Mother and Father had mourned, but then they had tried to move on. It had seemed to work at first. Mother was happy when she got pregnant again. Then I was born, and she named me Mia.
“I knew what she was doing,” Father shouted, talking more to the walls than to me. “Giving you the name that was to be given to our daughter. Dressing you in clothes intended for the baby we lost. She was playing make-believe. Trying to pretend that our daughter never died, like we could just pick back up wherewe left off. Well, I couldn’t stand it. I couldn’t talk her out of it, but I wasn’t going to just stick around and let her turn my son into some dress-wearingfaggot. I washed my hands of it all, paid my child support like the courts demanded, and I thought that would be the end of it. But apparently, that woman’s crazy finally caught up to her. She couldn’t keep playing pretend anymore, but rather than face the truth and admit that you weren’t her daughter, she chose to end herself permanently. And now, I’ve got to clean up the mess she left behind.”
One of the numerous bags of clothes that he’d bought for me was thrown at my feet, its contents spilling over the floor.
“So, you’re going to get out of that damn dress and put on somethingnormal. Start acting like a proper boy, or… or… or I’m going to fix you one way or another.”
The door slammed, and I was left alone in a bedroom that wasn’t mine, but I was still expected to live in.
Glaring at the clothes, I kicked them to the other side of the room. I didn’t understand everything my father had said. A lot of his words were new to me, but I did understand one thing. Mother was dead, and she wasn’t coming back, because I was a boy. Dressing in “girl” clothes made mother happy and let her live, but the moment she saw me in “boy” clothes it made her so unhappy that she couldn’t live anymore.
I was never changing out of these clothes again. It didn’t matter how angry people got, how much they yelled at me, I was going to continue wearing “girl” clothes, no matter what.
A week later, a found out what the consequence of that decision would be. It was slid across the table to me in the form of an innocent looking pamphlet.
“Camp Green Hill?”
“It’s a therapy camp for troubled kids,” my father explained without even looking up from his breakfast. “If you won’t listen to me, then maybe they can sort you out.”
I looked at the pamphlet again. It showed a bunch of teenagers hiking and kayaking and doing other “camp” activities. Every single one of them was smiling.
I’d never been to therapy before, but I’d seen it on television. Mostly, it seemed to consist of sitting around a room talking about feelings. That didn’t seem so bad.
Certainly better than getting yelled at and having my clothes stolen.
It was only later that I learned the therapy they were talking about wasn’t like what I saw on television. This wasn’t the “talking about feelings” therapy. It was known by a different name entirely.
Conversion therapy.
I hated this memory. I didn’t want to think about it. It hurt more than anything. Even more than fire.
Fire…
I had plenty of experience with fire as well.
But I didn’t want to think about that, either.
The voice reading to me was a much more pleasant thing to focus on and I gave it all my attention as it continued its story.
“‘Pan, who and what art thou?’ he cried huskily.”
“‘I’m youth, I’m joy,’ Peter answered at a venture, ‘I’m a little bird that has broken out of the egg.’”
This, of course, was nonsense; but it was proof to the unhappy Hook that Peter did not know in the least who or what he was, which is the very pinnacle of good form.”
I liked this story a lot more than I liked my own reality. Despite knowing my own name, I often didn’t know who I really was.
Boy or girl?
Daughter or son?
Wanted or unwanted?
Was I even alive or dead?
I didn’t know, and it was frightening. Yet, for a brief moment, listening to that gruff yet soothing voice read to me, not knowing didn’t seem so bad. In fact, it almost seemed like freedom. I didn’t know who I was, and so I could be anything.
Paying more attention to the reading voice had also made me more aware of my surroundings. I was now certain that I was lying down, and I even knew when other people came near me. Sometimes, I was even able to recognize other voices.