I Am J

by Cris Beam

  J extinguished his cigarette with a hard stomp of his heel. The man in Chanelle? How could she say that? There was no woman inside of him, not even one ounce; how could there be any man inside of Chanelle? He noticed his hand was clenched into a fist; he breathed and stretched his fingers. “You’re not masculine, Chanelle.”

  “I didn’t say I was masculine. I said I hate the man in me.”

  “I don’t have any woman in me.” J’s voice sounded petulant rather than firm and assured, the way he wanted it to.

  “Of course you do,” Chanelle said. “You’re just still afraid. You’re newer at this than I am.”

  He wanted to tell her to fuck off; who did she think she was, telling him about his feelings, patronizing him like this? But he’d come into the stairwell to help her; she’d said she needed him. Even Melissa had never admitted that.

  “Maybe I’m dating the most masculine asshole to try to conquer what I hate,” Chanelle said. “Or to change him—or—I don’t know. I can’t figure it out.”

  J softened a bit. Chanelle was so smart, he thought. So able to look at herself. One minute she was making categories for other people that seemed almost comiclike in their simplicity, and the next she was analyzing her own character better than even Philip could do. “Is Bonez really an asshole?”

  Chanelle nodded her head miserably. “He only cares about tagging. And even that he misspells.” She gave a little laugh.

  J thought about having a woman inside, or a man, about having different parts. Was it like being Jewish and Puerto Rican? His dad was Jewish, and he himself always felt more Puerto Rican. Did that mean he was sort of feminine, like his mom? If he felt more Jewish, would he be even more like a man? He didn’t know much about Judaism; Manny hadn’t taught him enough about it. And besides, that wasn’t what Chanelle was talking about. And what was a person, anyway? The sum of the parts? Some of the parts? That was a good pun. Was a person just the things he said he was, or also the things he denied? J felt confused; he couldn’t hold on to a singular thread. He knew one thing: Bonez only made Chanelle feel bad about herself, and that wasn’t worth it. “You deserve somebody better, Chanelle,” he said.

  “Yeah, sure,” she answered. “All the good ones are taken.”

  Another line. And then he suddenly got it: Chanelle made up all her rules about other people to prepare herself for rejection. If she could simplify everyone into categories, she could brace herself for their predictable responses. Like everybody else, Chanelle was afraid of getting hurt.

  “No, they aren’t,” he said. He thought of the way his feelings had shifted toward Blue; how at the beginning he believed he wanted her back no matter what, but then when his fantasies about her were bigger than who she really was, he could let her go. “You could get somebody great.”

  “How?” Chanelle looked skeptical.

  J said he didn’t know; he obviously wasn’t a relationship expert. “But if you dump Bonez, I’ll help you be less lonely, or whatever, until you find a better one.”

  “So you’ll be my stand-in boyfriend?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Great,” Chanelle said, laughing. “You’ll scare all the guys away cause they’ll think I’m with you.”

  “I’ll sit at another table and be an asshole meter. A wink means he’s all right; a cough means run away.”

  “So, now you can judge men?”

  “Been studying them all my life.”

  Chanelle smiled and kissed J on the cheek. “Thanks,” she said, and they both stood up for class.

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  Dear Pops, J typed into the computer at Melissa’s house, knowing he could erase it later. This was another one of Philip’s ideas—to write a letter to his father just to see what would come out. How are you? No, that was dumb. He backspaced. Dear Manny. More man to man. How are you doing, living in the apartment where I used to live? That sounded bitter, pitiful. Dear Pops, he tried again. I’m fine, going to school, living with two women on the Lower East Side, working on my career in photography. How’s your life in the subway? Crap, he thought. Philip and his ideas.

  One of Philip’s ideas had been a good one—joining the young transgender group downtown. J had gone several times now and was invited to join the We-Pee organizing committee. Technically, everyone was invited to join We-Pee, but J was happy the redhead in charge had remembered his name. And then Zak, looking as muscled and confident as the last time, had invited J to his apartment, since he was “new to the community.”

