Jess (the first few chapters)

1

He cried. He screamed. No one came running to attend to his needs, let alone his wants.

This isn’t right, he thought. Improbable as that was for a newborn.

They just smiled at him and told him to Shhh.

They smiled at him a lot. More often. In fact, the mobile above his crib had happy faces. It used to have Lego bricks.

They also made eye contact more often. Spoke to him more often. Sang to him more often. In softer voices. It was nice.

Eventually, he smiled back.

But oh, was he handled! Being held, and cuddled, it made him feel … secure, it enabled him to relax in the world. But the gratuitous touching— Sometimes he just wanted to be left alone. Didn’t matter. It was as if his body was considered communal property. Common property.

And he was fussed over to no end.

“Such soft skin!”

“What lovely hair!”

No one told him how big he was.

No one told him how strong he was.

His mother put ribbons in his near-non-existent hair, which he pulled out angrily. She put him in frilly dresses, with too much … everything. She got so upset when he spilled something on them. But what did she expect? And at the beach, he had to wear a top that kept riding up his chest or slipping down over his shoulders, pinning his arms to his side—what was that all about?

They all praised his first steps, but then wouldn’t let him go very far. “Honeybun, no, you’ll hurt yourself!” It was infuriating. Why did they call him a toddler if they didn’t let him toddle about?

Suffice to say, it wasn’t like before.

• • •

When he was two, his baby brother was born. He’d watched his father, and then his mother, turn the spare room into the baby’s room, but he didn’t understand why they’d done that.

“Baby here!” The crib would fit in the room he and Sarah shared.

“Oh, honeybun, Kyle’s a boy! He needs to have his own room!”

At two, he could tell boys from girls. He just didn’t assign any importance to the distinction. Though certainly, on some level, he understood there was something important about that distinction. After all, Kyle’s room was blue and green; the room he shared with Sarah was pink and yellow. Kyle’s room had spaceships on the wall; their room had princesses.

One evening when Jess said goodnight to his new baby brother, he tucked one of his dolls into the crib beside him, taking out the stuffed alligator to make room.

His mom objected, reaching into the crib. “Jessica, honeybun, Kyle doesn’t like dolls!”

How did she know?

Then his mom took the stuffed alligator out of his dangling hand. Until then, he’d never had any toys taken away from him. Until then, the only toys in the house were girl toys.

His face scrunched up. He was going to cry. No, he wasn’t. He wasn’t! He did. It was okay to cry now. It felt good.

Every night, his mom read a story to him and Sarah. Now they had to wait until she’d read a story to Kyle first.

He didn’t know the stories were different.

As Kyle grew older, there were other differences. Other changes.

Whenever Jess had trouble with something, his mom was quick to help him. Kyle was left, was allowed, to struggle.

At snack time, Kyle was often given a second cookie. “Me too,” Jess said, reaching out for the cookie jar. “Oh honeybun, no, you have to watch your weight!”

On Saturdays, his mom took them to the park to play. Kyle wasn’t reprimanded when he got dirty, but Jess was. But how could you play outside and not get dirty? Maybe that’s why Sarah just stood there. Is that what girls did?

One day, Kyle grabbed the dump truck Jess was playing with. To his horror, he let go. Before, he’d hang onto it. Or grab it back. Maybe even hit Kyle over the head with it. What was wrong with him?

Despite Kyle’s aggressive behaviour, Jess wanted to play with him. At least, he wanted to play with Kyle as often as he wanted to play with Sarah. Kyle liked to play monster. Sarah liked to play dress-up.

He and Sarah got to do more stuff with his mom. He especially liked when they made brownies. The two of them took turns licking the big spoon after the batter was mixed.

Kyle, on the other hand, got to do more stuff with his dad. His father hadn’t paid much attention to Jess even before Kyle was born. Now, it was like he was invisible.

And whatever they did, wherever they went, he kept being lumped together with Sarah—they were ‘the girls’—even though he had more in common with Kyle. Actually, no, he didn’t have more in common with Kyle. At least, not now. A lifetime ago, maybe.

2

Things got worse once he started school. He kept remembering stuff that seemed a bit … off. Not that he could put it in those words. Or in any words, actually. He just knew he was doing it all wrong.

He chose the wrong toys at play time. When they went to the library, he signed out the wrong books. He joined the wrong games at recess. When they lined up to go back into the school, he kept standing in the wrong line.

He didn’t understand why it all mattered so much.

And he didn’t understand Mikey. Mikey was a big boy with a crewcut. He was loud. And pushy. And he kept poking him. He poked him when they happened to be in the same play group or the same quiet time group. He poked him on his way to the blackboard. And again on his way back. He poked him when they were standing in line to get their jackets for recess.

“Stop it!” Jess would say. Again and again.

Mikey just laughed.

“I mean it! Stop it!”

Sometimes it was a really hard poke, almost a punch, but sometimes he simply touched him. Not a poke, just a touch. Here and there—

One day, Jess hit him. To make him stop.

“Young lady, you’re coming with me right now!” The teacher’s aide grabbed Jess and hauled him out of the class. Straight to the Principal’s office. He’d never been to the Principal’s office before. He was a good girl.

Mr. Woodrow listened to Ms. Ellison’s account, nodding. Then he sent her back to the classroom, but told Jess to sit in one of the chairs outside his office. “You wait right there, Jessica,” he said sternly. “I’m going to have to call your parents.”

His mother would be busy. She was always busy. She had to work during the day, and then at night she always had stuff to do. And his father, he wouldn’t come. To school?

But, much to his surprise, both of his parents showed up. Within the hour.

“I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Everett, but we have a zero tolerance rule about hitting.”

“But Jessica doesn’t— Jessie, honeybun, did you hit Michael?”

He nodded.

“Why?”

“He kept poking me. I told him to stop. But he wouldn’t.”

“Oh sweetheart, just ignore him. He’ll eventually stop.”

No, he wouldn’t. He knew he wouldn’t. Boys don’t stop. They don’t have to.

“Did he hurt you?”

“No, but he kept touching me. I don’t want him to do that.” Isn’t that enough? Why isn’t that enough?

He was punished. Told he couldn’t come to school for two whole days. And his mother was very angry about that, because she had to give her shifts to someone else. She grabbed his hand roughly as they walked out to the car.

“You know, honey,” his father glanced in the rear view mirror and grinned, “he’s just doing that because he likes you.”

Boys hit you when they like you?

Things were a little better in grade two.

Sometimes he played with the boys. He liked running around, exploring, doing stuff. But they were always shouting. And pushing and shoving. So sometimes he played with the girls. Except when they wanted to play princess.

But still …

When they lined up to get something, he saw the boys butt in ahead of him. So he did the same.

“No, Jessica, you have to wait your turn,” the teacher said. Again and again. But he was tired of waiting for his turn. It never seemed to come. Now.

And whenever he drifted off on his own, the teacher called out to come back to the group.

At home, he got to read more; he wasn’t always told to go out and play, to do something. So every week, he went to the school library to choose a few books to take home.

One day, Petey stomped over and grabbed at the book he’d just taken off the shelf. He held on.

“Now, Jessica, don’t be selfish,” the librarian chided as she walked over to them. “You have to learn how to share.”

And cooperate. Girls were expected to cooperate. Always.

“That wasn’t very nice,” his teachers would sometimes disapprove.

He didn’t recall it being so important before. To be nice. To be good.

One day, Jess had trouble putting the cover on a scrapbook. It had clips he hadn’t seen before.

“Like this!” A boy took the book from him and put the cover on. “The teacher showed us!”

But the teacher hadn’t. She hadn’t shown the girls. She’d just told them to put the covers on and left it at that.

Another day when the class was on a field trip that involved walking to the local museum, they all had to wait and wait while a bunch of cars left a parking lot before they could cross and continue. Eventually, Jess screamed. Yelled.

“Inside voices,” the teacher reprimanded. Even though they were outside.

“And it’s okay,” she soothed. “You’re safe here on the sidewalk.”

“I’m not afraid!” Jess retorted. “I’m angry! Why don’t any of the cars just stop to let us cross?”

Another time, “Calm down,” the teacher said, smiling.

She said that a lot to the girls. When they got angry.

And “If you can’t say anything nice, you shouldn’t say anything at all.” Jess had said that the play the other students wanted to present that year was stupid. But it was! Even Andrew thought so!

On yet another day, “Jessica, would you please help Tony with this arithmetic?”

“No.”

“Excuse me?” The teacher was horrified.

“I don’t want to.”

“But— Well—” She was so disconcerted, she almost stuttered. “That doesn’t matter,” she finally said.

