I'm From Driftwood

by Brian

Ever since I was little, I knew something was wrong. I was different. I didn’t know exactly why, but I knew something was up. I never liked wearing dresses, tights, or anything, really, that my mom wanted me to wear. I felt pressured to play with girl toys, as my sisters did, but I got bored too easily. I treasured a toy car set and play mat I had at home, and that would keep me busy for hours. My Dad gave me a model care when I was little, and I have had it ever since. Things like these were who I was, and I knew it.

As I got older, I definitely knew I was different. I came out as being gay my sophomore year, but that just wasn’t it. I knew it went further, though I didn’t want to accept it. I tried figuring things out. I thought about the fact that I have always gotten along with and related to my male teachers more than my female teachers. I thought about how I like girls, and how I love to wear button-up shirts, loose sweatpants, and loose jeans. By junior year, I knew what was up. I knew I was (and am) transgender. My name was (and is) Brian, and I hated it. I hated the thought of not being in the right body, I hated the thought of society not accepting me. I tried shoving my intuition away, but it didn’t work. I just could not do it.

Senior year, I decided I had to come out. I couldn’t hold it in any longer, and it was my only choice. I told my parents, who were shocked at first, and my friend who thankfully accepted it. I am not fully out, but I hope I will be soon, as I really need and want to show society who I really am.

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by Toby Mehalba

On September 7th, two precious children entered my life. They were c-sectioned, which means Macbeth better look out. They had the most precious presence, but I’ll get to that in a second. I remember sitting in my room when I found out they were born. I saw that I had a few missed calls and a voice mail, one of them from my mom saying “congratulations big sis!” another from my dad explaining that my step mom was just admitted to the hospital to have the c-section. I immediately called my dad at about 9:30 at night, asking him if I could go see them. He said that I could see them on Facebook, like the stranger that I am, and that I should have been there. I felt like absolute crap. I wasn’t there when my little brother, Adam, was born because he was born in Egypt, and I told myself I would be there. I’m so disappointed in myself, and so is my dad. Anyway, he told me it was too late to be driving, but I could see them tomorrow. So I was crying, and recorded a video of my reaction because I never want to forget how I felt that night. I went to bed, and went to work the next morning.

Where I work is fairly conservative, and I had just dyed my hair turquoise and purple. So you can bet that I lost a ton of money in tips because everybody thought I was a bad kid. Not only that, but I mentioned how I was raising money for Obama’s campaign, and a customer lashed out at me for supporting “a nobody” and I explained to her that we all have different needs, and my support goes to somebody that suits my needs. She left in a huff, and I was sorry I had said anything. I don’t like arguing with customers, because I know it’s a gap in generation, but in a way they’re sort of like a family to me. Anyways, I closed up shop after 4 painstaking hours, and called Olivia to see if she wanted to come to see the babies with me. You have to understand, if you’ve ever seen Grey’s anatomy, Olivia is the Callie to my Sloan. We are incredibly close, and she is practically family seeing as she met my new siblings, and my parents love her. Anyway, I went to pick her up and we were on our merry way. When we got there, my step mother wasn’t feeling too hot. She was tired and nauseous, and feeling crappy. But she was happy to see us, and so was Adam who was without a doubt happy to see us and escape being stuck in the room alone all day. My step mom Samira called in the nurse to bring in the babies, and when they came my heart fluttered. They are so beautiful. In my head all I could think about was that this was the first day of their life, and I was there for it. I just wanted to hold them, and protect them from everything bad so they would always look as at peace as they were (except for Ryan, who looked very serious from the get go). I picked up my baby sister, and automatically felt this magnetic love for them. I love them unconditionally, and now that they’re here I couldn’t imagine my life without them. I held her for what seemed like hours, with her little fingers wrapping and tugging on my pinky and heart string. With every peep, and every yawn and sneeze, my heart swelled with love. Eventually it was time to take Olivia to work, and I decided to take Adam with me and save Samira a headache, and have some time to rest.

