Monthly Archives: October 2013

Adventures of the Bus Riding Boy, and cats

After school I take the bus across the city, out into the lonely, depressing suburbs. Sometimes funny stuff happens on the bus – mostly it’s just the people. Weird people can be found literally every day on the 102 – today there was a tall guy who looked like he’d just jumped out of 1969, complete with beard, sunglasses, long hair and shorts. (It was -5 today.) I don’t understand people who wear shorts in the winter. I especially don’t understand people with bony, hairy legs who wear shorts in the winter. You’d think they’d never want to wear shorts.

Mostly I feel pretty invisible on the bus – I find a seat, (today beside a really fat lady who took up, literally, both seats, so I had a tiny sliver to sit on, but I’ve had worse bus-seat-partners), and then I close my eyes and listen to music, trying to tune out all the anxiety. I think I’ve memorized all the stops now; first there’s the main one downtown where I get on, then it goes down to the next little stop beneath the big office building – then we go on the highway, and off by the apartment buildings, and down into the freaky underground tunnels where a lot of people get on from St. Laurent. (I love the tunnels, they’re like a sci-fi movie, all dark and artificially-lit), and then we go back out and after a while onto the highway, towards Orleans. I get off and walk a while to our condominium (my cat is currently smelling my laptop and pushing his nose against it like he wants my attention, I fed you already! Who are you trying to fool?) and our condo is some kind of “French subsidized housing” which means everyone is from Haiti. I don’t know why. They just are. Because it’s French, all the maintenance guys are French too, so once in a while we get random phone calls where gruff French guys ramble about needing to fix the heating or whatever. Last time I struggled to understand an issue about frozen toilets.

My French is pretty good, but I don’t know if you’ve ever heard Quebecois French – it’s really fast and has some weird Frenchisized English words thrown in randomly that seem to do nothing but make it even harder to figure out.

After I got off the bus and headed towards home, I came across a fat guy walking along. He was wearing a black fedora and a black-and-yellow sweater, so he looked like a giant bee with jeans. I walked faster to get around him, and then as soon as I was starting to pull ahead he sped up and got ahead of me. I was kind of confused, but I didn’t try to walk faster than him too, as if I was trying to meet his challenge. But he really put on the speed once he realized I was going to pass him. I imagine he was thinking ‘Hey, no way some skinny fag is gonna outpace me.’

Whatever. I don’t understand people most of the time.

The bus is actually really interesting, if only for the people. People, like I said, are weird. There’s no way around it. They just are. I happily accept the fact that I’m kind of weird myself – but next to some of the crazies that get on the 102, I’m practically Your Average Canadian Teenager. (Which I’m definitely not.) I once had to sit next to an old guy whose shoulder kept touching mine. It made me kind of uncomfortable. And there’s a really tall, skinny boy who’s probably my age who has the same kind of “general awkwardness” thing as me going on. He always stands right in front of the door but steps aside hurriedly when I’m about to get off. I’m considering one day attempting to make friends with him, but I don’t know how you make bus-friends. I think it’s different than making regular friends, because there’s this attitude on the bus where people stay quiet and wrapped up in their own worlds, and there’s not a lot of social stuff going on.

My cat is standing in a patch of sunlight looking majestic.

The bus is still a giant pot of anxiety for me, for all that I turn up my music and try to keep my eyes closed most of the time. I always hope that no one will sit next to me, but then I worry I’ll look weird if no one’s sitting next to me. I half-hope for harmless old people, because honestly it’s a lot more anxiety-producing when a young person sits beside me – especially teenagers. I feel like teenagers are somehow more  dangerous than old people, and they might be more inclined to look at me weirdly or something. Plus they’re always on their phones and I have an issue with staring at people’s phones. I don’t know why I do it. However, since September I’ve discovered something: middle-aged to old women tend to play Bejeweled and Candy Crush on their phones, (almost pathologically), while teenagers text, (pathologically.) Teenagers text pathologically everywhere, though, not just on the city bus. Whenever there’s free time in class the first thing people do is pull out their phones. The girl that sits next to me in English class always reads long, complicated-looking things on her phone in Chinese. I’m fascinated by whatever that is she’s doing.