When he was invited to Brittany’s birthday party, his mom took him to a huge toy store to buy a birthday gift. As soon as they entered, she steered him to the girls’ side. Jess wandered up and down the aisles, inundated with pretty and pink. He wouldn’t want to play with any of what he saw. Would Brittany? Probably. She participated in all the Little Miss Beauty Pageants. During show-and-tell, she’d brought lots of pictures and two of her costumes: the evening-gown-and-heels and the bathing-suit-and-heels. She wore her tiara at recess.

His mother picked out something. Something pretty and pink and princessey. “Jessica, honey, how about this?”

“Okay.”

Jess wanted to explore the other side of the store. Not for the guns or the monster ninjas. He actually didn’t like playing with guns. Or monster ninjas. But he thought there might be something there that was more … interesting. More … challenging. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it because he couldn’t quite remember the chemistry set he’d loved when—

His mother reached out and steered him toward the check-out.

Then one day in grade three, the teacher read a new book out loud during quiet time. It was about a girl who liked to play with firetrucks, not dolls, a girl who would rather climb trees than play dress-up … Jess loved the book. It was titled But I’m NOT a Girl!

The following week, the class had a guest speaker, a pretty young woman in a nice outfit. She looked like she came out of one of the magazines Sarah was always looking at. Ms. Gerson introduced her, then seated her in the special Speaking Chair in front of her desk. The pretty woman smiled at all the children.

“Girls, who doesn’t feel like a girl?” Such an interesting question. Jess raised his hand.

“Boys, who doesn’t feel like a boy?” Two little boys raised their hands. Jess raised his hand again, but when the teacher smiled and shook her head, he lowered it.

“You know what? That’s okay!” the pretty woman smiled. “Sometimes we’re born into the wrong body. We feel like a boy on the inside, but on the outside we look like a girl! Isn’t that silly? Or we feel like a girl on the inside, but on the outside we look like a boy!”

Ms. Gerson smiled her endorsement.

“Sometimes things get mixed up,” the young woman continued. “Isn’t that right? Don’t you sometimes put your right shoe on your left foot?”

Many of the children giggled.

“See?” the woman smiled. “It’s just like that.”

The woman talked for a bit longer, and then they had milk and cookies. They always had milk and cookies when they had a guest.

When Jess went home that afternoon, he told his mother that he was all mixed up.

“What do you mean, honeybun?”

He explained.

“Oh, no, sweetheart, you’ll grow up to be a pretty girl, you just wait and see.”

His mother thought it was just a phase.

In grade four, his teacher called his parents to ask if they could come for a meeting.

“What is this concerning?” his mother asked as she sat in one of the three chairs arranged in front of the Principal’s desk. Jess sat in the chair beside her, and his father took the remaining chair. After moving it a bit. Away. As if he needed more space. Or distance. From.

His teacher, Ms. Matthews, was on the other side, seated beside the Principal.

“Jessica’s grades are good, aren’t they?” His mother glanced at Jess, then glanced back at the teacher.

“Yes, Jessica’s grades are fine,” Ms. Matthews smiled. “We’re concerned about her gender socialization.”

“Her what?” Jess’ father spoke up.

Mr. Woodrow turned to her father. “We think your daughter could benefit from meeting with a counsellor a few times. We’ve prepared a list of therapists for you to consider,” he slid a sheet of paper across the desk, “though I’m sure you’ll find all of them to be—”

“You want us to send her to a shrink?” Jess’ father was angry. “There’s nothing wrong with our daughter!”

“But Todd,” Jess’ mother said to him in a calming voice, putting her hand on his arm, as if it were her job to control his outbursts, “you know she always wants to do boy things. She’s been like that since she was little, you knowthat!” And it had been starting to worry her.

“Well, maybe that’s because boy things are more fun!” He laughed.

“Yes,” Ms. Matthews said gently, “but we have to ask why Jessica considers them to be more fun.”

The conversation continued for a few more minutes, then Mr. Woodrow stood up, indicating that they had taken enough of his time. Jess’ mother took the list, and the three of them went out to the car.

“She’s just a tomboy,” Jess’ father said as he started the car. “She’ll grow out of it, you’ll see.” He looked in the rear view mirror and winked at his daughter. “Just as soon as she discovers boys!”

The following year, the school implemented a dress code which stated that girls had to wear dresses or skirts. No shorts or long pants were allowed. True, the county had a reputation for having the most conservative board in the province, but other schools soon followed. In any case, it didn’t affect Jess because that had already been his mom’s rule. He usually wore a smock top and a plain skirt.

What did affect Jess was that the grade five boys wouldn’t let him play baseball with them at recess. “No girls allowed!” they’d shout, one even physically pushing Jess away.

But the girls just stood around in giggling clumps. Which was stupid.

So he joined a threesome that played catch. “Lezzies,” the boys muttered with disgust as they passed them. Sadly, many of the girls followed suit.

Then some of the boys started laying in wait and when they saw a girl, any girl, on her own, by herself, they rushed at her, pushed her to the ground, yanked up her dress or skirt, pulled her underpants down, took a picture, then ran away laughing. The picture would be sent around until they got a new one. Of another girl with her dress or skirt yanked up. And her underpants pulled down. Jess watched for them. Every day. Whenever they were outside. And made sure never to be alone.

As his teacher had said, Jess’ grades were good. By grade six, he was a straight-A student. But the teacher often passed over her raised hand, though often with an apologetic, embarrassed smile, and on some level, Jess understood that he raised his hand too often. But the teacher always asked “Who knows …?” or “Who can tell me …?” and Jess always knew, could always tell her. So it’d be a lie to pretend he didn’t or couldn’t, to not raise his hand.

If he’d been a bit more perceptive, a bit older, he would’ve realized that the teacher was acknowledging boys more often than girls. Yes, of course, maybe she was just doing her job, trying to bring everyone along, teasing out understanding where none was present, but she paid more attention to the boys in general. In fact, eight times more attention. True, they needed more attention, because they kept calling out without raising their hands, they kept butting in at line-up, they kept refusing to sit still when told to do so. Refused or simply couldn’t? Jess remembered— No, how could he?

In grade seven, two things happened at home …

“Sarah, you’re not leaving the house dressed like that! Kyle, don’t forget your homework! Jessica, don’t forget your lunch!” Every day, his mother seemed overwhelmed with the task of raising three kids. No matter their ages.

So one day he asked her why she’d had a third kid. Hadn’t two been enough?

“Your father wanted a son.”

The words slapped him in the face. He wasn’t good enough? What could, what would, Kyle do that he couldn’t do?

Oddly enough, given the conventional understanding that aligned active and passive with male and female, respectively, it wasn’t a matter of doing. But he didn’t understand that. Then.

A few weeks later, when his dad had to leave for a couple days, he told Kyle to look after their mom. What? Jess was older than Kyle. And Sarah was older than Jess. If their mother needed looking after, wouldn’t he’ve told Sarahto look after her? And seriously, did their mother need looking after? By a kid? It didn’t make sense.

So he asked his father about it. He just grinned. As if her question wasn’t meant to be serious. As if she hadn’t been serious.

She saw Kyle looking at her. A smug expression on his face. Already.

Part way through grade eight, he started asking people to call him Jess, not Jessica. Couldn’t say why. Not exactly.

3

The following year, things started coming together. They also started coming apart. That’s what happens in high school.

“Time to wake up!” Sarah rustled his bed. She was already up, showered, and in her robe. Clearly a morning person.

“What? What time is it?” It felt early. Too early.

“Six o’clock! We’ve got to get you ready!”

He sat up, groggy. “Ready for what?”

“Your first day of high school!” Sarah beamed at her younger sister.

But he was already ready. He had a new knapsack, notebooks, pens …

“We have to make you pretty!” She trilled the word and started to pick and choose among the many tubes and jars at her vanity. Aptly named. His side of the room had just a dresser and small mirror. “Into the shower with you. I left my razor and shaving cream on the counter. Pits and legs! We can talk about your bush later.”

“What?”

“Go, go, go!”

Her enthusiasm was a little infectious. But just a little. He groaned, then got himself out of bed and into the shower.

“And use the conditioner!”

It took a while. Soap, shampoo, conditioner… Plus, he’d never shaved before. Had never shaved his pits and legs before. It took longer than … He tried to grab onto the thought, but … couldn’t.

“And the lotion!”

The lotion was cherry-scented. He liked it.

“Okay, sit right here, my little princess, and let’s see what we can do!”

Jess sat in the pink faux-baroque chair and faced Sarah’s large mirror. And the seemingly even larger array of products spread out before him.