We drove to her work, laughing about how easily Adam fell asleep in the car, and I realized I didn’t have my phone on me. I asked Olivia to call it, just to see if I had it on me, but couldn’t find it. I realized I left it in the hospital, and I told her to immediately drop the call. She was in my phone as Mama Dyke. I had this gut feeling, that that moment was where my life would change, and not just with having the twins in my life. I had a feeling he knew at that moment. After Olivia got to work, I took Adam to get ice cream, like I had always been promising but never got around to. He said he loved me, and that he thought I was the best. I love him, forever and always.

We went back to the hospital, and I could tell something was different in the air. The mood was different. But my step mom had her friend in the room, and her two daughters and newborn son. They were absolutely adorable, and we played I spy for a good hour. Eventually they left, and I continued holding and loving Ryan and Jenna. When all of the sudden my dad asks me “Do you love them?” “Of course I do, I love them with all my heart.” In which he replied, “How heartbroken would you be if they lived in Egypt?” InwhichI replied,“Devastated.They’remy world.” Then he explained that he didn’t want them raised in this society, and when I asked him why, he said he can’t raise children in a society that supports gays. I asked him why he suddenly wanted to go, and he said because I was supporting them. I mentioned the difference between support and tolerance, in that I wasn’t expecting him to be supportive of my support, but tolerant, and how Christians may believe Islam is wrong, but there’s a difference between them openly protesting Islam, and being silently against it.

He waited a long while and said he wanted to talk to me outside. I told him anything he had to ask me could be asked in front of my brother and step mother. And he asked me if I was gay, because if I was, it would decide what happenedinthenextfew months.I liedaboutitfor the first hour. Said that I was just a supporter. He asked if Olivia was, because she was Mama Dyke in my phone. I said she was, but just because she was doesn’t mean I was. He said he had to go outside to breathe, and I should stop lying to him. When he left my step mother looks over to me from her bed, and asks me if I really am. I told her I’m trying. I’m going to say whatever it takes to keep the family together. But she asked me if I really was, and I told her yes. She started to burst out in tears uncontrollably. I couldn’t tell if she was rejecting me, or if she was sad that I had to continue hiding, or just in total shock. But this hurt, knowing that I’m hurting the people I love. At this point, Ryan started crying, and as soon as I picked him up he stopped. She said he must really love me, and she was sorry for me. The nurse called me a baby whisperer when she came in, and saw Samira was crying and asked what was wrong, and Samira burst into tears again, saying it was just family stuff, but what tore into me was calling it “bad news.” I couldn’t take it anymore, I had to put Ryan down when he stopped crying, and I had to get my things and leave. Adam was running after me, and I told him he had to stay with mom. He seemed so confused, and he was ripping my heart of screaming, “Tara I love you, come back Tara please.” I went out to my car, and my dad was by the car saying, “Just talk to me, just please talk to me, tell me what’s going on.” I told him. I told him I didn’t ask for any of this. He said he hates that he loves me, but we’re going to get through it, and I told him I don’t think I’ll change. He said we’ll try and I told him I don’t want to. But when he asked why, I told him it’s more complicated, and that I don’t feel like a girl. Which would mean I’m not technically gay. He said, “No baby, you’re a beautiful girl” and that broke my heart. I don’t want to be beautiful. I want to be handsome, I want to be me. I don’t want to be labeled. Anyway, I’m still in shock that it happened. I drove home from the hospital balling my eyes out and calling whoever I could to keep me from doing something stupid.

One thing that will always stick with me is when he asked me, he told me to swear on the lifeof my brothers and sister. I just froze. It made me sick to my stomach that he would corner me like that. I would never do that. I couldn’t swear on the life of my baby sister and brothers, and lie.I froze. I said I would never swear on their life, and he was sick for doing that. I went home, grabbed my things, and went to New Hampshire to see my mother. I stopped at a friend’s house along the way and bawled my eyes out. I’ve never been more ashamed of who I am, or more upset that I am the way I am. I’ve never had anything but pride until this moment. And I hated myself. I stood in John’s driveway, in hysterics that my life just changed. All the work I did hiding went to waste, because I was careless and left my phone in the room. We went to my aunt’s house the next night, and talked to my mom and auntie. Even they didn’t use the right pronouns. My life is in shambles. This all happened within a matter of hours, and my life is different forever.

