What We Left Behind

by Robin Talley

  I started the Gay-Straight Alliance at my high school in ninth grade. It was awesome, but Harvard’s UBA is in another league altogether. Last year, they held the first Intra-Ivy Queer Asian Weekend. People from all the other Ivy League schools came down and held panel discussions and led a Queer Asian Equality March. Then they had a dance party and played Margaret Cho routines on the big screen.

  The UBA is one of the most important student groups at Harvard. Visiting their table at the activities fair will be putting my first foot in the door.

  Sure, odds are, no one will even notice me there. Two hundred freshmen will probably sign up today. There isn’t much I can do this year anyway—freshmen can’t hold leadership roles in the big organizations. But I have to make a good impression, or at least avoid making a bad one, if I want to get a decent spot as a sophomore.

  “You don’t need to stress,” Ebony says, stealing the rest of the fries off my tray as we get up. “You’re going to comp that political blog, right? So you’ve already got your big activity.”

  “I might not make it onto the staff, though. Not everybody who comps their first semester gets invited.” We turn in our trays and push through the doors into the open air. Everyone is already streaming toward the Yard. I shift on my feet. It’s stupid to be nervous.

  “Oh, no, I heard everyone makes it on those things unless they’re seriously lame,” Ebony says as we join the flow of people. Even in gym clothes, my roommate’s tall, muscled form and long, swinging braids stand out as we walk through the crowd. People always turn to look when we’re out together. Probably thinking I look like a little person next to Ebony.

  It’s weird being surrounded by classmates and not recognizing anyone. In high school I’d known everyone since we were kids. Sure, I hadn’t liked a lot of them, but at least I’d known what I was dealing with.

  “Anyway,” Ebony says, “if you don’t like the UBA you can always join one of the other gay groups instead.”

  “None of the other groups has as much clout as the UBA,” I say. “You’re not planning to settle for one of the lesser engineering groups, are you?”

  “Well, no, but that’s because the geeks in FES can kick the geeks in ESH’s asses.”

  “Hell yeah, we can! FES has got it going on!” a guy on the sidewalk next to us yells, making the “Live Long and Prosper” sign from Star Trek at Ebony. Ebony laughs and signs back. I roll my eyes, but I laugh, too.

  The truth is, I already love Harvard. I knew I would before I got here, but the real thing is even better. I may not know many people yet, but the way it feels is exactly what I always hoped it would be.

  The Yard is packed—more crowded than it was on move-in day. I try to take deep breaths as I scan the booths for the groups I’m signing up for: the UBA, the PolitiWonk blog and the Model Congress. All I see in every direction is people jumping up and down, hugging, and eating the free candy the groups have set out on their tables. Am I the only lost freshman here?

  Someone to my left yells, “Eb!” Ebony grins and waves at a girl in tennis gear.

  “I’m going to go say hi,” Ebony says. “You’ll be okay on your own, right?”

  What am I, a toddler?

  “Of course,” I say, but Ebony’s already gone. All right, then. I push past a group of guys high-fiving each other by the Ukrainian-American Brotherhood table and find a spot blessedly free of people so I can collect myself.

  A girl rushes up to me and presses a mini Snickers bar into my hand. “Hi! I’m so glad you’re interested in the HSWMS! Let me tell you about what we’ve got planned for this year!”

  I blink at the girl. Then I realize this spot was only free because I’m in front of the Harvard Students Waiting for Marriage Society table.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say. “I’m not interested.”

  I put the Snickers back on the table in case it has abstinence cooties.

  I back away from the HSWMS table and allow the throng to carry me from booth to booth. There must be hundreds of them.

  Hmm. Maybe I should sign up for some other groups, too, just in case. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to join the College Democrats. And the Japanese fencing-club people look like they’re having a great time waving swords around.

  Then I see the giant rainbow flag pinned high on a brick wall. I’ve found the UBA.

