Eliza Hammond

♫ Lover is a Day - Cuco ♫

As I pulled myself out of bed the morning after the GSA meeting, I said a few choice words to god, both for the way he deviously twisted my life’s path and for giving me life at all. I found it therapeutic to pretend there was an evil spirit in the sky fucking with me, instead of simply coming to terms with the reality that this is how life works. Will didn’t emerge back into my life because of kismet. He came back because life fucking sucks, and because bad things happen to people who only somewhat deserve them.

Acknowledging that fact, I made my way into my dorm bathroom, where I said even more choice words to my ugly reflection in the mirror–fucking, freak, and tranny among the first couple. I was never a very positive person, but there was a noticeable downward lurch in my attitude. I’d begun to spiral, Will’s return having sent me into a snowballing depression.

But even during depressive episodes, pimples don’t pop themselves. I’d gotten really good at zoning out for the twenty or so minutes it took to do my increasingly elaborate skincare routine. Yep, just a little bit of cleanser, toner, serums, eye cream, spot treatments, moisturizer and I’m ready to go! Shit, I almost forgot the face oil. That’s, like, the seventh most important part! See? Even on the verge of a breakdown, I still took the time to painfully squeeze my blackheads with sharp, sharp tweezers. Self-care!

I stared at myself in the mirror for a second. My long red hair, which had the consistency of unchewed hay, did nothing to smooth out my masculine jawline or aquiline nose. My cold, brown eyes looked tired of viewing their own reflection. I gave a grimace to the mirror, which somehow made me look even more disgusting, and then turned my attention towards the dresser, where I threw on whatever clothes were easiest to grab. I guess it was just a “black hoodie and speckled grey sweatpants” kind of day!

Did I want to wear more feminine clothing? I guess. In high school, I used to stop briefly in front of store windows, desperately wanting to wear what the mannequins wore. But I had that desire beaten out of me, to the point where I learned to beat it out of myself. And as much as I dreamt of being Belle in a ballgown, I knew I’d always be more like Mr. Beast. That was his name, right?

Even if I did want to wear girl clothes, the fact that I had to be seen by people with eyes took that option off the table. Going out as myself would mean facing the analyzing glares of strangers, wondering how to classify this strange abomination of male and female traits. A dude with nice skin would earn a “fine, whatever,” but a guy with tits? I’d be gawked at. Laughed at, even! Anything that showed any part of my figure was decidedly out of the question.

I pushed open the door of my building and walked into the cold outdoors. September was almost over, and, at least in New York, that meant the days would arbitrarily alternate between the sweltering 75°F heat of summer, and the chilly, pumpkin-spiced crispness of fall. Today seemed to have picked autumn, as indicated by the cool winds and changing colors of Welsh Street Park. I relished in the city for a moment, desperately trying to forget who I was and become just another face in the crowd. But, far too soon, I found myself standing in front of the moss-covered concrete facade of Charlie Hall.

My first class of the day was Professor Casella’s “Pacifying the Pacific: War and Peace in Twentieth Century East Asia.” They say the longer the class name, the better it’s going to be. While I was relatively ambivalent about my choice of major, this class’s syllabus was interesting to the point where I’d even done some rare precursory googling. But the first “lecture” had been one of those disappointing ice-breaker classes where you don’t really learn anything, and the following two didn’t happen at all because the professor caught Big Rona. That meant this, three weeks into a twelve-week semester, was going to be our first official class.

The lecture hall was filled with students, so I silently slipped into an empty seat towards the back. I tried to force myself to focus, in hopes that I could assert myself as the good student I almost certainly wasn’t. Luckily, WWII was one of the few things my dad liked to discuss when he wasn’t trying to teach me how to change the oil in my car. What better way to get my mind off Will than to do well in a class I actually knew shit about?

The moment I sat down, Professor Casella jumped into action, going on about the Battle of Midway. He was a vocal little guy, constantly cold-calling kids whenever there was a lull in the one-sided conversation.

Halfway through the two-hour lecture, he turned from writing on the board and asked the class, “Who is commonly credited with leading the US to victory against Japan in the Pacific Front?” Even though it was a pretty easy question, one I’m sure many other students knew, I was one of two who raised their hand. I guess everyone else was almost as tired as I was. “Uh, yes,” he said, his gaze quickly falling on me. “You, the boy in the black hoodie.”

