5 posts tagged literature

PART ONE OF A TWO PART INTERVIEW 

Morty: I wanted to start by asking about the early moments in your life where you came to know how much you loved writing?

Ryka: My first inkling of this was in my childhood. I didnt have a great childhood, and I write about this a lot in my work. Writing became an escape and a place where…you know, there are no scars on the paper. It’s a fresh start, it’s beautiful. Where some people see the blank page as a question, or as a challenge I’ve always seen it as a haven, as a place where I can escape to. I’ve always had that. In college, I was pushed into the sciences, hence my bachelors degree in chemistry. My parents did not want me to be an English major one bit. I would be taking a chemistry class and on one side of the page was chemistry stuff and on the other side was poetry. But…something pushed me to apply to MFA programs, even though I knew I had absolutely no chance. Within three years of applying, I got in.

Morty: So, it was scary to move away from what your parents wanted for you?

Ryka: Oh my god, yeah. I mean, I was shaking, I had a bit of a breakdown. I worked a little bit as a lab rat but I hated it. There was this voice inside me that said, “Just keep going, you know who you are.” And eventually, if you’re lucky, you have the wherewithal to move…and I was very lucky.

Morty: Where did you get your MFA?

Ryka: At Cornell.

Morty: A very prestigious school…

Ryka: I know! The funny thing is, when I applied, I coasted into the Post Office with my 1983 Honda I paid 25 dollars for. The engine had just given out! And, as I was mailing it, I thought to myself, “Why am I here, I know I’m not getting in to Cornell”… but then I did! It was a lot of work but there was a lot of luck involved, too. Well, I always say you have to work really, really hard to get lucky because if you don’t then you bomb.

Morty: Defintely.

Ryka: At Cornell, I was still male. We didn’t even get to gender, I was the second Asian they had in the program! So, yeah, it was really wacky. It was also a very valuable experience and grounded me but was also a transition period. I still had a lot of work to do to become an honest to goodness writer in the real world. I mean an MFA doesnt give you that, it just gives you time. And some great connections, too.

Morty: So, what brought you from your MFA program to teaching?

Ryka: I’ve always loved to teach. And this might sound a little corny, but I truly believe this. When you’ve been a victim, you can do one of two things. You can either mimick the oppressor or you can turn around and say, “It stops here” and “I’m going to help others”. I suppose a part of it is..as a transwoman I’m never going to have a biological kid, and this kind of work feeds my maternal instinct but it goes beyond that. I know what its like not to have opportunities. I went to an ivy league college but I was the first one in my family to go to college! So, I’m going to go and get this information and share it with others. I don’t want to see anybody being left out. I don’t want anyone to feel that language isn’t their birthright. Also, when I’m teaching, I’m performing. I mean, think about it. I’ve got to be on stage for three hours entertaining 30 students and the material sucks because were covering subject verb agreement. So, if I can hold an audience for that long, I know that when I’m on the road performing my own work, I’ve got my chops up!

Morty: I also want to know, specifically, how you became a teacher. The process.

Ryka: Here is where Cornell and getting an MFA comes in.  For once, the good ol’ boy network worked for a queer woman of color. Knowing people, and being fortunate and luck. Connections. But it wasnt easy. I looked for work for two years and actually had to go back to chemistry for a little while before landing a job. So, even with my connections, it wasn’t easy.

Morty: So, along with writing, you always had this desire to be a performer as well? You were already writing and performing before you transitioned…

Ryka: When I began transition and started the process I realized it was a very big job and I understood I needed to not turn away from the things in my life that gave me strength. And writing was where I have always felt the strongest. My first time out as Ryka was on stage. I was at a Forward Girls showcase and they had asked me to perform. Outside of going to one or two bars, I had really never presented publicly. So, I made my debut as Ryka on stage in front of a bunch of people. And that was the most comfortable place for me to do it. I couldn’t have done it without that. For me, my work gave me a moment to process. On stage I’m processing, on stage I’m creating. Even when I’m reading a poem that I’ve already recited a bunch of times, when I’m with that audience I’m processing. I’m there. I cannot do it in any other way.

