Just Passing

41. Control

I can hear the students shuffling in and teachers directing classes to rows, telling them not to skip seats. "Stop kicking the chair in front of you!" one voice rises above the din. The rest is just rustling. Clamor. But I can barely hear any of it over the pounding of my heart.

Grades four through eight can fit in the auditorium at once, and today, the last Friday in January, they're all assembling together to hear a presentation about gender identity.

Ms. Reid is standing at the front of the stage, observing students as they enter, but Danielle is standing next to me in the wings. Thick maroon curtains block our view of the audience, cloaking us in shadow and shielding us from all the activity. She is calmly reviewing her notecards, but I must be giving off nervous vibes because she pauses, looks up, and gives a reassuring smile. "You've done the work. This is the fun part," she says, a gleam in her eye.

My stomach clenches in response and all I can do is pray that my deodorant is strong enough to combat the anxiety-sweats.

Unbidden, a memory from my college days floats through my mind. It was early in my transition. The time when I knew I was trans, but still dating lesbians. Still straddling the L and the T of the queer groups on campus. There was a presentation in one of the lecture halls about transgender rights, and I went. Alone. I got there early and because I had no one to pass the time chatting with, I just eavesdropped on the conversations swirling around my head. A few people wondered where the speaker was. They didn't see any trans people. At least not ones old enough to be college grads. Then, when the hour struck, an unassuming middle-aged man in a collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up, stood up from the front row and strolled to the lectern. He was of medium height, medium build, and had a full beard, which seemed to compensate for the lack of hair on the top of his head. I didn't recognize him. Figured he was some professor. But then he spoke and in his deep, confident voice, he introduced himself as Jamison Green: the guest speaker. Some people's eyes widened in disbelief. There'd been a real adult trans person in their presence the whole time, and they hadn't even known.

I feel like that now. Like I'm about to announce myself as an intruder in my own space.

But that's ridiculous. Isn't it?

Aiden's advice had been simple. "Assume people know," he had said matter of fact, still leaning back in his swivel chair. And then after a beat, the silence of me not knowing how to respond, he continued, "Being trans is not a secret. It's not private medical history. It's just a fact about you. Nothing to hide, and nothing that you were hiding. You never lied and said you were cis, did you? No, people just made assumptions. We can't control other people's assumptions, and in turn, they can't control yours. So, assume they already know and act as such. Assume it's already not a big deal. Because, well, it really isn't. Or it shouldn't be. Especially to them."

So, that's what I'm going to do. What I plan to do.

Besides, it's probably true. Based on the looks. The whispers. Everyone probably already knows and just hasn't said it to my face. So, after enduring three and a half weeks of over-interpreting every odd glance, I'm about to take Jessica's advice and take back control.

First, I just need to take back control of my body. It's vibrating like a jackhammer.

I hear Ms. Reid turn on the microphone. The house lights dim and the audience hushes.
That's my cue.

I take a deep, steadying breath, shove all my emotions down into a ball, and plaster a smile across my lips. Then, with a quick eyebrow raise of encouragement from Danielle, I step through the curtain and join Ms. Reid on the stage.

We never turn the house lights off all the way during assemblies. You never know what kids will try to get away with in the dark. As a result, I can see every single face staring at me. Every colleague. Every student. The classic advice for stage fright is to imagine your audience in their underwear. These are not people who I want to imagine in any state of undress, so instead, I stare just above everyone's heads and remember to breathe.

"Mr. Graham and I are excited to introduce our guest speaker," Ms. Reid begins. "Our conversation today is going to be about gender expression and identity. A topic that applies to all of you, both as you navigate your own identities, and as a way for you to understand the world around you."

It's my turn to speak. Ms. Reid turns to me. "I–I," I clear my throat. "I know this is a topic that you have discussed in your classes, but I also know that you may still have questions. As you all know, I am a transgender man, and I want to assure you that everyone has questions, and that's okay. It's good, even. Asking a question is way better than making a wrong assumption!" I say, and... there it is. It's out there.

Ms. Reid talks again. But I'm not sure what she is saying. We had planned this. It wasn't unscripted, my coming out, or whatever I just did.

Then I hear a pause. "Mr. Graham?" I'm guessing that she is repeating herself.

Shit. What was I supposed to say next?

Ah, yes. "Well, without further ado, let me introduce today's guest: Danielle Pontillo!"

Danielle comes out on stage, and Ms. Reid and I slip back into the wings.

I collapse into a folding chair.

"Are you okay?" Ms. Reid puts a hand on my shoulder.

"I think I blacked out." I try to smile, but my lips feel glued together. "Did the kids respond?"

"To your admission? Not in the moment. But I'm sure it made an impact."

I'm not sure what I was expecting. Or fearing. An uproar? A standing ovation? Something worthy of the climactic scene in a movie? But that's not how things go in life.

"I hope it will make things easier for Blake."

"It will. You've already made things so much easier for him."

And that's all I can really hope for. All I really want.

We sit in the wings and watch Danielle's presentation. It's great. She's engaging. And entertaining. But most importantly, she can get to the kids' level and really communicate with them.

And then it's over. The house lights go back up. Students stand and teachers direct their classes towards the exits and back towards the next period. Danielle packs up and leaves and I go back to my office. Just another Friday afternoon.

But now, when I walk down the halls, I make eye contact with everyone I pass. My head is held up high. I'm the one in control of my narrative.