Shit. Did he call me “boy?” He’d just gendered me male, right? Whatever, it’s not like I wasn’t used to it. “Um, I think it was Dou–”

“Oh, sorry, can you also tell me your name? I’m trying to remember all my students this year, especially those who raise their hands.” While he said it with a disarming glance and a slight smile, I was silently freaking out. I realized pretty quickly that I shouldn’t use my preferred name. Not here, not in boymode, not in front of the whole class. Plus, he’d gendered me male already, so wouldn’t it just be weird if I corrected him?

“Uh, it’s Emmett, Emmett Hammond. I think the answer you were looking for was Douglas MacArthur?”

“That’s correct, thank you Emmett.” He immediately moved on with his lecture, shifting into an open discussion about Ol’ Dougie Mac’s contribution to the warfront, and I let out a long, loud sigh.

I ended up staying in the lecture hall a few minutes late as I struggled to fit my class notes back into my tiny backpack. After an embarrassingly long time, I finally finished packing, giving a sheepish smile to the now emptying classroom. As if anyone cared. I picked up my bag and walked to the double doors at the front of the lecture hall. I wasn’t really paying attention, so I was surprised when I felt someone gently tap on my shoulder. And there was Will, nervously leaning against the door.

Shit. Oh god. He recognized me. Was he in this class? “Um, hey,” Will quivered. “Emmett, I–” That was enough to confirm my suspicions.

I cut off his attempt at (what I hoped to be) reconciliation by running out of the building as fast as I could. It was probably more awkward than I’m describing, but in my mind, I was doing spins, literal parkour over the heads of shuffling students in front of me. I skipped lunch, because it was back to my dorm room for another anxiety cry.

---

I emptied my tear ducts and quickly prepared for my next class, some bullshit seminar about the Renaissance. I refused to let my feelings get the best of me. I was going to do the manly thing: compartmentalize the pain in the back of my mind and ignore it until I died. As I walked, I idly tapped on my phone, desperately searching for distractions. Great. My random swiping had opened Tinder. Ugh, whatever, might as well.

The first profile I saw was of this priest?–maybe?–who wore robes that looked a little too pagan to belong to a church. His profile read, “I love God, my three Aryan cousins, and my very old wife. 34 and looking for a third.” Nope, nope, NOPE. I swiped left.

The pic for this one was a super jacked tan dude holding the tiniest teacup dog you could possibly imagine. “I’m just here to have fun and maybe a little more ;) I like lifting weights and hopefully lifting your spirits. 24, no chubs.” Y’know what, fuck it, he was kinda cute. Swipe right.

After a couple minutes of idly swiping, I actually got a few matches! That gave me a little burst of happiness, enough to distract me from my newfound proximity to Will. I rechecked the profiles of the people I matched with, and one guy caught my eye. His name was Ashton Khan. He looked a little nerdy, and he had cute curly auburn hair that fell down past his ears. His profile read something like “21, he/him, idk how to do this whole Tinder thing but I’m into alt-rock, anime and science fiction.” It wasn’t the best bio ever, and I certainly would never listen to alternative rock, but whatever. He seemed sufficiently chill.

As Professor Marquette droned on about Da Vinci, Ashton and I got to chatting. He opened with a joke about the first pic on my profile, which was just the neutral face of my fake ID photo. I thought it’d be funny for Tinder, since it was so boring and so unsexy, basically two steps removed from a mugshot. He told me he didn’t mind my being trans, which I had advertised very clearly in my bio. After an awkward but endearing start, we started to find some common ground. Not when it came to music, of course, but in other stuff. He told me about some of the sci-fi he read, and was careful to clarify that he was into “the existential stuff. Not that Marvel shit, with the quips every ten seconds.” Of course, he’d punctuate his poignant observations about the anti-colonialist philosophy of Dune with Dave Chapelle jokes, so they can’t all be winners.

At the time, he seemed like a respectful enough guy, so once he asked me out I jumped at the opportunity. Not just to get my mind off of Will, but also to… yeah, it was mostly to get my mind off of Will. But Ashton seemed nice, so we arranged a date for that night at Salman’s, a fancy-ish Middle Eastern place in Greenpoint.

I got as gussied up as I was comfortable gussying, which for me was a well-fitting t-shirt and ripped jeans. Hey, I said it was fancy-ISH. By the time I was done preparing for the date, I’d started to feel okay with myself again. Will wasn’t completely out of my mind, but he was in the background. I was going to go on this date, fucking nail it, and come back to my dorm feeling like a champ. Nothing. Could. Possibly. Go. Wrong.