Morty: Your work facilitated the process and understanding of who you are, and were becoming…

Ryka: Yes, for sure. I knew that regardless of what I looked like on stage. How I presented, what my voice sounded like, how shaky I was… if the work was good the audience should receive it and should accept it and I knew how to control the work. You know, they could think I looked like a monster, like a man in a dress but they would have to see that I wrote a really fucking good poem. And that would get me up there. But it was fucking terrifying. I didn’t know what the hell was going to happen. But I did know that I put a huge amount of time in that poem and when I put the time into my work, good things happen.

Morty: What do you think about the trans arts? Does it feel too conforming to call yourself a “trans writer” or a “trans artist”?

Ryka: If I’m speaking as a trans artist, where I’m getting paid, it’s always a good thing. Where we can get stage time, get published and all those good things, we do it and hope that message gets through. That being said, I really cannot deny that I’m trans and I’m proud of what I’ve been through, but sometimes I would like to be called “a poet”. Because I don’t often say I’m a Japanese American writer, so I think there’s a balance that must occur. I think, also, the trans art scene is very important. Because the cis gendered community have a support system that is already in place. For the most part, their femininity or masculinity is not questioned and they can identify with each other. For trans people, we know how we identify, but we need to convince the world and, to a point, have to rid ourselves of internal transphobia. A lot of this hampers our self confidence. So, for trans artists to develop our self confidence we need our own models to point to how we want to be seen and that’s why its really important to be fostering our art scenes. It’s important, we need these spaces to grow. We cannot throw transitioning people out there and say “survive”. I mean, some of us can, those with exceptionally strong self images. And the best poets and their self images, they don’t always colate. Sometimes I see a trans person who needs a lot of help, a lot of support but when she finally ends up creating something, it’s beautiful. So, the trans art scene, to me, helps trans artists. But, more importantly, it is also making an investment in our voice by fostering this community. To go on with this: I don’t publish in too many Asian American anthologies but I am Asian. When I go to speak, for instance, at a reading for a basic literary magazine, my very prescence helps trans folks. There it is.

Morty: Would you introduce yourself as a trans artist to a group of, most likely, cis gendered, non queer, non trans crowd of individuals?

Ryka: In the writing world, many times I can’t tell them who I am. Much of the work being submitted is submitted blind. My name is the only identification.

Morty: Yes, but once you get selected. Now you’re on this stage…

Ryka: Oh, hell yeah! It’s always relevent to do so because they need to hear about you! So, if one person in the audience says “Hey, those trans people aren’t such freaks, I want to hear more, lets go see them!”, then it’s good. If who I am bugs you out then I have no interest in publishing with you. Sorry.

Morty: Yeah.

Ryka: You know how it is. When a woman comes up to me and says “Wow, I thought you were really hot, and then I found out you’re trans.” And I’m thinking to myself, ‘If you really feel that way then you’re a total idiot’. It’s the same with anthologies I’ve submitted to. You liked my work before you knew what was between my legs, now all of a sudden you don’t like it. Screw you.

Morty: I’m with you on being able to support and nuture other trans artists and be out there for other trans artists to see. To say “Hey, we’re here! And we’re doing work! Don’t be afraid to join us! Be who you are!” But, there are also moments where it can be tiring.

Ryka: The way I handle it is to not run away from the trans label, not to fight it, but to really explore it. I’m also a Judo instructor. And when there is an enemy that you cant move by pushing sometimes you have to pull and see what happens. So, it’s “okay, I’m trans.” but what does that mean? I don’t hate the trans label, I embrace and examine it. I find ways to defetishize the trans definition and go into the realm of human experience. As I come out that way, I’m hoping and trusting the audience that they see, I’m not talking about trans at all. I’m talking about how one person goes through this label that is forced upon her and uses it and works with it to create something artistic or, maybe even comes to some epiphany about the human experience. Then, at this moment, it is meaningful for anyone who is transforming: getting a new job, living in a new place, breaking up with someone. And they can take it as their own.  Many people say to me “Why do you do this, you pass.” but it’s not like that for me. I’m never going to pass as a non-trans writer. I don’t want to. But I’m also not going to make it a badge of hate. I’m going to take your expectations of me, address them, fuck with them and, in the end, take you off balance and teach you something.