“First, let’s do something about those brows of yours.” She leaned in with a pair of tweezers.

“OW! That hurt!” In fact, a spot of blood appeared.

She plucked out another hair. “OW!”

“Oh, don’t be such a baby. It only hurts for a second. You’ll get used to it.”

What? Why should he get used to something that hurts?

Ten minutes later he had— A quizzical face. She’d arched the brows somehow so they gave the impression of thoughtfulness. He kind of liked it. Even though it felt like a little like cheating.

Next, she spread some goop on his face, rubbing it in more than he would’ve liked. Then she put a different kind of goop on his face, this one she rubbed in with a lighter touch. Then she reached for a small tube and applied a dab here and a dab there. If he had to cover up his face this much, he thought, he may as well wear a burka.

“Take this one with you,” she said, giving the last tube to him. “You can touch up during the day.” Right.

Then she applied eyeliner, mascara, and lipstick, all the while giving instructions and explanations. As if she expected him to do it himself the next day. And every day thereafter. Like that was going to happen.

He actually didn’t mind what the eyeliner did, or even the mascara. The eyes were the windows to the soul, and she’d added … depth, drama.

But what was with the lipstick? Was he supposed to appear ever ready to kiss? No, lips don’t get red when you’re ready to kiss. Do they? He was embarrassed to admit that he hadn’t yet been kissed. Clearly he was some kind of freak. Many girls he knew back in grade eight had already ‘done it’.

“Okay, now close your eyes,” Sarah said. He did so, wondering for a moment whether he could open them again with all that gunk on. And she was putting on more?

“Ta-dah!”

He looked at the outfit she was holding on display.

“My gift,” she smiled. “For your first day!”

It was a flouncy skirt and a tight little blouse. Not what he would have chosen. At all. But what could he say?

“Thanks.” He took it from her and started putting it on. He fumbled with the blouse. The buttons were on the wrong side. Wait, how— And why would—

“No,” she said as he reached for his knee socks, “here.” She handed him a new package of panty hose.

He felt exposed wearing a skirt and knee socks, and often cold, but wearing panty hose was worse. And took forever to get on without it feeling twisty. Finally done, he reached for his penny loafers, but Sarah swooped in and took them out of his hands.

“Not today! Here!” She’d gotten Jess’ dress shoes out of her closet.

“But these are for—”

“Your first day of high school is a special occasion. It’s okay, I cleared it with Mom.”

She and Mom had talked about this? It felt like a conspiracy.

Reluctantly, Jess took the shoes and headed out the bedroom door. He’d break a leg if he tried to go down the stairs in them.

“Wait!” Sarah cried out and reached into her jewelry box. Jess had a jewelry box too—it was a birthday gift, along with the brush-comb-and-mirror set he never used—but it was mostly empty. He had a couple bracelets, one a gold chain, the other a leather braid, but Sarah and his Mom had pronounced both of them inappropriate. For what?

The necklace Sarah had chosen was okay, but the earrings were way too tight.

“If you get your ears pierced, you wouldn’t have to wear clip-ons,” she said, repositioning them a bit to make sure they were both centered.

The logic troubled him. Why not just not wear earrings?

He headed toward the door again. Once downstairs, he poured himself a bowl of cereal and put a slice of bread in the toaster.

“No time!” Sarah nodded to the clock. “You need to cut back anyway.”

He looked at her with puzzlement.

“That skirt is a size eight!”

The number meant nothing to him. Should it?

He grunted, then went to the closet for his jacket.

“And don’t forget to keep your tummy tucked in,” Sarah said as she watched him walk across the room.

He turned to stare at her.

“I’m your sister, Jessica, but you look like a slob with your stomach out like that.”

He took a deep breath, pulling in his stomach. Was he supposed to keep his abdominal muscles contracted all day?

He didn’t know, yet, about the Kegel exercises he was supposed to do.

Sarah wasn’t satisfied. “We should get you some Spanx.”

He didn’t want to ask.

“It’s basically a body girdle. You’ll look great!”

He found his way to his homeroom, and claimed an empty desk near the back. Everyone who was already there stared at him. A few minutes later, he realized that that was where the boys sat. At the back. Well, so what. He didn’t like sitting near the front.

His homeroom teacher, Ms. Kelly, seemed nice enough. She would also be his English teacher. Jess looked around the room, but saw no one he thought he could become friends with. But then, it was too early to tell. First impressions were unreliable, he realized that much. He recognized a few kids from his grade eight class, but they weren’t kids he’d hung out with. In fact, he’d become a bit of a loner.

English, Biology, Algebra, then Lunch. He gravitated toward another loner at the end of Algebra, and once they’d gone to their lockers to drop off their books and pick up their lunches, they sat together in the lunch room. Maria turned out to be in his afternoon History class as well.

After a few weeks, Maria drifted away and eventually Jess saw her with a group of giggling girls. He wasn’t surprised, really, nor upset. They didn’t have much in common.

Around the middle of the month, he found himself making a note during announcements about try-outs for the football team. It jarred him. There was a girls’ cross-country team. He joined that instead.

Even so, a couple weeks later, he went to a football game. Found himself sitting at ground level, as close to the field as possible. He missed— What? Again, he couldn’t quite catch the thought, the memory …

He had Gym second semester. Usually, the boys and girls had gym separately, but for some classes, they met in the large gym together.

“Look at the stumps on that one!” One of the boys called out.

Jess was mortified. He ignored the calls as best he could, but that night he put on his shorts again and took a good long look in the full-length mirror Sarah had insisted on having on her closet door. Were his legs stumps? They were pretty much straight up and down, not tapering toward his ankles like the women’s legs he saw in all the ads. But what could he do about that? He couldn’t control the shape of his legs! He knew that guys didn’t even consider the shape of their legs, let alone agonize over it.

Curious, Jess put on the dress shoes he’d stopped wearing early on. Ah. He saw now why women wore heels. They lengthened the leg. Tightened the calf muscle. Made the ankle look thinner. But of course he couldn’t wear heels in gym even if he wanted to. Which he didn’t. He kicked them off and put his penny loafers back on.

Maybe he could convince his Mom to let him wear pants to school. Not likely. He’d have to expose his stumps to the entire student body every day, all day.

He thought about organizing a bunch of girls to comment on boys’ appearance. On things they couldn’t control. “Look, that one has knobby knees!” “That one has thick wrists!”

Quite apart from what gave boys the right to judge girls’ appearance in the first place? An image suddenly flitted through his mind: holding up score cards as young women passed by a men’s dorm… What the hell?

One day, as he was leaving History class, the last to leave, thank God, his insides suddenly clenched and he doubled over, crying out.

“Call 9-1-1,” he managed to say to the teacher, Ms. Tremblay, as his—bowels? No, that wasn’t quite— Was it his appendix? Something was ripping apart inside.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Ms. Tremblay chided, though there was a kindness, a sympathy, in her voice. “Surely it’s just— Your time of the month?”

What? He doubled over again, with a sharp intake of breath. Feeling a bit of dampness, he rushed to the washroom as best he could, and went into a stall. Yes, it was blood. But— So what he was feeling— These were the so-called cramps that every woman he’d ever known had felt?

Pain sliced through his gut again, and he gasped. Almost started panting. He felt vaguely nauseous. This was going to last for five days? And he’d have to go through this every month? It was unthinkable.

“Caught you off-guard, did it?” Ms. Tremblay had followed him into the washroom. He heard coins clatter through the dispenser on the wall, the sound of a package dropping out, and then he saw her hand reaching under the door. “Here you go, dear.”

He fumbled, he fiddled, he cursed … A frustrating fifteen minutes later, he emerged from the washroom, and went straight home.

He washed out his clothes, then headed to bed. Curled into a tight fetal position as his insides continued to wrench. How could this not be causing permanent damage? And how could there not be a cure for this?

After a couple hours, he went online. He found heating pads, chamomile tea, ginger ale, Midol. Which was just acetaminophen. Great. Well, at least that was in their medicine cabinet. He considered also trying ibuprofen. And naproxen. Maybe all three together. He couldn’t believe this was the best science had to offer. For something so debilitating, so regularly debilitating, to half the human species.

“You’ll get used to it,” so many sites had said. That was not comforting. In fact, it was disconcerting.

