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Published March 5, 2017 12:30AM (EST)
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Editor's Picks
Lgbt
Life Stories
Transgender
Transgender Bathroom Panic
The first time I used a men’s room, I was 17 years old. I looked about 14, probably, with my hair freshly cut short, my head still feeling light and buoyant after getting rid of the ponytail I’d carried through most of high school.
That bathroom was nothing special. In fact, I didn’t see most of it as I walked in, head down and turned slightly away from the line of urinals. I made a beeline for the stalls, which were the same as the stalls in every women’s room I’d ever used in my first 17 years of life.
I peed. I can’t remember if I washed my hands or not. Probably not.
I do remember that there were other men in the room. Two of them. Both at the urinals, and so their backs were toward me when I entered. And maybe they were washing their hands when I was leaving, and that’s why I’m thinking I probably didn’t wash my hands.
The first time I used a men’s room with friends — friends who’d known me from before, friends who’d known me my whole life — I was a few weeks shy of my eighteenth birthday. I’d been living as a guy for about a year. Home for the summer from boarding school, that awkward and potent summer between high school and college, I was working as a dishwasher. I’d been back in my hometown for a week or so, and a bunch of us decided to go to the movies together.
Such trips were always a challenge. First, because we all worked odd jobs with odd hours. Second, because none of us owned a car and the nearest movie theater was 40 minutes from our rural Maine town. And, for me, because though I had known these boys since preschool, I had gone away every September for the last four years to a prep school. And also because now at 17 I was, for the first time in my life, a boy.
We went to the movies, five of us crammed into someone’s mom’s sedan. Afterwards, debating Denny’s versus Friendly’s, we veered down the hallway toward the movie theater’s bathrooms. My short hair hadn’t been mentioned — I’d had it short third grade through seventh grade, after all, only growing it out at my mom’s insistence. They’d been calling me Al for years, so I didn’t have to tell them that I’d changed my name from Alice to Alex. And I wore the same t-shirts and jeans and flannel shirts and sneakers that I always wore.
Down that hallway, I thought, which one? Easy enough to just go in the women’s room, give people a dirty look when they scowled at me. It was the mid-’90s. Grunge and androgyny were reasonably widespread, even in the sticks of Maine. But I hated using the women’s room and not just because of being a boy. I hated it because of what was said to me: G et out! Was the nicest version. Other variations included dyke, queer, butch, bitch, creep , once (oddly) faggot and other, unprintable, words.
So I said to my friends, "Do you mind if I use the men’s room with you? Or would that be weird?"
And my best friend Bryan said, "Of course not. It would only be weird if you used the urinal."
I didn’t. In subsequent years, I would think about that — using the urinal. Devices were sold, tricks bandied about in trans groups I went to. Medicine spoons and surgical tubing. The plastic lid to a coffee can (clear plastic is best), trimmed of its edges, could be stowed in the back pocket, lifted out in one’s palm, curled into a funnel and used with care at a urinal. So long as you peed slowly and no one peeked. I practiced a few of these tricks. I got more than one pair of jeans thoroughly piss-soaked. I gave up practicing.
Lately, the news has me thinking back to that first men’s room, 21 years ago , and what drove me to go inside. I never would have entered if I thought I would have been detected, confronted, kicked out.
In fact, I’ll tell you what stands out to me even more than that first men’s room: It's the last time I went into a women’s room. I had come out as transgender to my parents just a few days before. It had gone somewhere in the range of “not a total disaster but not great.” We were out for a meal at my parents’ favorite seafood restaurant. It had not gone well already — the waitress had asked me, “What can I get you, young man?” and an argument had ensued when my parents tried to correct her and I tried to get them to shut up.
Needing to pee, or perhaps just wanting to escape the table, I went over the restrooms. I imagined what would happen if my father happened to also feel the urge at this moment, and what sort of scene might follow if he found me in the men’s room. So I went into the women’s room. At the sinks stood an older woman, who looked at me in the mirror as I entered, her eyebrows shooting up. “This is the ladies!” she said, thoroughly scandalized.
I thought about saying, “I know,” which had been my usual response during those years when I had short hair and people thought I was a boy. But this time, for the last time, I said, “I’m sorry. I guess I’m in the wrong place.”
Alex Myers lives in New Hampshire with his wife and two cats. He is a teacher who speaks often at schools across the country about transgender identity. He is also a writer; "Revolutionary," was published by Simon & Schuster in January 2014. It tells the story of his ancestor, Deborah Samson, who in 1782 ran away from home, disguised herself as a man, and fought in the Revolutionary War.
Copyright © 2022 Salon.com, LLC. Reproduction of material from any Salon pages without written permission is strictly prohibited. SALON ® is registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office as a trademark of Salon.com, LLC. Associated Press articles: Copyright © 2016 The Associated Press. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.
true stories
high school
coming out
identity
gay
boys who like boys
I was 14, just starting high school at an all-boys public school in the Bronx, when I began to feel a strong physical attraction to other boys. I was quiet and observant, and I didn’t yet know if I should, or could, act on those emotions.
My high school locker room completely bewildered me—a small space full of sweaty boys, constantly fighting, and pulling each other’s pants down. Curious, I couldn’t help but glance at some of them while they changed. And I can tell you; I was not the only one looking. Off to the side or in the background, I often overheard boys say things like “nice dick” and “you got a hairy ass.” At one point, I saw a boy playfully touch a classmate. In the corner of the locker room, and still in the closet, I felt a moment of joy: What if I wasn’t alone? What if there were other boys that felt the same way I did?
