I was five years old when I knew there was something different about me. It was during my first day of kindergarten. The teacher wanted us to group ourselves by gender, with boys on one side and girls on the opposite side. I made my way to where the girls were gathering. There was giggling by the girls as they saw me coming towards them.
“Steven,” my teacher scolded me. “Get over to the boys’ side where you belong.”
My parents raised me gender neutral. I was allowed to pick what clothes to wear and the toys with which I could play. This is the first time that I was told that I had to behave in a certain way based on a certain gender. I knew that I was a boy, but I always felt that I was a girl. Being around girls always made me feel more comfortable with myself. Now, I was told that I had to pick a side.
I stood there in shock for a few minutes before I went over to where the boys were gathered. I heard one boy whisper loud enough so that I could hear but not loud enough for the teacher to hear him. “Sissy,” he said to me. That was the first time I was called that, and it wouldn’t be the last. I went home that day and told my parents about what happened to me over dinner.
“What is a sissy, mommy?” I asked.
“It is a word that people use to insult boys that act like girls.” She answered me. “There is nothing wrong with acting like a girl. Do you want to be a girl, Steven?”
I paused for a few seconds and thought about it. “I am a girl,” I finally replied. “But I don’t want to be one because the other kids tease me.”
My mother and father looked at each other before my father spoke up. “Always be yourself, Steven,” he said in a serious voice that was firm but gentle. “Don’t let bullies change who you are.”
I took my father’s advice, but it was hard to not take the teasing personally. I didn’t make too many friends. I kept mostly to myself.
When I reached the first grade my teacher suggested that they have me see a psychologist. My parents agreed and set up an appointment with Dr. Hughes. I would be seeing her for years to come on a weekly basis. That first day I saw her I told her that I’m not a boy but a girl. She asked me why I think that I’m a girl. “I don’t know,” I said to her. “I just know that I am.”
She nodded her head in understanding. “It can be hard to know why we behave the way that we do,” she reassured me. “If I was asked that question, I wouldn’t be able to describe how I know what gender I am. I notice that you are dressed as a boy. Why don’t you dress as a girl?”
“I would like to dress as a girl, but I’m not allowed to unless I’m at home.”
“Would you like to dress as a girl all the time?”
I nodded my head. “Yes,” I simply said.
“Do I have permission to talk about this with your parents and the school?”
I shrugged my shoulders, “I guess.”
The following week I went to school dressed as a girl. I was wearing a pale blue dress that rested just above my knees. It was sleeveless with a v-neckline. It was one of my favorite dresses that I frequently wore at home. This was the first time I have worn it out in public.
At first, there was some snickering and whispering among my classmates. It wasn’t long before Marty Felon, my biggest bully, came up to me.
He looked directly into my eyes, “why are you wearing that for? It isn’t Halloween.”
“Because I want to,” I snapped back.
“Are you trying to be a girl or something?”
“I am a girl,” I replied trying to stand my ground. “I’ve always been a girl.”
“I knew it,” his lips formed somewhere between a smirk and a smile. Without another word, he turned around and headed inside the classroom.
I didn’t realize how tense I was until he walked away. I was expecting him to be more hurtful and disapproving. I felt my body slowly start to relax as I followed him into the classroom.
The bell rang starting off our day. The teacher led us to recite the Pledge of Allegiance and our classroom rules. Then we all took our seats.
“Now, children,” the teacher said to us standing in front of the class. “You might have noticed something different in class today. We have a new student. Her name is Stephanie. Everyone welcome her and say hello.” “Hello Stephanie,” the class said in unison.
My teacher asked if there were any questions. None of my classmates raised their hands. I was relieved that this was going so well, but also concerned at the lack of my classmates wanting to know more about this change. I don’t know if this lack of conversation was a good sign or a bad sign.
As the years went by, I came to realize that I had nothing to worry about. My classmates all came to accept me as Stephanie. I was still bullied by Marty, but he never misgendered me or called me by my deadname.
I finally got to take puberty blockers when I was ten years old. With the support of Dr. Hughes, I went to see an endocrinologist. She prescribed me Lupron which my mother helps me inject every month. It is supposed to stop facial hair growth and prevent my voice from changing. It won’t cause my breasts to develop. Dr. Bowman, my endocrinologist, said that I wouldn’t get the medication to develop them until I got older.
When I was twelve years old and in the seventh grade, my best friend Becky Thompson showed me her newly forming breasts. It was the weekend and I was over at her house playing with Barbie dolls.
“One of these days I’m gonna look just like her,” Becky said to me with a Barbie in her hand.
I laughed. “Everyone wants to look and be like her.”
“No really. I’m going to have breasts just like her when I grow up. Just like my mom.”
“I’m gonna get them too,” I replied with confidence.
“I’m already growing,” she announced to me. “I’ll show you.” She quickly took off her shirt. She was wearing a tan colored bra. She slipped out of the straps and turned the bra around so that the hooks were in the front. She unhooked the bra and let it fall off and drop on the floor.
I could see two small mounds on her chest. They were perfect half globes with a puffy nipple sitting on top of them. It looked nothing like mine. I felt a pain of jealousy as she displayed them proudly.
Monday evening I went to see Dr. Hughes as I have done every Monday since I was five years old. I told her about Becky showing me her breasts.
“When am I going to get breasts?” I asked.
“Not until you are older,” Dr. Hughes answered.
“How much older? Becky already has them.”
“Dr. Bowman will have to determine that. Stephanie,” I usually go by Steph. Only my psychologist and my parents call me Stephanie, and usually when they are scolding me or telling me something important. “Everyone’s body will develop at different times, including yours. You’ll just have to be patient. Do you understand?”
I slowly nodded my head. I didn’t fully understand why I couldn’t start now, but I didn’t want to argue about it.
I brought up the question again on a nearly weekly basis over the course of the next two years. It wasn’t until Spring Break my freshman year at Sara Emma Edmunds High School that she gave me a different answer.
“Dr. Bowman and I have been discussing about this recently,” Dr. Hughes told me when I asked about getting on hormones for the hundredth time. “She thinks that you will be ready very soon.”
My face lit up with excitement. “How soon?”
“Soon,” she answered vaguely. “It will be up to you when Dr. Bowman can prescribe the hormones for you.”
“I can do it today,” I reassured her.
“We still need more time to talk about it,” she informed me.
I left my session feeling very happy. At long last I was going to be on hormones. I didn’t know what else we had to talk about. Dr. Hughes said something about informed consent. I also needed my parents’ permission.
I was begging my parents to let me take them the entire Spring Break. I was doing so much that they got annoyed with me. I was helping out around the house as much as possible in an attempt to get on my parents good side.
I was feeling hopeful about the future. Yet, Monday when school started back up my mood changed.