Throughout our lives, we are burdened with labels, whether they are self-made or the creations of others. Within the LGBT community, they are especially prominent. There are bears, lipstick lesbians, bois, butch, femmes, baby dykes, studs. Even lesbian, gay, and bisexual are labels. I have been thinking a lot about labels lately as I try to identify myself. I have come to a few conclusions.
My mom told me last week that she thinks I am transgender. I came home for a while, not feeling my best and wanting to be close to my family, and she started the conversation. I was not the one to tell her about my gender identity issues, and I wish I had been, because I wasn’t quite ready for that discussion. I wasn’t comfortable with it yet, not comfortable with what my issues mean for the people around me, especially when I am unsure of myself.
As I sit here thinking of what to write, I’m a little clueless. I want to be profound. I want to affect people. I want to be an example, someone to trust and to ask questions. But I also feel like I have no right to be that person yet because I haven’t figured out who I am.
I was never one of the normal little girls: no bows, no Barbies, no dresses. God help my mom if there were dresses. I loved action figures (Spider-Man is the best super hero), climbed trees, jumped in mud puddles, cut my hair short, and played a sport every season the recreation club in the neighborhood had enough kids to play. I epitomized the gender stereotype of the tomboy.