At the beginning of grade ten, Jess was invited to a party. It surprised him and, in retrospect, he suspected it was sort of an accident. He’d just happened to be with three other girls when they were invited. But he went anyway. He was curious. He’d never been to a party before. Well, not—

It was pretty much what he expected. There was loud music, there were bunches of kids, standing around, talking, laughing, there was beer, and something fruity for the girls to drink …

After a bit of wandering around, he joined a group of girls dancing in the middle of the room. It was fun, bopping around. And it suddenly— He’d never danced before. Yes, he’d shuffled around, slowly, holding a girl tightly to him, but it was more … it was just public foreplay, really. Men never got to dance. If they had, if they’d danced like he was dancing now, they would have surely been taunted. “Look at the little faggot move!” With a jolt, he realized that that was the most complete memory he’d had to now. Wait—memory?

The music changed, and the girls switched from bopping to … slinking. They stuck out their boobs, arched their backs, swayed their hips, to the sexy moans of the vocalist who wanted it now, baby. They were advertising. He left the floor.

“Hey Ho!” a guy sitting on the couch called out and waved him over with his beer bottle. He smiled—a reflex—but it confused him. What he’d called him. Her. Yes, he was in a short skirt and tight-fitting cropped top—at Sarah’s urging—but that’s what all the girls were wearing. Had he overdone his make-up? He glanced in a mirror. He didn’t think so. He ignored the guy.

But then one of the girls he’d come with nudged him. “Go on,” she smiled.

“Go on what?” Jess asked.

“Go suck his dick!”

“What?” He turned to the girl with a look of horror.

The girl made a face and moved on. Away from Jess.

He just stood there. Confused, shocked, more confused— Then, not wanting to stand out, he started circulating a bit, trying to find someone he knew.

“Hey Ho!” another guy called out to another girl. The girl smiled, flounced over, then went down on her knees to suck his dick. All the boys cheered.

Jess stared. The guy had his hand on her head, to keep her from pulling away. When she gagged, they laughed. They laughed.

“It’s no big deal,” the first girl appeared beside her again. “You should try it. It’s fun.”

He didn’t believe it. And it looked a little like the girl on her knees didn’t either. But all the girls said they liked it. He suspected, now, that it was a way to save face. Because it was so clearly a humiliation. That’s exactly what the boys made it. And they knew it. He knew it. He knew it. (What he didn’t know was that there were ‘fellatio cafés’ in Europe where coffee and a blow-job might cost 50 pounds.)

But apparently there was no other way to become popular.

What did ‘popular’ mean though? Well, it meant that girls would be friends with him. It meant that boys would ask him out. Did he want that? Well, yes. He was tired of being a loner. And on some level, he knew that if he wasn’tsomebody’s girlfriend, and later somebody’s wife, he’d be invisible.

Of course, even if he was somebody’s girlfriend, somebody’s wife, he’d be invisible. But he didn’t know that yet.

He started wearing less make-up. At the beginning, it had been kind of fun. And he could see that it was expected. Not wearing make-up was … shameful. That was weird. Because it indicated laziness? But men didn’t wear make-up, and they weren’t considered lazy because of it. So where was the shame? He couldn’t figure it out. The moral undertones of it. Bottom line, he didn’t like how it felt on his face. And he hated the time it took, the fussiness of it all. And he didn’t like looking like a hooker.

Then one morning, he did it wrong. Apparently.

“Oh, look at the clown!” Justin had jeered as a dozen of them stood around the door waiting for Mr. Blummett. “Jessica’s running away to join the circus!”

He marched into the washroom right then and there and scrubbed his face raw. He was so embarrassed. More by being reduced to tears by the boys’ laughter than by mucking up his make-up.

“You should have told him he was butt ugly without a bit of make-up himself.”

He looked up from the sink to see Shane standing behind him. A grade eleven student, he thought, but nevertheless in his grade ten Geography class. Shane must’ve been waiting like the others for Mr. Blummett to come open the door.

He liked Shane. She was quiet, but when she spoke, what she said was worth listening to. He liked even more how Shane looked. Strong, lean. He wished he had a body like that. He used to …

And no make-up.

And no blouse and skirt either. Shane always wore jeans. Torn at the knee. And boots. And the most interesting t-shirts. The one she had on at the moment—

“Who’s that?” Jess nodded to her t-shirt.

“Taran Tula. You’ve never heard of her?”

Jess shook her head.

“You’ve got to get out more.” Shane grinned.

“Yeah,” Jess agreed with a grimace.

“Want to get out now? We can do you a make-over.”

“No thanks,” he continued to rub at his face.

“Well, we wouldn’t use that shit,” she nodded to Jess’ open purse. “Do you even know what’s in that stuff?” Shane reached in and pulled out his mascara. “Propylene glycol,” she read. “Isn’t that in antifreeze?”

Jess stopped rubbing. In horror.

Shane pulled out a little bottle of nail polish next. “Formaldehyde,” she read. “Doesn’t that cause cancer?”

It took all of two seconds for Jess to dump it all into the garbage bin.

He’d never skipped class before, but he certainly didn’t want to go back. Justin would be waiting. With his friends. He’d be the Entertainment of the Day. He’d seen it happen before.

They went to the mall. Shane led the way to the men’s section of the large department store they entered. Using the credit card his parents had given him for emergencies, Jess bought a pair of baggy cotton pants, with lots of pockets (actual pockets you could put stuff in), a large, loose t-shirt, and an equally large hoodie. Wearing the new clothes, he felt more like himself since—ever.

He transferred his wallet, keys, and phone from his purse into the pockets, then dumped the purse.

In an athletics store, he bought a pair of track shoes and a couple tight fitting sports bras. He’d hated the push-up bras Sarah had steered him toward on previous shopping trips. He had no desire to show cleavage. What in god’s name for? He had always compromised by purchasing a padded bra. Though, alas, he didn’t really need it. And the whole idea of needing to pad … The sports bras flattened his breasts to his chest so they didn’t jiggle. He liked that.

He had pants at home, of course, and t-shirts, but they were for after-school and week-ends. Even so, they weren’t nearly as comfortable as— Standing there, he suddenly understood why. Men’s pants were way looser than women’s pants. Given his thighs, now, they should have made things the other way around. And women’s t-shirts had shorter sleeves, they kept coming untucked because they were shorter overall, and they were, of course, tighter. The hoodie was something new; he liked it. And he really liked the track shoes. He had sneakers for gym class, but these were more … substantial.

“What?” Shane saw the look of deliberation on Jess’ face.

“I can’t leave the house wearing this stuff tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after.”

“So leave the house dolled up a bit and change when you get to school. Bring your new clothes in your knapsack.”

“Can’t. My sister, Sarah, will see me. During the day. Looking like this.”

Shane considered that. “And what will happen if she sees you? Looking like this.”

“She’ll tell my parents.”

“And?”

“My mother will disapprove.”

“And?”

Jess thought it through. “You’re right. It’s not like she can force me. She’ll be upset though.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time, right? Or, probably, the last. So …?”

“Yeah,” Jess agreed. “But I’ll probably get grounded.”

He hadn’t been going out at night anyway, so that wouldn’t be a big deal. Wasn’t allowed to. Go out at night. At least not alone. Wasn’t allowed to wear earbuds when he went running either.

While they were eating pizza and sipping milkshakes at the food court, Shane took out her smartphone, wiped one of the earbuds, gave it to Jess, then played Taran Tula. It sounded like retro riot-grrls. The song was about— Of course! Shane was a lesbian! Did she think—? Was that why Jess liked Shane? Was that why Shane was being nice to Jess?

“Don’t worry, you’re not my type.” Shane had seen the realization cross her face and gave her a way out.

Jess grinned gratefully, nervously. “I don’t know whether to be relieved or hurt,” he tried to toss it off. Unsuccessfully. “I don’t know what my type is.”

“Yet. You’ll figure it out.”

He tried to figure it out during the next cross-country practice. He thought better when he was running. Okay, so he wasn’t a girly-girl. That much he knew. He wasn’t like Sarah. In fact, all his life, he’d felt more like Kyle than like Sarah. Except that there was a lot about Kyle that made him uncomfortable. Thing is, he didn’t know why, exactly. It wasn’t that he didn’t like Kyle. Though, often he didn’t like Kyle. But there was something— It was more complicated than that.

He tried to put his finger on the emotion, the emotions, he was feeling. And that in itself was complicated. He’d never done that before—

There it was again. A sense of before. Of remembering.

He felt— He felt wrong. Because he wasn’t a girly girl? Yeah, partly. But also because he didn’t like Kyle. It was almost as if he didn’t like himself. But he wasn’t like Kyle. Was he?

No, how could he be?

He was like Shane.

No, he wasn’t quite like Shane either.

He tried again. Who was he sexually attracted to? He was fifteen, he should be feeling some sexual attraction, shouldn’t he?

