This is me
Ben Clark understands the cogs that mesh in society. The beliefs. The acceptable. The unacceptable.
Every minute, every hour, every day, eyes are glued to him, observing, confused and judging.
They think he’s strange.
An oddity of some sort.
They think he’s a mistake.
Minutes before the bell rings, Ben readjusts his pop-punk band t-shirt, tugs at the straps of his backpack, rakes the short, dark-auburn curls of hair that falls above his eyebrows, looks to his shoes to see the laces bow tie, double knotted of course, before setting foot inside the concrete walls of academic stress.
As the faint scent of insecurity tingle his nostrils, he weeds through the claustrophobic hallways to reach his classroom filled with dreamers. Thoughts emerge, floating in his mind like the curls of grayscale smoke from a freshly extinguished candle wick; vanishing to the naked eye, into thin air, all directions, leaving only lingering discomfort as eyes shift towards him.
Then, with his eyes fixated on the SmartBoard, in the privacy of his mind, he wonders about his future and indulges in his fears:
The school year.
The cafeteria food.
Will I make any new friends this year?
Am I going to die this year?
In the back of his mind, if a car drives by really slow, or near, or honks, his shadowy fears that lurk in the farthest corner of his mind surface.
Oh, they’re going to kill me because I’m Trans.
* * * * * * * * *
The roar of laughter and excitement radiates from the school, harboring hundreds of nervous parents hovering over their child as they start their first day of Kindergarten.
Ben, as one of these kids, never exactly had the feminine mindset, but the only question that haunts him revolves around which crayon he would use to splash some creativity on his Mona Lisa masterpiece.
As he reaches into the 24-pack of Crayola crayons, searching for the perfect color to complete his artwork, his first choice was always blue.
Always.
Problems soon arose as recess began: Who would be which Power Ranger?
Ben had always admired the Blue Power Ranger and his transformation into a triceratops, as well as the aloof attitude of the character on the GameCube videogame.
After gathering a select group of kids at a secret location on the playground, the game of pretend Power Rangers would commence.
The leader of the group, the Red Power Ranger, dictates which color prides whom, as Ben would forever be known as the Pink Power Ranger, wildly upsetting him.
Rage courses through his veins as his blood boils, his teeth grind, fists clench until his knuckles gleam with white as punches flew, landing straight on the lips of the unsuspecting kid.
I am the Blue Power Ranger now.
* * * * * * * * *
“I want to be normal. They looked so happy,” said Ben reassuring himself as he cakes makeup on his adolescent face.
His fingers grip the cap of the unforgiving container, twisting the covering, gliding across the plastic ridges of the powdery hide and seek; he glares at his reflection, unhappy, watching the transformation as his thoughts bounce between the bones caging his mind.
“This is fine.”
The liquid hardens onto his eyelids as the liner drifts across his skin.
One wing.
Two.
“This is fine.”
Unleashing the black wand from its muzzle, he stares at his eyelashes blooming similar to that of flowers in springtime and darkening like his heart.
“This is fine.”
He surveys the newly painted face that stares directly back at him.
He imagines his friends, circling around one another exchanging cosmetic tips, covering themselves in the rich exports of Sephora, giggling as the circumference of girls parade their picture-ready faces.
They look so happy.
I would start being happy if I wore makeup.
They look so happy.
The school bell chimes. Eyes dart from expression to expression as he awaits the amazed reactions of his peers, expecting them to be that of watching a shooting star blast across the night sky.
Unchanged expressions.
“I’m wearing makeup today guys, how cool is that,” said Ben fishing for anything other than blank expressions, only to be met with a confused, half-hearted “that’s cool.”
Heartbroken, Ben enters a stage of self-destruction. The room spins until the colors of the world merges into one, his world turns upside-down, and thunderstorms cloud his mind as his skin itches off with discomfort.
The school year continues as his depression and anxiety blossom, hitting him like a bullet in the back. Ben begins spiraling into a battle of contaminated self-worth, as questions skip like a broken record.
Do I actually have this problem?
Am I just making it up?
What am I?
* * * * * * * * *
The thick scent of silence pollutes the office as Ben and his mother sit patiently on the leather chairs littering the room. Ben remembers the awful school year and the night of his performance, the reason behind his therapy appointment.
The restroom floods with tears that race one another like raindrops down a windowpane, the dull roar of him bawling echoes against the concrete walls. Discomfort attaching itself like a virus, traveling through his veins, sending shivers down his spine with every glance at his reflection. The faucets and the tiled floor take pity on him as he glares at the frilly, purple blouse he was forced to wear.
