Both Can Be True

starts to click as I write. I realize I’ve been trying to categorize every feeling I have as either a guy feeling or a girl feeling, because Dad made me think that’s how the world works. Like when I thought “punk-rock songwriter” meant dude and daydreamer meant girly. Like when it seemed that wanting to fight Daniel’s sadness with a lightsaber was boy and cuddling him or blushing was girl. I labeled those feelings with a gender because I wanted it to be easier to know what I am.

But all that’s done is make it harder. Life’s edges aren’t so defined. Like Daniel doing what was right and saving Chewbarka, even though it was technically lying and stealing. Or me wanting to be in Tyrannosaurus Rocks even though I’m not that into their kind of music. Like the Rainbow Alliance kids saving me from being outed and deadnamed, but making a target of Bella.

None of those situations can be jammed into a neatly defined box. Really, nothing about how it feels to be alive is strictly a one-or-the-other game: happy or sad, scared or mad, hopeful or despairing. Introvert or extrovert. Boy or girl. Kid or teenager. There’s a little of each one in its opposite, and that’s what makes life so complex and interesting. More painful, yeah, but also . . . richer. More real.

By the time I’m finished, the song’s not punk anymore, but it has punk’s best elements: It’s stripped down, it’s to the point, and it tells the world’s social norms to take a flying leap. It’s definitely my real voice.

It wasn’t that long ago that being between genders felt like being stuck in a bad DJ’s crossfade. But for real . . . I’m my own DJ. And good DJs know how to layer music. How to fade one song into another so you’re riding the wave of both for a few measures and they’re working together, instead of against each other. Those moments are complex and interesting and wonderful, the way the sky can be purple and orange at the same time at sunset. How the ocean can be deep and dark and bright and scary and exciting all at once.

It really can be beautiful to be complicated and contradictory and in between. To live in that musical and personal space that’s halfway through the crossfade.

I giggle with pure, clear happiness. The sound is high-pitched and girly but has some bass to it, and it ends with a goofy squeak—an Ashley shape and an Asher one, a laugh I might’ve found embarrassing or uncomfortable before that’s now simply what it is:

Happy.

I scribble the silly shape of it. It comes out looking like Dr. Seuss on an off day, so I add amateur ballerinas in tutus.

I finish tweaking my lyrics, then title the song “Halfway Through the Crossfade.” I record myself playing it on the keyboard and singing it. It feels good. It feels right. I’m saying my truth, and I’m not afraid people won’t like it. In fact, I hope it makes people think. I hope it’s a light in the dark for anyone who feels like they have to be one thing or the other when both can be true.

Bummer it can’t be used for Girls Who Rock the Future. It’s a hella dope song and I’m proud of it.

I open the nightstand drawer that holds my makeup. I pick through the box of nail polish and find a bright blue and an audacious pink Mom bought for me a while ago. It’s way too garish for Ashley, but it’s perfect now—the perfect pink and the perfect color to stripe with the blue on each nail. I paint both hands, slowly and carefully, then admire how it looks: kinda girly, kinda punk, definitely badass. Definitely me.

I tuck the makeup I don’t use anymore into a plastic bag to give to Esme since her dad chucked hers. It’s just drugstore stuff, but it’s better than nothing. I smile when I think about how much she and the other Rainbow Alliance kids enjoyed making their flags. Like someone finally gave them permission to be who they are. It was inspiring to see.

Feeling that fire, I open Insta and make a story post of the first part of the video of me singing my song. I upload the full song to SoundCloud and link it in my Insta bio.

Then I make my account public.

There’s a chance Tyler and those kids from Bailey Middle will leave nasty comments.

But I’m not afraid of them anymore.

I navigate to Daniel’s profile. I scroll through his images until I find one that resonates, a picture of a pink sunrise fading into a blue sky over a lake. I follow him, then like the image and leave a comment that says, Oh hey, it me!

Mom gets home from work while I’m looking at the top posts tagged #nonbinary, my mind spinning through outfit and makeup ideas to fit every different shade of my stick-it-in-a-blender gender. I was so afraid for so long to follow tags like #nonbinary and #enby and #genderqueer, because Dad made them seem so wrong. But there’s a whole huge world out here. And it’s beautiful.

I hear Mom drop her stuff on the counter, and then she rushes into my room. “I listened to your song five times on the way home,” she says, her eyes bright. “Ash, I love you so stinking much!” She grabs me in a huge hug, and even though my nose is jammed into her armpit and she smells like truck grease, I hug her back. “I’m so proud of you!” she says.

“Air! Air!” I make a coughing sound.

She lets me go and sits on my bed. “What brought on the change of heart?”

I shrug. “It was more of a pain in the butt to hide who I am than to be who I am.”

She laughs. “That’s all? It’s about expending the least energy possible? Avoiding anything that seems like work?”

“Eh, get off my case. You’re a sleepy