No more hiding. So I guess what I’m learning from this, is that anything could set me off right now. So I’m going to have the philosophy that everybody has stuff. Nobody will be able to understand verbatim what is happening to me right now, but all that can happen is be supportive. Don’t go out of your way to ruin somebody’s day, because you never know what just happened, or what’s about to happen to them. My life changed forever in just 24 hours, and I’m eager to find what happens in the future.

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by Stefan H.

(TRIGGER WARNING: Homophobic slurs, homophobic violence)

I grew up in the city-suburb of Bethlehem, PA, in the heart of the Lehigh Valley, to Greek-American immigrants. Bethlehem is just like every other podunk Pennsylvanian town, except it’s always Christmas and there’s a now-defunct steel mill that the town is still in the shadows of. Everyone in town has some connection to “The Steel.”

Growing up, the word “lesbian” was thrown around with words like “demonic,” “anomaly” and “filthy” and I’ve never really liked the word too much because of that association. My father to this day is extremely homophobic and has made many threats of what would become of my younger brother and me if we were to “turn gay.”

My first recollection that I may be “different” was around second grade. You see, my parents had only been in America for about five years when I started school, so they thought that students get enrolled in the school closest to their home. That happened to be a neighborhood private Catholic school. Not being raised Catholic servedmy firstchallengeasa student,andcoupled with no English language spoken in the home; I was cast out from my classmates immediately. I did manage to make some friends, though, and they were all boys to the discouragement of my teachers and the nuns. During recess, the school segregated boys and girls by gender — the boys got the side of the school with the basketball courts, and the girls were encouraged to play hand games or play with dolls and pray next to the convent. I would frequently “cross the line” to go play basketball with my friends. This would resultinthenunscallinghome andmy father whipping me with his belt very often. My mother, like the “obedient Greek woman” she was at the time, blindly followed my abusive father. Yet I continued to “cross the line” and was confused as to why I was not allowed to and why my father would hit me for it if he’d find out. This ended with being punished with losing recess for the rest of the year, and the suggestion that I’d be enrolled in cheerleading to “stop any more abnormal behavior” from developing. The nuns suggested that I would end up “a homosexual”if I were not socialized with the other girls. I became extremely anti-social and refused to talk to anyone during this time and was reprimanded constantly for not having any friends. Cheerleading further confirmed my young belief that I was “different” and somehow “not normal.”

I was transferred to public school a year later. My father, taking on the advice of the nuns in my former school, dressed me in pink skirts and dresses every single day. I was never comfortable with this and the other kids would tease and bully me for it. This was just torture, yet I managed to make one friend this entire time, and my father refused me contact with him. He even had me switched to a different classroom. The bullying didn’t stop and turned to being called a “dyke” and a “slut” almost daily. I felt like I was a horrible person and deserved the harsh words.

Later on in grade school and middle school, when kids started to notice attraction and develop a sexual identity, I felt isolated again. Some of my male friends started noticing girls, and many of the girls were boy-crazy. I did not understand the fuss about boys, so I kept silent. I knew that I did not “like” boys in the same way those girls did. Boys were my friends. I enjoyed skateboarding and getting dirty with them. The pressure, from mostly my father, to like boys took a toll on me. I’ve been a competitive swimmer my entire life, and I developed an eating disorder. I started burning myself with my father’s lighter. I startedsmokingatage 12.AllI wanted to doisforget about the feelings I was having for the girls on my team. In my mind, I thought it would be better to be “caught” doing all the other terrible things I was doing than to have anyone know that I did not like boys as anything more than friends.

I was hospitalized with a failed suicide attempt in the summer before 8th grade, yet I still refused to speak. I was terrified of my father ending my life. We then moved to Greece for about three months after President Bush was elected. My father, being the irrational human being that he is, believed this was the best course of action.

My first month of high school, 9/11 happened and tore the country apart. I was also dealingwith a thick Greek accent that got me teased constantly, and that old “skeleton” of not liking boys. Soon after, tragedy struck. I had been sneaking out to a new LGBT youth group that had just formed and had made a few friends there, yet I never came out to any of them. One night, we snuck into a gay nightclub in a neighboring city with a slightly older straight ally friend who was going off to a prestigious New York music school. He was gunned down and killed because someone assumed that he was gay minutes after our group had split to go home. The police never charged the men that took this young life. After this, I went back into the closet out of fear that I could be the next victim. His killers are still free. It scares me, even if attitudes have changed for the better in the Lehigh Valley just over ten years later.