Morty: So, how do you write? How do you get there?

Ryka: You get there in small steps. I get there by treating my writing like a job. I sit at my kitchen table and I write in the morning. Other people might not wake up two hours before they need to be anywhere but that isn’t how I work. I’m a writer and that’s just what I do. I’m really efficient in the morning. Whatever comes out, comes out. And if it’s not finished I just keep going. I see writing as a form of worship, too. I spend a certain amount of my day writing and reading. Once the process is in place the work will take care of itself. Then, once I have found what I believe to be the best work, I begin making drafts. I like the serenity of knowing, no matter how bad the day gets, that one part of the day is going to be a blank paper and pen and a moment, and it’s going to be good. Writing is not my adversary, it is my oasis.

Morty: What inspires you to write?

Ryka: The inspiration, for me, has always been the world around me. People…just watching portraits of life. Some are so vivid to me that I’ve got to go home and write about them. Of course, I do have bad days with writing. Which is why magazines like this are so important and community around you is so important. You need places to go and see other like-minded people and share and commiserate with them. Also, we need to stop being so competitive. Because, you know what, your success is my success and vice versa. Because, really, if you’re doing good work, someone will publish you, or, better yet, you can publish yourself! What I’m saying is, what gets you through the hard times is community and it makes me feel good knowing some trans artist somewhere is kicking ass right now. I can, for one night, be tired or doubt my skills because some other trans artist is being fierce. Competition can be good, but it has to be the kind that puts a fire in ourselves to make our own art, instead of dragging us down.

Artists have always formed ad hoc groups, that’s the way many of them work, instead of being endorsed by a large organization. There also needs to be more investment into the community. It’s always great to go to a show and say, “Yes, this stuff really inspires me.” But then you should go and put up a blog and write about it, tweet about it, make an active community. Don’t wait for others to make that community for you.

Morty: Perhaps a lot of trans people feel so disenfranchised that they don’t feel they can, or that they feel they posses a strong voice. Many might think, well, I’ll put something out there but nobody is going to look or pay attention.

Ryka: Sure, how many times have people said, “Nobody is going to pay attention, so we might as well fuck.” or “We might as well take drugs, nobody is looking anyway?” How come these behaviors are things that we do? Very few of us say, “Nobody’s looking, so I’m going to make this amazing art.” Why can’t we do it with that kind of energy? Nobody is looking anyway, we might as well form our own community.

You know, many of us don’t know how great we are, and it takes a long time to figure it out. We are the golden age, we just don’t know it. Fifty years from now people are going to look back and say, “Those people were fucking fierce, what the hell, why can’t we be like them!” The reason we can’t see it is because we’re at the epicenter. We’re making culture right now. Right now is one the best, most amazing times to be a trans artist. We are in the process of a genesis, this community, right now. I firmly believe this. There is a great creative explosion happening right now. We don’t think about it because we don’t have the time to think about it! And we all need to know this, all of us in the community need to understand that, yes, we are doing the work and making things happen.

Part two of this interview will be up next week!

To order Ryka Aoki’s new book, Seasonal Velocities, please click on the link: http://trans-genre.net/content/seasonal-velocities/

By Wyatt Riot 

I thought I was going to piss my self by the time I landed in the airport. As soon as the fasten seat belt sign came on my bladder let me know how full it was. I’m not sure why my bladder couldn’t hold it just a little bit longer. It was almost as if my teeth were floating in my skull. I— was about to explode. If I could have any super power in the world it would be to have a bladder made of steel. No doubt about it.

