Freakboy
Page 1
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Author’s Note
Pronoun
The Name Is Brendan
Wrestling Didn’t Always Suck
I Know What He’s Saying
My Brain Takes Me Freaky Places
The Night I Was a Girl
Opportunity Knocks
Three Years Ago
In Ceramics
Centering the Clay
At Home with Trick-or-Treaters at the Door
The Santa Ana Wind
A Year Later
How Do You Know When the Time Is Right?
Gloom Seeps Over Different Expectations
Some Truths Don’t Go Over So Well
Last Night’s Mistake
After Vanessa Dropped Me Off
Nightmare
Thank God for Dry Toast
Off the Bus
When I’m Not at School
The Bus Roars Away
Confused? Hardly.
I Like a Challenge
A Change of Weather
So What if Last Night Didn’t Go as Planned?
Lucky
In the Gym
Vanessa Snags My Water Bottle
At Home After Dinner
When I Was a Little Kid
When That Word Bursts
Glass Shatters
Sometimes the Real World Hurts
I Pray to God
All the Next Day
A Couple Days Later
College Applications, Round One
Wednesday After Conditioning
Mama’s Sweet Corn Stuffing
It’s the American Way
You Know It’s True
At the Smiths’
No Guidebook
Sex Maniac
The Next Morning
Things Look Different
I’m Bothering Julie
10 Hours Later
Busy Schedules
Saturday’s Tournament
Because Going Home Is Such a Ride
Sunday Night at Andy’s House
Online Before Bed
The Second-to-Last Present I Got
I Showed Up at Tía Rosa’s
Gonna Ignore Those Bad Manners
Back at the Center
Because Honestly
O Christmas Tree.
Home from the Ordeal
Early Christmas Present
And Speaking of Perfection
“Phewie, That Stinks!”
Hormones
Roger Was Man of the House
Sunday Afternoon
Crisis Averted.
Bowling
Next Day, Shopping with Andy Sucks
My Problem
Satin and Silk and Lace and Perfume
Christmas Day
Holiday-Schedule Bus
Could He Be Less Romantic?
Back at My House
Crying into My Pillow
At Bedtime
The Next Day
New Year’s
Frankie’s Back from Cancún
Screw the Rest of the World
Brendan’s Sick on New Year’s Eve
I Pretend
A Forbidden Jewel
But Cinderella Perfection Can’t Last
Because of Frankie
Only Friend I Still Have
Tonight the House Is Quiet.
No Hope in Hell of Normal
A Simple Solution
Final Day of Winter Recess
Gorgeous Sunday
Three Years Ago
Sundays Like Today
Today Was Just Another Crappy Day
In the Parking Lot
On the Wall
The Big Question
I Can Tell
Driving to Brendan’s
On the Way Home
Dr. Do-Little’s Office
I’m Lonely Without Brendan
We’re Practicing Takedowns
When I Have Time
When (or if) to Disclose Birth Gender
I Pass Really Well
Nothin’ to Be Ashamed Of
It Turns Out
Dateless, Friendless on a Friday Night
“People, People, Settle Down”
“Quiet, People!”
In the Bleachers
Thank God
The Closer Finals Get
My Insides Are Roiling
Mom and Claude the Interloper
I’m Finishing Homework
I Think of THAT Night
Next Day’s a Minimum Day
I Get Off a Stop Early
It’s the Shy Kid from the Bus
Q Is for Question
Funny Timing That Boys’ Night Out
Before Bed
Tuesday After Practice
Heeding the Call
Living That Part in Secret
Thank You, God, for Everything
Five O’clock, the Most Beautiful Hour
How a Girl Gets a Reputation
Brendan’s Mom and Stepdad Leave
Brendan Opens the Door
Brendan Pulls Me Inside
My Heart
Guilt Is Beach Sand
1 a.m.: The Phone Rings
“No Idea What to Do,”
Angel Was So Pissed Last Night
Hazardous
“What the Fu—”
Will He Tell?