My friend’s death destroyed me, and I tried to change what I knew about myself. I tried being the most straight-acting person I wanted to believe I was. I wanted nothing more than to “be straight” and would constantly battle myself when I thought about girls “that way.” I got heavily involved on my campus and decided early on that I wanted to go to music school. I did everything I could to avoid thinking about being “different” and to avoid my father’s house. I’d leave at 4.30am to swim and would not return until after 10pm after my last rehearsal. This was exhausting, but temporarily relieved what I was feeling.

I had my first kiss on a band trip to London during my junior year. She and I are still friends. I hated myself even more after that.

One day, during my final year of high school, I could not take my act any more. I had just been accepted into both of my top choice music schools, and saw the end of my torture in sight. Yet, I was still smoking, doing entirely too many drugs and drinking uncontrollably. I was terrified. So I told a teacher that I trusted while I was practicing for college. To my surprise, he reassured me that I’m okay, and that I’m not an anomaly. He saved my life. This educator helped me get my life back in line before heading off to music school. But most importantly, he listened and did not judge. I had never had that in my life for all 17 years of it. I was never told that I’m a “normal human being” before, just that I’m defective. He’s still a huge supporter of me as a musician and as a person.

I slowly came out to some friends, and lost many of them.

Thankfully, college treated me well. I came out as transgender about two years in, and my group of friends continue to love and respect me. I have a beautiful girlfriend of over three years who I currently live with.

I made it out of Bethlehem alive. There’s no doubt that I’m stronger because of my rough childhood. But I’m proud to say that I’m alive and happy. I’m a college graduate with a great future in front of me. I’m free from substance abuse and I have my health. I play with an LGBT and Ally band in Philadelphia regularly, who have become the family I always wanted. Funny how powerful saying the words “I’m gay” openly and freely can be.

My parents do not know. My mother has since begun to challenge my father’s terrible ways, and has taken on a very liberal “love everyone” lifestyle, even going against him to his face. She has LGBT co-workers and friends that my father does not approve of, but she insists that he can’t do anything about it because she’s “an American woman.” They both assume that my partner is “just a friend.” I assume my mother would be fine if I came out to her, but I continue to fear my father. So I keep my mouth shut. My partner is fine with this. Her family has greeted me—us—with open arms. I’m the second child they always wished they’d had. They love and respect me.

I’m lucky.

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by Zachary/Rose Pantoja

(TRIGGER WARNING: Discussion of rape, self harm, and eating disorder)

Ever since I could think about myself, I never felt truly “right.” So, around four years of age, I started trying on girls’ clothes from my friends, and, when I did, I just felt at peace.

As time went on in school, I never really had “friends” except for one person who talked to me a lot. One day, he invited me to spend a week camping with him. Being the lonely kid I was, I quickly agreed. His idea of camping was a week-long time of sexual torture. As I sit here typing this, the memories are coming back, and all I can do is cry. I have only told a few people of that week, but now it is for everyone.

Still, I would try on clothes. It was what made me happy and what made me okay with myself. Then came sixth grade. I had heard of dating and I wanted to do it because I was still very lonely. So for a good year, I would scare girls away because I came on way too strong. It was a very sad year. Then came seventh grade. I was starting to come into a state of understanding social behaviors and actually made real friends. Near the beginning of that year, I met a girl named Courtney. She was seventeen, and I was twelve, but I still felt like we were meant to be and so did she.

So we dated for about a year and a half, but during that time there was a lot of emotional torture and manipulation. I literally cried and yelled twice a day. I cried at school in front of everybody and I cried at home in front of my family. Yet, we always made up. During the time we dated, she started making me explore myself deeper and, as I did, I noticed feelings toward guys; sexual feelings. At first, I was confused and scared, but she took it well. Then came the true understanding of my gender identity as I looked at her and other girls on TV or in public. I found that some of my sexual attraction was actually envy. I wanted to be them. I wanted to look as good as they did. So I experimented more with clothing and other such things until, one day, on my birthday, Courtney told me she couldn’t stand me being this way and had been cheating on me for two weeks.

