I
Thirty teenagers stare at me at a time in 50-minute shifts. Their eyes burn inquisitive. They throw personal questions like darts, and they toe boundaries. Seven months into hormone therapy, I begin to wear a sports bra to work.
The half-closeted life is built of such liminal moments. When I arrive for my afternoon laser appointment, I’m still buried under masculine work clothes. The staff are always too kind to say a first name because the one on the file is plainly wrong. I haven’t told them the right name. I don’t know why.
Five minutes into the session, my jaw feels like someone has slapped every inch of it. “Alright,” the technician says. “Let’s do your armpits and chest.”
I take off my sweater, then my button-up and my undershirt. I reveal the sports bra and, beneath that, my mature-immature chest and its swells of second puberty that I’d foolishly thought might show beneath those rectangular layers. I want to run, but I lay back down on the table. I regret the vanity that possessed me when dressing and the audacity to think that any part of this body was the least feminine. The technician says nothing. I’m certain she will laugh after I leave.
When my chest is as red as my face, I have the room alone to dress. I stuff the bra into my coat pocket.
