Of course. Nothing ever could.
Friends making quips about my facial hair growing in. Jokes about what name I should have chosen. A year and a half later and the pronouns are still just too much for some. I am patient, we all are endlessly learning and I’ve made the same mistakes, but sometimes patience wears thin. I know these instances and remarks may seem tiny, but when your existence is constantly debated and denied, it sucks you dry. Sprawled out, bare, I crave gentleness.
The truth is, in many ways, my narrative is still unfolding. I have been on testosterone for over a year now. Every Friday I wake up excited yet content, a new sense of calm in my life. I inject myself with forty milligrams of T, I’m changing, I’m growing, it’s all just beginning.
Let me just exist with you, happier than ever.
29
PEACHES
Mark and I arrived at the Opera House on Queen Street East early early. I have never lined up that far in advance for anything and been among the first few in line. We stood freezing in the Toronto winter. Peaches was playing. It was her tour after the release of her second record, Fatherfucker. I used to dance like a fatherfucker to it. Shirt off, sports bra tight, blinds down.
The moment we got in, we jogged to the stage, pressing our bodies against it. I waited irritably through the opener. They were good, but the time between them finishing and Peaches emerging crawled. The place continued to fill, lights of purple and red. A sold-out show. And tons and tons of queer people. Arguably the queerest space I had been in at that point in my life.
The Stranglers’ song “Peaches” came on, the lights lowered, signaling that she was about to start.
Walking on the beaches, looking at the peaches
The song is only slightly over four minutes, but it felt a whole lot longer, looking it up for this, I’d anticipated at least seven. It ended. Finally. And Peaches came out. Ferocious, confident, sexy, fearless. Barely clad in tight pink underwear and a black bra. There were dildos swinging, protruding out of the backup dancers’ crotches as “Shake Yer Dix” began. Spicy, gyrating queerness all around.
Girls and boys they want it all
Lay back and make the call
You need that flip, yeah really quick
And keep it so slow it sick
You gotta shake yer dix and yer tits
I’ll be me and you be you
Shake yer dix and shake yer tits
And let me be you, too
Sweat, smoke machines, cocks and tits … the show excelled, but more than halfway through, Peaches’s face narrowed, bending over partially, a soft sway, as if she might lose her balance. A concern fell over the crowd. She leaned forward, resting her hands on her knees, head down, she began to dry heave. The music stopped. Stumbling to the end of the stage, she projectile vomited blood, spewing it all over the audience. Music back on, everyone screamed. I had fake blood all over me. My hands in the air, Peaches grabbed my elbow and ran her hand up to my wrist, smearing the red along my arm.
She was radically herself in a way that not many people are, or at least not many people in my life had been. Being as shy as I was at the time, I was in awe of her ability to be so raw and bare. She was unapologetically sexual, bold, and aggressive, her work instilled with moments of beautiful vulnerability. I only wished to be that confident and liberated, to lose the dread that held me back.
Electrified, Mark and I skipped the streetcar and walked west along Queen, the 5.2 kilometers home. The “blood” on my forearm glinted under the streetlights, we stared at it, relishing the artifact as we bounced down the sidewalk. She was still with us, that show was still with us, the queerest thing I had ever seen, that possible world. I did not want to lose that. I would cherish the relic.
I showered with my arm sticking out through the side of the curtain. It was winter, and I would be wearing long sleeves anyway. I kept it for almost two weeks. For a sixteen-year-old trans kid, she offered something that I could not find elsewhere. A voice that said, fuck shame, fuck gender stereotypes, fuck not embracing your desires, and fuck not owning yourself.
Altered by the concert, it wasn’t just the fake blood I took home, but also a sense of discovery. I’d been in a new dimension where I’d touched my queerness, where I’d jumped and flailed in a crowd with people like me. A space for celebration, not ridicule.
I remember walking out the doors after the concert ended and a woman with a half-shaved head asking us, “How old are you guys?”
“Sixteen and fifteen,” we said. Hyper and exhilarated.
