The tomboy you tried to change.

By Gabrielle Young

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Yeah, Mom.

I said no to the dress,

not to any of your daughter.

But somehow that little word "no" made everything harder.

No pink, no bows, no skirts, no heels.

And you were mad at the child for the way that she feels.

See, I wasn't trying to be difficult. I wasn't trying to rebel.

I was barely old enough to spell.

But somehow you had a whole story to tell.

She walks like a boy.

She dresses like a boy.

She acts like a boy.

What the hell does that mean?

I'm a girl,

or at least that's what you told me until I stopped fitting the scene.

See, you bought a dress,

and I put it in the closet.

You wanted a princess;

I wanted pockets.

You wanted ribbons,

I wanted cleats.

You wanted pretty little sandals;

I wanted dirt beneath my feet.

And Mom, I wasn't thinking about identity.

I wasn't thinking about sexuality.

Hell, I was just trying to make it through a childhood

without everybody questioning my reality.

Then come the girls.

See, I didn't know what a crush was,

didn't know what love meant.

I just knew when she walked by,

there my whole attention went.

I raced a little faster,

jumped a little higher.

Did anything to make her laugh,

not knowing what inspired.

All those butterflies—did you notice, didn't you, Mom?

The way I'd rather hold her hand and chase after her boy,

and suddenly my innocence became something you couldn't enjoy.

Now I'm getting older,

and here come the questions,

the assumptions.

Discussions,

the never-ending suggestions.

Maybe you're confused.

Maybe it's just a phase.

Maybe you haven't figured yourself out.

Maybe you should just get out of my way.

Because when did my clothes become a conversation?

When did the way I walk need an explanation?

When did loving another woman become an invitation for everybody else

to debate my identification?

See, Mom, I never said I wanted to be a man.

I said I didn't want the dress.

I said—I never said I hated being a woman.

I said I didn't need the heels to feel my best.

I never asked for you to redefine me.

I asked for you to respect me.

And I shouldn't have to trade my femininity for your definition of masculinity.

Just so you can understand me.

Because being masculine doesn't make me less of a woman.

Being a lesbian doesn't make me a man.

And somebody else being transgender doesn't mean that's who I am.

They're not all the same, and that's okay.

But somewhere along the way,

you got so caught up trying to find the right name,

you forgot about the little girl who never asked to play your game.

The one with the straight knees,

oversized tees,

the crooked little smile,

trying to press the girl across the street.

You remember her, mom?

Because I do.

She's still here,

still wearing sneakers,

still loving women.

Still refusing the dress.

Only difference now,

she knows she doesn't have to apologize for the way she expresses herself.

So, mom, I got one last question:

Why was my no never enough?

Why did refusing pink mean I was confused?

Why did my brother's clothes mean I had something to prove?

Why couldn't you just let me grow? Why did everything I love have to mean something?

You needed to know.

I spent my whole childhood trying to explain myself to you, and now I'm grown, and I finally understand the truth.

You weren't listening to the little girl;

you were listening to your expectations,

your definitions,

your conditions,

your labels,

your limitations.

And the whole time,

I thought I was talking to my mother,

but I wasn't.

I was talking to society,

and society.

Since you spent so many years trying to tell me who I am,

let me make this one thing clear:

I said no to the dress,

not to being a woman.

And after all these years,

you still can't seem to understand the difference.

---

Gabrielle Young, unapologetically herself.

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