Truth was, as David slowly learned, the whole idea of “transition” itself was kinda fucked up in a certain way, you know? Some people just needed to take certain hormones to make life livable because their bodies happened to not produce those hormones. Truth was, you could be trans and not pass, and this might suck, but it didn’t make you less trans or less of a woman. What in the fucking fuck is gender, anyway? said one of the trans men. You could be trans if it made you a homo, be trans without taking hormones, be trans and keep your old friends if they weren’t dicks, be trans and keep your dick, be trans if you wanted to be out about it, for God’s sake. You know what being stealth does to your soul? Do what you gotta do to survive, yes. Always. But. If stealth is an intrinsic, pure goal for its own sake, it’ll kill you, friendo. So they all said. In one LiveJournal group, an intense Buffy the Vampire Slayer devotee illustrated her feelings thus, by caption-parodying that scene where Spike yells at Angel and Buffy: You’re not cis. You’ll never be cis. You’ll be trans ’til it kills you. You’ll fight, and you’ll shag, and you’ll hate yourself ’til it makes you quiver, but you’ll never be cis. Transgenderism isn’t brains, children, it’s blood! Blood screaming inside you to work its will!

This post devolved into an intense debate in the comments about internalized self-hatred and the ethics of appropriate coping mechanisms thereof and led to an exodus of a dozen members along with a revamp of the group’s rules page—but David liked the gist of it. That old world David had shivered at from afar, maybe it wouldn’t be around forever. These were the ideas David discovered in his early twenties, and it made a future feel possible. If he wanted to be trans—whatever that meant?—David could maybe do it and keep his weird little Davidness.

But then David ran into a problem as he became more open on the street, slowly showed up to the dishwashing job in dresses, got the gawks and glares and dudes on the MAX asking, “Why are you wearing a fuckin’ skirt?!” Gazing at the beginnings of an accepted fear that had previously seemed so mortifying. He would get home, thinking, Fuck them. I can do this. He would look up that clinic to get hormones and type out a list of possible names to show the LiveJournal group, and then.

Find his “courage.”

Suddenly.

Waning.

Because holy jeez, the thought of telling his mother he was a girl? Risking that for good? That was just one light that winked out inside him. Coming out to his conservative data entry boss, coming home to Ray as he went through another puberty? Forever turning off the option of changing into boy clothes on late-night bus rides home?

The idea of keeping his current lucky little life, only girlified? Was that really possible?