Sitting in the middle of the plane with an isle seat, watching each person in front of me grab their belongings from the overhead bin and under their seats in anticipation of exiting the plane. Time had slowed down for everyone and I was on full speed. As people slowly left their rows I waited eagerly, standing with my legs crossed while I waited for my turn to exit; my turn to rush out of the plane and into the restroom.

Saying my thank yous to the flight attendants as I exited the plane, I could feel my heart beating faster and the sweat start to slowly drip from my temple. I’m sure I looked like I was going to puke, I was so anxious. It felt like my heart was about to beat out of my chest and onto the floor. With each little step I could feel my bladder start to expand, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could wait.  

I hustled my way past little shops selling over priced snacks and drinks. I saw flustered parents with their children and very serious business people doing seemingly very serious business. I had my own serious business to do. People were running into me left and right, with each tap it felt like a blow to my bladder. Just a little bit longer, that’s all I needed. With how large airports are, you’d think they would have restrooms at every corner. I’d been walking for what seemed like miles. Don’t they know how important it is to pee? 

In the not-so-far distance I saw a glowing sign. In eager anticipation I was hoping it was — yes, it was! RESTROOMS! Oh, the beautiful site of a public restroom. On the other side of that door, sweet relief would be mine.

Suddenly, panic set in. I looked at both restrooms. My eyes going back and forth between the two like the eyes on a tiger hunting their prey. I watched each person enter and exit the restrooms. How did they know where they were supposed to go? Did they use the restroom that matched the gender on their ID? How did they know where they belonged? 

I stood there watching for what seemed like hours, holding my bags which were getting heavier and heavier by the moment. I felt like I was carrying the weight of the world on my shoulders. What am I supposed to do? Where was I supposed to go pee. 

I’ve never understood gendered spaces. I know what my ID says and I know how I feel about my own gender. But that doesn’t always mean the people in the restroom agree. I’ve had my share of being yelled at. It doesn’t feel very good to have children point and stare at you as if you’re a big scary monster. It’s embarrassing to feel threatened by something so simple as the restroom, but it’s really not that simple at all. It would be so much easier if people would respect me when I’m in the restroom. I promise I’m not trying to enter the “wrong” restroom, I’m just trying to pee and not get harassed in the process.

My bladder was feeling worse. I didn’t think it could feel this full. Watching people choose one restroom or the other with what seemed like ease had me feeling envious. Why couldn’t I have traveled with a friend? It’s always easier going to the restroom with someone. Safety in numbers I always say. I’m not sure why my gender threatens people, but the last thing I want is to get yelled at, accosted or worse.  I’ve had my fill of being called slurs. I’ve been called a faggot, dyke, he-she, what the hell are you and more — what people don’t understand is I’m just a person. A person with very basic needs.

I understand my gender. It’s something I’ve thought and fretted about for years, so I know who I am — as much as any person can. For some reason the rest of the world doesn’t seem to understand my gender and they can’t let that go. I don’t really care if people understand me, I just wish others would respect me like I respect them. This doesn’t help me in this moment though. My bladder, it’s still aching.

Standing there just trying to hold on for another minute, people continued rushing past me while saying their usual “excuse me sir” or “excuse me ma’am.” What was I supposed to do? I contemplated pissing my pants, which at twenty seven years old is a little embarrassing. 

As tears started to well up in my eyes from frustration I looked over to my left. I couldn’t believe it. How did I not see this before? The most magical place on earth was only a few feet away from me. I really had won the jackpot this time. I ran as fast as I could to the giant sign that read GENDER NEUTRAL RESTROOM. After I was inside I threw my bags onto the ground and locked the door behind me. What a relief.

If only everywhere I went had these, then I could pee in peace. Is that too much to ask for? It seems like a simple request to me.  

Bio:  wyatt riot is a fat, queer, femme, trans, faggot living and  loving in portland, oregon. he is the host and co-creator of put it in your mouth with wyatt riot (www.putitinyourmouthwithwyattriot.com), a web series that documents his love of food and camp. you can find him out in the world blushing and making it happen or often at the library, sipping tea and doing his homework.

