My stepfather said he had something he wanted to show me. I was eight years old in Houston, Texas, and I hurried to the living room couch, plopped down, and curled my legs up. The older man’s face was smug, and a smile stained the corners of his mouth as he pressed a button on the remote. Grainy footage from my final summer theater recital started playing on the television. On the screen was Ethan, one of the boys in my class. He had the kind of voice that some boys spent their lives praying for — deep and thundering, all baritone. When he finished his monologue there was a moment of silence, the camera shifted out of focus, and the sound of a higher voice wafted through the television. There was no depth that throttled its throat. The camera snapped into focus and zoomed in on me. I stood beneath the stage’s spotlight, tall and glowing, the only boy with the voice of a girl.

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I realized that my stepfather wanted me to feel the same disgust with my femininity that he did. But I felt no shame, instead letting out a rib-cracking laugh and focusing on my performance. This reaction was not my stepfather’s intention — and he shook his head with contempt and rewound the footage — but I simply walked away, leaving him on the couch with a remote in his hand. My mother had taught me to remain upright and firm no matter how I felt. “Carry yourself with pride,” she’d usher anytime I was nervous. So I never had a coming out story. Unlike children who are forced to hide their true selves from their parents and friends because of fear, there was nothing that could veil who I was. I knew I identified with femininity; I knew my sexuality was as natural as breathing.