Okay, yes, he— No, he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t separate attraction from sexual attraction.

Wait a minute, yes, he could. It’s just that he wasn’t attracted to who he was sexually attracted to. Hm. That would be a problem.

He thought he should be sexually attracted to girls, but he was actually attracted to boys. Thinking about a few of them made him … moist. Moist? Okay, that was new. Different.

Wait—different from what? And ‘thought he should be’?

There it was again. That familiarity. As if his body was used to something else, wanted to do, wanted to be, something else.

But he couldn’t imagine dating any of the boys he knew. They were, in a word, obnoxious. Most of the time.

He really enjoyed hanging out with Shane. But what did that mean?

He decided not to think about it anymore. For now, he knew he didn’t want to wear make-up. He knew he’d much rather wear pants and track shoes than dresses and heels. He knew he liked English more than Geography. He knew he wanted to run. In fact, he added a parenthetical, now that he didn’t feel so competitive, he really enjoyed running. The experience itself, not the end result. Maybe all of that was enough for now.

“The garage needs to be cleaned out,” his mother said one day at the dinner table. She looked to Kyle sitting on her left, and Jessica and Sarah on her right. Their dinner table seating arrangement had always bothered Jess. It made sense that his father was at one end, and his mother at the other, but why was Kyle on one side, and he and Sarah on the other? Because boys and girls. Everything had to be divided into male on one side, female on the other.

“Sarah, you’ve got your cheerleading tournament this weekend, I haven’t forgotten,” she added. “But the two of you,” she nodded at Kyle and Jess, “can get the job done.”

So next day, they got to it. Jess had always thought that men were detail-oriented. Certainly that’s what he’d been told. But once he and Kyle had moved all of the big stuff out of the garage, Kyle considered his work done.

“Where are you going?” Jess called after him as he walked away.

“I gotta call Dave. Let me know when you’re done, and I’ll help you move everything back in!”

“What? You’re not supposed to help me do this,” Jess protested, “you’re supposed to do it. We’re supposed to do it together. All of it together.” But it didn’t really surprise him that Kyle had assumed that the cleaning part of it—wiping the grime off all of the no-longer-used toys, the patio chairs, and the garden decorations, then brushing off the shelves, then sweeping the floor—would be done by Jess. By Jess alone. After all, he and Sarah had been doing the dishes, some of the laundry, the dusting, and the vacuuming since they were ten.

And, but, it wasn’t just that it was cleaning work. It was also fussy work, detailed work: when Jess did the dusting, not only did he have to wipe the table tops and counter tops and window sills, he also had to pick up every bloody knick-knack in the house and run the dust cloth along every groove on every bloody knick-knack in the house—and crawl under the dining room table and run the dust cloth along every bloody chair leg and cross piece.

Standing in the middle of the garage, Jess looked around him with despair. It would take an hour just to clear the work table for some space—to sort out the mess of screws and nails that covered the table and put them into their respective little drawers in the unit fixed to the wall. Kyle seemed blind to such tasks, blind to the little stuff, blind to the details.

It was the same when Kyle cut the grass. He just did the broad strokes, the easy part. Apparently it was up to Jess and Sarah to clip around the trees and bushes, to do the finickity stuff, the stuff that took twice as long.

What was the logic? Men are bigger than women, so they should handle bigger stuff? That included driving bigger vehicles, Jess noticed. His mom’s car was smaller than his dad’s. He imagined his mother buying a car that was bigger than his and laughed. His dad would probably buy a bigger-still car the very next day. And yet, men were surgeons. They were also biologists and physicists. Blood vessels, bacteria, atoms—you couldn’t get much smaller than that.

Besides, men weren’t bigger than women. Sure, according to all the ads and every movie and tv show he’d ever seen, they were. But they’d clearly selected the smallest women and the biggest men. Most real men had narrower hips, thinner thighs, and smaller chests than women. Most real men were taller than most real women, and they usually weighed more, but that was about it, really.

So why did Hollywood select the smallest women and the biggest men? Because men must be better, and bigger is better? But it isn’t. Bigger can just be fatter. And in many cases, smaller is better. The firefighter crawling under a bed to save a terrified kid needs to be small.

Maybe men handled big stuff not because they were bigger than women, but in order to feel bigger than women. Because they stupidly believed bigger was better. Which was true in the case of physical fights, but— Actually, no, even then …

Part way through grade eleven, Jess cut his hair. And felt even more like himself. Shane was delighted. Sarah was horrified. And his Mom—

“But you had lovely hair! Why would you do such a thing?” she wailed.

“Because I like it better this way,” was all Jess could say. He didn’t have the words, the analysis, for the real explanation. Long hair made him feel more like a girl, more female. And being female, in our society, was not a good thing to be.

A few days later— Jess had been doing as Shane had suggested, leaving the house in a skirt or dress, then changing as soon as he got to school, but it was only a matter of time …

Sarah had graduated and gotten a job, but Kyle was now in grade nine. And he saw Jess in the hallway. Jess saw him first and made a dash for the nearest open room, but.

At first, Jess thought Kyle hadn’t said anything, but a week later, his parents ambushed him with an appointment with a therapist.

“Hello, you must be Jessica,” the neatly dressed, manicured, and coiffured woman offered her hand, “and Mr. and Mrs. Everett. Please have a seat,” she gestured to the three chairs in her office. Once again, her parents flanked her. This time, Jess sat reluctantly between them. He did not want to be here.

“I understand that you do not want to be here,” Jess looked up sharply, “but your parents are concerned about you.”

Jess grunted.

“Can you see that they love you?” the therapist, Miss Dinelli, said to Jessica. “In their own way?” People said that to women about their abusive husbands. It wasn’t the way Jess wanted to be loved. “They just want you to be happy.”

“If I could wear what I want, I’d be happy.”

“And you’d like to wear …?”

Jess told her.

“Is that it?”

“I don’t want to wear make-up.”

“Clothes and make-up. That’s what you’re upset about? Those are pretty superficial things, aren’t they?”

“Yes! So why are they so goddamned important?” So definitive is what he meant.

He heard the sharp intake of breath from his mother.

“Sorry,” he said to her. Then turned back to the therapist. “And I want to be able to swear.” He grinned. Kyle was allowed to swear.

“Is there anything else? Anything more substantive to your complaints? About being a girl?”

Jess glared at her. “I’m not complaining about being a girl, I just—” He just didn’t want to be a girl. No, that wasn’t completely true. There were some things he liked about it. It was just that— What?

“I have to be polite all the time.” He grimaced. Stupid example.

“Is there something wrong with being polite?”

“No, it’s just—” What was it? Being polite was good. Men should be polite. More polite. “My mom always tells me that if I can’t say anything nice, I shouldn’t say anything at all.”

“And?”

“It’s—” He didn’t have the words. The understanding. It was a way to silence women. To mute their opinions. Because she never said that to Kyle.

“I’m not allowed to be angry,” he tried again. “I have to be polite even when the other person isn’t entitled to politeness.” That sounded convoluted. But it was closer to what he meant. ‘Deference’ wasn’t in his vocabulary. Yet.

“And I don’t like having to explain myself!” he summarized in frustration. Even though he recognized, again, that that was a good thing. Shouldn’t people be able to, be expected to, justify their feelings, their claims, their actions? Yes, of course. It was just that he hadn’t had to do it before. And it was hard.

“Before, when I—” No, he couldn’t tell her that. She’d think he was crazy. “I mean if I— Boys don’t have to. Explain themselves.”

“I see. Well, all of this isn’t uncommon, Jessica. Many people experience a kind of mis-match between their sex and their gender. It can be a source of great distress, and that’s what we’d like to explore.”

It wasn’t so much a mis-match between his sex and his gender. It was a mis-match between his past and his present. Though, yes, okay, now, there was a mis-match between his sex and his gender: he was clearly female, he knew that, but he felt— No, he just remembered— No, he also felt— He gave up.

“Explore how?”

Ms. Dinelli went on and on, but the long and short of it was that Jess had three options: talk therapy, aversion therapy, or gender correction camp.

Next day, when Shane saw Jess dolled up again, she knew something had happened.

“The mall?”

Jess nodded.

As soon as they got to the mall, Jess changed. Before she’d left home, she’d stuffed her other clothes into her knapsack for exactly this reason. They headed for a quiet spot at the food court.

“Back in a minute,” Shane said, heading for their favourite pizza place. She returned with a couple slices of pizza, a couple chocolate milkshakes, and a couple Chocolate Brownie Thunder sundaes.

“My treat,” Shane said. “You look like you need it.”

“Yeah.”

