Before You Knew

POEM BY

PETER VILLAFAÑE

PHOTO BY MY PHAM

Before you finished third grade, you told your friends that you didn’t like girly things--that you did everything in your own way. They said, “But you are a girl.” And you didn’t know what to say Because at the time you could not articulate That being a girl didn’t seem like fate. You Googled “how to be a tomboy” And wondered if your Barbie was okay to destroy.

Before you knew what transgender meant you hated the color pink And hissed at skirts, unaware that you were on the brink Of learning that everything you tried to avoid Was leading you to a path of rainbows and parades and joy-That every detail was not due to choice That loathing your clothing would create an identity you anoint.

Before you could buy a binder, you were mortified when your chest began to grow. You cowered your shoulders and slouched your back so no one had to know. Strangers would “take” you for a boy You did not care because they were “miss”ing a “mis.” A teacher called you a he/she to his class, and now you simply think this: Well, he was kind of right. Back then, your biggest fear was your skinny jeans being too tight Or if the poetry you wrote was being written in vain. Now you fear being buried under the wrong name.

Before you had a blog, you began developing your own style; Suddenly you wore skirts and dresses that replaced your smile. You loved fashion and let the art of self-expression take over but Did not know your hyper-femininity was inner transphobia.

Before you could admit that your gender was set, you told your boyfriend not to fret. You said you felt like a woman around him, and your gender could be decided on a whim. You tried for as long as you could stand to go by your birth name Before deciding on Peter like the Pan who gained fame As someone you now realize you have always wanted to be: A boy who stayed one forever--from whose own battles he never fleed.

Now you know you are trans, and you are me. I wish I could tell you that the now is easy. I wish you didn’t know that I use our old name with family like a used prop. But feeling like a foreign object in your own body one day stops. And whenever we are scared to go into the men’s restroom we think of Marsha and Sylvia. We continue to march on the road paved by bricks they threw for you. We protect us, for ourselves we make space Until the streets, the cars The clubs, the bars The offices, the schools The bathrooms, the pools Are safe for folks with Our face.