This is the question that’s been on my mind since a friend shared blog post with me from another transgender writer. I know what some of you will think to this question “Duh, Macie, that’s kind of the whole point of transitioning”, or “Of course Macie, you are and always were a girl.” While I think both are good points, I am talking more about that if I went back to before I knew I was trans. In the aforementioned post, the writer wrote a fictional piece about going back in time to talk to her younger self, and for most of the piece referred them in the masculine sense, however, towards the end made this comment “The person I’m looking at now is a teenage girl trying desperately to be a boy.” From that point on out, she referred to her younger self in the feminine. That line in the story resonated with me, and I wondered what my own version like that, if I went back and talked to 12 year-old me, would I see a boy with a secret or a girl desperately trying to be a boy? I took a similar trip…



I woke up in the middle of the night and felt eyes on me. As my eyes opened, I jolted awake at the sight of an unknown woman staring back at me. I was scared, though she seemed a bit familiar to me.



“Who are you?” I ask



“I am the ghost of transitions past” She says



“A bit cliche”



“Well, really I’m a figment of your imagination. We’re going on a journey to look at three moments in your life.”



I sighed at my clicheness, very aware of it. I have always liked cliches and puns.



She snaps her fingers and I find myself in back in my government class, my teacher is up in front lecturing. My guide points towards the door and I walk in, wearing my letterman jacket, jeans, and a plain black shirt. My backpack carried on my back. Heads look up to notice the distraction, but pay no attention really as I hand my yellow pass to him and take my seat behind my friend.



“Watch” My guide tells me, pointing at my 17 year-old self.



I watch myself the remainder of the lecture, remembering my meticulous note-taking style. My attention seemed to be divided between my teacher, and the group of girls diagonally in front of me. To the casual observer, nobody would know, but seeing myself and following my subtle movements it was painfully obvious to me.



I remembered that I wanted to be a part of their group, to be one of them. I’m not sure what drew me to them, but I was very intrigued by their friend group. Perhaps, they reminded me of my best friend group, perceiving them sort of this collelary to us. I noticed how much I looked over at them, and the look of longing came over my face along with one of desire that you would expect from a teenage boy looking at pretty girls, but more of one of a teenage girl looking at the popular girls with this sense of admiration, jealousy, but also longing to be in the group of the pretty, popular girls.



Just then, my guides snapped her fingers and suddenly I found myself in front of my friend’s house, fourth grade me was playing hot wheels with him outside. My hair was shorter back then, a buzz cut, and it must have been afterschool as we were still wearing our school uniforms. We had not known each other long, and as we played, he was teaching me about NASCAR, which I took a founding off when he and I were good friends.



He loved cars and I loved playing hot wheels, my other friend from my street did not. I judged by the apparent weather and trees wanting to turn into Fall that this was when I learned I did not play hot wheels like other boys as we would not have known each other long. I had always played pretend with them, they were my little people, my dolls, though the boy I was watching did not seem as his dolls, but still had some personification to them. They had names, personalities, relationships, the whole lot.



The boy I saw in front of me was thinking that this is when his cars could meet his friend’s cars and they would all play together and have a great time. However, that is not what happened at all. I watched as my friend did not seem to care about that at all, all he was interested in doing was racing them, or crashing them into each other. The boy’s face in front of me dropped, and did not know how to react. I could tell he felt sorry for his cars, but also wanted to make friends and did not want to seen as anything other than a boyish boy and fit in with one of the boys.



We walk down the street towards my house and suddenly the scene changes from late afternoon to mid-day. It’s green and I can tell from the way the air almost steams that it’s summer so I’m likely inside my house playing video games. I don’t know what year it is, though realize it once we enter the house to see how the living room is laid out I am likely about 12. I make my way up the stairs and enter my room.



My room is smaller than I remember, but looks the same, half blue, top white with baseballs lining the divide. The curtains worn, the monstrosity that was the bookcase hinders most of my view of the right side of the room. This is definitely a boys room, my room.



I then walk into my parents room where I see myself dressed in that Miami jersey and jean shorts, the outfit I wore almost everywhere. My hair is bleached and I question why until I remember this is 2004 and it’s still kind of cool. I am playing 007:Nightfire, my favorite game at that time. I am playing it my own way, which makes me reminisce about how much I loved playing house. The doorbell rings and I quickly hide what I was doing by exiting out of the game. It was my best friend from my street, I tell him that I had actually just put in Nightfire, and he replied “Sweet”. “Cool, I’ll start a new game”. I could hear the subtle disappointment in my face. I wasn’t in the mood to play a first-person shooter, I wanted to play pretend where I owned the castle on the Ravine level.



“This is a big day for you.” My guide then tells me



“Why, it’s the same as the previous”



I then think back to the previous moment and suddenly I realize that I was doing the same thing in both of them. The person sitting there playing with his friends was not a boy that wanted his friends to like him and play with him, it was a girl desperately trying to be a boy. The only difference is that she not yet know what she is doing, and I realized that by the time she goes to bed that night, she will learn. The only difference between the person I saw sitting in that classroom and now is that she knew where she really belonged.



A girl desperately trying to be a boy. I think on some level, that was always me. It explains so much about what I did, what I liked, how I presented myself. I remember hating girly things because I thought that’s what boys did, when in reality, I’ve come to find out in adulthood, other boys did not really care, they thought girls were gross. I never got that. In the spirit of honesty, these memories are somewhat fabricated, I don’t specifically remember the first time I played Hot Wheels with another child, what I was doing the day my parents asked me “Did you ever want to be a girl?”, or if I had walked into class late the day we talked about the executive branch. However, these stories are all true, I remember wanting to be friends with those girls, playing differently than my friends, and trying to dress as boyishly as I possibly could. I think the latter two things are what a girl, who has no idea what it’s like being a boy, would do, just try to blend in and make it.



I was twelve-years old when I realized that I was trans, and to be honest, I don’t know what my reaction would have been if I had known about transgender people before that or that I actually could change genders. I don’t know what I would or even could say to my younger self if I could talk like Amanda did in her story for her to learn in a different way who she is. I think an important lesson I’ve learned from my own experience, and from learning a little about hers as well, I think sometimes we aren’t ready to learn the truth about ourselves. If eight year-old me say me now going by Macie, growing my hair out, taking estrogen, and wearing women’s clothes all the time, she probably wouldn’t talk to me. If 12 or 17 year-old did, she would tear up and probably greet me with a big hug knowing that it does happen, and want to know everything suddenly coming out of the shell she wore all the time.

Inspiring/Mentioned Blog “The Way Things Were” by Amanda Roman