Shane waited. Jess took a bite of the pizza, then a long, delicious, draw on his chocolate milkshake. Then a big bite of the Thunder sundae. And then he told her.

“What the fuck is aversion therapy?” Shane exploded. Actually, she thought she knew.

“She’ll show me a bunch of images, you know, like girls wearing pretty pink dresses, bows in their hair, and lipstick, I guess, then girls wearing jeans and hiking boots or something, and every time the image is wrong, I’ll get zapped.”

“Shock therapy?” Okay, she hadn’t known.

“Not, you know—not like when they hook up those things to your head. I’d wear a bracelet, kind of like a dog collar —”

“You’re not some animal!”

“It doesn’t hurt much. She let me try it. It just —”

“Doesn’t hurt, my ass! It might not hurt you physically, but it’d be doing serious damage to your psyche! After that, every time you think of what you really want to do, you’ll be— Hesitant. She’ll be planting a reflexive fear of your own desires.”

Yeah. Jess hadn’t been able to put his finger on it. But Shane nailed it.

“So you’ll have to work extra hard, you’ll have one more bloody obstacle to overcome, just to do what you want, dress how you like, God damnit!”

Shane took a long draw of her milkshake. And a big bite of her Thunder sundae.

“And gender correction camp?” she continued. “What the fuck is that?”

“I think it’s like those old-fashioned finishing schools where young ladies were taught how to set a dinner table, which spoons and forks to use—”

“How to balance a book on your head—”

“Instead of how to read it—”

Shane barked like a trained seal. He grinned. He enjoyed talking to Shane. It was nice. It was new. Men didn’t really ever talk to each other. Everything they said was code for ‘I’m better than you.’ It was pathetic, really. And incredibly boring. Now that he thought about it. Wait, what?

“How to snare a husband,” Shane continued. “First, don’t let him know that you’re smarter than him.’ Which means act stupider than him.” She grimaced. “You know, sometimes I think it’s our own damn fault.”

“What?”

“That men feel so frickin’ superior. They believe our bullshit.”

She was right, Jess realized. Men did believe women’s bullshit. About how smart they were, how competent they were …

“Actually,” Shane said a moment later, “I think it’d be more like those Christian ‘normalizing’ camps. You know, the ones that tried to make gays and lesbians straight with deconditioning or reconditioning or whatever the fuck it’s called.”

“Deprogramming. That’s what they called undoing the brainwashing done by cults.”

“Who is this woman?” Shane asked then. “Is she actually a certified therapist?”

“I don’t know. I guess so.”

“Does she have a Ph.D. in … something? Emotional abuse, maybe?”

Jess grinned again. Sort of.

“And what the hell is gender anyway? It’s bullshit. It’s nothing. It’s just a word we use to describe two sets of traits and desires arbitrarily associated with one sex or the other. It’s certainly not innate.”

Jess nodded. They were proof of that.

“Gender is how sexism is maintained,” Shane said. “As Dee Graham put it, masculinity and femininity are code words for male domination and female subordination. Any intelligent woman will reject femininity.”

Jess thought about that. Later, he would come across Lierre Keith who said something similar: “Femininity is just a set of behaviors that are in essence ritualized submission.”

“You know,” Shane continued, “all this trans shit became a big deal only when men started crossing the gender line. No surprise. I mean, women have been crossing the gender line for centuries: we’ve been assertive, even aggressive; we’ve entered so-called ‘male professions’; we’ve chosen to wear unisex or men’s clothing. And we’ve never felt the need to call Newsweekabout it.”

Jess grinned. She was absolutely right. Men thought everything they did was newsworthy.

“Feminists—real feminists—have been gender queer, gender non-conforming, gender variant, non-binary, whatever the hell you want to call it, since forever. See this is what happens when people don’t know shit. Don’t they teach history in school anymore?”

“You know they do,” Jess grinned. “Just not women’s history.”

“Yeah.” Shane took a long draw on her milkshake.

“So what are you going to do?”

“What can I do?” Jess said with despair. Then he shrugged with resignation. “I said yes to the talk therapy. We’re going to ‘explore and resolve childhood conflicts that have led to the wrong gender identification’.”

Neither of them said anything for a while.

Then Shane spoke. “You’ve got to get the fuck away from those people. Your parents.”

“Yeah, well.” It would be two more years before he could move away. To go to university. Two years.

They finished their pizza and milkshakes, and, sadly, their Chocolate Brownie Thunder sundaes, then just walked around.

“Our carbon dioxide is at 450,” Shane said. “We’re past two degrees, and well on our way to three. And they’re worried about pink and blue.”

Next day, in the hall at school, he overheard a girl gush, “He thinks I’m cute!” and he almost stopped to correct her. He probably says that to all the girls, he would’ve said. Because he himself had once been that insincere. He’d never thought that the girl would actually believe it. He’d thought that she’d see it as the come-on it was. And either respond with a smile, which meant she was interested or— He shook his head. Took a few deep breaths. Focused on the here. The now.

And here, and now, he realized that Shane was only half right. About believing bullshit.

“That’s not lady-like,” her mom would often reprimand, gently, when he did something that felt … normal. She thought she was helping with the therapy, helping Jess understand how to act like a lady.

But it wasn’t that he didn’t understand. It was that he thought the rules, for acting like a lady, were stupid. He couldn’t just ask for what he wanted. That was rude. He couldn’t just say what he was really thinking. That was rude too. He had to defer to others. All the time. No matter what was at stake. Apparently his primary objective in life was to not hurt others. Others’ feelings. It was a new way of living. He wasn’t sure he liked it.

The following week, Jess started looking for a part-time job. He was surprised to discover that even jobs were colour-coded: an after-school job at the hardware store paid more than an after-school job at Tim Horton’s. But Tim Horton’s was the only place that even gave her an interview. Good thing he’d started looking now, he thought. Two school years and two summers might be enough for first year tuition. He’d apply for a scholarship, of course, but he wanted a back-up plan. Because he hadto get away.

It turned out that Shane had failed a couple courses required for graduation, so while Jess progressed through grade twelve, she re-took those two courses. Jess helped her through. Honestly, they were both happy that they’d be heading to university at the same time.

But first, that last year of high school stretched out before them …

And during that year, Jess started to worry that something was seriously wrong with him. He kept having the déjà vu episodes. No, they were more like flashbacks. Almost hallucinations. He thought maybe he was heading for a psychotic break. Or developing schizophrenia. It happened. He thought about telling Ms. Dinelli, then decided not to. She’d probably have him committed. He thought about telling Shane, but was afraid that she’d see him differently. Gender bending was one thing; mental illness was another. And God knows, as it was, he was struggling with how people saw him.

One day in Chemistry, Jess and his lab partner, Liam, were conducting an experiment. Their results were unexpected. They considered various explanations, but none of them quite fit. Then Jess hypothesized that the beaker had not been thoroughly cleaned, and it was the residue of a previous experiment that accounted for their results.

Liam said as much to their teacher.

“Good thinking, Liam,” Mr. Killick said. “Given the experiments we did just last class, I think your hypothesis is correct!”

“Wait a minute,” Jess spoke up. “That was my idea! I was the one who suggested that our results may have been contaminated by something in the beaker—”

“Just ignore her,” Evan said playfully, “she’s on the rag!”

Mr. Killick grinned at him.

“What?” Jess was horrified. “I’m not ‘on the rag’! I’m angry! Because—”

“Yeah!” he laughed. “What I said.”

To his dismay, Jess started to notice his breasts when he was running. Fortunately, this happened only a few days a month, but still.

Then one night, when he escaped into video games, as he had always done, he noticed all the big breasts. No, surely he’d noticed them before. Yes, but now— All of the women were in such skimpy clothing. And they were all just big breasts, long legs, and big behinds.

And they were all beaten up or raped or both, by the main characters. The men. How had he not noticed this before?

It was as if women existed for men. For their pleasure, for their entertainment, for their use— For whatever the men wanted to do to them.

And when the attacked woman cried out for help or cried out in pain— “Quiet, bitch! Shut the fuck up!” or “You worthless whore, you’re fucking pathetic!” How had he not—

Ah. He was the ‘you’ now. That changed everything. He tried a few more games, but felt sickened—literally, he felt sick to his stomach—at what he saw. Woman after woman, fucked, beaten, spat on, killed, discarded. That was how men saw women, girls, him. Her.

Grand Theft Auto, Assassin’s Creed, Hitman, Far Cry, Watch Dog … He tried in vain to find something—else. Something that could give him the rush of power, control, agency, that he was used to getting from gaming. Without— Nada.

