Like Them by Jesse Galea
Content Warning: This piece of writing includes themes of gender dysphoria and transphobia.
Like Them
You were born in the winter. You were pulled from your mother’s womb alongside your twin and the first thing you did was scream.
You didn’t concern yourself with the administrative requirements of acquiring a child. Nor the discourse and language used. You just cried.
Your parents were also crying. Happy tears. A girl and a boy, they were saying. A girl and a boy.
One of you was a boy. One of you was a girl. And that’s how you were presented to the world.
Then you were given a name: Jasmine Rose. A checkmark next to your name inside a box labelled female.
Your twin was given a name: Christopher Aidan. A checkmark next to your twin’s name inside a box labelled male.
You are the girl. He is the boy. You are his sister. He is your brother.
And now, everything starts to go wrong.
***
You are seven and you know you’re pretty. People always tell you. You’re pretty.
You’re pretty because you are tall and your height comes from your legs. Long legs are pretty.
You’re pretty because you have long brown hair that your mother brushes for you and secures with a pale pink scrunchie. Long brown hair is pretty.
You’re pretty because you have big eyes. They are brown and they match your hair. Big eyes are pretty.
You’re pretty because you are tan. Being tan is pretty. But only if you’re white. You’re white, so you’re pretty.
Your parents are lucky because they have such a pretty daughter.
You go to school and you have a best friend who doesn’t look like you. She doesn’t have long brown hair or big eyes or tan white skin and she is short. You know this means she isn’t pretty like you. But you’re friends with her anyway because she’s funny and lets you borrow her pencils.
You sit with her at lunch and talk about boys. She asks which boy in your class you like. You have nine boys to pick from. You go through each of them in your mind.
You pick the boy who looks the most like you. His hair is brown like yours, his eyes are big like yours, he is tall like you, he is tan like you. He is pretty like you so that makes him the best choice.
Your friend is upset because that’s the boy she picked. She liked him first. You care for her so you promise you won’t try to Go Out with him.
You don’t know what Go Out means. Your mother doesn’t let you Go Out anywhere on sleepovers because sometimes you wet the bed.
***
You are eight.
You have long hair and it’s pretty and you hate it. Your arms get sore from holding a brush above your head for so long when you try to brush it. You don’t know how to tie it up.
Your mother brushes it every day and ties it up for you before school. She tells you that it’s about time you brush your own hair. You can’t keep being lazy.
She threatens to cut it all off to look like your brother. You know she can’t do that. You don’t know any girls with boy hair.
You wouldn’t be pretty if you cut your hair.
Your parents are lucky because they have such a pretty daughter.
***
You are nine.
You and your twin and your mother are visiting your mother’s mother. She is your grandmother.
Your grandmother loves to sew and she makes you clothes. She made clothes for you when you were a baby too.
But you don’t like to wear her clothes. You hate them. They have thin straps and don’t cover your shoulders and you hate them. They’re all pink and small and made for girls to wear. You feel uncomfortable in them.
Your grandmother tells your mother it’s a shame you’re a tomboy because you’re so pretty. And you’d look so pretty in the clothes she makes.
Your grandmother thinks you don’t hear her because you’re outside but you hear her. You’re drawing on her paving in chalk and your twin is doing tricks on his skateboard.
You want a skateboard.
***
You are eleven.
You are in the in-between place between primary school and high school.
You use the toilet and see blood in your underwear. You start crying. You thought you could stop it happening to you if you wished hard enough. You didn’t wish hard enough.
You go to your room and hide your underwear in the back of your cupboard.
Your mother comes in and sees you crying. She tells you it sucks to be a woman. She tells you how to use pads and gives you a box of tampons you will never use.
You were raised religious and your own genitalia repulses you. You have never had a feel around. Never dared to look.
You stick to pads. You feel uncomfortable. Like you’re wearing a nappy.
You’re jealous of your twin.
***
You are in high school and it is winter.
You are glad you don’t have to wear the summer dress at school. You have the choice for winter.
You choose pants instead of a skirt because you still hate girly clothes because you are a tomboy.
You are approached by boys and girls almost every week.
Girls are more subtle and ask you why you wear pants like they’re really interested but they pretend they’re not laughing when you give your answers.
Boys are less subtle and tell you you’re wearing the boys’ uniform. They tell you you’re so weird. They ask if you’re trying to be a boy. They ask if you know you’re not a boy.
You learn to ignore them because your mother offers to buy you the skirt when you tell her what they say to you. You know it’s you who is wrong.
You have a group of friends that are all girls. They tell you you’re lucky because the tights they wear don’t stop the wind. They keep falling down. They rip easily.
You want to ask them why they don’t wear pants if they want to be lucky too.
***
You are in your last term of your first year of high school.
You are wearing the school dress with shorts underneath because you aren’t used to wearing a skirt and it blows up in the wind.
You are walking to the bus one day and a boy from your school stops you. You don’t know him. He tells you you’re hairy. He laughs. He asks you if you shave your legs in the way people ask things when they don’t really want an answer because they already know the answer.
You look at your legs and hate them. How did you never notice the disgusting hairs on them? Why did nobody tell you this was a rule you needed to follow?
You scratch your legs and hope you can scratch the hair off. It just makes your legs red.
Now you know the rules you notice your friends talking about them. They brag about how soft and smooth their legs are after shaving.
You cover your legs with your jumper when you sit and wish you could ask your mother to be allowed to shave. She told you about shaving when she told you about puberty but you were too grossed out to ask any questions and you don’t want to betray who your mother thinks you are by changing your mind.
You keep starting to ask the question. You never finish asking the question.
Your mother can tell you’re being weird. You’re not subtle.
A shaving ad comes on TV when you’re watching home renovation shows. Your mother asks if you want to shave. You feel a weight lifted from your heavy soul.
She gives you a perfunctory disclaimer. You don't have to shave and some people don’t.
You don’t know any girls who don’t.
You're free, she says. Free to do what you want with your body.
But you know she's lying. You need to shave to fit in because everyone shaves. You are free in theory.
She shows you how to prop up your leg and drag a pink razor up your soap-lathered legs. She shows you how to hold your arm to rid your armpits of their natural forest.
She tells you that it’s hygienic to remove your hair. That it makes you stink less. That it just looks better.
You wonder if your mother told your twin the same.
You wonder if you can shave your arms too. Maybe then you could let yourself wear short sleeves in the summer.
***
You wear baggy shorts for sport at school. Girls in your class are holding the excess material in their fists to pull their shorts tightly over their thighs. They are comparing their thigh gaps.
The conversation turns to you, and you do the same. You pull your shorts tight and push your hips back and rotate your knees and pretend not to feel relieved that you have a gap now.
You are relieved that other girls are acting like you’re just like them.
You wish desperately you could be like them without feeling wrong bad out of place intruder imposter faker fraud in your hips and your chest and your wrists and your bones and your blood.
You ache with desire to be like them.
Executive Producers
Hayley Scrivenor
Sue White
