The teenagers she spoke to were usually on pretty good behavior. They laughed at her jokes and applauded politely when she was done. But Margo wasn’t fooled. She knew the bullies were out there, smirking and muttering insults under their breath, hating her because hating was so much fun, and feeling superior was its own reward. It always took something out of her to stand in front of them, to offer herself up for their condescension and mockery, but she did it. She did it because those kids were the future, and even the worst of them could have a change of heart, or at least be shamed into silence.
But these old people in front of her tonight, they weren’t the future. They belonged to the past, and Margo had learned from bitter experience—not just with her mother, but with a whole generation of aunts and uncles and family friends and neighbors and acquaintances—that very few of them were willing to examine their fundamental beliefs about gender, let alone revise them so they could make room for trans people in their hearts and minds. It had gotten to the point where she had stopped even trying to argue with her older relatives; it just wasn’t worth the effort and the heartache. You just had to wait them out. They’d be gone before too long, taking their narrow-minded, uncharitable ideas along with them.
That was why she’d initially declined Eve’s invitation to speak at the Senior Center. But then Eve had performed some tricky PC jujitsu, calling Margo out for ageism and hypocrisy, for doing to seniors what society had done to LGBT people for so long. She reminded Margo that older people were a vulnerable and often stigmatized part of the community, and that it was both morally wrong and politically counterproductive to write them off as a lost cause. After all, they vote. And they have children and grandchildren, the power to give or withhold their love and approval.
Margo looked directly at the woman in the lavender turtleneck. The woman didn’t resemble Margo’s mother—she seemed soft and easygoing, where Donna Fairchild had been sinewy and judgmental—but she was about the same age, and shaped by the same social forces. She could have been her mother’s friend or co-worker. It was close enough.
I’m talking to you, Margo thought. I hope you’ll listen.
“Good evening, everybody.”
She stepped out from behind the podium, letting the crowd take a good look at her body, giving them time to register all the particulars—her unusual height, her pretty hair, her full breasts and narrow hips, her long muscular legs. It was something she was still getting used to, this need people had to scrutinize her from head to toe, as if all of life were a beauty pageant, and every woman a contestant. She even did a little twirl, because the judges liked to see your back as well as your front. It wasn’t fair, but Margo knew better than anyone that fairness and gender rarely intersected.
“My name is Margo Fairchild,” she announced, “and I used to be a man.”
*
Julian was trying to concentrate on the slide show, a series of photos that documented Dr. Fairchild’s early life—baby pictures, the bright-eyed toddler, birthday hats and Halloween costumes and presents on Christmas morning. Cub Scouts and Little League and a smile with a missing tooth.
“I was an adorable little boy and a very good son,” Dr. Fairchild explained. “Everyone said so.”
Al Huff let out a groan of despair.
“It’s a mental illness,” he said.
Al had been delivering this sort of commentary for the entire lecture, in a loud voice he seemed to think was a whisper. It was a huge disruption, but no one in the nearby rows seemed to mind. They acted like it was perfectly normal, like Al had a God-given right to express every single thought that passed through his mind, no matter how stupid or offensive.
Julian glanced around, checking for empty seats. A few were available, but none of them were near the aisle, and he wouldn’t be able to move without forcing a bunch of old people to stand up and let him pass, drawing a ton of attention to himself in the process.
“I had a growth spurt in seventh grade,” Dr. Fairchild announced, and you could see it in the pictures. All at once, Mark was a gangly adolescent with pimples, braces, and a mortified smile. “There were times when I woke up in the morning and could tell from my pajama pants that my legs had gotten longer while I slept. It was a nightmare. People kept telling me, You’re turning into a handsome young man, which was the last thing I wanted to be. But there didn’t seem to be any way to stop it from happening. It had a biological momentum of its own, like my body was telling me, You’ll be a man whether you like it or not.”
Julian’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw that it was a text from Ethan, who’d been bugging him to come to Burlington for the weekend to smoke some weed and check out the campus, in case he wanted to transfer sophomore year.
Julian put the phone away without responding. It was cool that Ethan had invited him, and it should have been a no-brainer to say yes. Why wouldn’t he want to go away for the weekend, sleep on a dorm room floor, get a taste of real college life? But for some reason the thought of the trip made him anxious, all that pressure to be normal and have a good time with kids his own age. In Julian’s experience, guaranteed fun usually just left him more depressed than he’d been in the first place.
“Good Christ,” said Al. “I can’t even look at this.”
The picture on the screen showed young Mark in a basketball uniform, looming over his scrawny teammates.
“The only good thing that happened to me in junior high was that I started playing basketball in a serious way,” Dr. Fairchild observed. A flurry of images followed, documenting Mark Fairchild’s career as a high school superstar. Some of the photos came from newspapers and yearbooks; others were candid shots taken at school or home. In every one of them, even those taken in classrooms or on a living room couch, Mark was wearing a basketball uniform or a warm-up suit with long pants and a zippered top.
“I felt like myself on the court. That was the only place. Everywhere else I felt like a big mistake.”
To illustrate this point, a prom photo appeared, Mark Fairchild tall and handsome in a classic black tuxedo, his arm around a pretty girl in a shiny pink gown. The girl was beaming with happiness, Mark not so much.
“I remember that night so clearly. I was miserable in my tux. I wanted to be in a gown like the one my date was wearing, to feel the skirt swish against my legs while I danced. I just wanted to feel pretty on my prom night, to be seen for who I truly was.”
“That’s wrong,” Al muttered. “It’s unnatural.”
Julian had finally had enough.
“Dude,” he snapped. “Could you please be quiet? People are trying to listen.”
Al wasn’t offended. In fact, he seemed genuinely interested in Julian’s opinion.
“Do you think that’s natural?” he asked.
“There’s nothing natural about gender,” Julian informed him. “It’s a social construction.”
Al shook his head. “I don’t know what that means.”
Julian was sorry he’d opened his mouth. Luckily his phone buzzed, saving him from further explanation.
“Excuse me,” he said, reaching into his pocket.
It was Ethan again, reminding him to bring a sleeping bag.
I’m not coming, Julian wanted to write, but he couldn’t think of a good excuse.
I have plans?
I hate the bus?