I was devastated. I stayed in bed crying for about a month. But then I realized I’m stronger from this and know what I want out of a relationship and out of myself.

But I couldn’t share these feelings as I was scared others would react like Courtney, so I hid them more and only told my close friends. Finally, my mom found some of my clothing and we had to talk about what was going on and exactly how I felt. I told her how I felt as a woman in a man’s body. She took it well, but my dad still resents it and constantly tries to change me and puts me down.

Two years ago, an older man was being very sweet to me over the Internet, treating me like a real girl. I felt great because of it, but, unfortunately, when I went to go see him, I got raped again. I have told no one about this since that day and, again, it hurts to talk about it.

Ninth grade wasn’t a great year either. I was still quiet about who I was and I had a cutting problem. The only way to deal with the emotional pain was to deal physical pain. Another problem I had was that when I looked at other girls and saw how skinny and beautiful they were, all I could see on me was fat. So I began to throw up after every meal just to feel semi-good about myself by knowing I was at least trying to look better. Luckily, I was able to get my self-abuse under control with the help of a friend.

Finally, my story brings us to this year. I am still constantly bullied for what I am, but I have friends and know what I want to be and what I am. The only thing that hurts is seeing all the beautiful women in school and not being like them at all. It kills me inside every day to see people wear what I can only dream of wearing. But I have a clear sense of direction and am happy to have friends there for me.

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by Justin Adkins

As a little girl I didn’t know about anything queer. It seemed like my parents made sure that I was sheltered from all Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender (LGBT) people. It could be that their lives were so sheltered from LGBT people that they didn’t know anyone out of the closet except the hairdresser, who in our case really was gay.

In the flavour of church I was raised in, it was clear that LGBT people were not welcome. So in 7th grade when my friend Mimi invited me to her home for a birthday sleepover it was not surprising that my mom flipped out when she realized that Mimi had two moms. As soon as I was dropped off, my mom raced home and called me at Mimi’s. She offered to bring me home right away. She was even ready to fib to “protect” me.

I stayed.

By high school Mimi and I were drifting apart. Once the last chairs together in the junior high flute section Mimi had moved up to first chair, I remained last. I was also invested in fitting in. I was so invested in fitting in that I joined in the harsh treatment of Mimi. I, and others, were mean to Mimi because her mothers were lesbians. After 10th grade I never spoke to Mimi.

About the same time I met Ezekiel Webber. Zeke and I were in honours classes together. We shared the same dry sense of humour and faith traditions. In 10th grade Zeke was one of the first openly gay students at my high school of almost 5,000 people. He was the first person to go to prom with a person of the same sex. Zeke was beaten up at least once a week because he was openly gay.

These experiences taught me that it was not safe to be queer in my neighbourhood.

These two individuals made a deep impact on my life and I was not able to tell them. A few years after high school Mimi walked into the ocean never to return. I believe that the stress and harassment became too much for her.

I was still in the closet.

Zeke went on to be a star student at Dartmouth, helping organize much of the queer programing there in the late 1990′s. He then went on to be a star student at UCLA Law School focusing on LGBT civil rights issues. He was never able to practice law though as he passed away while at UCLA.

I was just coming out of the closet.

In late 2003, early 2004, I was no longer able to hide. I came out as a lesbian. You might be confused, after all my name is Justin. See, I had never met any transgender guys. I thought trans people wore feather boas, and though I like a nice boa once in a while, that was not me. All I knew then was that I was mostly attracted to women and did not fit traditional female gender norms. “Of course,” I thought, “I must be a butch lesbian.” The problem was that deep inside I was not a woman at all, oh I tried, but it was not me. Deep inside my gender identity was male.

When I found out about Female-to-Male transgender people (FTM’s) I finally realized that I belonged, that there are other people like me, people born “female” who often, through hormones and surgery, go on to live their lives as “men.” Around this time I started my slow transition to becoming a visible man.

I have come to realize that I would not have the courage and strength to make this transition if it were not for those who went before me. Zeke and Mimi lost their lives because of intolerance, I cannot stand by and let that continue to happen.

