麻豆传媒高清

鈥淏ecoming Me鈥�

By Evan Camargo

It was almost three in the morning, February 22nd, 2022. Sitting at my cluttered desk, papers, sketchbooks, and art supplies left scattered and abandoned. I once again hit a point where what I love could no longer spark joy in my soul. The yellow ceiling lights cast a dull hue onto the pastel green walls of my bedroom. “It’s Quiet Uptown” from Hamilton: An American Musical echoed in my ears through my earbuds. I choked back sobs to the tune of the somber melody, forcing them to settle down so my pain wouldn’t slip into the night air, much less reach my sleeping family. Trembling fingers typed away into the notes application on my phone, tears blurring my screen as I tried to write the letter I’d soon be translating to my Spanish-speaking mother.

鈥� I genuinely have no better way to approach this. I told myself I wouldn’t do it until I turned 18. Then I told myself I'd do [it] with a therapist around. Then I thought it would be better to do it with just you and me alone鈥� But obviously that didn’t work out. The thing is that this has been eating me up for years. And I can’t take it anymore鈥�

At sixteen years old, the burden of hiding my identity had become too much. After years of trauma, punishment for emotionally expressing myself, and strict gender roles I didn’t understand but was taught not to question, I realized I didn’t have to tell anyone I was questioning and exploring my identity in order to avoid being punished. Discovering who I am was something I couldn’t shove into a closet as well as I believed I could. Especially when everything I had endured led to Major Depression Disorder. Hiding my identity wasn’t the only cause of my disorder, but forcing myself to play the role of someone I wasn’t certainly didn’t help. Yet, I had no intention of quitting my role so soon. I assumed waiting until I was eighteen would’ve been more favorable, as I genuinely deduced, I’d be immediately treated as an adult at that age and wouldn’t be questioned for my identity.

鈥� The previous therapist urged me to come out as soon as possible because even she was able to notice how much this secret was eating me up. She could see how much damage I was doing to myself by lying to myself and everyone else. She could see how much it hurt me that I couldn’t be honest with you鈥� 

At fourteen years old, I had been seeing a therapist, for unrelated reasons, under a court order, she was meant to mend the relationship between me and my abusive father. She took the time to understand me and my identity. She also understood that many of my wounds were too deep to be healed in the few sessions the court had ordered. Yet one issue, the one gawning at me and feeding my depression, she recognized could be addressed more quickly. It wouldn’t be simple but compared to the ocean of issues that was drowning me, she knew I could finally rise for air if I allowed myself to come out. Giving myself one less wave to fight against. So, she urged me to be honest with my family and be true to myself. No matter how much she helped me push against the other waves, my issues would prevail if I insisted on hiding my very being from others. She knew, at the moment, I wasn’t ready to come out. But in her decently sized office, her couch so soft it felt like I would drown in that instead, she softly implored me to end my suffering by coming out, before my suffering ended me. 

鈥� I went years in denial about myself. So this definitely isn’t a case of [“]I don’t know[“]. I know. Because I went years lying TO MYSELF about who I was. I went years making myself [feel like] something was wrong with me. That it was wrong for me to think and feel like this. I went years repeating to myself that I was a girl that I was born one therefore I am one. That I should be 100% feminine and reject anything masculine. But I couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t handle lying to myself for years and now I can’t handle continuing to lie to you. About 4 years ago was when I finally came to accept myself. I thought “I’ll just give it a try. Maybe I am just confused. But I’ll never know who I am unless I explore myself.” And I did. And to this day I’m so glad and grateful I pushed myself to try and not give up to figure out who I truly am. I was so happy hearing people refer to me as a boy. Calling me by MY name. Not the name I was given鈥� But a name I gave myself because I realized who I am鈥� 

At only twelve years old, I had finally accepted I was some sort of transgender. Initially, I believed I was bigender, a label which is used by those who identify with two genders, typically man and woman. However, something still didn’t feel right for me. I used the label for a year, perhaps a bit more, at school and online. Friends, classmates, and online strangers switching between referring to me as a girl and as a boy whenever they addressed me. That was until I realized that I truly didn’t feel comfortable identifying or being identified as a girl at all. So, I decided to drop the “girl” aspect of my identity, even if it was temporary as I figured myself out. I quickly came to realize, though, that disbarring the “girl” of my identity was not momentary. Instead, it was the piece I was meant to remove in order to find myself in the debris that my identity had been at the time. At thirteen years old, I then finally concluded that I was completely transgender. I picked out a name I had actually been holding onto for years, since I was eleven years old. My friends and I were a group of little artists; we loved drawing characters from fandoms we were in, along with creating our own original characters and self-inserts. In many communities, “genderbent” art was commonly seen. Characters were often designed and drawn to appear like they were of the opposite gender they were originally created as. This concept and type of art grew beyond drawing existing characters as the opposite gender, though, as many artists liked applying this trend to themselves as well. Just for giggles and likes, artists drew themselves and even gave themselves new identities when creating characters of themselves as the opposite gender. Seeing ourselves as artists as well, we jokingly joined in on the trend but kept it to ourselves. All of us, at the time identifying with the genders given to us at birth, girls, drew “boy versions” of ourselves during the time we loved to disregard our lunch and spend half an hour drawing instead. Our busy middle school cafeteria overflowed with kids resoundingly talking, bursting with laughter, food spilling from trays, as no child knew how to sit still while eating. All while my friends and I huddled together around our sketchbooks in the cramped lunch table we were squeezed to sit at. Giggling between us as we came up with names for our genderbent counterparts. “Okay, so! Hailey would be Harry! Stephanie would be Stephen! Angie would be鈥� Angel? Or Angelo? I think Angel works better! And I would be鈥� Hm鈥� Oh! Evan!” We all laughed and eagerly nodded in agreement before quickly blasting off, our pencils swiftly moving across our worn sketchbooks as we began sketching our genderbent designs. I snorted as I sketched out a backwards snapback on my genderbent, trying to hide my hair rather than designing a new hairstyle for myself. Funny enough, that was the only difference I had given myself when it came to drawing my genderbent and what I actually looked like at the time. The genderbent wasn’t really a “boy version” of me, as much as it was just me with a backwards snapback.

