Chapter 13: Part 13 - Twelve Years Old

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Part 13 — Twelve Years Old

There was a happy time in my life once. When I was 12 years old and still in my discovery phase. Everything was so new and exciting, and there was a trust for people and ideas that was unshakeable, as all trust is until it is shaken. Maybe it’s something everyone goes through. Maybe that’s why they say your first love is your strongest. Maybe that’s why it hurts so damn much when it ends too. It’s more than the change that is not having that person in your life anymore. It’s the loss of trust that this feeling — this love — would last forever. For me, that love had a name. And it was Rafael Couzins.

When I was 12, Thursdays meant Pride Club at Hillman’s Middle School. A bunch of us had asked Mr Jenkins if we could have it every day, but he said the principal ruled it could run once a week only. And it ran on Thursdays. And I looked forward to that day every week.

I had friends in there. People who were on journeys like the one I was on. There was Rachel, who had been sure she was a lesbian, right up to the point when she was sure she was bisexual, right up to the point where she came out as pansexual. I asked Mr Jenkins what it meant, and once he’d gotten through the initial explanation that a pansexual was someone who loves all genders and all identities, not just one type, I clarified what I really wanted to know.

“No, but what does it mean that Rach was a lesbian and then she was bi and now she’s pan?” I asked. “Does it mean that she was really pan all along, but she just hadn’t realized it yet?”

Mr Jenkins fixed me with one of his kind stares and smiled, before nodding off to one of the tables towards the back of the room and away from the gaggle.

“Before I answer — and there is an answer—” he began, as I sat down, “—let me ask you a question. What’s on your mind, Errol?”

I was still going by Errol back then.

“Well, if Rachel is pansexual now, doesn’t that kind of make her saying she was a lesbian before—” I struggled to find the right word, “—untrue?”

That wasn’t it.

“Truth?” Mr Jenkins said, rocking back on his chair like the other teachers told us we shouldn’t do. “Truth can be a very tricky thing when it comes to identity. You wanna know what Butler says about the truth?” he asked.

I did. Judith Butler was this French writer who talked a lot about gender, but did it in a really confusing way. Mr Jenkins was great at simplifying things for us.

“Uh-huh,” I nodded.

“Butler says that people assume things like ‘male’ and ‘female’ to be these fixed truths that you either are or you aren’t, but in reality, nothing is fixed. Everything is defined and redefined each day. The clothes you wear, the way you talk, walk, the friends you keep, the things you do in your spare time. All these things help to make who you are on any given day. Last year, Rachel was a lesbian. And that was true then. Last week, she was bisexual then. And that was true. And today—?”

He waited for me to finish his thought as he sometimes did in class.

“—She’s pansexual, and that’s true now.”

He nodded and I let a smile briefly cross my face. But the more I thought about what he said, the harder I found to fit it in with the world I knew. How could a person change who they were from day to day? And how could people even begin to give names to their identities if the words they needed to do it constantly kept changing?

“But how about things like male and female?” I asked, getting to the heart of what I really wanted to talk about. “I mean, don’t we need a fixed idea of what a male is in order to say if we are one? Or not?”

“There’s a certain element of truth to that,” he went on. “The word ‘male’ today is built on a whole series of understandings about the word that stretches through history and biology and culture and society. It’s been built on by a series of repeated actions over time that become labeled as ‘male’. Like wearing pants. Up until about a century ago, it was frowned upon for women to wear pants. That was seen as a ‘male’ thing. Grandually, more women wore them and now the act of wearing pants isn’t seen as a specifically male thing (despite what the sign on the men’s room might tell you).”

I giggled a little at that.

“The definitions of these words change constantly,” he went on. “So there is a meaning to them that can be fixed at any point in time,” he conceded, “but it’s not fixed for all time. It takes people constantly performing the acts that are labeled as ‘male’ to reinforce the definition of what ‘male’ is.”

“So everyone needs to keep wearing pants to keep that action from being re-labeled as just a male thing?” I interpreted.

“Precisely,” Mr Jenkins replied. “And you should always keep your pants on, Errol,” he added, jokingly.

I giggled at that too.

“It’s so important,” he went on, “when people come along and challenge those definitions, by taking an action labeled as ‘male’ and doing it alongside a bunch of actions labeled as ‘female’, like wearing makeup or showing off baby-bumps, it challenges whether that action really counts as ‘male’ any more, and helps to shift the definitions of ‘male’ and ‘female’ over time.”

I loved hearing him talk about this kind of stuff. The kind of stuff they don’t put in books or libraries. Not where I grew up, anyway.

“Labels help people to feel anchored to something,” Mr Jenkins explained. “To feel attached to some fixed sense of what it means to be alive. But that sense isn’t the same as it was last century or last year or even last week. Meanings change. Ideas change. And because we use so many ideas to make up our identity — gender, sexuality, class, race, political ideology — and because there are so many overlapping actions between all these labels, it’s pretty hard for anything to stay ‘fixed’ for very long.

“Take Rafa,” Mr Jenkins pointed off to where 8th grader Rafael Couzins who was helping one of the 6th grade girls braid her hair.

“Rafa’s labels might include ‘male’ and ‘gay’, and he’s also into beauty and fashion, meaning he gets called ‘effeminate’. But part of that word ‘effeminate’ — the ‘fem’ part — overlaps with Rachel—” he gestured off, “—who is ‘girly’ and ‘pansexual’. Does the fact that Rafa is effeminate mean he’s not also male? And, if that’s the case, what is he? I see a lot of young people throw around the word ‘gay’ like it’s some catch-all for effeminate men. I’m a gay man,” Mr Jenkins explained, “but I’m not effeminate. Labels make people feel comfortable. Like they know who they are, but — in reality — nobody stays the same throughout their entire lives. If you don’t believe me, go find some photos of your grandparents as teens and ask them what they got up to back then.”

I smiled. I didn’t need to do that. Or much want to. I understood what he meant. But I don’t think I understood at that time what the shift in perspective that nothing was fixed forever would mean for me. Looking back, I guess I wasn’t really asking about Rachel and her changing sexuality-labels. I was asking about me. I was finding words to describe what I was right now. What I wanted to show the world. I wasn’t quite sure that I wanted to show them ‘girl’ just yet. But I was absolutely sure I wanted to find out more about it.

‘What do girls like?’ I asked myself. ‘Girls like boys,’ I reasoned. I didn’t know if I was attracted to boys, but there was something about the way Rafa’s smile filled his face as he was braiding that girl’s hair, something about the discreet eyeliner that he wore under his eyes, something about the way he was looking back across the room at me, that made the twelve year old me want to find out. ‘Take Rafa,’ Mr Jenkins had advised. I decided I just might.

I thanked Mr Jenkins and stood up, making my way back over to where the gaggle was having very loud conversations about their own aspects of identity. Rafa was giving out face massages to the girls that wanted them. He’d just finished with Jenny, who wore this relaxed, blissed-out, dreamy expression. I caught Rafa’s eyes (again) as she stood up.

“Can I go next?” I asked, bashfully.

Rafa smiled and gestured to the chair in front of him.

When I felt his fingers on my face, so soft and gentle, I knew this was something more than a relaxing massage. There was soul to this. Feeling, even. I don’t know if there’s such a thing as love at first sight — or touch, anyway — but I could feel stirring in me emotions I hadn’t experienced before. And all I knew, as Rafa’s kind fingers worked their way across my face, was that I wanted to feel a whole lot more of this.

Submitted: January 12, 2025

Young Adult teen drama ya lgbtq trans