The Pants Project

I couldn't blame him for not believing me because it wasn't exactly true. The truth is that you /do/ care. Of course you do. And it hurts to hear people say those things about you. But the hurt changes, over time. At first, it's sharp and hot, like a fiery dagger stabbing you in the heart, but when you've heard the same insults over and over and over, the pain changes. It becomes a dull, throbbing ache -- like a toothache. A sort of background pain that you can ignore for a few minutes at a time, except when you're lying in bed at night, trying to sleep. That's when it really gets to you.

I didn't just wake up one morning and think, "I'm a boy!" It sort of crept up on me and tapped me on the shoulder a few times before I started to pay attention I began to think that the word "girl" didn't quite fit me. It was like a shoe that was too small -- it pinched me.

That was progress, right there. Except no one would ever know how hard I was working to keep my temper under control, because the whole point of keeping your temper under control is not doing things like throwing a milk carton in someone's face even though they clearly deserve it.

It may just be a small step in a bigger battle, but it was something at least. Before you know it, lots of small steps can cover a lot of ground.

You feel like tiptoeing on the morning after a big argument. You're not quite sure if you're going to launch right back into where you left off in the argument, or whether a few hours of sleep will have miraculously solved everything.

The truth is that you do care. Of course you do. And it hurts to hear people say those things about you.

(Actually, my very first thought was that I needed to pee, but that doesn’t sound dramatic.)

not going to pretend that everything is wonderful all the time. It’s not entirely a case of “and they all lived happily ever after.” But how about this instead? “And they all lived mostly happily ever after…and managed to ignore the occasional idiot saying something stupid.” That’s good enough for me.

may not have been thrilled with how I looked—especially about what was happening to my body—but I was not a freak. I’m just a person.

When I was little, I used to like pink things, but that was before I realized that there were “rules.” Pink things were for girls and blue things were for boys. Colors weren’t just colors—they were

the hurt changes, over time. At first, it’s sharp and hot, like a fiery dagger stabbing you in the heart, but when you’ve heard the same insults over and over and over, the pain changes. It becomes a dull, throbbing ache—like a toothache. A sort of background pain that you can ignore for a few minutes at a time, except when you’re lying in bed at night, trying to sleep. That’s when it really gets to you.

How could I explain that sometimes you can just tell what people are like? You don’t have to get to know them first. Sometimes it’s best to judge them before they judge you. To dislike them before they dislike you.

Tights are the worst invention in the entire world. After nuclear weapons and guns and things like that, obviously.

Actually, sir, it is that bad. How would you like it?” He shook his head. “Now you’re just being silly.” I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone else was around and then took a few steps back toward him. “I’m not trying to be silly. You’re saying that you wouldn’t like to wear a skirt, so why should I have to?” He was getting annoyed now; I was pushing my luck. “Because you’re a girl!

Before you know it, lots of small steps can cover a lot of ground.

I'm just a person. What's so wrong with that?