Work Text
We live in a world of expectations. From the moment that we enter the world and the doctor makes a tick on either the box labeled “M” or “F” on their clipboard, we’re fucked. With that one little action, our entire lives are mapped out for us whether we like it or not, and we have no say in the matter. As stupid and naïve kids, it’s kind of up to our parents to make decisions for us until we can make them on our own—unless of course they go against the plans and hopes that our caretakers made for us; then of course there are going to be some major fucking issues. And I’m not talking about the bullshit arguments that you have when you tell them that you want to be dancer and they laugh and tell you to get a ‘real job’. I’m talking about something much, much bigger.But because our parents were the major decision makers in our lives for so long, we’re faced with a problem when our parents think that they know what is ‘best for us’. So we really only have two choices: do we do what they ask and become one of the many brainwashed fucktards living in a world controlled by people who tell you what’s ‘normal’ and what is ‘different’? Or do we create our own destinies at the risk of hurting everyone around us in order to feel…happy. To be honest, most people like me never take the risk and know what true happiness is because they’re fucking terrified of what might happen, and some, well…some of us never live long enough to find out an answer…I was born as Genevieve Marie Kirschtein weighing a whopping seven pounds, ten ounces. I was cursed with an angle-less face with soft cheeks and gentle eyes, tiny shoulders and a slim waist, developed breasts, and an ass that would make most porn stars burn with envy. When I was just five years old, my earliest memory was walking up to a boy in my Kindergarten class with a goofy grin plastered on my face and saying: “hi, my name is Jean. Wanna come play in the sandbox? I already have the dinosaurs over there!”The kid took one fucking look at my ash brown pigtails and ugly flower printed dress that my mom had forced me into this morning and started to snicker.“Why is your name Jean? That’s a boy’s name,” he laughed and pointed at my clothes. “Boys don’t wear dresses!”Now you might think that five year olds are incapable of having any sort of major temper, but before the kid could utter another word about me, I punched that fucking smile right off of his chubby face. You can only imagine what happened next—a teacher freak out, a phone call home, and a pointless meeting with my parents the day later. Now this is where shit went down. We were all seated in Mrs. Wagner’s office, her behind her desk, and an agitated me squashed between my mom and dad as awkward introductions were made before we jumped right into it.“Why did you hit Thomas?” Mrs. Wagner asked, a question she had been too furious about to ask me a couple days ago. I could tell she was trying to keep calm; it was just my shitty luck that Thomas also happened to be her kid—go figure.“I didn’t even hit him that hard!” I protested and flinched slightly under her cold stare before heaving a heavy sigh. “He told me I wasn’t a boy,” I answered under my breath.Mrs. Wagner looked confused for a moment and glanced between my parents who I felt stiffen beside me. When they didn’t say anything, her already beady eyes narrowed at me, looking for an explanation. This wasn’t the first time I had ever expressed this in front of my parents, and whenever I did, horrible things usually followed.“But…you’re not a boy,” she said slowly as if stating the obvious which only made me mad.“Yes I am!” I cried and my mom’s hand came hard down on my shoulder.“Genevieve, that’s enough,” she said firmly, her lips pursed into a thin line.“Don’t call me that!” I yelled, and yanked my arm away from her. “My name is Jean!”I continued to throw a fit while my parents spilled out some bullshit story that I liked to play pretend and copy my older cousin because you know how impressionable kids are when they’re at my age. To this, I screamed and cried until my dad turned red in the face and dragged me out of the room in a frenzy of flailing arms and legs.“You stop this right now, Genevieve, you hear me?” he spat when we were out, his French accent thick with anger. He shook my shoulders with such a force and his grip was so tight that I started to cry harder. “Stop crying!”