That moment was short-lived. In actuality, the same boy that touched the boy in the locker room, later called him a “faggot” in the hallway. It happened daily. I would see guys touch each other’s private parts and call them “faggots.” I was alone and horribly confused. I wondered if I could share my desires with some of them, but the fear of being called a “faggot” stopped me. At my school, the very place that I first observed queer curiosity, I was scared to come out, fearing my own physical and emotional safety.
It wasn’t just the school locker room where I heard homophobic remarks. In church, the pastor would say, “I know you love your sons. But you also have to spread the word of God and tell them the truth. Gay people are an abomination and are going to Hell if they don’t get right with God.” These statements led to countless hours of reflection, and a terrifying fear that God might strike me down at any moment. But even at 14, I knew I didn’t totally believe him. How could I be condemned to Hell for loving the wrong way?
I was raised in a strict Christian household and lived with my grandmother and mother. My father was not in the picture, although I would see him sporadically from the age of two, when he left my mother, to the year I turned 16. When I was little, I preferred the company of girls during my trips to the park, and I would sometimes play with dolls, showing little interest in sports. My father would say, “Stop acting like a little bitch.”
Years later he warned: “If you turn out gay, I’ll fuck you up.” But by then I had already lost respect for him. It was a good thing I didn’t see my father often.
Imagine me, a young black gay Christian male, trying to reconcile my sexuality with school, home, and church life. What happens to a black gay Christian who lives in a household that hates him; who really believed that he was going to Hell. Who would ask God for forgiveness every time he fantasized about another boy?
I eventually became comfortable enough to admit I like guys. Two years after curiosity flared in the locker room, I came out. I first told my close, straight friend, then classmates, then anyone who asked, then my grandmother, and, finally, my mother. Perhaps it was the support of friends, aunts, and those around me that made me not want to feel ashamed about myself anymore, even if that meant God damning me to Hell.
By the beginning of senior year, I went from “I’m gay” to whoever asked, to “Can you stop saying faggot please?” every time I heard the word. I was ready to be wholly true to myself and my sexuality. I began to imagine life in college, and envisioned a more inclusive post-high school existence.
Looking to strengthen my resume, I decided to participate in a school-based mentorship program, which was dedicated to developing strong black mentor-mentee relationships in the workplace with black professionals. One day, for a lesson on proper dining etiquette, the program took us to a Spanish restaurant. The room was well-lit and the atmosphere emanated a fancy air that was almost palpable. Unlike some of my classmates, I had experienced restaurants like this before, so I wasn’t nervous at all. I gazed around, admiring the patrons: strong, muscular men in suits. Just before the fish tacos and appetizers arrived, a mentor cautioned: “One piece of advice, if you want to be a successful man, do not mess around with those pregnant girls. Find yourself a good woman!” he said, smirking.
Everyone but me chuckled, laughs ricocheting across the table.
“Well, I like guys, so I don’t have to worry about that,” I said, trying to end the conversation.
“Oh, okay,” he said, staring at me and clenching his jaw. I could see he was trying to contain his anger and disgust.
The whole table—fifteen students, three mentors—looked at me, then at him. I cowered in my chair, embarrassed and uncomfortable. I suddenly felt isolated, a great distance growing between me and the group. Only after he released me from the lock of his eyes, did he continue the conversation about the sort of “good women” we should seek.
A month later, I decided to no longer participate in the mentorship program, and every time I was asked why, I made excuses about being too busy.
In time, I retreated into my fantasy world, where I was not sixteen and gay in a homophobic environment, but a world where I was older, in in the future, when I would arrive to a beautiful home from a long day at work, and be welcomed by a husband who loves me and bears my burdens on his shoulders. In this fantasy world, I am loved, desired, accepted.
After that night, I was desperate to be in a different environment. I explored several outlets and, with the help of an organization called Urban Word, learned that I could use spoken word poetry as not only a place to recite my story, but as a platform to advocate for social justice. Over the course of the past year, I have been trying to figure out just how I might go about that. In the process, I lived two secret lives: I became this other person, scared to be open up about my sexuality in my poems, and, even worse, I was hiding my poetry from my family. Maybe that’s why I never quite got over my nervousness during performances. Still, I always managed to channel my anxiety, and never worried about what others might think when I discussed coming out on stage, even though I couldn’t speak freely with my family about it.
It was in this new world that I found my real mentor, Timothy DuWhite, a 24-year old black queer poet who embraced me with open arms. I first met Tim at the Urban Word Poetry Slam semifinals a year before I became an active member. We connected and discovered that we both had been through similar issues involving our sexual identities. It was a moment that I had been searching for: to find a kindred community who accepted and nurtured all parts of my identity.
A month ago, I graduated from high school. Before I addressed our class in my valedictorian speech, I scanned the crowd, a sea of people before me. I saw the boys from the locker room, my mother, my grandmother, my teachers, and my best friend—and I understood them all, each in their own ways. I was thrilled to be leaving and moving on, but I could see that many of my fellow graduates were facing similar hurdles, ones that I had encountered, and had only masked their truth with homophobia. The culture we live in, though it has made strides in the last decade, still makes so many of us—the boys who like boys, boys like me—feel unwanted, feel like outsiders. But I no longer choose to stand on the outside.
James Fisher grew up in the Bronx, New York. He is as an incoming freshman at the University of Pennsylvania, where he will be a senior writer at Abernathy Magazine . During his time as a member of the UrbanWord Slam Team, James performed at the Apollo Theater, Nuyorican Poets Cafe, and Lincoln Center.
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