Anyways. Now the neighborhood cat came by and my cat is going insane. The orange cat just sits there, completely ignoring my cat, while he goes crazy scratching the balcony door and making little tortured ‘mew’ sounds. I don’t understand cats. Or people. Or things in general, for that matter.

vaudeville and pk

I took a picture. There’s the orange cat (we named him Vaudeville for some reason, not like he has anything to do with the cigar-smoking gravekeeper from my book), and my cat, losing his marbles as Vaudeville ignores him and sits happily on our balcony. Cats, man. Whatever.

~ The Cellar Boy


Stereotypical Man-things

Oh, good, it’s winter. I glean that it must be winter because, before it started raining, it was snowing – upon seeing that, I turned around and went back to bed. I can’t deal with snow yet. Those seven months of winter are going to destroy me anyway, but I’m going to hold out as long as I can. I refuse to accept that winter has started before Halloween. I refuse, on the grounds that I refuse.

I slept in until eleven this morning, since it’s Saturday. The one day a week my mom can’t storm into my room at nine thirty and tell me I have to wake up or else dinosaurs will take over the world. (I don’t know. I don’t listen very well in the morning.) The point is that she’s very committed to waking me up at good hours [ungodly psychopathic hours] of the morning. I understand why, for school and everything, but I’m so much happier when I get at least ten hours of sleep. I can function just fine on eight, which is about how much I usually get, but once I get past the ten mark I just feel remarkably more optimistic about everything. That’s probably why this post is so light-hearted, and the last couple weren’t. Sleep makes a difference.

As far as my various problems go, this afternoon I just don’t care. Hey, I’m fine with stuff. It’s a cold, rainy, remarkably unpleasant October day, but I couldn’t give any less of a shit about it. And good news seems to be all over the place lately – I got a call back from CHEO saying that my specialist appointment is on November 18th – I was gravely sure I was going to have to wait months and months, like usual for medical stuff, but it’s only a couple of weeks away. Then I get to meet Dr. Norris and unload all of my transgender crap on him. But that’s what he’s for. I don’t know exactly what we’re going to talk about – I guess I just have to tell him how I’m doing, how I feel, and what I want. I’ve heard that you can get hormones at my age, even, which is pretty neat; also I’ve been obsessed with the rapper Katastrophe lately, because he’s trans-male too and seems like a totally average guy. It’s good to know you can do the transitioning stuff and not end up looking weird and still half-girl. And if you do it younger I think your body reacts much better to it, which makes a lot of sense.

I’m thinking, if it’s possible, to get all of this “stuff” about me out into the open for the new year. Like a New Year’s resolution. Instead of wanting to lose weight or get a job or whatever people usually do for their resolutions, mine is going to be to tell everybody the whole transgender thing. I don’t know how it’ll work out. I keep having nightmares about the coming out issue. Last night I had a dream where somebody mentioned I was gay and my grandpa lost his marbles about it. Actually I had a lot of weird dreams last night – I actually had a Doctor Who dream, believe it or not. I was over at my friend’s house and he had a Tardis for some unfathomable reason, and it brought me to some Nintendo 64-game world with bad graphics and Native Americans. Who knows why. Later on I found myself somewhere in the US and stole a skateboard from a wall and rode along the highway. I got to a tattoo parlor and despite having no money, asked the guy there to do some lyrics from mewithoutYou on my arm. He and the tattoo parlor owner referred to me as ‘he’ but there was a girl who said ‘she’ – I looked over and corrected her. It turned out my lyrics were way too long and complicated, and me and the tattoo artist struggled to find a good passage for several minutes before, disappointingly, I woke up and never got my tattoo.

It occurs to me, belatedly, how very “boyish” that dream was. Skateboarding and tattoos. Jeez.

Well, whatever. I like that stuff sometimes. I used to skateboard before getting discouraged because jumps seemed impossible – and I’ve always wanted a tattoo of some kind. Talk about stereotypical man-things.

I’m still in a good mood. Probably because I get to see Dr. Norris soon, and because it’s almost my birthday (November 4th!) and I can try to get my driver’s license. Exciting. I can’t wait to get all this “transitioning” stuff started – and, one way or another, through extreme awkwardness I’m sure, I’ll have to come out to my parents and my family.  I was considering getting my school info thing changed to male instead of female for the new semester in January; but then I’ll have to explain to my friends, and that might open up all sorts of teasing opportunities for the less-nice kind of people. Lucky me, though, so far I haven’t been seriously bullied. A few days ago, though, some boys in history class weren’t so nice to me – I’d call it bullying for sure – but who knows if that was transgender related or not. They could just be like that to everyone. Anyway I told my mom and she told the teacher, and apparently the boys got told. Pretty sweet.

