Pageboy

We sat together on an oversize chair, the splashes and music blending
together in the background. We spoke about gender, I shared the degree of
my discomfort, how even when I was playing a role, I couldn’t wear
feminine clothes anymore. How I always struggled in the summer when
layers were not an option and the presence of my breasts under my T-shirt
forced me to incessantly crane my neck, sneaking quick peeks down. I
would pull on my shirt, my posture folded. Walking down the sidewalk, I’d
glance at a store window to check my profile, my brain consumed. I had to
avoid my reflection. I couldn’t look at pictures, because I was never there. It
was making me sick. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be lifted out—the
gender dysphoria slowly crushing me.
“It’s a role, you’re an actor. Why are you complaining about such a
thing?” people would say.
“I would wear a skirt,” a straight, cis man had said to me, playing
devil’s advocate. I kept trying to explain the difficulty I was having. But he
kept spitting out his unwanted opinions while then berating me for getting
“too emotional.” “Hysterical” I believe was the word he used.
These words triggered a deep shame I’d held since I could remember. I
was puzzled, too—invalidating my own experience. How was I in so much
pain? Why did even slightly feminine clothing make me want to die? I’m an
actor, there shouldn’t be a problem. How could I be such an ungrateful
prick?
Imagine the most uncomfortable, mortifying thing you could wear. You
squirm in your skin. It’s tight, you want to peel it from your body, tear it off,
but you can’t. Day in and day out. And if people are to learn what is
underneath, who you are without that pain, the shame would come flooding
out, too much to hold. The voice was right, "you deserve the humiliation.
You are an abomination. You are too emotional. You’re not real."
“Do you think you’re trans?” Star asked me, locking eyes.
“Yes, well, maybe. I think so. Yeah.” We exchanged a soft smile.
I was so near. Almost touching it, but I panicked. And it burned away
like the joint I was smoking, becoming an old roach left to rot in a forgotten
ashtray. It all felt too big—the thought of going through this publicly, in a
culture that is so rife with transphobia and people with enormous power and
platforms actively attacking the community.
The world tells us that we aren’t trans but mentally ill. That I’m too
ashamed to be a lesbian, that I mutilated my body, that I will always be a
woman, comparing my body to Nazi experiments. It is not trans people who
suffer from a sickness, but the society that fosters such hate. As actress and
writer Jen Richards once put it:
"It’s exceedingly surreal to have transitioned ten years ago,
find myself happier & healthier than ever, have better
relationships with friends & family, be a better and more
engaged citizen, and yes, even more productive … and to
then see strangers pathologize that choice. My being trans
almost never comes up. It’s a fact about my past that has
relatively little bearing on my present, except that it made
me more empathetic, more engaged in social justice. How
does it hurt anyone else? What about my peace demands
vitriol, violence, protections?"
Sitting with Star by the pool, I couldn’t quite touch the truth, but I could
talk about my gender without bawling. That was a step. It had taken a long
time to allow any words to come out. When the subject came up in therapy,
my reaction felt inordinate, lost in sobs.
“Why do I feel this way?” I’d plead. “What is this feeling that never
goes away? How can I be desperately uncomfortable all the time? How can
I have this life and be in such pain?”
Not long after my thirtieth birthday, I did a U-turn, I bailed, I stopped
talking about it. I closed my eyes and hid it away. Somewhere I’d never
find it. It would be four more years until I disclosed who I was.

Je ne suis pas sorti de cette «phase» au moment où ma mère l'espérait, alors elle a de plus en plus critiqué mon style vestimentaire et mes fréquentations. Avoir des garçons pour amis et porter des habits masculins aurait dû me passer. Cette histoire de garçon manqué — une étiquette qui ne m'avait jamais paru adéquate mais à laquelle j'avais fini par m'identifier car tout le monde me définissait ainsi — aurait dû cesser, n'être plus qu'un souvenir nébuleux. Je devais me transformer en jeune femme, ou en l'idée que s'en faisait ma mère du moins. «Je ne veux que ton bonheur... Simplement te protéger... Je ne tiens pas à ce que tu aies la vie dure.» Ces considérations me glissaient dessus. Mon «bonheur» signifiait répondre parfaitement aux attentes de notre société. Ne pas sortir du cadre. Le parcours de l'héroïne parfaite, écrit à l'avance pour moi, à mon insu.