Salman’s was located a couple blocks north of McCarren Park, so the thirty-minute walk gave me ample time to think. Time which I used to avoid thinking as much as I could. I looked through all my notifications (Twitter, MySpace, last.fm) but my apps were quickly exhausted. I checked my text messages, where I saw an unread text from Alicia from earlier that day. “Hey babe, just wanted to make sure you’re doing okay?”

I didn’t really want to bother her, especially since she probably didn’t really care. “I’m good,” I responded. “Actually got a date tonight!”

She texted me back as I walked through McCarren Park. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

My response to that was a simple “???” It was obviously a good idea, or else I wouldn’t have thought of it! Plus, it’s not like I was just using Ashton to feel better about myself. Maybe this date would end with a kiss. Kisses are nice.

If you’re not from New York, forget the image of a restaurant you have in your head. Salman’s isn’t some hundred-table antechamber for fancy eats. Brooklyn is so full of apartments that even the bougiest steakhouses are tiny (though no less expensive). Salman’s only had two tables, along with a little counter for take-out orders. When I walked inside, Ashton was already seated at the table closest to the window. He gave me a disarming smile which gave me a little spark of self-confidence. He looked at me and didn’t throw up!

I sat down and we exchanged pleasantries. The first thing I noticed was that he didn’t look exactly like his Tinder bio. He’d clearly airbrushed out the acne scars that littered his face like a battlefield. I realized he’d also avoided taking pictures of his body, which was… scrawny, to say the least. That was okay, though. It’s not like you deserve anything better, I thought accurately. 

Just like our conversation over Tinder, things were awkward at first, before we started to get into a bit of a groove. This time it wasn’t really about our shared interests, mostly because I didn’t have many interests I could gush about. Gushing was something happy people did. Instead, I listened intently to his ranking of the Halo games, disregarding the fact that I’d never played console games in my life.

We ordered our food and a couple minutes later, Ashton was munching on his fattoush and sipping a rosé while I nibbled my falafel. Mid-bite, I caught him staring at me intently, his face slightly flushed. I didn’t know if it was because of the wine he was drinking or something else, so I sheepishly swallowed my food and put my fork down. “What’s up? Do I have something on my face?”

“Oh, no, you’re good,” he said. “Um, I was just–nevermind.”

Fuck. Did he finally realize how ugly I was? “You were just what?”

“Well, uh, I read your bio, and you said you’re trans, but, like, you’re just so pretty.” He sounded super anxious, and even though his remark was technically offensive, I tried to let it slide.

“Oh, yeah. It’s just estrogen! Stick myself in the thigh with a needle every week and I get to look like this.” I forced a chuckle and gestured towards my shambling form like an infomercial presenter.

“So you haven’t had surgery or anything?” he blurted out. Okay, now he was getting into personal territory.

Maybe it was a mistake to not shut him down immediately. Instead, I tried to keep things short and not too sweet. “Nope,” I muttered, “no surgery.”

“Yes, awesome,” he mumbled under his breath. I don’t think he intended for me to hear, but I did anyway.

I gave him a wry smile. Fuck shutting him down, I wanted to see where this was going. “What do you mean, ‘awesome’?”

If he sounded awkward before, now he was straight mortified. “Well, it's just–how do I put this…”

“Yeah?”

“So, I’m in my last year of college–” What can I say? I’m into older guys.

“Uh-huh.”

“And I've been trying to experiment, get out of my comfort zone a little bit…” He paused for a second as if to wait for my permission to continue.

“Okay.”

He picked up steam again. “And I thought dating a… pre-op trans person could help me figure out my sexuality, you know?”

And there it was. “Ashton, I’m not a tool to experiment with.”

He changed his entire demeanor at that comment, switching from anxiousness to feigned offense in a millisecond. “I’m not saying you are! If it helps, I think there are many ways trans women are superior to real women, and–”

“Real women,” I interjected.

He rolled his eyes and waved away my concerns. “You know what I mean. People born as women, whatever.”

I leaned back in my chair. “I’m gonna let you keep digging yourself into this hole, dude. How are trans women better than ‘real’ women?”