Today, life is nice. Enough. Outside the living room window, past the rain-soaked balcony, the sky is grey and white, and the left-over leaves on the trees are rippling in a FRIGIDLY COLD breeze; my cat is asleep peacefully on the footstool, curled up in a ball of cuteness, and I’m feeling all right.

~ The Cellar Boy

Late-Night “Disney Princess Is A Boy Or Something” Rant

Apparently (according to the super shitty show Once Upon A Time, hey, alliteration!) the Disney princess Mulan is bisexual. You all know Mulan, right? The Chinese girl who pretended to be a boy warrior for some reason I’ve long forgotten, except that there was a cute little red dragon. I’m quite sure there was a cute little red dragon.

Anyway, I’d always really liked that about Mulan—hmm, no wonder it’s my favorite Disney movie (next to the Jungle Book, but that’s just for the music)—I’d never really thought about why, but now it’s pretty clear to me. A strong girl as a boy warrior. Huh. Can I relate?

I don’t find it very surprising. Actually I’m more surprised that they didn’t just say she’s transgender. I know she falls in love with the guy in the end, what’s-his-face, but she could be trans and bisexual—that’s totally possible. I’m also slightly disappointed that they had to pick their most boyish princess to make bisexual. It’s practically a given; couldn’t one of those super-girly princesses be the gay one? And by the way, why did they have to hide behind “bisexual”? Couldn’t they have gone for straight-out gay? Or, like I would very much have appreciated, they could have told everybody Mulan dressed up in her boy-warrior clothes because she fucking likes boy-warrior clothes!

Nothing wrong with that, Disney! I’d wear fucking warrior clothes! In ancient Japan, Jesus Christ, I’d be running around everywhere in samurai armor telling everybody I’m a guy. And then they’d look at each other and wonder why the weird boy runs everywhere in samurai armor telling everyone he’s a boy.

My roundabout point is that: good for Disney, but not good for them because Mulan is the easiest “princess” (cough, cough, prince, cough) that they could possibly have picked. I’m glad Mulan digs girls, too (at least according to Once Upon A Time), but I’m disappointed she digs boys at the same time. Maybe Mulan is just a bit too nervous to come out yet. At the end of the day, though, who cares? You can gripe about Disney characters until you go insane if you want, but you won’t get anywhere—the princesses are, as a rule, girly, and the princes are all—MARK THAT DOWN, ALL OF THEM—are effeminate—and it doesn’t matter what their creators want their sexual orientations to be. I’ll always hold fast to the idea that Mulan is transgender and that prince from The Princess Frog is really, really gay.

Besides—a quick side note—Mulan is, the way I’ve heard it, not even a Disney idea. (Surprise?) It’s apparently a really old, well-known Chinese myth; probably, if I had to take a guess, it’s even based in fact. There’s a history of transgender people in most cultures, and Asia is no exception. I would gladly believe that once, or many times, there was a “girl” who became a boy warrior because that was the best way he could see to be himself.

So freaking get over it, Disney. Mulan can’t fool me by hiding behind her bisexuality. She’s a boy, dammit.



Once again nobody read this, probably. If you did and you’re here reading these words now, then thank you for your time listening to my ten thirty at night transgender rant about irrelevant Disney things.


~The Cellar Boy

More Fall Thoughts – School and Religious Crap, etc.

I got followed by a group called One7, religious people who help kids with problems (as it seems.) I don’t know how to feel about that. Part of me wonders if they’re trying to wane me off my path of being transgender—Come to the light, child, embrace God’s plan for you, you are not a man!—and another part of me isn’t sure if they followed me just because I mentioned I was anxious and depressed. Possibly they only got to the ‘anxious and depressed’ part and then were like Yep, this dude’s gon get a follow.

If it’s just that, then I appreciate their caring. But I have this uncomfortable vision of some fifty-year-old lady looking through posts that have been tagged under ‘transgender’ and ‘LGBQT’, like mine was, and following everyone in order to attempt to save their souls.

Well, thanks, but no thanks. One7 is obviously doing good stuff (they have videos up, and it all seems pretty serious and religious and organized), but my soul seems pretty fine to me, I don’t think it needs saving, especially not by God. And especially not by a group of people eager to act on their version of God’s will. I’m not religious at all and I hold fast to the idea that, even if by some amusing cosmic joke he actually exists, that you wouldn’t get sent to hell just for thinking Christians are full of crap. Therefore, I’m going to go ahead and say that Christians are full of crap.