Eventually regaining his composure for the sake of the performance, he reaches for the handle and heads downstairs only to be greeted by his mother and another wave of tears. Through the madness, the heavy gasps in between sobs, and the interrogation from his mother, Ben utters the four words that would change his life forever.
I’m not a girl.
The door creaks open as the therapist pokes her head out calling out for Ben, guiding him and his mother to a seat in her office. As the hands scurry across the numbers on the clock, his mother continuing to suggest that Ben should remain in the closet as she refuses to see him get bullied.
* * * * * * * * *
The pitter-patter of excitement in the soles of the shoes walk toward the building as Ben paces himself down the steps, off the yellow school bus and onto the slabs of concrete beneath him. The morning light reflects off of the sign reading “Lowery Freshman Center.” He treads toward the door, peering through the glass, peeking inside as if he was staring into crystal ball.
Deep breaths as he pushes the metal belt of the door, entering the school.
Everything seems normal.
Ben sits in the blue plastic chair at his desk, his eyes scanning the students in the room, wondering if they already know. He spends the entirety of the day listening to the “Welcome to Lowery” speeches from his teachers that all followed the same basic formula:
- Welcome to the new school.
- Here’s what we’ll be doing this school year.
- Have a great school year.
As these lectures drone on, he imagines his method of coming out as he decodes special responses to any possible reaction. Anxiety loiters, appearing as a phantom; unable to touch yet is still plaguing his mind.
How will this person take it?
Am I going to get killed today?
Am I going to get killed today?
The year progresses normally. Soon the symphony of birds sing, the brilliant combination of greenery carpets the earth everywhere, the air thickening with freshness, the trees, warmed by fresh sunlight and rain, ring out their leaves, Ben unfolds himself like that of blossoming flower petals that droop with the dew of a fresh spring morning. He finally hears someone use “Ben” and male pronouns.
Tears flood his ducts as his smile grows wide.
* * * * * * * *
The alarm sirens a colorless annoyance of rings and pings as Ben glances at the LED lights inspiring a crazed frenzy. 7 a.m. A flash of adrenaline shoots through his veins, his heart beating like the drums of a hardcore rock anthem as he stumbles and tumbles preparing for the day ahead; the tight scheduled school bus waits for no one.
Twisting and turning, the seconds’ dash and the minutes gallop forward, Ben slips into his binder, hops into his shoes, tosses his backpack on and hurdles for the mirror for one last glance at himself before heading out.
Eyes dart up and down as he tries to decipher his hieroglyphic emotions about his outfit. He just stares at himself, uncontrollably feeling too feminine. Inhaling deep breaths, he tries to calm down his flustered self as tears brim in his eyes.
I’m not a girl.
I look too feminine.
But I’m not a girl.
Pushing down the emotions, Ben moves to the faux-leather seats of the school bus. His eyes gaze out of the window toward the yellow and white dashes, flashing on the asphalt as the bus accelerates. He feels as uncomfortable and anxious as if he had just left the men’s restroom.
Public restrooms mock him as he indecisively looks between the skirt and the pants of the figure on the signs. Standing in front of the wooden door, weighing his options of whether to get beat up or get disgusted looks, leaves the two scale pans aligned in perfect balance. Or the looks he gets whenever he shops in the guy’ section of any clothing store.
* * * * * * * *
The bus approaches a stop, the kids swaying back and forth, exhaustion oozing from the bags under their eyes; his discomfort leaves him as if an angel reaching through his skin and rips it away.
Hailey.
His best friend walks on the bus and begins chit chatting with Ben even before plopping herself onto the seat. They talk and laugh about the drama happening in their life and the funny moments that occurred throughout the year, especially Ben’s first day.
* * * * * * * * *
As the school bell sings it’s repetitive ring, students pile through the gateway of first period. Ben searches the room for a familiar face as the teacher begins attendance. His birth name echoes the room as Ben sits there.
His hand then shoots to the sky like a firework on the fourth of July, interrupting the name of the next student being called.
“I actually go by Ben”
As the confused looks travel from student to student like an infectious disease, Ben adds, “Hey…I’m not a girl. Oops?”
* * * * * * * * *
As the bus arrives at the doors of the school, Ben walks down the black steps onto the concrete slabs below him. He enters the school knowing his accomplishments:
Changing the dress code for Orchestra performances.
Bringing attention to the issues of transgender people.
Battling, and winning against his inner most demons.
Although he continues to combat his depression and anxiety, Ben can walk with a smile, a lighter heart, and a tuxedo for his Orchestra performances.
“I want to be normal,” said Ben smiling from ear to ear, “and I am normal… err as normal as anyone can be.”
This is me. Ben Clark. Sophomore.