He found one game that had a female main character—but she had that perfect, so-called perfect, body, and it was almost completely unclothed. It cancelled whatever she was trying to do, trying to be.

He turned off the computer.

And never played another video game.

“Mom, sit down, you’re not our servant,” Jess said. His mother always walked around the table, dishing out everyone’s food. They could just as easily pass the bowls and platters around the table.

“Oh, I know that, but your father worked all day…”

“So did you.”

She just smiled. And truth be told, Jess hated her a little bit for it.

Then he decided to speak up about something else he’d often noticed.

“Why does Kyle get a bigger slice than me?”

Everyone stared at him. Her.

“I’m older, don’t I need more?” In some cultures, men got not only the most food, but the best food. They ate before the women did.

“Men need more because they have more muscle,” his sister explained.

“Maybe that’s the effect and not the cause. Besides if you want to bring biology into it, as females, and the ones who will create the babies out of our own bodies, surely we’re the ones who need more.”

“Are you planning to create a baby any time soon?” Sarah mocked him.

He hadn’t yet found “Trust Your Perceptions”, and perhaps never would, as the blog would soon be taken down, but someone had pointed out that women feeding men was an appeasement, an international campaign to plead for niceness—Here, take this food, just please stop killing the children, okay?

His mother was right, of course. His father did work all day. He ran an advertising firm, and he often came home late. And he always came home exhausted, impatient, angry. At what, Jess didn’t know, but he’d lash out at anything that upset him. They all kept their distance. Jess asked him once why he worked so hard. Why he didn’t somehow make room in his life for enjoyment and pleasure.

“Somebody has to do it!” he’d shouted at him. “Do you think I like working this much? Who do you think puts food on the table? A roof over your head? I’ve got three kids to support!”

Yeah, Jess got that. But it was his choice to make those three kids. Didn’t he know he’d have to support them? Of course he did. So why was he so angry about having to do so?

Jess figured that his father attributed his stress level to his hard work. More likely, Jess thought, it was because he treated everything like a competition. Whenever his father had to drive him somewhere, he acted like it was a race, a race he had to win. Every time a car overtook him, he got so angry. “It’s okay,” Jess would say, “let him pass. It’s no big deal.”

It was like cooperation hadn’t even occurred to his father. In his mind, competition, competition toward control, was the only way to get anything done. Was he right? Had men never cooperated except under orders to do so? Or as a team, competing toward control over another team?

His father also probably thought he was doing the right thing because he was working so hard. But just because you’re working hard, that doesn’t mean, that doesn’t say anything about, moral rightness.

But how did he know what his father thought? He gave a mental shrug. He just did. He knew that men’s level of introspection, their self-awareness, was low. Men had little insight into why they did what they did, even into what they wanted. That’s why they were less apt to seek help—psychological, emotional, help. They can’t explain their problems. They don’t know what their problems are.

Well, in addition to it was emasculating to ask for help. Any help.

Regardless, his mother worked too. Surely she was contributing to their support. But it was as if her job, her contribution, her effort was invisible. It was—

Suddenly, his mental shrug slipped … into place. Oh god. That’s it. He used to be a man. That’s how he knew. That’s why his tendencies, his expectations, were—male. For the most part. So, what, he used to be a man … in a previous life? So reincarnation— It does happen?

“So how’s it going with the talk therapy?” Shane asked one day. “You’re almost done, yeah?”

The agreement with his parents was that he’d do it for a year.

“Yeah,” he replied. “A few more weeks. It seems I’ve finally convinced the therapist that I do realize that I have a female body.”

“But it came with a male brain?”

“Not exactly …”

“You didn’t tell her you were a lesbian, did you?” Shane asked, horrified. That could lead to worse problems. “Because that’s not what a lesbian is. Male brains in female bodies—”

“No, I didn’t tell her I was a lesbian. But— Look, can we postpone this discussion?”

Shane glanced at her, an odd expression on her face. “Of course.”

“Where were you? I was worried sick!” His mother met him at the door.

“I was—” He’d gone out for a long run. And had stopped in the park. Because it was such a clear night, there was no moon, and the stars—

“It’s almost midnight!”

He saw Kyle slouching in the doorway, a smirk on his face.

“You could’ve been—”

“Kyle stays out until midnight!” None of them had an actual curfew.

“Kyle’s not a young woman!”

Right. Of course. He’d forgotten for a moment that he was more at risk of attack. Now. Well, more at risk of sexual attack. Because wasn’t Kyle at risk of— Well, no. Unless they thought he was gay, he probably wouldn’t be beaten up. And until he was older, he probably wouldn’t be robbed. And Kyle was seldom alone at night. That was the difference. He remembered now. He was always with his buddies, he was always part of a pack.

“The sex gangs!” His mother wailed.

“What?”

“Kyle said there are gangs of men going around raping young women!”

Seriously? In Barrie? Why was this the first time he was hearing about this? He read the newspaper from time to time. There should have been headlines. Was it on the back page? He listened to his teachers. Why didn’tthey mention this?

And anyway, why should he be the one to change his behaviour?

Remembering the many times boys had criticized her body, it suddenly occurred to her: perhaps the right to criticize a woman’s body derived from a right toa woman’s body. And if men felt they had a right to every woman’s body …

And the right to the sexual use of a woman’s body leads to, includes, the right to the reproductive use of a woman’s body. Hence, no abortion.

Or is it the other way around: the right to reproductive use of women’s bodies, perhaps thought to be grounded in the continuation of the species, leads to the right of all sexual use of women’s bodies.

But women don’t think they have a right to men’s sperm. And hence to the sexual use of their bodies.

The following week, all of the girls were called to an assembly. It was the annual ‘How to Avoid Rape’ assembly. Be vigilant, be careful about where you go, and when you go …

Angrily, Shane glanced at Jess beside her, then spoke up. “How about you just tell the guys, ‘Keep it in your pants’?”

Someone cheered.

“And,” another girl shouted out, “tell them, ‘Don’t put any drugs in a girl’s drink!’”

More cheers.

“And ‘If you can’t resist your dick, don’t go out at night!’”

“Or during the day!”

Next day, when Jess walked into the school, she saw that someone had written on the general notice blackboard: “Women do not rape. End of story. If someone doesn’t want to have sex with us, we feel sad and go home and write about it in our journals. Hypotaxis.”

When it was time to apply to universities, Jess announced to his parents that he wanted to become a psychologist.

“That’s nice, dear.”

What? No discussion about whether that was a good choice? About which university to attend? It didn’t really matter, because he’d already decided to apply to UBC and SFU. Toronto wasn’t far enough away from Barrie. Still.

They’d already discussed which universities were best for Business—Kyle’s choice—and Kyle was only in grade ten. Actually, now that he thought about that, he didn’t think Kyle wanted to go into Business. Their fatherwanted Kyle to go into Business. So he could join him at his firm.

Their response was nothing new. No one had said anything when he’d announced that he’d gotten the Tim Horton’s job. No congratulations on getting the job, no comment that he could’ve gotten a better job, no concern that the job would take time away from his school work.

It was like his aspirations weren’t … important. They acted like he was just putting in time until— Until what? Ah. Marriage and kids. Seriously?

But he had no intention of getting married.

And he certainly no intention of having kids. He hated kids. Sarah babysat for a neighbour and once Jess had done it for her, because it was prom night. He vowed never to do it again. (Though he was glad that it had meant not having to deal with the expectations that he fuss and fawn over Sarah and the god-damned prom.)

“It’ll be different when they’re your own kids,” his mother had assured him, when he’d confessed that he’d hated their whiney demands, their emotional outbursts, their relentless egoism.

Jess doubted that. But he hadn’t, at the time, recognized the assumption that had prompted the assurance.

Whatever, he understood that his parents had no academic expectations of him. On the one hand, it was insulting. On the other hand, it was liberating. He enrolled in a double major program of Psychology and Gender Studies.

Shane, on the other hand, thought it was a great idea. “And that’s a great combination! We focus so much on gender studies as a cultural or sociological phenomenon, but surely individual psychology plays a huge role.”

Jess nodded. That’s exactly what he’d thought.

“I mean, look at you and me,” Shane continued. “We were exposed to the same cultural influences as all the pink vapourheads and yet … How do we explain us?”

Jess grinned. How do we explain us indeed.

“Are you still thinking about art school?” he asked her.