  The crowd in front is bigger than for any other table in the row. Behind the booth and wading out into the sea of students are upperclassmen wearing bright purple T-shirts that say, “We’re so gay! Harvard UBA!”

  Cute. Maybe too cute.

  The sign-up sheet is front and center in the middle of the table. All around me, freshmen are elbowing their way toward it, but I linger at the back of the crowd.

  Just go up there and sign the list. You don’t have to talk to anyone. Just put your name down and get out of there.

  “Hi!” someone perks at me before I’ve unfrozen. It’s an alarmingly cheerful blond in one of the purple shirts. “Are you a freshman?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I say.

  “That’s fantastic!” the girl says as if we aren’t surrounded by freshmen on every side. “We have special cupcakes for freshmen!”

  The girl points to one end of the table. Eight neat rows of cupcakes are laid out, each with the pink letters QF carefully written on chocolate frosting.

  “It stands for Queer Freshmen,” the girl says.

  “Uh-huh,” I say.

  Maybe Ebony was on the right track. There are at least four other LGBT groups on campus. Surely one of them is less focused on T-shirts and cake decoration.

  “Don’t worry about her,” a short black guy with a buzz cut says as the blond wanders away to pounce on someone else. The guy is wearing a matching T-shirt, too. “Shari was the bake-sale queen four years running back in Kansas City. It’s safest to humor her. Her bite is way worse than her bark.”

  I smile at the guy. “Thanks for the tip.”

  We shake hands. It isn’t easy in the press of moving bodies.

  “I’m Derek,” the guy says.

  “I’m Toni.”

  “Tony with a Y?”

  “No, I.”

  “Ah.” Derek nods, as if this explains everything, and points to my wrist. “Great tattoo.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Queer history buff?”

  I blink in surprise. On my eighteenth birthday I got a blue star tattooed on my wrist. Back in the thirties and forties, blue stars were one of those secret signals closeted people used to aid their gaydar. I’d thought that was cool. I’d also wanted to piss off my mother by getting a tattoo. No one has ever known its back story until I explained it, though.

  “Sort of, yeah,” I say.

  Derek nods. “Are you trans?”

  I blink again. No one’s ever come straight out and asked me before.

  No one I’ve met online. No one in the LGBT youth center where I volunteered in DC. None of my high school friends.

  Not even Gretchen.

  So it’s strange acting all casual about it here, with someone I don’t even know. For a second I want to look around to make sure no one’s listening. Then I decide I don’t care. I’ve been worrying about that stuff my whole life. I’m in college now. It’s time to get over it.

  What am I supposed to say, though? That I’m definitely somewhere on the transgender spectrum, and that even though I’ve spent hours upon hours upon hours reading websites and thinking about every possible angle of this stuff, I still haven’t found a label that feels exactly right for me?

  There are tons of options I’ve read about. I usually describe myself as genderqueer just because it’s the word the most people seem to understand, but sometimes I think gender nonconforming would be better. Sometimes I think I’d rather go with gender fluid, an
d a lot of the time I want to pick nonbinary, because that one sounds the least committal. Gender bender sounds cool, but I’m afraid people will think it’s a joke.

  Should I try to tell Derek about how sometimes I think just trans by itself is the best word? It’s just that I’m not sure I really consider myself a guy, necessarily, or at least not every day. I just don’t consider myself a girl. If I call myself trans I’m afraid people will think I’m a dude when the truth is, I’m really not there. Maybe someday I will be, but it also seems entirely possible that I could stay exactly the way I am right now for the rest of my life.

  I don’t think I should say all that, though. Probably best not to scare Derek off with an ideological rant about the evils of labels thirty seconds after we’ve met.

  “I’m genderqueer,” I say.

  “That’s cool,” Derek smiles. Like this is a totally normal conversation. Like those weren’t the two most nerve-racking words I’ve ever spoken out loud. “There are a bunch of other GQs on campus.”