Awake All Night
Brendan Chase Is a Fag
No Idea What I’m Going to Say
Even Predictable Explosions Are Scary
Before Econ the Next Day
Flannigan Stops Me
Vanessa’s Car Idles Near the Bus Stop
You Know That Feeling of Falling
There’s Always a Choice?
I Drive Home Numb
All Vanessa Said
Not Me
Surprise! Happy Birthday!!!!
Three Years Ago Today
Veronica Says
In the Morning
At Breakfast
Brendan and I
I Have a Question
The Night Before Wrestling Finals
There Are Phases
Nerves at the Sight of a Sweet Bungalow
I Keep Messing Up
Weigh-In for Wrestling Finals
Forty-Five Minutes Later
What Really Has Changed?
Monday Morning Announcements
I Leave School Without a Pass
No One at Home
Don’t Do Sadness
From Sucky to Worse
I’m Tired
I Have My First Fight
My Boyfriend Won
Angel’s Message
Asking Myself the Biggest Question
Lillian Bruner’s Having a Party
It Sucks Even More
Sunday Night Dinner
After Dinner
Tiny White Torpedoes
No Note
Midnight
I’m Leading Her
Not Dying
Instead
We Meet Down at Mono Cove
“Gender Fluid”
Teacher In-Service Day
Waiting Around
We Go Back to Brendan’s
I Take the Bus to Willows
“The Truth Will Set You Free”
Angel Takes Off
There Is No Tidy Endin
g for Someone Like Me
Acknowledgments
Resources
Further Reading
Copyright
To every Freakboy and Freakgirl out there:
You are not a freak.
And you are not alone.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
There are as many expressions of gender identity as there are individuals. No two are exactly the same. I would never in a million years attempt to tell the transgender story. All I can do is tell a transgender story and cross my fingers that people will be interested enough to start asking their own questions.
It is my hopeful intention that this will lead to conversation that will in turn draw us all along the path to a greater understanding and acceptance of gender’s vast and lovely variation.
Peace and Love,
Kristin Elizabeth Clark
Pronoun
A pronoun is a ghost
of who you really are
short
sharp
harsh
whispering its presence,
taunting your soul.
In you
of you
but not
all you.
Struggling,
my own
He She
Him Her
I You.
Scared that
for scrambled-pronoun
Me,
We
might never
exist.
(BRENDAN CHASE)
The Name Is Brendan
Dinner table,
silverware gleaming.
Claude the Interloper finishes
telling a story.
Mom passes me steak.
“How was your day?”
She’s chirping, despite
surgery two days ago.
I shrug
the missed bus,
shrug
the half-hour wait for the next one,
shrug
the wrestling practice that blew.
Don’t bother to elaborate.
Mom hates Coach
(almost) as much as I do.
Freshman year
she wanted me to skip holiday practice
so what was left of our family
could go on vacation.
Coach described the importance of
“consistent training and conditioning.”
Said he always mentioned “dedication”
in his college letters of recommendation.
She wavered and then
he told her flat out that
I was the weakest link
and always would be if I was a
mama’s boy who’d miss training.
She was ticked, but
we stayed in town
with the other manly
and dedicated jocks.
He was on my ass today
for getting caught
by a head-and-arm drag.
A crappy thing itself,
our faces so close.
Still he yelled.
And through all the drills
my head wasn’t in it.
Wrestling Didn’t Always Suck
Miller Prep Academy
requires a six-term
commitment to
at least one sport
and at first
it seemed like
less torture
than the others.
No ball to get nailed by,
or drop. No baton to fumble
in the last leg of the relay,
pissing off your teammates.
Just you and
your opponent.
Grappling
one on one.
But four years
of relentless splat on the mat have
brought out a bunch of little hells
I’d never even considered
so that now
I hate touching other guys.
I hate my own body.
And most of all?
I hate Coach Childers.
He calls me Brenda.
I Know What He’s Saying
But I like girls. Always have,
even in elementary school.
Sandbox dust in my nose,
jungle gym–blistered hands.
Hanging with the guys,
but glad when a girl’d
ask me
to
play
something.
Yeah, mostly the same games
when it came to
handball and foursquare.
But comfortable.
When you got hurt
girls’d ask
what
was
wrong.