By Koomah 

WITH THOSE WORDS – (FTM) 

Once when she was little, she saw a boy in her own face. She saw him when she stared in the mirror, when she gazed deep into her eyes. She knew he was there, but she didn’t know how or why. Every time she saw him, he was always so happy. She thought he was even a more attractive person than she was. She often wondered if anyone else could see him when they looked into her eyes. She was afraid people would find her strange if she asked and they couldn’t see him, but she wondered if maybe somebody had someone else living inside their eyes too. She told her parents about this boy who was living in her. Her mother told her it was impossible. Her father said it could never happen. This confused her. She was sure he was there, she knew it! Her parents told her not to tell anyone else about it and to keep it to herself, so people wouldn’t think she was crazy. She was sad, but kept it to herself for many years.

When she was in junior high school, she kept quiet. She didn’t speak of the boy that lived inside her. She didn’t really speak at all. When she was upset, she would go into her bedroom or into the bathroom and look into the mirror. She did this so she could see the boy. He was older now, but he still had that same smile. One night, as she sat on her pink bedspread, she thought about how no one could tell her who this boy was or why he was there in her. She wanted to meet him. She wanted ask him who he was. She wanted know him. She wanted to BE him. All of a sudden, her mind went blank. Her last thought made her happy, sad, and scared all at the same time. She wanted to BE him… what did that even mean? Girls couldn’t become boys, could they? She went up to the mirror in her room and glanced briefly into her eyes. There he was staring back at her, smiling. He was always so happy. Why didn’t she ever feel that way? The thought came back to her, if I become him, I will be happy. She considered asking her parents if it was possible for a girl to become a boy… but, she remembered their response to her after she told them there was a boy living inside her. She looked back into the mirror and focused on the boy again. She told him that he only seemed to cause problems for her and to go away and leave her alone. As his image began to fade away she noticed that he was still smiling. She tried to forget about the boy.

For years she fought the urge to look into mirrors every time she passed one. She wondered if the boy was really gone. She secretly hoped he was still there and that, unlike her, he was still happy. Her problem with mirrors was becoming increasingly difficult for her. On the day she moved out of her parent’s house, she got rid of every mirror she owned and made sure there were none in her new apartment. She told herself that she HAD to forget about the idea of a boy living inside her, that it was all nothing more than a childish fantasy or a vivid dream. Her life as an adult was miserable. She didn’t have a social life. She didn’t date. She just went to work, came home, ate, and went to bed. She never smiled and was becoming increasingly more and more depressed. She saw the boy’s smiling face every night in her dreams. Soon, she began denying herself sleep. She didn’t want to be reminded of the boy. Her work began to suffer from her lack of sleep, and she was eventually fired. She couldn’t take it anymore. She couldn’t live like this anymore. Her whole life was a lie; she wanted nothing more than to be that boy her entire life. Instead of acknowledging it, she denied it and wasted her life being someone she hated.

She wanted to die. That’s what she planned to do. She packed all of her belongings into boxes to donate to charity before she killed herself. When they were all packed, she laid a pile of pills onto her kitchen table, and wrote a quick suicide note. She started taking the boxes to her car. The last box was large, bulky, and fairly heavy; it was all of the cd’s she ever owned. Holding onto the box, she tried to open the door with one hand. The box fell out of her arm and she fell with it. She hit the kitchen tile on all fours. The cd’s scattered everywhere and covered her entire kitchen floor. Exhausted, she began to pick up each individual cd, checked to see if it was badly scratched, and put it back into its case. She was about halfway done, when she picked up a cd; while she was checking it for scratches, she saw her reflection. She was surprised; she had never really taken the time to look at her reflection in years. She thought she looked awful. She looked like a woman; and that horrified her. Suddenly, the boy came to her mind. She couldn’t stand it. She stared deep into the reflection of her own eyes in the cd hoping to see the boy. He wasn’t there. She felt like her stomach was rising into her throat. She looked again. She began to say a prayer-like mantra over and over out loud, “Please be there. Oh please, please let him be there…” Her prayer didn’t seem to be working. She felt sick and wanted to disappear. She saw her reflection as tears began to fall down her cheeks. She kept staring at her face’s reflection, and watched it become more and more blurry because of the tears in her eyes. Suddenly she noticed something… it looked like the boy had returned. She could see him staring back at her!