  But for now he had promised Philip he’d write a letter. It was important, Philip thought, for J to express his feelings about Manny, since every time his name came up in therapy, J changed the subject. So they struck a deal: if J wrote the letter, Philip would drop the subject. For a while.

  Dear Pops.

  I wanted to be like you when I was little. This isn’t your fault. It’s just who I am. I hope one day we can talk again.—J

  It took J the better part of an hour to work out those few lines. Despite Philip’s instructions, J couldn’t help but imagine his father actually reading what he wrote. And each time he struck a key, it was like tapping a memory—watching cartoons together when J was little, buying J’s first bike, their special trip to the horse races in Saratoga. Manny screaming from the bleachers when J won a swim race, that unmistakable shout of Pops-pride.

  On the table next to the computer sat J’s stack of college applications. A few were past due. They all required essays. Describe an important event that changed your life.

  J called Chanelle. “Where are you going to college, again?” he asked, even though he knew. She had one more year of high school to complete, but then she was going to go to NYU, she knew it, on a full scholarship, and would be accepted early admission.

  “What if my dad won’t pay for school anymore? Now that…” J asked, trailing off.

  “Ever heard of financial aid?” Chanelle was snippy with J again; maybe she was really considering a breakup with Bonez. “And go to a SUNY school. They have late admissions.”

  Chanelle knew all the policies and programs of the local schools by heart; she’d been scouring college websites for the past several months, eager to start her life as a capital-p Poet.

  “But what about my transcripts? Do they need them for photography?” J was flipping through a brochure for a SUNY school upstate where, it seemed, he could major in photography. He’d need to pull together a portfolio.

  “What about them? I thought you said your grades were good.” She was definitely in a bad mood, J thought. Maybe she was jealous that he’d get to go to college before she would. “Everywhere needs transcripts.”

  “But”—J paused—“my transcripts all say my other name. By the time I start college—I mean, if I start college—I’ll already be on T. I don’t want anybody to know I’ve been a girl.”

  “Hmm.” Chanelle sounded stumped. She said she’d meet him after school in the computer room the next day, and they’d figure it out.

  All night long, twisting in his sleeping bag like an oversized worm, J fretted. Going away to college sounded better and better: he’d get to start over, as a boy, in a place where no one knew him. He’d learn more about photography and probably get to use nicer equipment than he could ever afford. Carolina would be proud of J in college—all his life, she’d talked about how important that was. She’d signed the testosterone form behind Manny’s back; maybe she could sign over some of the college money, too. Maybe some of that money was hers alone.

  But what if no school would let him in as J? They’d see Jenifer on his transcripts and think he was a girl. Which gender would he check off on the forms? What kind of dorm could he stay in, with his bound-down chest and his (he hoped) masculine voice? Where would he shower?

  He couldn’t stay at Melissa’s forever; she’d be leaving to teach at a dance camp in the summer, as she did every year, and then go off to college herself. Karyn wouldn’t want a r
oommate whose mother wasn’t slipping her rent, and obviously he couldn’t go home.

  And even if he could, what would he do there? Play with the cat all day? Get a job at C-Town, bagging groceries? He wanted to be a real photographer; he wanted a chance.

  In the college brochures, groups of kids clustered under trees laughing or studying, and not one of them looked trans. What does that even mean? J thought. What if they are? The girls had long hair, and the boys wore caps, and they all seemed to be happily settled at their campus, showing off team logos on sweatshirts or bags.

  “Let’s just call them,” Chanelle said the next day. They were in the computer room where they’d written the poem for Blue. Chanelle had the website for the SUNY schools up on the screen, and she’d pulled out her cell phone.

  “Wait, stop! What’re you going to say?” J tried to grab the phone from her, but she was already dialing. “Don’t tell them my name!”

  “I won’t. But they have a GLBT center on campus; it’s a good sign.” Chanelle’s eyebrows furrowed and she sat up in her chair. “Hello? Yes, I was thinking of applying to your school.”

