no grave-digging. I do not fade. Instead, I am pulled into the water, into myself, and I am undeniably alive. Despite the extra heartbeats, the cold sweats, the unrelenting anxiety, I have found such freedom in declaring my identity to the world. To my world. The hiding ends now.

  Coach announces the set. It’s not too bad, and I’m determined to train harder than ever. I am still here, fighting! I want to shout at him.

  In his email, he’d said he didn’t understand why I’d give up all the success I’d had as a female swimmer. And, if I am honest wit
h myself, I don’t have a full explanation: I, too, am grieving my past and potential successes. But he doesn’t understand that winning medals can’t drive my depression away—that trying to be a girl was killing me.

  After we finish the main set, we get up for a few races off the blocks. My suit is tight against my body. It sticks to my breasts and my stomach, reminding me of all the years, all the ways I tried to hide the growing lumps on my chest. Surgery next week, I remind myself.

  The boys stare at me as I hop out of the pool and up onto the blocks. I hear Roman’s familiar taunt: “Put your elbows together, Chloe….” Not only using my old name, but also demanding to ogle my cleavage. He trails off, adding the last few words under his breath: “Let’s see them, faggot.” I glance at Coach, wondering if he’ll say anything. He doesn’t.

  “Take your mark—” Coach says instead. “Parker! What are you doing?!” I flinch and stand up from my ready position in time to see Parker fall into the pool. The guys are all snickering. Someone slaps him on the butt as he gets back on the block.

  “Scared shitless, Parker? It’s just a girl,” Roman taunts. “If you don’t win, you’re a pussy!”

  Roman’s lips are curled into a smile that’s really a snarl. He knows he’s pissed me off. I want to punch him just hard enough so he’ll remember I was the one who knocked him out. But I focus my eyes on the water: I will not give him what he wants. I’m ready to show these fools what I can do.

  “Go!”

  The water crashes over the top of my cap, rushing past my ears. For those few milliseconds, I am alone. It’s just me and my cool blue world. Body tightened in a piercing streamline, heart racing to keep up, mind focused only on executing the correct stroke technique. The water is all-encompassing and pure.

  Last one, fast one, I hear Coach say in my head. Five or six strokes usually get me across the pool, depending on how tired I am. So the last race of a grueling three-hour practice is probably going to take six.

  The speed from my dive lessens, and my surroundings come into focus. I am no longer alone. I can see Parker in my periphery, and the silence of being underwater breaks as I reach to take the first stroke. I can hear the soft rush of my own wake. I watch my hands grabbing the water and pulling me forward. The top of my head is the first to surface. The water streams over my face as I take my first breath, and though the world is splashing around me, I hear nothing. I revel in this peace—something I haven’t felt a lot of recently.

  Ever since I fully admitted to myself that I am transgender, fear has tinged almost every thought. Especially anything related to swimming. Only when I learned that I could swim on the men’s team—that USA Swimming policy includes transgender athletes—my fear began to fade. Still, I’ve filled the pool with hidden tears, trying to drown my emotions, terrified of what everyone would think of me—especially in swimming, where gender is so important. Every competition is separated by gender, and boys are normally markedly faster than girls. Competing as a boy could surely mean giving up the medals, the records, the glory of winning….

  * * *

  • • •

  After my first stroke, Parker is slightly ahead of me. I’ve never been great at pullouts. I wonder if I’m already doomed from the start.

  As we take the second stroke nearly in unison, heads bobbing up and down at the same time, I try to forget his presence. I don’t race well when I let myself get distracted by the swimmers around me. Control your race, kid; you can’t control theirs! I hear Coach shout in my head. I focus on the water—gliding through it, catching as much of it as I can, and then throwing my arms forward. Sometimes pretending I’m Michael Phelps makes me feel more powerful and I swim faster.

  The third stroke slips a bit and my mind wants to give up before my body has even begun to tire. I drag my body forward, repeating what I’ve told myself a million times: catch, pull, drive.

  The rhythm returns and my body rushes with adrenaline.

  Catch, pull, drive. And I add to the count: four.

  Catch, pull, drive. We’re nearing the wall. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Parker stretched out, hands already grabbing and beginning to turn. Five.

  He has slow turns, I remember.

  Catch, pull, drive. Six.

  I grab the wall. We turn in sync. As my body switches directions, I relax for a moment. I know I can win.

  I can win despite all the boys standing next to the pool deck who’ve spent the past year making me feel small, making my body feel not my own.

  I can win for all the girls who don’t understand but who cheer me on anyway.