She wiped her eyes with her sleeve and excitedly looked into the cd. Again, she only saw her own face with a silly excited grin. She was disappointed and aggravated. She then had a strange thought and wanted to look again. One last time, she focused in on her eyes, staring through her wet eyelashes that were stuck together into points. She thought about the idea of it; it was silly but, she had nothing else to lose. She grinned at her own reflection. It was those eyes, her eyes. They looked for that moment very similar to the boy’s eyes! They looked like his eyes, but, they weren’t his. Similar just wasn’t good enough, she wanted to see him! His eyes! His smile! “I want to be that boy.” she heard herself mutter. She tried to forget about those feelings she had years ago… the feelings where she wanted to be that boy. She knew she should probably try to convince herself that she didn’t really want that… but, she knew she really did. “I want nothing more that to be that boy.” she said again. It made her smile slightly. For a moment, she saw her eyes become his eyes again. Then she understood. Was it really that easy? She stared deep into her eyes again, and she spoke, “No, I don’t want to be that boy in my eyes… I am that guy. I am a man.” This time the boy was not in any eye reflection. There was no boy; there was a man in the whole face. The reflection was the reflection of a man. It was that easy. It had always been that easy. “I am a man.” is all it took, with those simple words, the girl became a man. He became a man. He was a man, he always was. He just never knew how to make himself see it.

WITH THOSE WORDS – (MTF)

Once when he was little, he saw a girl in his own face. He saw her when he stared in the mirror, when he gazed deep into his eyes. He knew she was there, but he didn’t know how or why. Every time he saw her, she was always so happy. He thought she was even a more attractive person than he was. He often wondered if anyone else could see her when they looked into his eyes. He was afraid people would find him strange if he asked and they couldn’t see her, but he wondered if maybe somebody had someone else living inside their eyes too. He told his parents about this girl who was living in him. His mother told him it was impossible. His father said it could never happen. This confused him. He was sure she was there, he knew it! His parents told him not to tell anyone else about it and to keep it to himself, so people wouldn’t think he was crazy. He was sad, but kept it to himself for many years.

When he was in junior high school, he kept quiet. He didn’t speak of the girl that lived inside him. He didn’t really speak at all. When he was upset, he would go into his bedroom or into the bathroom and look into the mirror. He did this so he could see the girl. She was older now, but she still had that same smile. One night, as he sat on his blue bedspread, he thought about how no one could tell him who this girl was or why she was there in him. He wanted to meet her. He wanted ask her who she was. He wanted know her. He wanted to BE her. All of a sudden, his mind went blank. His last thought made him happy, sad, and scared all at the same time. He wanted to BE her… what did that even mean? Boys couldn’t become girls, could they? He went up to the mirror in his room and glanced briefly into his eyes. There she was staring back at him, smiling. She was always so happy. Why didn’t he ever feel that way? The thought came back to him, if I become her, I will be happy. He considered asking his parents if it was possible for a boy to become a girl… but, he remembered their response to him after he told them there was a girl living inside him. He looked back into the mirror and focused on the girl again. He told her that she only seemed to cause problems for him and to go away and leave him alone. As her image began to fade away he noticed that she was still smiling. He tried to forget about the girl.