  J pulled his cap over his eyes. Sometimes Chanelle reminded him of his mother. No time for negotiating.

  “But I’ve had a name change, and I was wondering if that would be a problem….” Chanelle paused, wrote something down. “Right, and where would I put that on the form?”

  Chanelle looked at J with a grin—like, See how easy this was? “Right,” she said. “And if I’ve changed my gender?”

  J groaned.

  “Uh-huh,” she said, entirely businesslike. She dropped her voice to a lower register. “See, I was born a girl, but I live as a man. My older transcripts will say female, but the ones from my school now will say male. Will this be a problem?”

  J felt a sudden flood of love for Chanelle. She was dropping her voice for him, acting like a male, which he imagined she hated. She seemed fine, though, prattling on with the person on the phone as if they were old friends.

  “Really? And where can I shower?” J felt like Chanelle had been in his brain last night. He flashed to Marcia, in the hotel near the pier. “Honey, we’re all transgender.” He wondered what had happened to her, her fuzzy sweater, her kindness. The paper Chanelle was writing on was filling up, and apparently she’d moved on. “So, how many photographs do I need for a photography portfolio?”

  When Chanelle hung up the phone, she smiled smugly. “That was easy.” She handed him her page of notes. “J baby, you’re going to be old news at that school. Nothing special about you.”

  There had been others, Chanelle said, and the university was used to it. He could check the M box on the forms and just attach a note explaining he was transgender. The dorms wouldn’t be a problem; most likely, they’d just assign him his own room.

  “My own?” J interrupted. “With a door?”

  “No, you’ll have to hang a flag from your doorframe and hope nobody peeks.”

  I could do anything if I had a room with a door. Chanelle laughed. “You look like somebody went and bought you a car.”

  “It’s better,” he said, and reached into his bag for his camera. Even when she laughed, Chanelle’s eyes looked sad. He adjusted the lens.

  “You want to take my picture? Now?”

  “Just your eyes. Look natural,” J said.

  Chanelle started pulling makeup out of her bag—mascara, an eyeliner, and an enormous powder brush.

  “I said natural.”

  So J got a picture of Chanelle looking into the camera, her bangs pulled back behind her ears, one eyebrow raised slightly, like a challenge. Her brown eyes were open and unafraid, but if you looked closely, there was something searching in them, too—something lost and long ago. Maybe she does belong in another century, J thought.

  “Thank you,” J said.

  “It was easy. I just sat there.”

  “No, for making that call.” He knew if he did get into a school outside the city, he’d come back and visit Chanelle. He’d help her through if she got sad about her mom or if Bonez broke her heart. There was more to life than the struggles with Blue or his dad, or even getting T. There was family, and this was it.

  Zak’s apartment was a mess. He tried to pawn it off on his three roommates, who weren’t home, but J could see that even Zak’s bedroom was a hurricane of books and running shoes and sheets that appeared to be less than clean. The chin-up bar Zak had mentioned was in the doorframe to this bedroom, and as they talked, Zak absentmindedly did reps.

  “Sorry there’s not much room to sit,” Zak said, hoisting himself up to the bar. He wasn’t even out of breath. “Just shove some stuff off the bed.”

  “When did you finish college?” J asked. He wondered how long it would take him to afford a place like this—a place of his own, with his own room.

  “I don’t think I’ll ever be done with school. I’m working on my doctorate.” Zak dropped from the bar to swig from a Gatorade bottle that was nestled in a laundry basket. “In gender studies.”

  J didn’t know what to say.

  “It’s partly why I’m running the group. It’s material for my dissertation,” Zak said. He had invited J over to hang out before they’d head to the support group together. “It’s called ‘Male-ancholia: Depression and Grief in the Transitioning Male.’ Sometimes I call it ‘Even Transboys Get the Blues,’ but I don’t think my adviser would go for it.”

  “You think transguys are depressed?” J looked at the chin-up bar and wondered if he could even do one. It had been so long since he’d tried.