Guys would ignore you,
call you names
when your eyes watered
at the pop of a soccer ball to your face.
If you couldn’t stop the tears
they’d yank out more words,
like “crybaby” (or worse), to
hit
you
with.
And I loved the way girls wore their hair.
Ponytails bouncing, braids smooth.
Loved the colors they strutted
across the yard: bright purple, pink.
Loved other things they played,
like animal hospital or house.
Loved the sound of their voices
when
they’d
call
to
me.
Still,
a shadow lurks
near the
edge
of
my
head
whispering,
“You like girls too much,
and not in
the same
way
everyone
else
does.”
My Brain Takes Me Freaky Places
I twitch, gulp milk,
slam the glass back on the table.
A salad plate jumps.
Claude the Interloper frowns.
Mom winces.
Sister giggles.
“Hey, squirt,” I say,
pinning girl-thoughts
to the mat and
gaining control
of my brain.
“Do you like my princess hat?”
She tilts her head toward me
like I might not otherwise
notice the pink cone,
its lace ribbon dangling
close to her mac and cheese.
I move the plate a little.
“So you’re a princess now.”
“No, Brendy, it’s just
for Halloween!”
A gap toothed smile.
I was twelve
when she was born.
Everyone said we looked alike.
Mom’s gray-blue eyes,
Dad’s cheekbones.
But Courtney has it all over me
in the hair department—
hers thick, wavy, and long.
Mine straight, short, and,
I swear, already falling out.
Still, she’s my favorite person
besides my girlfriend, Vanessa.
(Sounds lame, I know.)
I’m not religious; in fact
I’m not sure I even believe in God
(though we used to go
to church religiously [ha]),
but from the second Dad
put her
into my arms,
burrito-wrapped
in a little pink blanket,
innocent face
and tiny fingernails,
I saw Divine
attention to detail.
So small.
So perfect.
It’s not a guy thing,
but I like babysitting.
Andy called her chick bait.
We used to push her stroller
to th
e park
and girls would wander over
to oooh
to ahhh.
When Courtney
took her first steps
toward me
Dad called me smitten.
Mom called me Little Mother.
That homey scene in eighth grade,
on my baby sister’s first birthday.
Exactly one month before
Mom, the harp player, left
Dad, the biomedical engineer, for
Claude, the Interloper.
Conductor of San Diego Philharmonic.
His orchestra’s music
poison to my father’s ear.
Dad’s banished—2,000 miles away.
(Not that we hung out a ton
when he lived closer
but at least it was an option.)
Now he’s president of a biotech firm,
seen only in summer
when Mom needs to dump us—
“Thanks, James! Ta-ta!!!”—
so she can tour with
her new (and improved)
husband.
“Big plans tomorrow?”
she asks.
“Party at Andy’s.”
Claude the Interloper
raises an eyebrow.
He doesn’t like Andy,
hates the way he just walks
into the house without knocking.
Thinks it’s rude that Andy
checks out the food in our kitchen
when he’s hungry
and maybe it is—
but I do the same thing at his house
and have since seventh grade,
a year before any of us were aware
of the Interloper’s sorry existence.
“I wanted to ask if you’d
take Courtney
trick-or-treating first.”
Don’t mind the trick-or-treating
but I’m tortured by the reason
Mom’s asking.
She’s recovering from
“an enhancement procedure”
and SURPRISE she’s sore.
Still, I avert my eyes
from her new shape
and nod yes.
“What are you going to be?”
Court asks.
Now there’s a question
and a depressing memory.
The Night I Was a Girl
Last year sucked.
The whole wrestling team
went to school as cheerleaders.
No choice but to go along.
Shaved legs and everything,
we all did it—even Rudy and Gil.
They’re team co-captains.
Jerk-asses, towel snappers,
the first to bend fingers
when the ref’s on the blind side.
They told Vanessa,
“Brenda looks so natural
she must do this a lot.”
(Angel Hansted)
Opportunity Knocks
The bus makes a lurching turn
and I’m tellin’ you,
I’m thrown against
the hottest guy ever
to wear a Halloween-theme tie.