Some Assembly Required: The Not-So-Secret Life of a Transgender Teen - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Arin Andrews is a speaker and advocate for the LGBTQ community, as well as the author Some Assembly Required. He lives in Oklahoma. Visit him on YouTube (RockClimber712), Instagram (@ArinAndrews), and X (@Arin_Andrews).

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Some Assembly Required

1

Getting dumped at prom sucks.

I mean, getting dumped period sucks, obviously. But to have it happen in formal wear in front of hundreds of people adds a humiliating slap across the face that an I-just-want-to-be-friends text can’t compete with.

It’s basically the exact opposite of being voted prom king. In fact, it feels like the prom king decided to have you executed.

•  •  •

It’s not like there weren’t warning signs that the night was going to be a disaster. I’d met my date, Jessica, during the second semester of my sophomore year of high school, when I was still going by my female birth name, Emerald. She was bi, and I was out as gay at the time. I never referred to myself as a lesbian, just gay. “Lesbian” would have implied that I was a girl who liked girls.

I knew that I was a boy who liked girls.

My friend Alyssa introduced me to Jessica—we were all in the same psychology class. Alyssa is the type of girl who likes to touch. She was always hugging me and holding on for just a little too long, but not in a flirty way. She’s just physically affectionate. Jessica was a little more removed. She had this aloof, ice princess quality that I’d always thought was kind of sexy. Leading up to the prom, we’d never dated or anything, though; I was always too shy to ask her out. So when prom came around and her friends were all taking it way too seriously for Jessica’s taste, with limo rentals and elaborate invitations written in soap on a prospective date’s car, I was beyond psyched when she asked me to take her.

“We’ll make it a good time,” she promised me.

Oh, yes we will, I thought, imagining us slow dancing under swirling lights.

•  •  •

I had started the very first steps of transitioning from female to male shortly after meeting Jessica. According to the standards of care within the medical community, I needed to live in public as a male for one year before I would be allowed to have any kind of gender reassignment surgery, like having my breasts removed. I began to ask people to call me Arin instead of Emerald, and to refer to me as “he” instead of “she.” For the most part Jessica was cool about it, but every now and then she’d start whining: “Why can’t you just be gay? Why do you have to mess with this whole transgender thing? Why can’t you be normal?”

She considered herself something of a rebel, but I think my coming out as trans was one step too far over the line for her. Bisexual was edgy, gay was even cooler, but being transgender was a new one for most of the people in our school. But that was okay with me at first—I understood that a lot of people were going to have a hard time getting used to the change, and I naively didn’t let her complaints upset me. I thought I could educate her.

Also, to be perfectly honest, she was two years older, and it was kind of a big deal for a sophomore like me to get to attend prom.

I spent hours getting ready the night of the dance. When I had been Emerald, if I’d needed to dress for a formal event, I’d throw on whatever hideous dress my mom had picked out for the occasion, and I’d invariably end up letting her brush my hair since I couldn’t be bothered myself. She loved to do it, though. She took any and every opportunity I gave her to try to make me look pretty. Mom named me after the Emerald Pool at Trafalgar Falls in Dominica—she had visited there while pregnant with me and thought it was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen. It was a lot to try to live up to back then.

But for my first prom as Arin, I went all out. I discovered the color of Jessica’s dress and bought a blue shirt to wear with my suit so we’d match. I ironed all my clothes until the creases were razor sharp, and I polished my black dress shoes until I could see my reflection in them. I spent forever in the shower, scrubbing myself clean. After I toweled off and put on my binder—a tight piece of elastic that squashes your boobs to give the appearance of a flat chest—I messed with my hair for at least twenty minutes until I got it just right.

It hadn’t even occurred to me to buy a corsage, until my mom told me she’d be pissed if her prom date showed up without one, so we stopped at a florist shop on our way to Jessica’s house. I chose a white rose on a wristband for her, and a matching boutonnière for me.

“Promise me you won’t drink,” Mom lectured.

“I won’t,” I said.

“And don’t get into a car if anyone else has been drinking.”

“I won’t,” I said. I wished she’d just trust me. I had no interest in partying. All I wanted was to be out in the world as a boy with a beautiful girl on my arm. I wasn’t about to ruin that feeling with booze.

She dropped me off in front of Jessica’s and leaned over to kiss my cheek.

“You look very handsome,” she said, and reached out to ruffle my hair. I ducked her hand.

“Don’t touch it,” I said. “This took forever!”

We locked eyes for a moment. The past few years had been the worst of our lives. I’d come back from wanting to die. Initially she had vehemently resisted my need to transition, and if you’d told me even four months prior that we’d be experiencing this moment together—me with short hair, dressed in a suit, taking a girl to prom—well, I would have called you crazy.

“Love you,” I said, getting out of the car and slamming the door shut behind me.

I knocked on Jessica’s door, and her dad answered. I had no idea if he knew I was transgender, and I think he sensed I was nervous.

“Hello, Arin,” he said, giving me a firm handshake. “Come on in. Jessica’s told me all about you.”

Everything? I wondered.

Jessica appeared from the hallway, fastening an earring into place.

“Hey,” she said, sounding bored.

Her hair was pulled up into a pouf on top of her head, held in place with a thin circular braid. The rest curled and tumbled down past her shoulders. It was sort of a fifties retro thing, like that singer from the B-52s. Her strapless teal dress was covered in rhinestones around her breasts, and more shiny rocks marched in vertical lines toward her waist, where the cloth dissolved into layers of tulle. Her legs were bare, and ended in open-toed black heels. I thought she looked beautiful, and told her so.

“Thanks,” she said, and I felt a twinge of disappointment when she didn’t comment on my suit.

I slipped her corsage onto her wrist but fumbled when I tried to pin my boutonnière. Her dad saw me struggling and stepped up to help me get it on straight while Jessica watched, a slight smirk on her face. That should have been warning number one—wasn’t she the one who should have been playing this part in the ritual?

But the thought disappeared when her dad finished and gave me a little pat on the shoulder. All he had to do was refer to me as “son,” and it would have been a moment right out of some cheesy prom episode of a sitcom. I was going through the same motions that generations...