鈥� I feel like I have to be everything you want me to be. I feel like I can’t make mistakes, that I can’t be a mistake because it’s up to me to reach all your goals and expectations and even more than that. I was, I am, so afraid of letting you know me and who I am because I don’t want to disappoint you. I don’t want to be a failure in your eyes. I don’t want to be a mistake in your eyes. I don’t want to be a stranger in your eyes鈥� It’s always harder to talk to someone that means the world to you, that means everything to you. That’s why I always have a hard time about wanting to talk to you about literally anything. It’s hard to approach, it’s hard to know how you’ll respond or if you’ll respond at all. You’re always so busy working hard to give us everything you can. I feel like a burden even trying to approach you. I feel like you have so much more important things to worry about. I feel like you often take me as a joke鈥� 

Being a child from parents who immigrated to the United States to give their children a better life, expectations are long set before you’re even born. Expectations that both relate to opportunities in this country and the culture your family comes from. And in my culture, gender roles can be strict. My relationship with my mom was never really strong, I grew up unhealthily attached to my father, but even when I was connected to him, she was always busy working. Unable to spend time with me or my older brother despite how much she wanted to. As a result, I spent a good chunk of my life being raised by a close aunt whose gender norms were even stricter. On days when the sun shone bright, the breeze soothing the warmth, grass green and alive as my older brother and cousins played in the patchy backyard of my aunt’s house. Their laughter breaking through the summer heat as they kicked around an old worn football, one my uncle most likely got from the garbage people would leave in front of their homes as he loved to collect discarded items. Yet, their friendly competition was diluted by the walls I remained trapped behind. My small head being forced back at the force my aunt was brushing my hair with. I sat on the old-smelling carpeted floor, in between my aunt’s legs as she sat on the couch, leaning forward as she yanked my hair up in a tight ponytail. Looking straight ahead at her ancient boxed t.v., which emitted a constant painful buzz. I found the noise comforting though, relatable even, allowing the static-filled t.v. to infiltrate my brain, muffling any thoughts or opinions I had of her forbidding me to go outside and play as, it was a “boys” activity. Given the closeness my aunt had with my mom, I always assumed my mom held gender roles with the same regard. Or at least that my mom agreed with the gender role I was being raised to follow. 

鈥� I’m overjoyed and proud of who I really am. Even if it’s someone that might make you disown me. It hurts to even think but even if you don’t accept me, don’t believe me, or don’t love me anymore. There’s nothing I can do about that. I’ll just be glad to finally be able to breathe as who I am and not who I have to pretend to be鈥� 

I spent years exploring myself, long before I was sixteen, long before I was fourteen, and long before I was twelve. Whether it was playing with “boy” toys or participating in “boy” activities, borrowing and wearing my older brother’s clothes, searching online questions about what I felt that I couldn’t answer myself, meeting different people, peers, and asking them questions about their identities and how they came to find themselves, identifying differently with different people I met to see what felt right and what didn’t. With no person of authority to share my thoughts and feelings with, I felt safe to go on a journey to figure out who I truly am. That peaceful and loving journey, even with the weight of keeping it unknown from my parents, only further solidified my confidence and the love I felt for finding myself. So, at almost eight in the morning on February 22nd, 2022, when the sun had just made its way onto the sky, the chilliness of my home momentarily soothing my nerves as I carefully walked towards my mom’s purse. Three loose sheets of papers, with tiny numbers at the top of each page so she wouldn’t get lost in my soul-baring revelation, slipped inside her purse as I tip-toed out of our cold home, careful that the keychains swinging from my bookbag wouldn’t disturb everyone sleeping in the house. As I gently shut the door of the house behind me, I felt sick. The nausea and grueling pit in my stomach dominated my body as I waited under the enormous tree that sat in the corner at the end of the street. Yet, once on the school bus, as I looked out the window, the song echoing through my earbuds finally changed, I couldn’t help but exhale and finally take a deep breath in. A miniscule smile tugged at my lips as the waves of misery finally calmed down to a calm ocean. Occasionally, the ocean roars and fights again, wounds that haven’t healed keep it alive. But I can now fight it while being myself. Pushing waves back, reminding them of who' s really in control. I spent years in hiding, letting everything and everyone drown me. But I don’t have to do that anymore. I will never do that again. Thanks to my experience, I can now face everything and everyone with the same level of honesty I was able to come forward with. Nothing will ever compare to the level of honesty and vulnerability I had to face this with. Everything feels easier to confront now.