Not Trans Enough

(Punctuation in this piece is for mood, not for grammar)

I like men. I love dresses, purple lipstick, and have a mean addiction to overpriced eye shadow. I am the ideal example of femininity incarnate. And yes, I was born with a vagina. But I’m not cis.

Femme. It’s almost a dirty word in the trans community. It’s like being bisexual in the mid 2000’s. I’m confused. I am just another kid trying to be a special snowflake. I don’t exist.

I wish that being trans had a handbook. I wish that somewhere there would be a friendly fairy handing out pamphlets on the correct way to be trans. But that’s just it. There is no handbook. No pamphlets. And more importantly, there is no correct way to be trans. As a transman I face all the everyday hardships that the other members of my community do, but as a femme I face the speculation of my very soul. People question the things that make me Me, because “If I were really trans I wouldn’t…”

I’m told that there is no point in calling myself trans. I’m not really trans. I’m that kid from middle school that just wants to fit in. I’m a poser. My gender isn’t valid because I do not fit my community’s standards. I am a transman whose being is seen as irrelevant. By strangers. By family. By my community.

People balk at my gender. Some whisper behind my back, most tell me I’m pointless, and some even poke fun. In a world that preaches acceptance I am subgender. I am not trans enough. I am not real.

My community, my loved ones, my world. They’ve told me I am nothing. Nonexistent. They’ve taught me to become comfortable with being invisible. But I won’t be. I will never be.

I exist.