  “There are?” I haven’t noticed any. Unless Derek is, but I doubt that. From the amount of stubble poking out of Derek’s chin, Derek’s probably been on testosterone for a while. As far as I know, guys taking hormones don’t usually identify as genderqueer. They identify as guys.

  Wait. Is that right? How do I know that for sure? Maybe there are hundreds of genderqueer people at Harvard giving themselves testosterone injections as we speak.

  Shouldn’t I know how all of this works, just instinctively?

  Derek lets out a deep laugh, oblivious to my angst. “Yeah, believe it or not. I’m trying to get more of you guys to join the UBA. I’m the trans outreach cochair this year.”

  “Who’s the other cochair?” I don’t see anyone else in a purple shirt who looks trans.

  “My roommate, Nance. She couldn’t be here. Had an ultimate Frisbee game.” Derek points to a tall guy with an expensive-looking haircut wearing a jacket, tie and suit pants with a purple UBA T-shirt despite the ninety-degree heat. “That’s Brad, by the way. He’s the UBA president.”

  “Why’s Brad wearing a suit?”

  “Oh, he’s probably planning to change shirts and go to an informational interview this afternoon. Every time I’ve seen Brad in the past two years he’s been on his way to an informational interview.”

  I laugh. My anxiety—about Gretchen, about labels, about meeting new people—is starting to fade into the background just a little.

  Derek points out the rest of the UBA board members at the table. Shari, the perky blonde, is the social chair. All the other board members are guys.

  “So, are you going to sign up or what?” Derek smiles at me again.

  “Oh, right.” I smile back. I can’t believe how nervous I was about this.

  While I wait my turn at the sign-up form, Shari notices me again. “Oh, hi there! I’m so glad you’re signing up! I see you already met Derek!”

  “Yeah,” I say, surprised to see that Derek is still standing next to me. I thought the UBA people were all supposed to run back into the crowd, seeking out more converts.

  “Did you meet Brad yet?” Shari asks. I look up, but Brad has retreated back behind the table and is furiously poking at a tablet.

  Shari and Derek roll their eyes at each other. I’m getting the sense that Brad is president of the UBA because it means Brad gets to go on informational interviews and talk about being president of the UBA.

  “Well anyway,” Shari says just as I reach the front of the line. “Ahem!”

  Suddenly Shari’s voice is projecting past the table and out to the gathered crowd. The freshmen stop talking and push toward the front of the table to hear. A hush has fallen at the booths around us, too. I have to admit, Shari’s got some serious crowd-control prowess.

  “You guys,” Shari says, beaming out at the rapt group, “I’m so excited to tell you what the UBA board’s decided to do this year! I know you’ll all want to be part of it. You all know that awesome new show The Flighted Ones?”

  Lots of people nod. I’ve never watched The Flighted Ones, but my sister Audrey is obsessed with it. It’s about a group of twentysomethings who turn into winged superheroes at night and fly around fighting crime. Two of the characters are gay and are considered hot by the people who have opinions about such things.

  “We’ve decided to have official UBA-sponsored Flighted parties every Tuesday night!” Shari says. “We’ll watch the show and have snacks! Everyone will want to come because everyone’s watching the show anyway!”

  Next to me, the other freshmen murmur assent.

  “Well, but that’s not all you’re doing this year, is it?” I ask.

  The murmurs stop. I can feel the other freshmen looking at me. Shari and Derek are, too. Even Brad has lowered the tablet and is peering in my direction.

  Crap. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Now, though, with all those eyes on me, I have no choice but to keep going.

  “I mean, it’s not that I don’t like cupcakes and cheesy TV shows, because I do, sometimes,” I say. “But there’s also going to be advocacy work, right? We’re going to do stuff to address the key issues affecting the queer community?”

  I stop talking when I realize Shari’s glaring at me. I shouldn’t have mentioned the cupcakes.