He took a second to think, and sounded increasingly confident in his bullshit. “I think it's cute how most trans women can be so, uh, anxious to please? Like, they have lower standards, which is good for losers like me.” He chucked. “There’s also, you know, the dick.” He laughed again, clearly expecting me to join in. I didn’t.

“The dick, okay. So, what would you say if I wanted to get rid of it?”

“I’d think it's a waste. Cutting off the one part of your body that can give you a leg up in the dating pool? It’s just foolish. Everyone knows traps are superior.”

In a weird way, he was right. 90% of the dates I went on were with closeted chasers. The only time I was ever seen as desirable was when a man wanted me for my dick. Without it, how could I compete with real women, who could bear children and self-lubricate (two equally important things)? I’d hoped Ashton would be different. I wanted some kind of fulfillment beyond giving meaningless blowjobs to the dick heads of dickheads. Instead, I was getting another entry on my long list of failed hookups.

I had nothing more to add to the conversation, and vowed to finish the date as amicably as possible. I shifted the conversation away from trans issues and got him to talk about some dumb furry anime he was watching. Pee Stars, I think it was called?

I honestly don't know why I didn’t just walk out. Maybe it’s because I knew that Ashton wasn’t deliberately being a cunt. He saw trans women as fetish objects and treated us appropriately. The logic checks out. Or maybe it was because I saw myself that way? As not worthy of respect, as inherently lesser than a cis woman? Nah, that’s stupid.

But wasn’t I inherently lesser than cis women? Without my status as a “chick with a dick,” I would’ve been just another 3/10 for men to stay away from. I was lucky to be the object of someone’s affection at all. Ashton gave me more than I deserved; at least he didn’t call me a “tranny faggot” like my last date.

After we finished our meals, each paying for half of the check, we walked out of Salman’s together. “So,” he said, “want to come back to... my place?” I could feel the eyebrow waggle in his tone alone.

“Yeah, I don’t know,” I responded.

“Come on, don’t be like that.” He gently grabbed my hand and started tugging me behind him.

I shook myself free. “I’m good, man.” I still had enough self-worth to at least turn down his offer.

He sneered at me. “Are you seriously still butthurt about our conversation from earlier? You know I’m not a bigot.”

“Doesn’t matter whether you’re a bigot or not, dude. I don’t put out on the first date,” That was a lie, but he didn’t need to know that. “I’m going home.”

“Bitch,” Ashton muttered. He walked away before I could respond, not that I had any epic comebacks up my sleeve.

Maybe I was being a bitch. He took me out to dinner, paid for his half of the meal, and didn’t beat me up for being trans. Surely I owed him just a crumb of sex, right? I thought about following him, about giving him what he wanted. But then I caught a look at my reflection in a store window, and I was overcome with a wave of self-hatred. It didn’t matter how many dicks I sucked, how many men called me beautiful before kicking me out of their apartments. I could never really be desirable in this body.

I walked back to my dorm, silent introspection only punctuated by periodic sobs. The sidewalks were lit by bright orange streetlights, bathing Williamsburg in an otherworldly glow. It was a warm, beautiful night, and I desperately wanted someone to share it with. I wanted real companionship, not the superficial bullshit Ashton was dealing out. Then I cried even harder, because I knew that was always going to be impossible for someone like me.

I pushed open the door to my dorm, which was partially blocked by a pile of dirty clothes. I briefly glanced at myself in my full-body mirror. Where before the date I saw a reasonably passable girl, I now saw an ugly man. I pulled off my clothes (literally), angry at my past self for thinking I could pull them off (figuratively). Who was I fooling, wearing women’s jeans? I wasn’t like Zoe. No matter who I desperately wanted to be, I would always be the little boy playing dress-up with his sister’s clothes.

Naked as the day I was born wrong, I flopped onto my bed. It was only once I registered the sound of someone banging on my door that I realized I must’ve fallen asleep.

---

The knocks increased in volume, and by the time it started sounding like a jackhammer I was wide awake. I recognized the incessant noise as Alicia’s calling card, and immediately rushed out of bed to answer the door. I quickly pulled back on the clothes I wore the night before.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming,” I muttered, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. It was that sort of icky sleep that doesn’t come out easily, that promises to follow you the rest of the day. I stumbled to the door and opened it, allowing a distressed Alicia to force her way into my room. “What do you want?” I asked.

“You didn’t show at art today. Are you okay?” I looked at the clock. It was already noon. Holy shit, how long had I slept?

