I live in a chair.
It is blue, and red, and black
like all inanimate objects it does not have a gender.
But when I live in it, I do.
I am a man.
A man in a chair.
A man who wears makeup and skirts with ridiculous hair.
I roll across floors and rush down hills.
On Monday after class I was in the hospital.
Food is beginning to become a problem for me.
And the admitting nurse asked me “Gender?”
I am a man. But I have estrogen.
My genetically altered body will not allow the male hormones in for fear of complete breakdown.
I am a man who lives in a medicalized, binary, walled world.
Sometimes in my pain I scream and roar. I worry that masculinity is getting the best of me.
I live in a chair especially made for me.
Made for my non conforming self.
My body is hard to feel comfortable with. In a chair. With breasts. With a voice as high as my mom on a hot california day. And sometimes an IV attached to me. With pills and fluids and tubes.
Its hard not to imagine myself broken.
But I am strong.
I know who I am.
And I will not stop until everyone else does too.
Until everyone sees me as more than a person who lives in a chair.