  I can win for my eight-year-old self—for the little boy I have always been, even when I couldn’t share him with the world.

  I can win.

  It doesn’t matter that Parker is several inches taller. It doesn’t matter that I have not beat him before. It doesn’t matter that I’m sick and tired of the name-calling, of being so different, of the exhausting coming-out process. None of that matters. I will win to prove I can.

  I know this feeling. It’s the feeling I used to have when I was little and we’d go to the skate park. I’d make a deal with my brother not to correct people when they called me his brother. It’s okay, I’d tell him. Just let them. And for a glorious four hours, I was just another skater boy. I was just me.

  I welcome this burst of confidence. Pushing off the wall harder than ever before, my body braces in response. My back stiffens in a streamline. I have six strokes left to win.

  The swimsuit ripples against my chest, and I wonder how it’ll feel to swim unencumbered by breasts—how it’ll feel to wear a men’s suit and compete against the boys in a real competition, not just in practice.

  I take the first stroke off the wall, heading back to the finish, and feel pure power. Catch, pull, drive. One.

  When I came out to Mom, she hadn’t said much. It had been during an offhand conversation about a haircut.

  “Mom, I think I’m transgender,” I’d said as we drove home from the hair salon. The air was damp with the spring rain, and my long, just-blow-dried hair swept across my face. I’d spent the past hour staring into my reflection as the lady cut an inch, wanting to tell her to chop it all off. I’d continued: “Next time, Mom, I want to cut my hair short, like middle school, like when everyone thought I was a boy.” She nodded.

  “Okay.”

  Over the next couple of months, Mom seemed to go over my childhood in her memory, telling me that she should have known. That she should have figured it out.

  “Boys’ clothes. Boys’ soccer team. Boys’ haircut. Hating bras…,” she’d mumble.

  “It’s okay, Mom,” I’d reassure her. “You didn’t have the words. Neither did I.”

  When I finally got my short haircut Saturday morning, nearly a year after that initial conversation, I’d cried facing the mirror, my reflection feeling more real.

  Catch, pull, drive. Two.

  I can see Parker’s arms out of the side of my eye; I’m slightly ahead of him. Every stroke matters.

  Catch, pull, drive. Three.

  On Saturday afternoon, I’d sat before my computer screen, my announcement waiting to be posted. The mouse hovered for hours as I played with my short hair. I couldn’t bring myself to click Post. When Mom called me down for dinner, I didn’t respond. Instead, I remained paralyzed, staring at my words: “IMPORTANT PSA: Please read.” I’d chosen a new profile picture of me in my favorite button-down shirt, my hair standing straight up from whatever product the hair salon had added. It was the first picture of myself that I’d really liked in a while. It said: Tommy, boy. Tommy, me. Tommy, real.

  “Many of you might know this, but this post is to defuse all rumors and half-truths. I am transgender.” Even reading the words sent my stomach into spasms. Was I really about to tell the entire world?

  “Tommy?”
Mom stood in the doorway to my room. “Baby, it’s dinnertime.” I had just burst into tears. And then she was hugging me before I could find a tissue, asking me what was wrong.

  What if they hate me? What if my friends stop being my friends? What if I can’t stay on my swim team anymore? What if swimming is going to be ruined forever?

  Why can’t I be normal? Why can’t I just be fucking normal?

  But the sobs were so violent that all the words just got caught in my throat. She had pulled me over to my bed and sat my non-toddler self on her lap, holding me tightly.

  “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” she’d cooed as I tried to choke the air into my lungs. Every breath seemed to catch. “Breathe. It’s okay—” she’d said again.

  “I—I just—what if I can’t do it? What if I can’t? I can’t,” I finally burst. “I just wish I was normal.”

  “Normal is overrated. There is no normal. Stop that,” she snapped, returning to her usual manner of tough love. She quickly softened again: “You can do this. And if the team doesn’t work, we’ll find a new one. You are so strong, baby, you are so st-strong.” Her voice broke. She tightened her arms around me and I cried, only now I could feel bits of relief, and safety—maybe a few happy tears, too.

  It was another hour before I could press the button. And afterward, Mom took both my computer and phone away so I couldn’t obsess over the responses. But I still spent the rest of the weekend drowning in anxiety about today’s practice.

  Catch, pull, drive. Four. Through the rush of the water, I can hear Roman’s shouts. I have no idea what he’s saying or who he’s cheering on—if anyone—but suddenly the anger is overwhelming. It charges through me. I feel the rage all the way to my fingertips, and I wonder how they’re not sizzling in the water. My stomach clenches with body-slacking pain and I see Parker pull ahead of me.