Sweatpants

Let’s throw that skirt aside.

I’m not doing that today.

The fabric was soft where my fingers pinched its hem. The pants were navy-blue, fleece on the inside and polyester on the outside. They weren’t jeans, but that was good enough for me. When I was six, I wore my first pair of pants ever. They were tight on my legs, the feeling foreign since all I’d known were skirts. And yet, they were perfect to me. I wore them another fifteen or so times before I craved more–though I was promptly dismissed by my painfully religious parents.

My legs were properly spread when the joggers made their debut. I’d been trying to mimic the stature of my male peers. Of course, I had no idea that the manspreading was the result of their anatomy, but for some reason I had made it my life’s mission to copy their every move. It was playtime, and so I’d challenge the boys to a race. I’d win. Physical Education rolled around and basketball was my time to shine (I sucked, but the thrill of doing something categorized as masculine was more than enough to make up for it). When I went home every afternoon, I’d change out of my school clothes and put on that same ol’ skirt for church. Goodbye sweatpants is what I’d say, because I was too young to process what those pants truly meant to me.

Three years later, I hit puberty. Suddenly I’d have to pair my skirts with bras. “She’s becoming a real woman.” My mother would say. I hated those words and I didn’t understand why. Sports bras morphed into double A cups; why did it make me want to rip my hair out? I loathed the way my family would look at my chest before looking at me. It wasn’t in a creepy pedophilic way but it still made my hairs stand on end. Puberty was so important to them. I got my first period while wearing some trendy styled pants every boy in my fifth-grade class wore. I wanted to throw up, not because of the crime scene unfolding in my underwear but because I was inching closer and closer to womanhood, and everyone I wanted to be was far from it.

Shame crawled down my spine when I went home to tell my mother. She told my aunt, their mother, and my sisters too. I was so embarrassed. They might as well have thrown a block party for the news, though at the time I’d much rather be stoned in front of the entire city than have my puberty business aired out to my entire family. For a brief moment, I wondered if my sisters experienced the same mortification when they got their periods. But that was pure naivety because we could be sitting down in the kitchen and there they go talking about the multiple clots they left in the toilet with big ol’ smiles. So maybe it was just a “me problem”.

When I graduated elementary school, I naturally started middle school a few months later. This would be my big break–I’d heard the halls practically reeked of puberty. And this was true. All the boys smelled absolutely rancid, and the girls hid their own questionable odors with copious amounts of body mist from their favorite mall store PINK. This would be the perfect setting for me to find out where I truly belonged! Except it wasn’t because my parents still made me wear skirts over my pants (It looked ridiculous). Before the school year began, my mom allowed me one new pair of kicks to show off to the rest of the kids in class. She let me choose them too. This became a tradition for each and every new year at that school. And you’ll never guess what style of sneakers I would choose… yup! The ones catered for little boys. When all the girls were buying their light up Twinkle Toes and pink Converse, I was making sure to bag every trendy shoe the boys would wear. Thus began my mini sneakerhead phase. Looking back, the kicks were pretty ugly. They were thick and square shaped around my tiny feet; they were not catered for ten year old girls. But at the time, nothing excited me more than fitting in with the guys at school. I still hadn’t figured out why.

My first experience with a transgender man was that same year–6th grade. He was two years older than me, so I never once had a conversation with him. All I knew was that he was trans and everyone referred to him with his chosen name and pronouns. Something in me clicked then. Was it possible for people to be living in the wrong body? The boy lived on to medically transition. Since the world is quite small, he strolled along my TikTok FYP about two years ago–nothing had changed.

When I was in elementary school, there wasn’t a single boy I’d had a crush on. When I entered middle school, suddenly I wanted every single boy to like me back. It was so weird. They weren’t cute–not for my tastes anyway. I never actually had a crush on any of them, but I forced myself to believe I did and even confessed to them myself. The truth is, I wanted to be them, not be with them. You like to run track? Me too! You like playing football? I guess I can try. You watch Japanese animated shows? Well, so do I! Every single part of their lives was singlehandedly mimicked by me until I deemed myself “one of the boys”. I’d make sure to throw my hundreds of birthday savings to video games like the Legend of Zelda and little figurines of Minecraft animals just to feel even a smidge more masculine than I did before. But I was still a girl.

I let it all go the moment I stepped foot into an all-girls high school. I had to fit in. If high school were anything like the movies, I knew I’d need to conform in order to survive. And so I did. The sweatpants I’d loved were hidden at the back of my closet. I splurged on sweet perfumes, fuzzy moccasins, grew out my hair, and even dabbled with my mom’s makeup. It felt so wrong, looking back. I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t myself. But I didn’t get bullied like the other girls that cared less about fitting in and more about being their most authentic self. For me, that was an even trade.

When I was a sophomore, the infamous COVID-19 pandemic hit the U.S.

This global shutdown caused everyone to quarantine in their homes for months and with nothing else to do, we all decided to sit with our thoughts. For me, it was time to sit with those thoughts I fought hard to suppress for nearly two years. And so I remembered everything. I remembered my first pair of sweatpants. I remembered the second pair I’d ruined on my senior trip with my first period. I remembered challenging every boy at school to races and arm wrestling duels during recess. I remembered the sadness in my eyes when I would see a girl staring back at me in the mirror. I remembered the trans boy at school–how he was fearless at such a young age. I remembered me. The me that once was so oblivious and happy to just be alive.

I reconciled with my identity when I was fifteen.

I cut my hair short.

I invested in large anime T-shirts to hide my chest with an awkward posture.

I didn’t gain much respect or support, but I was happy.

I sort of came out to some peers in my senior year of high school. Everyone called me a boy and adjusted pretty fast with my new name and pronouns. For the next six years, I’d battle between being my true self–trans–or just doing what was easy: hiding under dresses and makeup because I knew my family would never support me.

But the thing is, as much as you may try to hide a part of yourself, it will never go away.

And so, I tell anyone who is reading this: you will never be able to please everyone–that’s impossible. But so long as you have yourself, know yourself, happiness is merely within arms reach.