Both Can Be True

some screwed-up ways of processing the world. So when I think about little-boy him, learning coping mechanisms for how sad and alone that made him feel . . . yeah, I have sympathy.” Her face hardens. “But when it started negatively impacting you, my sympathy dried up. Convincing you that his point of view is the only logical one felt more important to him. He said me disagreeing with him on that and parenting you differently meant I didn’t respect his point of view. He already had a hang-up about it because I grew up in a higher income bracket than he did. So it was kind of a perfect storm, and then you got appendicitis and I did the name change and, well, you know the rest of that story.”

I mull it over. “Did you ever have to change anything about yourself that was negatively impacting me?”

She laughs. “Let me tell you about the year I learned how to be patient. Your terrible twos were epic. Gave me all the gray hairs I cover up with green.”

I smile. “So you’re saying you’re a better person now because I was stubborn?”

“Everything about being your mom makes me a better person.”

My smile is so big it hurts my ears.

When we get home, the sky is still flaming orange and purple. Griffey’s coming over soon, but I have time to sneak in a quick run. I change my clothes, tie on my too-tight shoes, grab my headphones, and head out.

I trip a couple times because I’m so busy looking at the excellent sunset. As it fades to a dusky purple, I find a running groove and enjoy it for a while before heading back.

Griffey’s in my room when I get home. He proudly shows off his brand-new plain white Converse. “They’re so pure,” he says. “Like two baby bunnies.” He takes a bunch of Sharpies out of his bag. “They need a rainbow alien. Or peace signs and hearts and gay symbols. Will you help me decorate them?”

“Sure.” I kick off my stinky shoes.

“You should get a white pair too. You could decorate them with the nonbinary colors.”

I make a face. “Gender nonbinary sounds so restrictive. Like your gender can either be binary or not binary. Which . . . is a binary.”

“You’re more like gender-nonconforming anyway.”

“Gender noncompliant. Gender disobedient.” I uncap his red Sharpie and pretend I’m gonna stab him.

He holds up his hands. “Held in contempt of gender.”

“Busted for smuggling my gender across state lines.”

“You’re Schrödinger’s gender!” He snatches the Sharpie back.

“Did you just compare my gender to a dead cat?”

“And a live one. Simultaneously.” He takes a pencil off my desk and starts sketching an alien on one of his shoes. “So is Daniel bi, then, or what?”

I pick up a skirt and T-shirt. “Are you in cahoots with my mom? She’s all up in my business about it too.”

He shrugs. “You could invite him to the next Rainbow Alliance meeting.” He digs in his pocket and comes out with a package of Sour Patch Kids. “Want one?”

I take a green one. “I don’t know if it matters what Daniel is. I think labels are more hassle than they’re worth. It’s easier to just like . . . be.”

“That’s the stinking truth. And anyway, it’s about the junk in your heart, not the junk in your pants.” He chucks a red Sour Patch Kid at me.

I snatch it out of the air and grin. “Darn right.”

Griff and I stay up till almost midnight, playing Mario Kart and decorating his shoes and talking about school and music and nothing and everything. He finds karaoke pop songs on Spotify and sings into my hairbrush. It’s everything a Friday night should be.

After he leaves, I put on my Ramones shirt with fuzzy unicorn pants and brush my teeth. Above the toilet, a new cross-stitch has been added to the ones that say Have a nice poop! and Buddha would shut the toilet lid. Along the outside edge of the new one, Mom has stitched a bunch of emojis: the strong arm, the pink flower, the dude with the beard, the lipstick, the one flipping the bird, the nail polish. The unicorn and the you-rock sign and the high-heel shoe. The middle says This bathroom has been liberated from the artificial construct of a gender binary.

I snap a photo of it and post it to my story. I tag her in it and add #BestMomEver.

After I brush my teeth, I climb into bed and look up the Gatorade video. I’ve been pushing away the thought that it’ll always be out there. That I’ll always have a nagging fear that people I know will find it, and see that happening to me, and think less of me for it.

But really . . . it’s part of me now. Trying to pretend it never happened feels like denying part of who I am. And boy, am I done with that game. Anyone who thinks less of me because a few jerks teamed up and humiliated me isn’t someone whose opinion I care about anyway. Or who I even want in my life.

So maybe it’s time to say that. Time to claim all of me, including what I went through that made me who I am now.

I was so desperate to hide the Gatorade video when I started at Oakmont. So tied in knots about the gendered signs on the bathroom doors.

Not anymore.

I download the video and post it to my Insta. Being yourself can be a dangerous business, I write. Bullies can make you want to hide who you are, especially if you’re unsure who that is. But incidents like this can also show you what really matters.

I look down the hall at the light coming from the living room. Mom’s listening to Green Day. I picture her working on a cross-stitch, something subversive and funny and totally Mom.

I know who I am, I write. It took a while, but I’ve finally found my voice.

Good luck getting me to shut up now.