Other

Before, there were no Choices. All of the main conflict occurred because people were upset over things they could not control. This makes sense to me; how could human will thrive under such restriction? Things are better now; everything is a Choice. I cannot imagine a life without Choices. When I was born, my parents Chose to give me tan skin and black hair. They already had one child with light skin and wanted a diverse family. When I was ten, I Chose my name. I spent months leading up to my birthday contemplating, finally deciding on Ali. After reassuring my parents that that was the name I really wanted, it became permanent and official. I suppose that's the downside of the Choices: once you make a decision, you can't change your mind.

The System, our government agency, created the Choice Procedures. Anyone who dislikes a Choice they've made is sent to a correctional facility. This doesn't happen often, but with so many Choices to make, it's possible. We all make hundreds of small Choices on a daily basis, but Major Choices are scheduled at certain age milestones. My last Major Choice was my name, and my next will occur when I'm sixteen. I will get to Choose my gender, one of the most important Choices I'll make in my life. The Gender Choosing is a rite of passage.

My sixteenth birthday is coming sooner than I would like. I hate to admit, I am nervous for the Gender Choosing. All of the other people at school know what gender they'll Choose, but I haven't decided. I know this is abnormal. I see it in my parents' faces when they question me about my upcoming Choice, the hope in their eyes replaced with concern when I shrug in response. Their disappointment upsets me, so today I am visiting a special facility to explore the two gender options. This will help me decide.

I board a bus and disembark at stop D4, approaching the austere building in front of me. The facade is gray, and simple lettering above the door proclaims, "Gender Selection Advisory." I push into the lobby, heading for the desk. The woman sitting behind it looks bored.

"Hi," I stutter, "I'm Ali. I'm here to get help."

She looks down at her computer. "What's your ID number, kid?"

"10519199." I rattle off the code that served as my identification before my Name Choosing. She gestures to a door behind her.

"Go through there. Sam will help you."

I smile in thanks, trying to steady my shaking hands as I grab the door's handle. I don't know why I'm so nervous. The thought of knowing what gender to Choose should fill me with relief. Hopefully this session will ease my anxiety.

Inside, a man-Sam, presumably-shakes my hand. "Ali, is it? Let's get you set up!" He's nicer that the receptionist. I follow him to another room brimming with wires and monitors. After directing me to a chair in the room's center, Sam starts fidgeting with some gadgets on the walls.

"What is all this stuff?" I ask, peering suspiciously around.

Sam laughs. "This is a world-class simulation system. It hooks up to your brain and feeds you sensory components so you can experience both genders firsthand."

Interesting. "How will I know which gender is right?"

"Well," he pauses, "I don't exactly know how to explain it. You'll just know. One gender will feel right, and the other one will feel uncomfortable. Are you ready?" He has finished setting up and stands next to me, reaching above my head. I nod, and he pulls some sort of helmet down. It covers my entire head, and all I see is black.

"You may feel a slight pinch," Sam says, his voice distorted. Suddenly, a sharp pang strikes my head. I gasp, eyes closing reflexively. When I open them, the room is filled with light; but it isn't the testing room. I stand in a tiny space, empty except for a mirror on the wall. I look at my reflection and do a double-take. My regulation shoulder-length hair has transformed into a sharp buzz cut. My shoulders are broader. I am male. As my shock wears off, I move a little to experiment. I clench my fists, take a few steps backward. This is not the body I'm used to. Every movement I make feels too charged, too strong. This feels wrong.

Not male, then.

A shudder goes through me. The image in the mirror before me shifts. This must be it; if I'm not meant to be male, then surely I will like my female body. My hair now flows behind me, curlier in its length. My figure is curvier, my chest larger. I wear a flowing dress the color of cotton candy. I put my hands on my hips, something my mother does often, and scrutinize my reflection even more. A feeling of dread overtakes me. This feels wrong, too.

Not female?

The simulation fades away. I'm back in the testing room with Sam gazing at me expectantly. "How did it go?"

Somehow, I know better than to say what I'm truly thinking. I know that it's the wrong answer. Instead, I plaster on a smile and say, "Great! I think I've made my decision." Pretending to listen to him as he escorts me back to the front entrance, I try to numb the sense of trepidation inside me. It doesn't work. The entire bus ride home, I feel alien. How do I not fit in either gender? What's wrong with me?

I'm so distracted that I get off a stop too late. This is the bad part of town; the buildings are sad remnants of their former grandeur and grass springs from large cracks in the pavement. A lone bench marks the bus stop, and I sit down to wait for another bus. I'm too far from home to walk. My mind races. I'm so preoccupied that I fail to realize I'm not alone.

An old woman leaning heavily on a cane shuffles up to the bench. She sits down with a heavy sigh, like she's deflating. I glance at her, and she catches my eye. Something knowing passes over her features.

"What's troubling you, child?" She asks me. Her voice is low and gruff. I consider ignoring her, but something about her makes me think she's trustworthy.

"My sixteenth birthday is ten days, and I don't know what gender to Choose. I went in to the Advisory Center today, but I still can't make a decision."

She smiles wistfully. "Ah, the Gender Choosing. I remember when I was your age. I always knew I'd Choose female. But I've had to make some hard decisions myself. You wanna know what I really think?"

"What's that?" I ask.

She leans toward me conspiratorially. "I think the System is overrated." Ignoring my doubtlessly shocked expression, she pushes on. "I may as well come out and say this because I'll be dead soon enough. What I figure is, what's the point in having Choices when we can only Choose what the System wants us to? That's not free will, kid. That's a ruse to make you think you have a say in things. But what do I know? I'm just a bitter old lady with a lot of regrets, I suppose." She sighs but doesn't say any more.

A bus pulls up to the stop, and I stand abruptly. I'm afraid to respond to the woman, afraid to acknowledge what she's said. That kind of talk can get someone sent to a correctional facility. I nod to her and walk toward the bus. "You take care," she calls from behind me. She doesn't get on.

That night, I lie awake in bed, my mind too busy to sleep. I can't stop thinking of the old woman. Her words run through my head on repeat. What's the point in having Choices when we can only Choose what the System wants us to? That's not free will. I want to scream, want to stop thinking. The tiny seed of doubt in my mind is budding rapidly, and I know now that she is right about all of it. How can the System be right when all the Choices it offers feel wrong?

In a way, I make my Choice. I cannot live the rest of my life as a male. I cannot live the rest of my life as a female. I am comfortable with the body I'm in now, and I will not live in one that is not my own. I will just have to face the consequences of my decision.

On the day of my Choosing, the administrator asks me, "Ali, which gender do you Choose: male, or female?" I stand calmly in front of her, my mind flashing once more to the old woman on the bench.

"I choose other."