“You’re hurting me!” I wailed and kicked his shin as hard as could and he slapped me across my cheek which shut me up instantly. This would not be the last time that this bastard would lay his hands on me, nor was it the first. This was the normal punishment that I received whenever I brought up anything that had to do with my gender. I hid the bruises with long sleeved shirts and dresses and whenever I had a bath, he would be the one to come in and wash me down. Mom of course never found out about what he did, being the blind bat that she is, and I never told her in fear that he would do it again or something even worse. Or maybe she already knew and was too much of a fucking coward to confront my dad about it. If she was really oblivious, I was surprised that she never thought that anything was suspicious in the slightest, not even five minutes from now when she didn’t even bat an eye at my red cheek. She just scuttled us out to the car and as we drove home, I got the fucking lecture of my life.“You know, you’re lucky that Mrs. Wagner didn’t expel you from the school, Genevieve. I don’t want another phone call like that ever again, you hear me? For God’s sake, I thought I raised you to be an upstanding young lady, but I guess I must have went wrong somewhere.”“I’m not a lady!” I yelled at her from the back seat and when she tried to say otherwise, I covered my ears with my hands and began screaming. “I’m a boy, I’m a boy, I’M A BOY!”Mom swerved to the side of the road and slammed on the brakes. With a slew of choice words from both her and the piece of shit beside her, I was basically told to cut the bullshit and start shaping up because Mrs. Wagner was giving me a chance to redeem myself, but if I fucked up again, it was game over and I would be cut from the class.Unfortunately for me, Thomas the Terrible, even at just five years old, had decided to make my life a living fucking nightmare. He pulled my hair, teased me about my shitty clothes, and made sure that no one in the class would be caught dead talking to or playing with “the girl who thought she was a boy.”Mrs. Wagner and my parents shrugged the bullying off, saying that I was overeating when I came up to them with tear stained cheeks.“That just means he likes you. It’s what boys and girls do,” they explained.What kind of bullshit was that? In what world was harassment a form of courtship? Needless to say, not two months went by after the parent-teacher talk before I snapped again. In the Kindergarten classroom, we were each assigned cubbies to hold our things which were located near the door, and just outside the door was the lost and found bin that belonged to the school. At the end of the day when we were gathering up our things, I noticed a navy blue sweater sticking over the side of the bin with a skateboard printed on the front. It most likely belonged to a first grader and looked small enough to fit me so I took it without a second thought. I kept it in my cubby and slipped it over my clothes when I came to school and when the end of the day came, off it went again into the depths of my cubby hole before my parents came to pick me up. I loved that fucking sweater—I didn’t even care when it started to smell funny from wearing it day after day, but I wasn’t causing trouble so nobody said anything. Even Thomas eventually ran out of mean things to say to me and just spent his time looking at me across the room with some unreadable expression. I spent my days in peace just being a carefree kid like you’re supposed to be at five years old. The sweater was my safety blanket and when I wore it, I felt invincible.Nearing the end of the two months, I was away from school after catching a nasty Autumn cold, but when I returned, the sweater was not in the state that I had left it in. When Mrs. Wagner left the room for a moment to grab the worksheets she had for us, I thought now was a great time to go and get it. However, my happiness that I had felt before was quickly diminished when my fingertips touched something scratchy on the fabric. I pulled it out from my cubby and my eyes widened in horror at what had happened to it.Giant globs of dried liquid glue were crusted all over the sweater that held bright magenta glitter and pastel purple bows in place. It was completely destroyed. With a cry of anguish, I began tearing at the bows, trying my best to pull them off and to get rid of the glitter, but I only ended up ripping the fabric and making it worse. Tears burned behind my eyes and rolled down my cheeks until I couldn’t see clearly anymore and I threw the sweater on the ground.My crying had drawn the attention of the other kids in the class who came around to see what I was making such a big deal about. The moment that Thomas came into view, I didn’t have to look at the prick for more than five seconds to know that he had done it.“You!” I screeched and before anyone could stop me, I ran at the blonde and tackled him to the ground, pounding at him with my tiny fists. The other students started screaming and Mrs. Wagner came charging back into the room with a scream of her own and dragged me off Thomas, but not before my fist collided with his nose.