I think of it this way. An omnipotent, perfectly noble and utterly good god wouldn’t possibly kick you into hell to burn for the rest of eternity just because you never believed in him. That makes no sense. If a god does exist, in whatever form, I think he or she or it would understand that following a religious doctrine is not what makes you a good person, a worthy person. A real perfect god would have shaped some kind of afterlife in which every decent person can be brought, regardless of their beliefs, and another place for the bad ones to go. Or, better yet, we’ll all get reborn into new bodies after we die. I don’t know. I’m only putting my thoughts out there.

The fact of the matter is that I don’t want these One7 people nosing in on my business. At least they didn’t leave a comment that warned me about the dangers of being transgender—I’ve seen stuff like that, not directed at me personally thankfully, and it really gets under my skin. Even if there’s a good motive behind it… where’s your reasoning? Why is being transgender or gay or Muslim or whatever put your soul in danger? I don’t think there was ever a part in the bible where they said, specifically, ‘White, straight human beings are the only ones who can get into Heaven. Sorry for the rest of you. Bye.’

All the religious organizations in the world can go ahead and follow my blog, attempting to save my soul, but it won’t change anything. At the end of the day, I’m still transgender, and anxious and depressed.

I don’t hate religious people, not at all. I think if you want something to believe in, and it makes you happy, then you have every right to it—but when you take it so far that you’re actually threatening people, then you’ve got to stop and take a moment to realize what you’re doing. I see it all the time on the internet, on Facebook and Youtube, these angry bigots leaving comments on LGBQT pages or whatever, that say ‘prepare to burn in hell’, and worse things besides. I will assume that one reason for leaving a comment like that is because you happen to be a raving sociopath—but another reason, a less mean-spirited one, might be that you’re actually afraid for people who you think God might not favor. And that’s fine. But if you’re one of those people that goes around telling gay people they’re going to burn in hell for eternity, (and believe me I’ve seen a lot of those people) just try and get your act together. It’s depressing to see those kinds of things still being said.

Plus, it just makes no sense. Like I said before, why would a supposedly ‘good’ all-powerful god throw perfectly happy, kind, normal people who happen to be gay or transgender or whatever into hell just because that’s what they are? Check your logic. God’s either good or evil or incredibly inconsistent.


Anyway, while totally understanding that nobody’s reading this except for some dedicated Christians and spam bots, I’m still going to write. To get out my thoughts, to make myself feel better, all that. Today I headed to school with my guitar so I could go jam with the kids who sit out in the English classroom hallway—and I found out the guy with the long blond hair, the guitar whiz, is called Tyler. Also he can solve Rubik’s cubes in about five seconds flat, and I am not joking. I thought I’d spaced out and missed something, but I hadn’t—his friend handed him a Rubik’s cube, I glanced away to look at something, and when I looked back it was solved.

Holy shiet.

Also he’s pretty smart; as evidenced by the fact that when he noticed the same people kept walking by (we were sitting in the stairway because of the acoustics), he suggested we were stuck in a paradox.

God, how do I find people like this? They just fall into my lap, it seems like. I say that I don’t make friends that easily, and it’s true, nor do I make very many of them—but when I do, they’re pretty special.

Now speaking of friends—I saw one of my friends outside the school doors today. When he saw me he went inside and I didn’t see him again. I think he was avoiding me. Why, I have no idea. I really don’t. I thought we liked each other, but maybe I’m wrong. Social situations are strange; I feel like every day is a large struggle just to get through without looking lonerish and awkward, and then one of my friends walks into the school after seeing me and disappears. I’ve made a few friends this year, one way or another—Tyler the guitar whiz and potential genius, Jeremie the snobby French kid who likes the same books I do, the still-nameless quiet Chinese girl in English class, and Abraham, who likes Legend of Zelda. Not too bad, and it’s only been a month and a half.

I think that, despite the fact that people can obviously tell right away that I’m a “girl”, once they talk to me some they kind of get the message that that’s not what I identify as. For instance, I see absolutely no romance on the horizon with Tyler and I and his band of merry guitar-playing men—and we relate so easily that I suspect they’ve already initiated me as a boy, or an “almost-boy”, or whatever. It’s good. That’s what I want.


