The girl who cried boy

I once read a story about a little boy who claimed to be a fighter pilot from World War II named James Huston. His parents believed he had been reincarnated and was none too happy to be trapped in this little kid’s body. I’m a 100% convinced this shit happened to me except for one key factor; I don’t know who I was, but I know what I was, and it had a penis.

From the time I could talk, my mother will tell you that I told everybody, “God’s gonna turn me into a boy”. She must have been beaming with delight.

I remember saying it. I remember telling friends, family, police officers, preachers – anyone who would listen, that God was going to turn me into a boy. I had experienced a horrible injustice and nobody seemed to give a shit. They just thought I was some handicap and would make sure to avoid eye contact with me.

Don’t talk to that crazy little bastard. Their thoughts hung in the air like wisps of smoke.

But I knew that I was in the wrong fucking body from day one. I seemed to have some strange understanding that being a girl sucked and being a boy was awesome.

Fun Fact: The problem with being a girl who looks like a boy, who likes boys, is that you can get your ass kicked real quick at the skating rink.

My  poor parents did what they could to make me into a proper girl. They bought toys that girls might like and attempted to dress me as such.

My response to that? I created an alter-ego named Robbie. Robbie was the boy version of me. My twin. My imaginary friend.

This way, when I would dress like a boy, if my parents said anything to me, I’d say, “no,  you must be mistaken, I’m Robbie”. They couldn’t prove otherwise, as far as I was concerned.

I spent most of my days employing Robbie to knock on the front door asking for me (to validate his existence to my mother who didn’t know every fucking thing), and it would always really piss me off when she would yell at him, because honestly, she could neither confirm nor deny his existence, so how could she be so rude to my only damn friend?

Nope. There weren’t a lot of kids beating down my door to hang out and break dance. Oh yeah, I was also a skilled break dancer. I had the parachute pants and everything.

I would do my moves in the driveway to try to attract companions, not unlike the courtship display male peacocks put on during matin’ season. I didn’t get more friends, but sometimes a little crowd would form.

It didn’t stop there either. I also had an unhealthy obsession with horses. Maybe I had been John Wayne in my past life, I don’t know, but my sweet mother made me my very own horse named Ole Blue. Attention getter? Yes. Popularity booster? The equivalent of dividing my social life by zero.

Times were tough, but the worst day of my life was when my brother explained to me that one day a guy was gonna stick his weenie into my “pee hole”. Well THAT did it.

I ran and put on my brother’s clothes and a ski mask he routinely used to scare the shit out of me. Nobody would be putting their weenie anywhere near this guy. Disaster averted.

But that thought was never far from my mind. What if he was right? What if somebody was really going to be trying to poke around on me when all along I was the one that was supposed to have the penis? I had to do something, and quick, for I was very attractive.

That’s when I started praying heavily. After all, if He could turn me into this stupid girl, He could certainly change me back. I prayed for years, I know, with complete faith that it would happen. You may have guessed that it did not, in fact, happen.

I think I finally accepted my fate at around eleven. This shit was permanent. I was stuck with these lady parts when all I really wanted to do in life was pee standing up.

Let’s face it though; it was all for the best. If I would have, indeed, received a penis that late in life, I would have been a gay man and I would NOT have made a good gay man. Do you see what I’m wearing? I would have been sent off to that island where they send all the other unfashionable gay cowboys, because I’ve never seen one of those.

While I still think it’s super unfair that not everyone gets to pee standing up, innately have an understanding of North, or get to open their own jars, I did eventually learn to embrace my vagina (figuratively of course) and we all lived happily ever after having one less unfashionable gay cowboy trotting about.