Page 9 - self portrait

the moment I was a boy

That Uber driver probably doesn’t remember me and will never think of me
again, but that 10 minute ride to the bagel place felt like pure euphoria.

I saw the confusion on his face when I jumped in the car, when he couldn’t put

all the pieces of me into one box. I could tell he was trying to figure me out. He
made small-talk with me and asked my name and was disappointed when the
answer offered no help. He seemed to go back and forth getting lost somewhere

between boy and girl, or somewhere far away from both—somewhere near
where I exist.

And then he called me a boy.

The joy I felt was overwhelming. My friends were trying to stifle their laughter

as I was trying to hold back tears. It wasn’t because I am a boy, and this wasn’t a
case of someone seeing me as I see myself. But it was the first time I felt
validated by the outside world.

I was queering gender. I was blurring lines. I made someone question the only

two boxes he knew, and he had to admit to himself that neither was right.

So in that moment I was a boy to him. But he knew, and I knew, that words fall
short of capturing who I am.

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