“That’s it! I’ve had enough of you!” she screamed, restraining me against her body while I fought to break free and get another punch at Thomas. He was crying now, a mixture of snot and blood running down his face from his bloody nose.“He deserved it!” I spat, and Thomas got up to run at me and settle the score, but not before the teacher from next door came in and stopped his flailing fists before he could hit me.It took both teachers as well the principal who had been notified of the commotion to finally settle everyone down.Unlucky for me, Mrs. Wagner kept to her terms and after another phone call to my dad who was at work, I was expelled from the school without another chance. Clearly the rules of baseball didn’t apply to school behaviour.At age eight, when I was in grade three, everything began to escalate. I was angry all the time and any little thing set me off. So when I punched a kid for threatening to tell the principal that I had snuck in to use the boy’s washroom, my dad was called down and I was sent home with a three day suspension.My dad had always had a sort of temper, especially when he drank, but nothing could prepare me for the explosion that was about to happen. When he came to pick me up, he was extremely tense and didn’t say anything at first, but there was a burning in his eyes that made my skin crawl. He grabbed me by my arm and I cried out in protest when his arms closed around the bruises he had given me just a couple days ago when I refused to put on a dress. He dragged me out of the school and into our car, keeping silent the entire trip home and I fought with all my might not to cry at the throbbing in my arm.“I’m really sorry,” I rasped when we got home, my voice small and timid. I liked to think that I was tough on the inside, and maybe I was around other kids, but around my dad, I was fucking terrified. I flinched when he slammed the door to the house shut behind him, nearly knocking the damn thing right off of its hinges.“Don’t you fucking tell me you’re sorry!” he yelled, jabbing his finger in my face. “Why don’t you tell that to your mother who cries her fucking eyes out every night because of her fucked up daughter?!” He gave me a rough shove and my back smashed hard into the wall, knocking the air clear out of my lungs; my lips parted in a wail that came out as a strangled gasp.“I’m not a girl!” I screamed when I found my voice again and he hit me. Hard.“You are! Now start acting like one! Our marriage is falling apart because of you!”“I’m not!” Another hit.I held my ground as much as I could until I was a crying mess on the floor, my entire body feeling like it was broken, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional trauma that my dad was inflicting. I was told that everything was my fault; that I was the antagonist; that I was disgusting, and the worst part of it was: I grew to believe him.A few years went by since that day and it was now the first day of my fifth grade year. Nothing had changed; not at home, and not at school. Mom and dad fought more frequently over me and as a result, dad spent more time away from home at the bar and mom became more distant; I would often find her zoned out in her bedroom with a cigarette between her lips and half a bottle of whiskey on her bedside table. It got to the point where I was making my own lunches for school which were half-assed because at eleven years old, I had no fucking idea on how to take care of myself, but I had to. I had to adapt to survive, and so I developed a routine.Every morning I would slip my freshly made peanut butter sandwich into a brown paper bag, pull on my jacket and backpack, and make the three mile journey to my new school. Every morning, the bruises on my arms and shoulders made every step torture and I made the habit of leaving extra early in the morning so that I would take periodic breaks along the way.Every morning, I had to hold my tongue and fight back my anger whenever someone called me Genevieve.Every morning I had to pretend that everything was okay at home and still hand in all my homework to keep up my image. Every night I would go home and do my chores, do my homework, and then go right to bed, even if I was hungry because dad was either out of the house or would make up some reason not to give me food, and mom would be too wasted to get out of bed.Every night I would scream into my pillow and cry my eyes out until it hurt to breathe and every sob rattled my aching bones. Every night I silently hoped I wouldn’t wake up, or I hoped that things would change, and then every morning I was smacked back into the