Like A Boy

Like A Boy

By Shaire Blythe

It began with a razor. Not one of those razors depressed people used to cut their self. I wasn’t suicidal. But a shaving razor. I must’ve been about ten or eleven when my Mom allowed me to shave for the first time. She had always been so damn protective, like one little scratch or leak of blood would kill me.

It was then, with that razor and after I got done with that razor, that I knew I didn’t want to shave again. I hated it. It took way too long and there were too many hairs that were in difficult places to bend and reach. But that was just the beginning of me realizing that boys had things much easier than girls.

At age twelve, I got tired of always being made to dress up in flowers and pink colors, and having to put my hair all up perfectly, and it wasn’t ‘ladylike’ if I had a stain on my clothes or whatever. It was too much work; being a girl was way too hard. So I got this idea: why not be a boy?

Their clothes were more comfortable and loose. They could come to school without their hair being brushed and they were granted access to wear dirty underwear over and over again. So why not be a boy?

The idea was perfect. The idea fit. The idea was me.

I became ‘the girl who wished to be a boy.’ Then, I was called ‘the boy trapped in a girl’s body.’ Now, at Walter High School, I was simply titled a transgender.

The name didn’t fit to me, but it wasn’t like I had tried to stop it either. I was proud of what I was, who I was and how I was. Other people’s words meant nothing to me; they didn’t injure me.

I dressed like a dude, acted like a dude and occasionally got mistaken for a dude, but in all honesty, I knew I was technically not one. In fact, I wasn’t even attracted to girls. My attraction was still towards the male population. But did others notice that? Not at all. They took one look at me and guessed that I was after getting in between a girl’s legs.

It was hard to explain. Sometimes I didn’t even know for myself. But it was what it was.