Another issue at school is the thing with going to the bathroom. Over the years, out of sheer desperation, I’ve actually trained myself (I’m not bragging, trust me, it isn’t brag-worthy), to not go to the bathroom during school hours. My body seems to have adjusted, so I almost never have to pee or anything while I’m at school. Besides, who wants to use a school bathroom anyway?

I would not feel comfortable walking into the girls’ room, and I’d be even less comfortable in the boys’, just because of my lack of boy parts. If I went into the girls’ bathroom I’d feel like a giant spotlight just got switched on over my head.

It isn’t a giant issue. As I said, I’ve trained myself. I just wish I hadn’t ever had to train myself.

I’ve read some stuff online about how people “present” as the gender they feel they are. I don’t really like the word “present” for some reason—it reminds me of presenting a school project or something—but I completely understand why it’s a problem. Because I have it every day; when I see a girl walk past, I’m mentally trying to turn myself into a boy. By the way that doesn’t work. When I walk to the bus and then home from my stop, I try to hold on to my boy-image as much as I can, because as soon as I regress into my girl self I feel uncomfortable. It’s not easy to hold on to something like that, especially when I know that almost all of the time I’m called a girl, so I must not actually look very much like a boy. And I can’t actually tell just by looking at myself—I have no idea how other people see me. For the last few years I’ve been trying to “present” my boy self, but obviously it isn’t going so well. And it’s not like I can really know what people are thinking—every single person I pass in the hallway doesn’t shout, “Boy!” or “Girl!” when I go by. I think I’m more androgynous than anything, but who knows.


I wish I could explain, though, how incredibly frustrating it is to constantly be called she. The other day when me and Zoe were walking out of English class, Ms. Nutting said “Bye, ladies!” And I smiled and we said bye, but inside I was cringing. And then when Zoe and I walk together I’m afraid we look like lesbians. There’s nothing wrong with lesbians—only when you’re not one and you look like one, then it can be irritating.


We were doing some stuff about Sigmund Freud in English, talking about the id and the ego and the superego—really interesting—and Ms. Nutting suggested a hypothetical version of the school in which everyone was utterly controlled by their ids. (The id is Sigmund Freud’s idea of the part of ourselves that is instinctual and animalistic, and only wants. Without the ego and superego, the id would take over and we’d just be taking and doing anything we wanted.) Though nobody mentioned it, I’m sure everybody was thinking that if we were all controlled by our ids, there would be a heck of a lot of “romantic” occurrences happening. All over the hallways. As well as stealing and fighting and all sorts of animalistic chaos. If I was controlled by my id, I’d run out of the school to the Shoppers Drugmart down the street and jump over the counter to fling my arms around the waist of the pretty girl with the glasses. (I’m so nervous about her that I don’t want to go there after school anymore.)

Anyways. I heard about this program in the Sick Kids in Toronto where they deal specifically with transgender teenagers. Unfortunately… it’s in Toronto. Apparently there’s some sort of program vaguely similar to that here in the capital, but I can’t imagine it’s as good—and that’s only if my psychiatrist is ever going to be able to get in touch with them. The thing about any sort of issue that goes through the medical system is that takes a godforsaken long time. For all the things to take so much time, this has to be the worst—because I’m desperate. I need to figure out what to do about myself. And I’m sure the same thing goes for a lot of people like me, too.


In the meantime I’ll get through things the way I’ve always done—whatever that is, exactly.




Thanks for getting this far, this one was particularly long and rambling. I don’t expect anyone but random religious groups and spam to find their way onto this blog, but I’ll still hope that at least somebody human is reading this—specifically a transgender or general LGBQT person, who might relate.

See you later. ~ The Cellar Boy


Another Beginning

I should give you a nice introduction. I think I’m better at endings than beginnings. But I’ll try.

Hi. (Too informal?) Hello. I’m sixteen – or at least I will be in a couple of weeks – and most of this stuff I’ve already written in the about page. The important things are that I’m anxious and depressed, yet, somehow, I’m about ten times happier than I was last year, and the year before that – and I happen to be transgender (yes, one day I aspire to grow a beard and arm-wrestle strangers while drinking beer and talking about sports), and I also APPARENTLY, though this is a topic of much debate, apparently I have Asperger’s syndrome, that just means you’re not very social and kind of reclusive, it’s on the autism spectrum or something vague and meaningless like that – and I write stories, and I play music, and I wish I’d been born in the 1800s so I could dress up in boys’ clothes, steal a horse, and run away to Alaska to make a living sifting for gold in the cold northern rivers. I don’t know. I think that’d be pretty fun. I mean, I wear “boys’ clothes” already, but that doesn’t stop people from calling me a girl, nope. What do they want me to do, draw a mustache on myself?  Will that do it?