cruel reality that was my life: paper bag lunches, bruised ribs, a dysfunctional family, and this never-ending feeling of guilt and unhappiness.I eventually closed myself off to everyone and wallowed in my own self-hatred. I refused to use the bathrooms at school anymore and would hold everything in till I got home. It hurt like a bitch, but just like with my bruises, the physical pain was a lot easier to deal with than the emotional hurricane that swirled around my head. I would never give in. Despite my avoidance of everyone at school, there was this one girl, Mikasa, who took an interest in me. She was the strong and silent type and I always caught her following me or glancing in my direction from over that stupid red scarf that she always wore. If I sat by myself, she would come and sit beside me. At first it was just annoying, but then I grew used to it and even enjoyed her company sometimes. At least it was better than being alone.Over the next couple months, even as things continued to spiral downhill at home, I found solace and peace in coming to school knowing that I didn’t always have to be alone. Mikasa and I eventually started talking and became friends. I never told her about anything that went on at home and always had to make up some bullshit excuse when we walked home on why she couldn’t come over or why we could only see each other at school. It wasn’t until grade seven when Mikasa and her mom stopped by unexpectedly after school that my nightmares of my dad came to a close.My dad conveniently was on another one of his tirades as they neared the front door and after they heard my screams of pain, they called the cops. Within minutes my dad was being hauled away in handcuffs and I was taken to the hospital to be treated for my mangled arm that he had finally broken.After that, I was bounced from foster home to foster home, never in one place for too long because the families couldn’t deal with my constant outbursts when I screamed at them to call me Jean.No one, unless they’ve been in my shoes, knows just how torturous it is to hear the words “she” and “her” directed at them when everything inside you is screaming “I’m a boy!” You want to take people by their shoulders and fucking shake them back and forth until they finally see beyond your exterior and see the person who you are on the inside.Scared.Insecure.A boy.…But no one ever did.By the time I hit puberty around entering my second year at high school, everything got worse.My breasts started developing, my hips began to widen, and whenever I gained the slightest bit of weight, it went straight to my thighs and ass.I fucking hated every bit of myself. What was it going to take for people to notice that I was fucking unhappy? I came ‘home’ one day after school and headed straight for the bathroom as I usually did, but after I finished, I lingered in front of the mirror and stared at myself. I stared until I could feel my eyes start to sting from not blinking.I stared until every curve of my body was burned into my brain.I stared until something that I never thought would happen, happened.Almost as if something snapped inside my brain, I went into a frenzy and tore open the cupboards, raiding my foster mom’s make up bag. I smeared foundation over my face until layers upon layers were caked on my face and painted on thick black eyeliner and red lipstick. I curled my eyelashes, used nearly an entire tube of mascara, and put so much blush on my cheeks that it looked as though I was recovering from a bad sunburn.And once I was done, I stared at myself some more.“You’re a girl,” I whispered, placing my hands on the counter and leaning so close towards the mirror that my nose nearly touched the one of my reflection. “You’re a girl, you’re a girl, you’re a girl.”I repeated those toxic words over and over again, the words feeling like literal poison on my tongue. I repeated them until it felt as though they were killing me and every declaration of this lie was another punch to the gut.But I needed to say them.I needed to somehow convince myself that I wasn’t a fucked up excuse of a human being.I was in foster care because I had destroyed my family. The reason my dad was in jail was because of me. Mom was in rehab was because of me. I was having a panic attack and hyperventilating right now, not because of anyone else, but because of me; I had no one to blame but myself.I can’t remember how long I was in the bathroom for, but as soon as I could breathe properly again and come back to reality, I took another good long look at myself.
I looked like a fucking clown and it sickened me. My skin began to heat up and prickle and a choking sensation crept up into my throat.
Get it off, get it off, GET IT OFF!