Nikki and I skirted around our chemistry, hovering and ducking. We’d
hang out constantly, it felt romantic at times. I was nearly certain it was not
just me, but maybe it was, maybe I was the only queer.
I remember sitting together in her mother’s beige Toyota Camry at
Dingle Park, not wanting to drive home just yet. The sun was setting, just
about to disappear for the night. We sat in the quiet, staring out at the Arm.
I thought we might kiss. Eventually, the sun winked from the tip of the
horizon, saying its final goodbyes. I smiled at her, she smiled back. I
remember how beautiful she looked. I could hear my heart and hoped she
couldn’t also. A few beats went by and we both exhaled, circumventing
once more, we turned our heads to face forward. We waited in the car until
the night took hold.
Moments like these hid in our friendship, tucked away, unnamed.
Another time we were huddled in a small tree house in her backyard. The
classic kind, just wood, a small trapdoor. Nikki’s dad had made it for her.
He had died when she was eight.
We smoked a joint, getting lost in conversation as the crickets joined in.
The house was dark, except for the living room, the light radiated out.
Inside, her mother watched television, distracted by the flickering glow. Our
faces were close, Nikki looked right at me and I looked right back. Time
stopped, the corners of our mouths offering the tiniest beginnings of a grin.
We did not move.
Lean in, I thought. You just need to lean in.
I didn’t, neither did she, and the moment passed. We climbed down
from the tree.
So many times where all I had to do was lean in, lean in to her and to
myself, but I couldn’t. And eventually, I lost my chance. One evening, we
lay on her bed talking. Her arm was around me, allowing me to nestle into
her, the closest we’d ever been. I glanced up, a new angle. Her neck
stretched as she looked to the ceiling, her chin pointed proudly. Nikki’s eyes
moved downward, her head following behind, a new angle for her, too. Her
lips, pink and full. I wanted them on my mouth.
“Nikki?” The door opened.
Immediately disconnecting, we created space in between. This was
useless, we had already been caught.
Slowly, we began to drift apart.
The lead of the school musical asked Nikki to prom shortly after. He
was tall, handsome, popular, friends with everyone, the kind of person who
can move their way in and out of various groups and cliques without having
to mutate. Talented, smart, funny … desirable.
Nikki said yes. The moment I found out, I felt my heart split. Earlier in
the year she and I made casual remarks about going together, a hidden
moment that evaporated like the rest. Yet some small part of me believed
we would. I wanted to yell, to say go with me, to say I love you, but nothing
came out. The image of someone else’s lips on hers stirred a new sensation.
Pumped by the heart, jealousy revealed itself, cycling through my body.
Nikki and I did not completely lose touch. Years later, she told me she
had felt the same.
I resent that we were cheated out of our love, that beautiful surge in the
heart stolen from us. I am furious at the seeds planted without our consent,
the voices and the actions that made our roads to the truth unnecessarily
brutal.

We sat together on an oversize chair, the splashes and music blending
together in the background. We spoke about gender, I shared the degree of
my discomfort, how even when I was playing a role, I couldn’t wear
feminine clothes anymore. How I always struggled in the summer when
layers were not an option and the presence of my breasts under my T-shirt
forced me to incessantly crane my neck, sneaking quick peeks down. I
would pull on my shirt, my posture folded. Walking down the sidewalk, I’d
glance at a store window to check my profile, my brain consumed. I had to
avoid my reflection. I couldn’t look at pictures, because I was never there. It
was making me sick. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be lifted out—the
gender dysphoria slowly crushing me.
“It’s a role, you’re an actor. Why are you complaining about such a
thing?” people would say.
“I would wear a skirt,” a straight, cis man had said to me, playing
devil’s advocate. I kept trying to explain the difficulty I was having. But he
kept spitting out his unwanted opinions while then berating me for getting
“too emotional.” “Hysterical” I believe was the word he used.
These words triggered a deep shame I’d held since I could remember. I
was puzzled, too—invalidating my own experience. How was I in so much
pain? Why did even slightly feminine clothing make me want to die? I’m an
actor, there shouldn’t be a problem. How could I be such an ungrateful
prick?
Imagine the most uncomfortable, mortifying thing you could wear. You
squirm in your skin. It’s tight, you want to peel it from your body, tear it off,
but you can’t. Day in and day out. And if people are to learn what is
underneath, who you are without that pain, the shame would come flooding
out, too much to hold. The voice was right, you deserve the humiliation.
You are an abomination. You are too emotional. You’re not real.
“Do you think you’re trans?” Star asked me, locking eyes.
“Yes, well, maybe. I think so. Yeah.” We exchanged a soft smile.
I was so near. Almost touching it, but I panicked. And it burned away
like the joint I was smoking, becoming an old roach left to rot in a forgotten
ashtray. It all felt too big—the thought of going through this publicly, in a
culture that is so rife with transphobia and people with enormous power and
platforms actively attacking the community.

In LA, we fought about who was closeting who the most. But, the truth
is, it was worse for Paula. I was in denial, desperate to make it work. The
family thing was somewhat manageable, albeit hurtful. The Hollywood ball
game was a whole other story, riddled with confusing rules that constantly
changed. And I had changed. I was different here, she wasn’t. I was being
told to lie and hide. It puzzled me to watch cis straight actors play queer and
trans characters and be revered. Nominations, wins, people exclaiming,
“How brave!”
“Keep your personal life private, that is what I tell all my clients,” my
manager would instruct me, while the same clients walked the red carpet
with a spouse or came out as heterosexual in an interview. Being arm in arm
walking down the street in paparazzi photos was a natural phenomenon,
even encouraged for publicity. There was always the pressure to appear
more feminine—dresses to events, high heels, “take off your hat.” This was
my manager’s attempt at helping me build my career. In her heart she was
caring for me, coaching me to morph into part of the club, making sure I
still had all opportunities available to me. I got lost in the part, unable to
fully lean into the character but still losing track of myself. Stuck in the
liminal space.
Hollywood is built on leveraging queerness. Tucking it away when
needed, pulling it out when beneficial, while patting themselves on the
back. Hollywood doesn’t lead the way, it responds, it follows, slowly and
far behind. The depth of that closet, the trove of secrets buried, indifferent
to the consequences. I was punished for being queer while I watched others
be protected and celebrated, who gleefully abused people in the wide open.
“The system is twisted so that the cruelty looks normative and regular
and the desire to address and overturn it looks strange,” Sarah Schulman
writes in her required read, Ties That Bind: Familial Homophobia and Its
Consequences.
Paula’s and my relationship was caught in the cross fire, and I was
losing track of how to make it work.
Being closeted while learning Roller Derby has a special type of irony
to it, given how intertwined queerness is with the sport, but throwing
myself into learning this new skill still opened up a much-needed pocket of
joy in my life at the time.