“Absolutely.” Shane was into something she called new media collage art. Her YouTube videos were amazing. One of them, Jess’ favourite, was a collage of what looked like home movies—the squealing engagement announcement, the dress-fitting, the bridal shower, the procession down the aisle, the reception and the speeches and the wedding cake and the first dance—all presented against a soundtrack of “Here Comes the Bride” with a voice-over enumerating the terms of the marriage contract through history, clearly indicating its origins in property transfer, and then the current statistics of wife abuse. The piece ended with the statement that 94% of all women get married. Shouted in silence with bold type on the screen, that fact then became covered, completely hidden, by confetti.

Shane had gotten a clerical job at an art gallery and was, like Jess, trying to save enough money for her post-high school dream. She had her eye on VanArts, a school in Vancouver specializing in media art. It was especially hard for her, because she’d just moved out. Her parents had never really accepted ‘the lesbian thing’. That’s what they called it. So Shane was supporting herself, sharing rent with two women who’d befriended her at a local GLBT meet-up.

Jess was offered admission by both UBC and SFU, but only UBC offered an entrance scholarship. It would cover first year’s tuition, and it would be renewed every year for as long as he kept his grades up. So that’s the offer he accepted.

“Congratulations!” Shane was happy for her. “I knew you’d have no problem getting in!”

A week later, Shane was in at VanArts.

“They’d be idiots not to want you!” Jess said, ecstatic about their future together.

They’d find a small apartment near the campus, share the rent, bike to school, and everywhere … They’d each find jobs to make that happen … They were both getting away, from their families, from Barrie …

They decided to celebrate by spending a week hiking on the Bruce Trail. The stretch between Tobermory and Dyer’s Bay was supposed to be drop-dead gorgeous. They bought backpacks, hiking boots, a tent, and a few other supplies recommended by the outdoor store they’d gone to. Everything was more expensive than they would have liked, but they intended to make good use of it on the west coast.

Jess’ mother disapproved. Hard to say of what, exactly. Women bearing a backpack? Women wearing hiking boots? Women hiking? God forbid, women being adventurous? Her father’s response, as always, was no comment.

They took the city bus to the Northland bus station.

“Good morning, girls. Or should I say, ladies,” the man at the ticket window smiled. “How can I help you?”

“You should say neither,” Shane replied.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You called us girls, then changed it to ladies. Why don’t you just call us people?”

Jess glanced at her. She was apparently feeling strong and confident … Maybe it was all the gear. Or the adrenaline of their adventure, the beginning of their new lives—

“What is it you want?” the man went from patronizing to irritated in a flash.

“I want you to figure out why you mention our sex every time you refer to us. Why is our sex so very important to you?”

Standing slightly behind Shane, Jess grinned.

The man glared.

“Two tickets to Tobermory, please,” Jess stepped up. If Shane pushed him too far—

“You’ve never thought about it, have you?” She wasn’t giving up.

“Nope,” the man said as he took their money and passed them their tickets. “And I’m not going to. Next!” he called out even though there was no one in line behind them.

“But we call them boys, men,” Jess said once they were outside. “Guys.”

“Yeah, but somehow none of those terms is a put-down.”

“Listen up, ladies,” the voice was suddenly in his head. Coach. At half-time. He was trying to goad them to a better performance by … insulting them.

“You’re right,” Jess said. Shane was absolutely right. To be called a female was insulting. Was considered insulting. By men.

Because to be female was … to be inferior. According to men.

Their week on the Bruce Trail was wonderful. It was rugged going, but the solitude, the quiet— It was what they both needed. And every time they came to an overlook, they were absolutely stunned by the impossibly blue water, teal and turquoise and indigo, the expanse of it, the huge sky …

During one of their many breaks, sitting on the sun-warmed rock, leaning against their packs, sipping from their water bottles, Jess came back to the conversation he’d asked to postpone.

“So I’m not dysphoric, and I’m not gay, but … I keep having these … flashbacks. It’s like I remember being male.” He held his breath.

“Like reincarnation? You think you were a man in a previous life?”

Wow. She’d gone there so easily.

“Well, thing is, I’m not sure I believe in reincarnation. Because if everyone were reincarnated, the population wouldn’t be increasing, right? It’d be stable. We’d have same number of people, just—”

“Maybe in addition to the reincarnated … souls? minds? … there are new ones being created.”

“Maybe.”

“But then we’d have to explain why you’re a recycled person,” Shane grinned, “and not a new person. Karma? Is being female this time around a punishment?”

“Actually, I think it might be the other way around. I think being female is better, in a lot of ways, than being male. But my memories— I don’t think I deserve a … reward. I think I was a normal guy.”

“Which is to say a disgusting piece of shit.”

“Yeah.”

They stared out at the water.

“Maybe male bodies are becoming non-viable,” Shane suggested. “I read that the Y chromosome has disintegrated into ‘a trainwreck’ of about 45 surviving genes. Down from about 2,000.”

“Really? Maybe that’s why male fetuses are more likely than female fetuses to spontaneously abort.”

“And, or,” Shane suggested, “we know that fetuses are female unless the Y chromosome, from sperm, gets to it. And sperm counts are declining. By 80% in just the last two generations.”

“Hm. I didn’t know that.”

“And as much as 85% of it is abnormal,” Shane was enjoying this, “likely to swim in the wrong direction.” She couldn’t help it. She burst out laughing.

“Didn’t know that either,” Jess grinned.

“The world’s best kept secret,” Shane replied, without the laugh. “Because.”

“Yeah.”

And then, after a moment, “Is all of that because of the chemicals in the environment?” Jess asked.

“Maybe. Maybe especially in the food men eat. Meat. Dead animals. Fed a shitload of god-knows-what … Growth hormones, steroids …”

Shane was vegetarian. Jess had become so, as much as was possible, living at home.

“Or maybe it’s because of global warming,” Jess suggested. “Heat is bad for sperm. That’s why the testicles are on the outside of the body, right?”

“Right …”

The water was just so … so beautiful.

“How do you know you just don’t have your old male brain, in a female body?”

Jess thought about that for a moment. “Because I’m not thinking about sex all the time.”

Shane laughed. “Case closed.”

And it was so nice, Jess thought. Not to have a sexual thought every eight seconds. He’d come across that figure somewhere. He believed it.

“And I don’t feel as … driven,” Jess continued. “And I definitely don’t feel as … combustible.”

“But maybe that’s because you’ve got estrogen rather than testosterone coursing through your body. Not because you’ve got a female brain rather than a male brain.”

“Could be. But a male brain would trigger the production of testosterone, not estrogen, right?”

“Yeah, but without the testicles to produce it—”

“No, we, female bodies, have testosterone too,” Jess said. “Just not nearly as much.”

“You’re right. Okay, so it must be produced by something other than testicles. So … where were we?”

“Female body. Female brain. Now.”

“Ah. Right.”

Again, the water.

“Maybe your parents arranged a brain transplant,” Shane suggested. “You know, like that thought experiment by what’s his name, Williams? Shoemaker? No, wait. You said you don’t have a male brain in a female body.”

Shane gave it some more thought.

“What if we’re in the future and you really fucked up and you’re in one of those prison sentence machines that makes you feel like you’re living years in hell when in fact it’s just a few days.”

Jess looked over at her. “I saw that in an Outer Limits episode.”

“Yeah, The 100 had something like that too. But,” Shane reconsidered, “that doesn’t explain me. I mean, I’m not some part of your private Truman Show. I cut myself, I bleed. ’Course, I don’t cut myself, I also bleed,” she grimaced. Menstruating on a week-long hike was a real hassle. To say the least.

“Plus, I wouldn’t say this is hell … ”

“So what exactly do you remember?”

“Most of the time, I don’t have explicit memories. It’s more like having strong expectations.”

“Like you’d have after a lifetime of living as a male. Expectations of male privilege.”

“Yes!” He turned to her. She’d nailed it. Expectations of male privilege. “And those expectations keep getting slammed. My experience, my actual experience, keeps surprising me.

“And,” Jess continued, “it’s like I have all these … habits. Like a couple weeks ago, I went out for a run at night. By myself.”

“Habits or genuine desires?”

“It felt like a habit. As if it was something I’d just always done.”

“But did you want to do it?”

“Well, yeah but—”

“So maybe you’re just rejecting the socialization that says women shouldn’t go for a run at night.”

“But I’m not rejecting everything female. And that wouldn’t explain the flashbacks. If that’s what they are.”

“Right.”

They both stared out at the water again. In silence.

“Maybe,” Shane suggested after a moment, “you’re just crossing into another reality from time to time.”

“I dunno. It’s been like this since I was born.”

Shane turned to him with surprise. “Really? Even as an infant?”

Jess nodded. “I think so. I think that’s why everything felt … wrong.”

“Hm.”

(free download of the complete novel at pegtittle.com)