[Image Description: close up on a pile of surgical scissors and forceps]
Blake Planty reflects on his journey of having a trans body within the complicated world of medical jargon, procedures, and health insurance.
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I remember the list of positions, one-two-three-four-five; the tension in my calves, the brittle arch of my arms as I balanced on the balls of my feet. Ageless, thoughtless reflexes inhabit my body, ghosts in a haunted house. You don’t outgrow what you learn that early on
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When I think back on the most powerful times of my life, I find that solitude has usually played an important role in my power.
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I go to the mirror, running my thumb along the sandpaper skin of my cheek, where the garden of little copper wires blossoms and blooms. I wish for a razor.
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I had learned from a very young age that my father was an angry man.
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Every time I put it on, it is cold. A small piece of metal, a double-sided axe. A skinny black rubber necklace suspends it around my neck; it nestles between my breasts. Originally from Crete in Greece, the labrys is an adopted icon of lesbians.
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Lonely is the space that my stomach fights, my mind barricades, and my body curls up to. Lonely is losing parts of who I am because my arms can’t hold my entirety. I’ve internalized the emptiness; I’ve ingrained solitude into myself because I mistook it for independence and control.
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My mom’s side of the family came to the U.S. from Cuba as refugees fleeing the Communist Revolution. My dad’s side of the family is of the Midwestern variety that doesn’t believe in feelings, sickness, or anything that might be perceived as a weakness.
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Bad skier is fine. I can handle being a bad skier. I expected to be bad at this like I am bad at literally every other kind of physical activity. I just didn’t expect to be so afraid.
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The stakes are high. If I win, she wins. I vow with all I have I’m going to win.
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Authors may be but human, but they’ve always seemed like prophets to me. That faith ties into my deep belief that stories shape reality. The examples we grow up with, lived or imagined, define our expectations for the future.
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Clearly, Donald Trump represents all the worst parts of America - racism, sexism, Islamophobia, classism, bad hair - but Clinton is a more subtle version of all those things. Both of them need to be called out.
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I didn’t cry during her speech. I cried when she exhaled.
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