I could live my life now as a quiet trans guy blending into society, basking in perceived straight white male privilege. But I choose to be out. I have chosen to fight for queer rights. I am the Williams College Queer Life Coordinator. I was a founding member of Brattleboro, Vermont’s Queer Community Project. I am on the board of Bennington Pride in Bennington, VT. And, this past summer I was proud to be one of the main organizers for the first ever New England Transgender Pride March and Rally. There, we saw over a thousand transgender people come together to speak up for their rights.

In all I do feel privileged to have the opportunity to support wonderful LGBT folks and allies. I am privileged because I am out. I want to make our world a place that is not just accepting but embracing of all people.

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NOTE: Justin also has an IFD video story in which he discusses how he learned patience in terms of understanding, with himself and with others. Check it out here.

by Jake Loren

“When did you realize you were a man?”

I’m disappointed when he asks me this at the bar because it betrays his unknowing. It seems like every time I open up to someone, I inevitably end up feeling like an alien. I chastise myself for getting my hopes up, but at least he isn’t like all the dudes whose ignorant and invasive inquiries I pointedly redirect – “Well, what is your penis like?” and “Why are you attracted to women?” and “When did you realize you were a man?”

He glances down nervously at his beer as though he senses that he said something wrong. He is genuine, I can see; he wants to try to grasp an experience beyond his understanding. Usually distrustful of cisgender men, I surprise myself and decide to indulge his earnestness. I search my memory for the answer to his question.

I remember almost everyone calling me “she” until I was twenty-three years old. I remember turning every object I found into a gun as a toddler. I remember in fourth grade I’d go into the bathroom, pull my ponytail behind my head, and reflect on how cute I’d be as a boy. I remember honing in on the other tomboys at Girl Scout camp as though I had some kind of magic “butch radar.” I remember dissociating from my body so thoroughly that I don’t remember the physiological impact of puberty but only the social implications of it: I was no longer allowed on boys’ sports teams, and I was expected to develop crushes on my male friends.

I’ve told doctors these stories for years, perched on wax paper in their sterilized examination rooms. I consider using these memories to satisfy the curiosity of my (maybe) new friend, now –but my gut tells me not to cut corners. For the sake of breaking the awkward silence, I repeat it aloud: “When did I know I was male? Hmm.”

I remember spending two years virtually estranged from my biological family after I embraced my gender non-conformity. I remember redefining what “family” means and looks like, spending Thanksgiving at the home where my then-lover was raised. I remember wonderful people who forced me outside of my self-protective, cynical emotional fortress, including colleagues and students at the middle school where I transitioned from “Ms” to “Mr” and my biological family that transformed in a truly remarkable manner.

My new friend peels the label off his bottle and shreds it on the counter in front of him. I am too deep in thought to notice that my fingers are doing the same to mine.

I remember injecting myself with testosterone for the first time, struggling to keep my right hand still as I brought the needle closer to my left thigh. I remember waking up with drains along my ribcage and my mother’s smiling face above me after a surgeon had erased all evidence of my former chest. I remember some days when I wished I’d been designated male at birth, but many more days when I considered my trans-ness a gift.

I remember a conversation with a stranger in a café in Manhattan, the first time I truly recognized who I am as I move through the world now: a white, straight, assumed-cisgender man. I remember sitting alone in Central Park for hours afterwards, trying to locate the distinction between passing and being. I remember bearing witness to transphobia at a gay bar in Chelsea when the culprits assumed I was on their side until I stated otherwise.

Should I tell my new friend that I’ve “known” for two years or twenty-five years? Should I tell him that I am lucky, or that I am unlucky? This vulnerability makes me squirm. Maybe I’ll just say I have to leave.

Instead, I go to the bathroom. He is waiting patiently when I return. “You don’t have to answer my question if you don’t want to. I hope I didn’t offend you.” He averts his eyes. I sigh.

“No, it’s fine.” I speak carefully, prepared to abandon ship at any moment. “I can remember a lot, but I can’t really remember one ‘when.’ It’s kind of a long and complicated story.”

He nods, looks at his watch, waves to the bartender. “I have lots of time. Let’s get another round?”

-(Share your story with us!)