  Great. I haven’t even joined yet and I’ve already pissed off the UBA’s queen bee. I should probably slink off and join the Queer Youth of America, Inc., Harvard-Radcliffe Chapter. I can see their table in the distance. A giant poster of Neil Patrick Harris is hanging from it.

  “We need more members,” Shari says to me, not projecting anymore. “If you know a better way to recruit members than fun social gatherings then you can run for the board next year.”

  “Now, Shari,” Brad says, chuckling, even though everyone else behind the table looks uncomfortable. “I’m sure she didn’t mean to imply that—”

  Derek interrupts Brad in a voice loud enough to match Shari’s. “Hey, Toni has a point. We have a lot of other goals for this semester. Maybe the officers should each give our prospective new members some of the bullet points?”

  Shari groans.

  “Derek, that’s an excellent idea,” Brad says, turning back to the tablet screen. “Why don’t you kick us off?”

  “Okay,” Derek says. “So, hi, everyone. I’m Derek Richmond, and I’m the cochair for transgender outreach. Now that we’ve got gender-neutral housing campus-wide, my fellow cochair and I thought this would be a good year to work on an official guide to transitioning at Harvard.”

  Wow. I’d love to read that. I’ve seen stuff on the internet about transitioning, but it’s mostly about why binding your chest with ACE bandages is bad for you. It isn’t about the scary, big-picture stuff that keeps me up at night, like having to ask my professors to call me by some other name. Or having to tell my mother.

  I catch Derek’s eye and nod. Derek smiles.

  “So, I’m seeing a few confused faces,” Derek goes on, looking around the table at the other freshmen. “What that means is, we need a guide for transgender students who are transitioning. They could be starting to live openly as women, or as men, or as a nonbinary gender, or making some other change related to their gender presentation. The transition guide will have sections on how to tell your roommates and professors you’re transgender, how to get your name changed on your ID, where to find gender-neutral bathrooms, how to get legal hormone injections, safe places around town to shop for clothes and makeup, whatever. We’ll post the guide on the web and try to get some stories in the Crimson, too.”

  The space around the table is getting even more crowded as the freshmen lean in to hear what Derek’s saying, but there are still a lot of blank expressions. I’m so busy watching the crowd I almost miss what Derek says next, but I snap back to attention when I hear my name.r />
  “We could use some help writing the guide from someone who’s new to the Harvard community,” Derek says. “Toni, are you up for it?”

  Now everyone’s staring at me again. The other freshmen in particular.

  I shift from one foot to the other, but Derek looks perfectly at ease, waiting for me to answer.

  It would be stupid to say no. This is as involved in the group as I can get freshman year unless I want to help with cupcake-baking duty. Besides, it sounds interesting.

  I wish everyone would stop staring at me, though.

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Cool,” Derek says. “Why don’t you come back with me after the activities fair? You can meet Nance and we can brainstorm.”

  “Excellent idea, Derek,” Brad says without looking up. “I’m sure he’ll have a lot to contribute. Kartik, your turn.”

  Kartik, the treasurer, takes over and starts talking about fund-raisers, but half the people gathered on both sides of the table are still looking at me.

  I push my way toward the sign-up form and write my name, fast, then back away.

  As soon as I’m safely anonymous in the crowd again, my heart starts to slow down. That was terrifying.

  Also...kind of awesome.

  Now that I’m not nervous anymore, it’s easy to find the other clubs I liked and put my name down on their lists. I sign up for a couple of others, too. Why not? Maybe I should start being more spontaneous now that I’m in college. Maybe that’s how you meet the people who are actually worth meeting.

  As the fair winds down, I make my way back to the UBA table. I dodge Shari, who’s sweeping the table clear of cupcake crumbs, just in time to see Derek look over and wave for me to follow.

  Whew. I’d been half-worried Derek would forget about me.

  We walk across the Yard onto a road I don’t recognize. I’ve never been to any of the houses where the upperclassmen live.