Somehow I think not. At school today, going in for the lunch hour (I only take two classes on account of the fact that I missed the last two years because I was curled up in my room staring at walls and everyone, rightly, figures I can’t handle four), I went to my friend’s house where we always meet up at lunch. They didn’t show up. I’d told them to call my cellphone if something was up and they wouldn’t be there. But you know, boys. I mean – other boys. I’m getting used to this still, excuse me.

Anyways, figuring they just weren’t going to show up, I angrily marched off towards school and slid in to head to English class and sit outside, sad and lonely, and eat my lunch on my own – and there was a kid playing a guitar down the hall. I sat for a while, listening – it was out of tune – while social and anti-social battled for supremacy in my brain. Eventually I went over, legs shaky from what I like to call “talking to people nerves” and I went and told the guy his guitar was out of tune. Another kid grabbed the guitar to check. He tuned it. Then we started talking – I said I played guitar, so he handed it over and I played. I sang a bit, too, and they all listened closely, which I found kind of surprising. He exclaimed to his friend, “She’s better than you!” She. She. Always she. And then I handed it back and we talked some more, and it looks like – somehow – I just made a new friend. Or a couple of new friends. Or whatever. Tomorrow, assuming my anti-social tendency doesn’t tell me to avoid the situation entirely, I’m going to go back and bring my guitar and play with them some. I’m not sure if I should mention the inaccuracy of them thinking I’m a girl – I figure the cool guy, the guitar whiz (he’s small and still has a high voice, even though we’re apparently almost exactly the same age, and he’s got long blond hair and a kind of hippie-like niceness that I can appreciate), I figure he might actually understand if I tell him to call me a boy. The others, I don’t know – probably, they seem nice.

So, friends. How weird. That doesn’t usually happen to me – all the friends I have, I’ve had for years and years, thereby erasing the need to have to make new ones. In English class I’ve got my old friend Zoe to sit next to, which makes my anxiety shoot way down – and when she’s not there, I have the quiet Chinese girl with the excess of cute Chinese pens with animals on them to talk to.  And also two guys that like Legend of Zelda, who I’m thinking about trying to be friends with. Maybe we already are. Whatever, I don’t know how friends work, really. I stumble through things trying to not fall on my face, that’s all.

My English teacher is amazing. Ms. Nutting. So is my history teacher (I take gifted history, for some bizarre reason, and what I’ve learned that in gifted history everyone is about twice as nice and twice as smart as your average run-of-the-mill kids). I haven’t once been teased this year, so that’s a trend I’m glad for – I’ve never been teased, actually. Not once. I figure it’ll happen eventually, but it hasn’t yet. I thought transgender kids were the ultimate targets for bullies – but they haven’t zeroed in on me so far. I’ll cross my fingers. And maybe it’s not totally obvious – if I was a boy who dressed like a girl, then probably I’d be in for some serious trouble, but when you’re a “girl” who dresses like a boy, you’re safer. It’s stupid, but it’s the way things are. I guess I could be mistaken for gay or just “different.” Hey, that’s fine. I’ll take different over “weird and transgender.”

Speaking of which – and this might be desperate wishful thinking – but I think that there’s a girl in English class who likes me. She isn’t the eighth wonder of the world or anything, but she always looks at me when I’m talking (I talk a lot in English because I can’t help trying to be smart, I try not to be annoying, at least), and once when I said something she nodded along like YES, I HEARD YOU, I HEARD YOU! She isn’t annoying or insufferable like some girls I’ve come across. I’d say she hovers in the general vicinity of “acceptable to interesting.” I’m a bit of a jerk, aren’t I? But it’s nice to be appreciated, even if she doesn’t LIKE me and she’s just being nice. She’s got long blond hair, a low voice (guess she could be a boy, it’s possible), though not so low that it’s weird, and if it weren’t for her slightly overdone mascara I think I’d probably be pretty interested. I’m stupid about make-up but I don’t like when people wear too much of it. I am, of course, desperate for some sort of romantic thing to happen to me. I figure everyone my age is. If she would like to ask me out, I will say yes. I imagine that will never happen and I’ll die in a shack in Alaska with my notebook, having never once kissed anyone or even held someone’s hand.

