The Things About A Trans Teen

Town of Biggots

Girls and dolls. Two words that always stick into my mind when I hear the word "childhood". I was shy in my elementary years; at least when compared to other kids who went out of their way to talk to each other every chance they got. In kindergarten I would often sit alone in the farthest corner were the dolls were untouched even by my female classmates. That was the problem with growing up in a town where sports were everything and being different meant not having any friends. That's basically how my kindergarten years went.

That changed when a boy named Ben, who was so wacky and hyper you'd think his dad spiked his drink with cocaine every morning, introduced himself to me at recess almost two weeks into second grade. Our friendship blossomed for two more school years like a healthy flower in the middle of a sunny feild during spring. That is, until he realized he could run faster and dodge a tackle better than almost all the other boys in our grade. He joined the "Little Legs" football team in 4th grade and I lost my best friend to the manly world of sports.

While he was winning trophies for the rest of his middle school years, I was discovering makeup. During fourth grade I experimented with nail polish and eyeliner, and during sixth grade I started growing out my hair. It all went well, and my new friends, two outcast boys named Jermy and Logan, accepted my "gayness" with open arms and we were best friends for years. In ninth grade my nail polish, long hair, hand motions (of course, I had to have the attitude to go with the look), and self confidence got called to the counselor's office.

"Now, you do know that," she paused to clear her throat and adjust her sitting position. "Making fun of a person's sexuality is considered bullying, right Mr. Micheal?" The snarl added to the world sexuality pushed me over the edge.

I bit my tongue as she eyed my purple and black nails. She was the biggest definition of a hypocrite​ I knew, accusing me of bullying when she obviously had an issue with people of any kind of difference to her country lifestyle. Most people in small secluded hamlets like the one I lived in shared her opinion. How happy that must of made her.

"Yes, I understand that, but if that's the case, explain to me why such a self-observed bigot like yourself got this job?" I regretted the words as soon as they left my smartass mouth.

The counselor's face was a mixture of shock and anger. She nearly flipped her chair as she spun to her desk to write me a referral to the principle's office. I snatched it out of her hand before it even left the desk, and skipped my smartass down to the principle's office. If I was going to get in trouble for defending gay people, I might as well be happy while doing it.

I opened the door into the gray and plastic office; the principle sitting contently at his desk which was dead center in the room. Actually, the more I looked at it, the more and more the room looked like an OCD person's utopia. Everything was either wrapped in plastic or in small neat piles. The desk, chairs, and cabinets looked as if they all came from a gothic decoration magazine consisting of nothing but metal furniture.
The steel chairs were ice cold, causing goosebumps to trail up my arms as my back pressed up against the icy steel.

"There's a thing called a heater Mr..." I stopped when his cold steely gaze met my eyes. I've never seen him this close before; obviously in his late twenties he supported salt and pepper hair, which matched his light blue eyes, and a light stubble that ran across his finely cut jaw line. His lips were neither big or small, but instead rested on a perfect place in the middle, and looked softer than a silk curtain.

He set his jaw and stared at me as if waiting for me to speak more, and when I went to do it he opened his mouth, "now, Mr. Micheal, I understand you called Mrs. Finch some rather ungentlemanly things, would you care to tell me what these things are?"

"A self-observed bigot," the world's flicked off my tongue with anger. I wasn't about to be punished for stating the truth without at least displaying my hatred towards my town's "southern hospitality".

Mr. Beckam sighed and turned in his chair to face the clock, "I'll send you back to class for today, being we only have an hour left, but for the next week you'll have in school suspension in the library where you will do you work, eat, then leave. See you tomorrow at 8 in the library."

I stood and ran my hand through my hair, untangling any knots I found, and slowly marched my way out of the office and into the Hall. I made sure the door was a little extra louder going out then when I came in. It was gonna be a long week.