“Yes,” I lied. I gestured at my ratty bedhead, my greasy face, and wrinkled clothes. “Does this look like someone who isn’t okay to you?”

“Haha.” Alicia continued making her way through my dorm, tidying up my loose clothes in little piles as she went. Then she grabbed me by the shoulders and sat me down on my bed, plopping herself next to me. “What happened? Spill.”

“There’s nothing to spill! The date went fine, okay?”

“Yeah, because it’s normal to sleep for fourteen hours after a great date.”

“First of all, I sleep for fourteen hours all the time, okay? And don’t worry. I’m done with dates. No more. Ever.”

I told Alicia the SparkNotes of what happened with Ashton, though for some reason she didn’t seem surprised in the slightest. After I finished my story, she stared at me for a second and then tentatively started to speak. “That’s it?”

I gawped at her. “He was a chaser! Aren’t you supposed to, like, say he was a dick and to not be so down on myself?”

“Sure, yeah, whatever. But remember that one date with Keith, when he–”

“Called me a tranny?” Alicia flinched slightly, clearly not expecting me to be so blunt. “Yeah, I remember.”

“And he was a dick–”

“Total dick, yeah,” I echoed. It was seven inches at least.

“–but you still didn’t react the way you’re reacting now. So unless Ashton was even worse than Keith, then he’s probably not what’s making you feel this way.”

I absorbed what she was saying, but it’s not like I was being that out of the ordinary. Sure, I was breaking down internally, and maybe a little bit externally, but that was nothing I hadn’t done before. Right? “How am I reacting?” I asked her.

“Badly. But look, I get it. You’re dealing with a lot, right now.” She went into her psychologist voice. “It’s a new school year, Will’s back in your life, and you’re not making a lot of progress on your transition–”

I stopped her there. “Okay, rude. You know I’m going at my own pace, Miss Cis Woman.”

“There’s a difference between ‘going at your own pace,’”- she said, really stressing the quotes -“and just being scared. Have you done anything new recently to assert your identity? Laser hair removal? Name change? Have you ever gone outside in girl clothes?”

“Not really, but–”

“There you go! You’re stagnating,” Alicia said.

“I’m not stagnating! I just want to be... careful about my transition.” Okay, even I knew that was a lie.

“Oh, please.”

“You know what? So what if I’m scared? I’m not like your girlfriend, I can’t just stop being anxious about the way I look.”

“But you look fine, Eliza!” Alicia said, sussing me out with her eyes. “I know it’s a daunting task, but you need to look at the world among us and realize you’re not an impostor.”

I thought that was a self-report, considering her own imposter syndrome, but I decided to let her vent.* “Easier said than done,” I responded.

(*Let it be known that I’m writing this retrospective in 2030, and Among Us 2 is just as good as the original.)

Despite my increasing obnoxiousness, her voice remained level and condescending. “All I’m saying, Eliza, is that you’re your own greatest enemy. You have a supportive group of friends and enough money to transition comfortably, yet you’re holding yourself back for no reason!”

“Ugh, shut up!” I yelled. “It’s easy to play therapist, but if you were in my body you’d be just as lost as I am!”

But Alicia still had this pervasive, annoying sense of calm. “You’re just lashing out because you know I’m right,” she noted.

“I’m not a perfect person,” I said, hoobastankly. “Can’t you suggest something productive to do, instead of making me feel bad for feeling bad?”

She responded immediately. “You could talk to Will, for starters.”

I was already angry, but mentioning Will brought an entirely new set of emotions into the fray. I remembered the pain I felt when my best friend denied a crucial part of my identity, before leaving my life forever. How could Alicia tell me to suck it up and move on when my tormentor was in my fucking Asian History class? “He’s the reason I’ve been this scared in the first place!” I yelled, voice trembling. “I love you, but this isn’t helping. You need to go before I say something I might regret.”

“Okay,” she responded tersely. “Once you decide to start helping yourself, Zoe and I will be here for you. Until then, I’ll leave you be.” She got up off my bed and helped herself out of my dorm, making a big show of closing the door behind her.

In the span of two days, I’d reopened the scab that was my childhood, ruined my dating life, and hurt my closest friend. The weight of my sheer inadequacy was pushing down on me like an elephant sitting on the tiniest, cutest little bug. I was the King Midas of shit. It was a feat that I managed to be this much of an asshole. I crumpled up into my mattress, too exhausted to cry, and futilely attempted to blink myself out of existence.