  “Ever look at a transguy’s forearms? So many of us cut.”

  J thought of Melissa. She was the only one he knew, and she was far from trans.

  “And then there’s the depression that comes when testosterone doesn’t solve everything, or when we mourn after surgery.”

  “What?” J was incredulous. “I can’t wait to get rid of these. I hate them.”

  “I did, too. But sometimes there’s sadness. You do lose a part of your body.”

  Zak took off his sweater and did a few more chin-ups in his tank top. J stared at Zak’s chest; he couldn’t help it.

  “I had my surgery two years ago. Want to see?”

  J was sitting at the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees. He nodded mutely. Zak peeled off the tank top and tossed it into the laundry basket, revealing a perfectly toned chest with a small tattoo of a dragon above the left nipple.

  “That’s my year,” Zak said, flexing his pecs. “The year of the dragon. Healthy, sensitive, and brave. Plus, I think the tattoo distracts the eye from my scars.”

  J didn’t see any scars, but when Zak motioned him to look more closely, he saw two pale lines below the pec muscles. Nothing you’d notice on a beach.

  “Did it hurt?” J asked. He sat up a little straighter, jutted out his chin.

  Zak said he’d had the surgery in San Francisco, one week apart from a friend who did it, too. They’d made a vacation of it, seeing the Golden Gate Bridge, riding cable cars, so the healing didn’t seem so bad. The surgery itself, Zak didn’t remember.

  J suddenly felt annoyed. Oh, sure, he thought. Major surgery, and you didn’t feel a thing. “That’s cool,” he said. “I’m pretty good with pain, too.”

  Zak raised his eyebrows and gave a sly grin. He was still doing the chin-ups. “You’ll need to be. Sometimes your muscles get sore even after the testosterone shots.”

  Really? Like a tetanus shot? “I know,” J said, looking out the grimy window so Zak wouldn’t think he liked watching the workout. “I have lots of friends who have done it.”

  “Oh, yeah? Where? Maybe I know them.”

  “No. They’re in Philly.” Why do I always say Philly? What is it with that city?

  Zak didn’t know anyone in Philly and asked J if he wanted to do some pull-ups.

  “Nah,” J answered. “I’m tired from the weight lifting I did last night.”

  “Okay,” Zak said
, smiling again. “You don’t want muscle fatigue. But if you need a bench partner, let me know.”

  J thought Zak’s world was so much bigger than his parents’, in their little apartment up in Washington Heights. A shiver of guilt went up his spine, and he tried to squelch the feeling.

  “You look good. The surgery, I mean.”

  Zak looked down at his chest. “Thanks. I’ve got to get some new pictures, though. I posted my transition online, and the ones I have up are really old.”

  “I could take them,” J said. And then he coughed. He didn’t want to seem too eager. But, artistically, taking pictures of Zak would be cool. First there was Chanelle, and then Zak—maybe this could be a project, taking pictures of people who had transitioned or were in various stages of transition. It was like the photography term he loved, parallax, where what you got in the picture was more than what you saw through the camera itself. And what you see depends on where you stand. That was so true with transpeople. All people, really. He could really get into photographing “live subjects,” as his old photography teacher would say—much harder than construction sites, which held still.

  As it turned out, Zak was a better subject than Chanelle; he liked having his picture taken. He posed doing a pull-up, and J got a close-up of Zak’s bicep, round as a tennis ball, his face a strained but smiling backdrop for the flexed arm. He posed, shirtless, sitting on a stack of books, pretending to read, and again standing, hands in his pockets, looking straight at the camera. Pretty soon they were laughing.

  “I feel like I’m taking beefcake shots for a calendar,” J said.

  “Yeah, there’s a huge market for topless tranny academics. Right up there with the firemen.”

  A few weeks later, when J got home from his trans group meeting, Melissa was waiting up for him. “Your mom called,” she said. She was lying on her bed, flipping through a dance magazine.

  J checked his cell phone—no missed calls from Carolina. “Why’d she call here?”