While I’m meandering along in the romance department, I’ll mention briefly my friends. One certainly has a crush on me – he even said so in grade five. We were supposed to spit a pebble in the direction of the person we liked, and he spit a pebble at me. Romantic? Not really. Kind of flattering, though. Since then, he’s grown tall and even more annoying and smart, and I’ve grown transgender. He saw the button on my bag that says ‘TRANSGENDER’ (I got that at a gay pride picnic, oops for putting it in plain sight where my friends can see) and I had to be vague and say that Oh, I’d just gotten it at some gay pride thing, doesn’t mean anything. I wonder if I’ll ever tell him. Stupid me, the reason he hasn’t mentioned his crush on me for such a long time is because he thinks I’m gay. No wonder.

I imagine our conversation as it would be in the late 1800s. I’m standing out in the barn (I dunno, it’s just some barn somewhere) with my hand on a horse, about to get up and ride away, dressed in my boys’ clothes. Wanting to join the army or something. And he comes along and exclaims as to what the heck I’m doing – and he’s a respectable, handsome, intelligent young gentleman, and I am not – and I have to explain, as the sun sets over the hills of pre-industrialized eastern Canada, that I wish to be a boy, and fight for my country in the war. (Some war, I don’t know which. There’s always a war going on, have you noticed that?) And he says, But I’ve always loved you! And I exclaim softly, I know, and… deep within me, I harbor similar feelings. But… I must leave. I must be who I am meant to be. And then I hop on the horse and ride away to meet my fate. That would be a terrible movie.

It’s hard, keeping such a secret. (By the way we’re back in present day now.) My mom and my psychiatrist know, but that’s it. It’s not something you just casually slip in during dinner. Or maybe you do? The hell do I know. I don’t know anyone else who’s transgender. My plan so far is just to keep dressing and acting the way I do, and hoping it rubs off on people eventually. Or maybe it won’t. People seem to like denial, I’ve noticed. Even I was in denial about this whole transgender thing for oh, about the first fifteen years of my life – only very recently have I finally forced myself to accept that I’m not just “boyish”, I AM a boy. And I can’t freakin live with being a girl for much longer. If there was a magic wand that could be waved and make me a boy, I’d go for that magic wand in a heartbeat. If it meant not having to explain to my family, or my friends, then yes, I’d do it. I would.

This post is pretty long and rambly. Sorry. Probably nobody got this far. And if you did, then thanks. I tend to barf out my feelings in long essays like this a lot – better than keeping them in, though. It’s nice to see your feelings laid out in black and white.

My mom just came in to remind me to go to bed. And then she closed my window. God, I hate that. I’m always too hot, I need the window open for the fresh, beautiful, fall-smelling air – she left it open a crack after I got mad. Also I have a weird fear of choking to death from carbon dioxide intake if my window isn’t open, but you don’t have to worry about that, that’s just another one of my obsessive fears that I get every once in a while. I wonder when my mom will stop regulating my bed time. Of course I still stay up much later than I actually get ready for bed – often pretty late, mulling things over or writing or… other late-night activities. Most personal things I can talk about, but that one I can’t.

Anyways, tomorrow I’ll get up, grab my guitar, and I’ll go to school wearing my various boy-like clothes, feeling self-conscious and generally uncomfortable, and meet up with my new hippie friends in the hallway and play music with them. I’m bothered that the kid so easily figured out I’m a “girl.” Is it my voice? Probably it’s that. Maybe I need a floating neon sign over my head that says BOY, with a giant arrow pointing down at my head.

Nah, then people would look at me funny. Well, I think this post is pretty much over – I’ve got to “get ready for bed” before my mom gets mad and storms in ruining my flow. I love her (probably more than anyone else in my family, but don’t tell them I said that), but she gets on my nerves to no end. I’m almost sixteen and I ought to be able to stay up into the wee hours of the morning if I so choose. I’m my own man.


Just to finish this off, I’ll be posting more in the future. Probably lots more. If you’ve actually gotten here, thanks again so much for reading, and hopefully, for caring – I don’t really want a lot of people reading this, but then again, just one like (as long as it’s not more freaking spam) makes me sort of get the feeling that somebody out there at least doesn’t hate what I’m writing. Do whatever you want, like, don’t like, follow, don’t follow. I just have to say thank you for taking the time.

See you later.  ~The Cellar Boy