“Right on,” she exclaimed, seeming so proud and happy. Like all was right in the world.
Taking a deep breath, exhaling down to my toes, I wanted to hold on to the feeling, to pocket the joy, the fleeting moments of self-love. Marching home with Mark in the cold I felt the soles of my feet pressing the ground, one foot then the other. I sensed I was heading in the right direction.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to all the people who have helped me on my way to feeling present and alive enough to write this book. A special thank you to Julia Sanderson, who modeled queerness for me when I was younger and has stuck by me year after year. I wouldn’t have been able to write this, or be here at all, without your endless love and support. To my incredible editor, Bryn Clark, thank you for believing in me and this book and making it a reality. I don’t know how I got so lucky. My editor in the UK, Bobby Mostyn-Owen, thank you for your brilliance, insight, and heart. My agents at UTA, Albert Lee and Pilar Queen, thank you for thinking this possible before I did, for pushing me and making me make the time. Thank you to Meredith Miller and Zoe Nelson for all of your hard work and passion. Thank you to my manager Kelly Bush Novak for being on this journey with me, for all you’ve done and continue to do. Thank you to Courtenay Barrett, Amanda Pelletier, and all at IDPR. Thank you, Kevin Yorn, for always having my back. Thank you to my health-care providers, I wouldn’t be typing this right now if it weren’t for you and your care. Thank you to my friends who I reached out to while writing this book, for all of your guidance and support—Thomas Page Mcbee, Chase Strangio, Lauren Matheson, Kiersey Clemons, Madisyn Ritland, Mark Rendall, Star Amerasu, Nick Adams, Paula Robbins, Brit Marling, Marin Ireland, Cazzie David, Kate Mara, Ian Daniel, Catherine Keener, and Beatrice Brown. To my mom—I love you with all my heart, thank you for being so understanding and open, you truly inspire me. To all those who have created space in this world for me to exist, well, I don’t have enough words to express how fortunate I feel. This book yes, but really this newfound strength, joy, and connection is because of countless people, some I know and others I’ve never met. All of us on our winding paths, all of us in this together, I am grateful to be here with you.
Credits
Grateful acknowledgment is made for permission to reprint the following previously published material:
Lyrics from “A Song and Many Moons,” Words and Music by Beverly Glenn Copeland. (Granny Mabel Leaf’s Retirement Fund Music Pub) Copyright ? Third Side Music SOCAN 2004. International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission.
Lyrics from “Barbie Girl,” Words and Music by Johnny Mosegaard, Karsten Dahlgaard, Claus Norreen, Soren Rasted, Rene Dif, and Lene Nystrom. Copyright ? 1997 Warner/Chappell Music Denmark A/S and Universal/MCA Music Scandanavia AB. All Rights for Universal/MCA Music Scandanavia AB in the United States and Canada Controlled and Administered by Universal Music Corp. All Rights for Warner/Chappell Music Denmark A/S in the United States and Canada Administered by WB Music Corp. Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC.
Lyrics from “Anthems for a Seventeen-Year-Old Girl,” Words and Music by Brendan Canning, Emily Haines, James Shaw, John Crossingham, Kevin Drew, Jessica Moss, Justin Peroff, and Charles Spearin. Copyright ? 2002 by Brendan Canning Music, c/o Southern Music Pub. Co. Canada Ltd., BMG Rights Management (UK) Limited, Josh Crossingham Publishing Designee, Kevin Drew Publishing Designee, Jessica Moss Publishing Designee, Justin Peroff Publishing Designee and Charles Spearin Publishing Designee. All Rights for Brendan Canning Music and Southern Music Pub. Co. Canada Ltd. Administered by Songs Of Peer, Ltd. All Rights for BMG Rights Management (UK) Limited Administered by BMG Rights Management (US) LLC. International Copyright Secured All Rights Reserved. Reprinted by Permission of Hal Leonard LLC, Peermusic, Arts & Crafts (Toronto), John Crossingham, and Jessica Moss.