For my creative writing class, we had to write a short piece in the same style as the author of an assigned reading. It has to be a two page "How-To" guide about something personal, and it needs to be written in the second-person. The original work was "How to date a brown girl black girl white girl or halfie" by Junot Diaz. This is my version. I poured my heart into this, so enjoy!
Sneak it surreptitiously into small-talk all week when acquaintances inquire about your Friday night plans, because the chance to do so does not arise often. Ideally, you'd be a man whore, or better yet, a devoted lover, but your carefully planned aspirations to be the eclectic blend of British, metrosexual, and G.Q. model that is so highly coveted by straight women and gay men clash with your incongruous anatomical ensemble. And so, you embrace this blue moon with every inch of your biology, or lack thereof.
If the date is with a girl, brace yourself for the high fives and one-dimensional dialogue of straight men as they vicariously channel their voyeuristic lust into your dinner reservations-even though your involuntary participation in the female role for seventeen years of your life has primed you to view their misogynistic comments with repugnance.
If the date is with a guy, brace yourself for the furrowing of brows from the same people who have just been cajoled into tentative acceptance by your heartfelt rendition of what it means to be a man in spite of what it says on your birth certificate, only to have their conception of masculinity challenged even further as an additional tier is cemented onto your irrevocably queer identity.
While you debate on what to wear, be sure to disassociate every time you look down, or your dysphoria will trigger an inconveniently timed panic attack. Luckily, the psychological saran-wrap that your eyes utilize as they glaze over reminds you to grab a condom on your way out the door. At the last minute, you stick a knife into your coat pocket, not only because it offers the illusion of security from belligerent drunk people on Easton Avenue when they take note of your effeminate features, but because you might need to seek refuge with the blade in a bathroom stall when your date inevitably makes some remark that reminds you of the components that are covalently bonded below your belt.
When you arrive at the restaurant, give your date a hug and pull out their chair for them because it has taken you a lifetime to earn your unalienable right to be the chivalrous one. There is a 95% chance that they too are a member of the LGBTQIA community, so there is never a dearth of conversation topics and the sexual innuendos flow as freely as international trade.
However, you are well aware that-ironically enough-participating in acts of sodomy does not mean that someone has been enlightened with original plumbing etiquette or that their vocabulary has been enriched with “nice-t words.” If it is a first or second date, you try not to feel completely violated when they inevitably ask you about the sordid details of surgery or menstruation and instead steer the conversation in the direction of a mutual intellectual interest or favorite movie. It is not a matter of whether or not they will disappoint you and end up being like everyone else; it is a matter of when.
You bristle as an incendiary circuit sends a powerful charge coursing through your entire system when they use language that, in no uncertain terms, elucidates the feminine etiology of your past. The stormy sky inside of you invokes a simile involving idiots and electrical outlets. They might even ask you when you decided to be trans. You have to remember that this isn’t Facebook and you can’t sardonically call people out on their ignorance by responding with a string of song lyrics such as, “Oh what a night/Late December back in ‘63.”
The two of you head back to either your place or their place. All you want to do is hook up while watching a Mel Brook’s movie on a used sofa that has been mottled by mystery liquids and the asses of savory characters from Craig’s List like every other person your age. You are not some radical queer who feels the need to point out that the binary is perpetuated by the use of black-and-white film screening techniques in Young Frankenstein.
Your lust for their body overpowers your disgust for your own, and the clothes are peeled off in rapid succession. The clamorous course of your heart as it races towards satisfaction is intercepted by the pain of being perceived by someone other than a bathtub. Every antecedent is exposed between the sheets. The necessary truth ex nihilo nihil fit-out of nothing comes nothing- makes it inevitable that you will end up having to educate him or her while you are naked.
That testosterone has transformed you into the more reticent of the sexes in a matter of mere months is hardly evident as tears automatically spring to your eyes like a reflex. If you are with a girl, recover quickly from the divisive slice as she separates you from other men by saying that you are different and not like other guys. If you are with another dude, ignore the stab of envy as your pupils widen to accommodate the girth of his manhood.
Try not to feel like your body parts have been outsourced from basements and that your skin was constructed from the second-hand upholstery used by Coach bag vendors in China Town. You have needs and are determined to form an interpersonal union in the absence of dulled senses, partly because you cannot emotionally afford to grow dependent on masking the pain and partially because you have been advised to abstain from drinking due to the hormonal therapy.
You pray that they refer to your junk with gender-appropriate language and cringe when they don’t. It requires your most sincere efforts to feign confidence and take them on the ride of their life without falling off the edge of the earth in the process.
You are just getting acquainted with your erection when they use the word “woman” in reference to your former self. It takes everything in your power to not pull a hysterical Gene Wilder and cry during sex, even though this cruel conjugation is enough to deploy the air from your lungs and consolidate your chest into a neatly crushed soda can. If you are horny enough, it is possible to undergo a hot-blooded rebirth and achieve a born-again boner. Despite the lump that has formed in the back of your throat, you fight to reclaim the intimacy of the moment the way you would muster five more minutes of reading as the sun goes down in the summer because you don't want to go inside just yet.
After an unsatisfying fuck, you roll over and try to make light of the situation. Indeed, even authentic copies of Leonardo da Vinci's greatly detailed, highly accurate anatomical depictions had wine stains.
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