As frantically as I had put it on, I started washing it off, scrubbing my skin so hard that I might as well had been peeling it off layer by layer in order to get to the real me underneath. But when all the make-up came off, I still didn’t see the boy who I hoped to see when the mask came off.I saw a scared kid with black stained eyes and red skin, long ash brown hair, and curves that any normal girl my age would die for. Dad was right; I really was an ungrateful, selfish, bitch.I burst into tears and grabbed a pair of scissors that my foster mom used to manually trim her bangs, attacking my hair while blinded by my tears.Lock after lock of hair fell to the ground until I was left with the most hideous haircut that anyone could ever be cursed with. It was asymmetrical on one side and half my bangs were missing. I had a bald spot on the right side of my head and if anyone looked at me from the back, a long lock of hair that I had missed trailed down my back. I didn’t know whether I was crying at how hideous I was or with relief at the fact that I no longer had long hair.Whatever the case, I must been causing a disturbance because there was a pounding on the bathroom door before my foster mom came bursting in and gasped with horror at the sight of me.“What have you done?!” she cried, noting the foundation smears on the counter and the strands of hair littering the floor.“I don’t know,” I wept, sinking to the ground and hiding my face in my hands. “I don’t know…”Unlike all my other shitty foster parents though, once this one had simmered down, she knelt down beside me and placed her hands gently on my shoulders.“Ssh, ssh, Genevieve, it’s okay,” she whispered in a soothing voice.I didn’t have the voice to correct her. She just held me while I cried until I calmed down.“Come on, get your coat on; let’s go get you cleaned up,” she spoke softly against what was left of my hair and helped me to my feet.She took me to the hair salon where there wasn’t much else they could do for me except to shave off what was left. When the stylist was finished, I ran my hand across the soft surface where my long locks once were and a wave of relief washed over me. I felt as though a giant weight had been lifted off my shoulders, but my happiness didn’t last long.Everyone at school either teased me for my bald head or mistook me for a cancer patient and pitied me. I got so fucking sick of everyone that I covered it up with a red beanie that I had found in the lost and found near the gymnasium. I wore that damn hat every day all the way up to the end of my senior year.Through the rest of high school, I got into fights with kids who teased me and was suspended more times than I could count. I refused to participate in my physical education class because I was forced to be in the girl’s class, and the only place where I found myself safe was in my acting period where I met my best friend, Connie. If you want the honest truth, I really think we only started talking because he was the only other bald kid in the class.While my foster mom wasn’t the most supportive with how I expressed myself and refused to call me Jean, she let me live my life and didn’t object to anything. I got myself a job at a bakery and bought my own clothes—I even dyed my hair and got an undercut when it grew out, but I still kept wearing that stupid red beanie. For the first time in forever, I finally felt like…me, or at least the closest to me that I could get. I still hated my body, and puberty really had taken its toll on me.While I had lost most of the roundness in my face and I could pull off being androgynous from the neck up, I still had the most fucking awful time trying to hide my breasts and hips. Since I didn’t have a credit card, and my foster mom wouldn’t pitch in, I couldn’t afford a binder to flatten my chest off the Internet. So I did what any desperate person in my situation would do: I went to the nearest drugstore and bought a pack of ace bandages—you know, those ones that you wrap around your ankle when you sprain it.Now I know what you’re thinking: “Jean, why would you do something so fucking reckless and risk your health like that? Don’t you know the damage that ace bandages can cause?”Believe me, I already know, so you can stop with the fucking badgering. I’ve heard it all before, but you don’t know what it’s like being inside a body that isn’t yours. You have no idea what it’s like looking at yourself in the mirror and contemplating death each and every day over something that would seem so natural to any girl as a pair of lumps on their chest.But it was a big deal to me, though, and it’s actually because of those stupid bandages that I got introduced to the love of my life in the first place, and I think this is a great place to end this sob fest pity party and get to the present where that actually happens.So, let’s start again, yeah?Hi, my name is Jean Kirschtein. I’m twenty years old and still in high school because I flunked two grades. I enjoy long walks on the beach—no seriously, I do—and I eat way too many Reese Peanut Butter Cups for my own good. I have no fucking idea what I want to do for the rest of my life, and to be honest, I’m not sure I’ll ever really figure it out; at least not right now. The one thing that I am sure of though is that I am madly in love with someone.And her name is Marcia Bodt.