For years he fought the urge to look into mirrors every time he passed one. He wondered if the girl was really gone. He secretly hoped she was still there and that, unlike him, she was still happy. His problem with mirrors was becoming increasingly difficult for him. On the day he moved out of his parent’s house, he got rid of every mirror he owned and made sure there were none in his new apartment. He told himself that he HAD to forget about the idea of a girl living inside him, that it was all nothing more than a childish fantasy or a vivid dream. His life as an adult was miserable. He didn’t have a social life. He didn’t date. He just went to work, came home, ate, and went to bed. He never smiled and was becoming increasingly more and more depressed. He saw the girl’s smiling face every night in his dreams. Soon, he began denying himself sleep. He didn’t want to be reminded of the girl. His work began to suffer from his lack of sleep, and he was eventually fired. He couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn’t live like this anymore. His whole life was a lie; he wanted nothing more than to be that girl his entire life. Instead of acknowledging it, he denied it and wasted his life being someone he hated.

He wanted to die. That’s what he planned to do. He packed all of his belongings into boxes to donate to charity before he killed himself. When they were all packed, he laid a pile of pills onto his kitchen table, and wrote a quick suicide note. He started taking the boxes to his car. The last box was large, bulky, and fairly heavy; it was all of the cd’s he ever owned. Holding onto the box, he tried to open the door with one hand. The box fell out of his arm and he fell with it. He hit the kitchen tile on all fours. The cd’s scattered everywhere and covered his entire kitchen floor. Exhausted, he began to pick up each individual cd, checked to see if it was badly scratched, and put it back into its case. He was about halfway done, when he picked up a cd; while he was checking it for scratches, he saw his reflection. He was surprised; he had never really taken the time to look at his reflection in years. He thought he looked awful. He looked like a man; and that horrified him. Suddenly, the girl came to his mind. He couldn’t stand it. He stared deep into the reflection of his own eyes in the cd hoping to see the girl. She wasn’t there. He felt like his stomach was rising into his throat. He looked again. He began to say a prayer-like mantra over and over out loud, “Please be there. Oh please, please let her be there…” His prayer didn’t seem to be working. He felt sick and wanted to disappear. He saw his reflection as tears began to fall down his cheeks. He kept staring at his face’s reflection, and watched it become more and more blurry because of the tears in his eyes. Suddenly he noticed something… it looked like the girl had returned. He could see her staring back at him!

He wiped his eyes with his sleeve and excitedly looked into the cd. Again, he only saw his own face with a silly excited grin. He was disappointed and aggravated. He then had a strange thought and wanted to look again. One last time, he focused in on his eyes, staring through his wet eyelashes that were stuck together into points. He thought about the idea of it; it was silly but, he had nothing else to lose. He grinned at his own reflection. It was those eyes, his eyes. They looked for that moment very similar to the girl’s eyes! They looked like her eyes, but, they weren’t hers. Similar just wasn’t good enough, he wanted to see her! Her eyes! Her smile! “I want to be that girl.” he heard himself mutter. He tried to forget about those feelings he had years ago… the feelings where he wanted to be that girl. He knew he should probably try to convince himself that he didn’t really want that… but, he knew he really did. “I want nothing more that to be that girl.” he said again. It made him smile slightly. For a moment, he saw his eyes become her eyes again. Then he understood. Was it really that easy? He stared deep into his eyes again, and he spoke, “No, I don’t want to be that girl in my eyes… I am that lady. I am a woman.” This time the girl was not in any eye reflection. There was no girl; there was a woman in the whole face. The reflection was the reflection of a woman. It was that easy. It had always been that easy. “I am a woman.” is all it took, with those simple words, the boy became a woman. She became a woman. She was a woman, she always was. She just never knew how to make herself see it.

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Bio: Koomah is what would happen if Eddie Izzard and Margaret Cho had a baby: Koomah is an intersex-bodied, genderqueer, trans-human artist, performance artist, filmmaker, writer, and educator in Houston, Texas. Koomah uses art, performance, and prose to highlight issues of gender and sexuality as well as transgender, genderqueer, and intersex issues and identities. Koomah doesn’t have a pronoun preference. Koomah is known for their unique clothing designs and antennae hairstyle. Most importantly, Koomah is happy. Send Koomah some sentences via: ContactKoomah@gmail.com