I have a friend who’s a boy but wants to be a girl. I call her Mary. She likes the name Mary. She doesn’t mind me calling her it, though it takes her a while to respond to it.
Mary shows me her medical documents once. How they describe it is F sixty-four point nine. Unspecified gender identity disorder. The doctor’s notes say: patient is not tall, of a slim build (that’s one way to say it; you can see the bones of her knees and elbows), fairly androgynous looking. Dislikes his face, height, voice, hairiness. Claims to have started feeling this way at age 6. Claims he used to go to bed hoping to wake as a girl starting at age 8.
We’re strolling in a park. As we step over a puddle — or I step over it and she puts her foot directly in it — she tells me two things: she says, there were two old guys on the bus loudly debating whether she was... agirloraboy. The second thing she says is: I remember my younger cousin being attacked by a dog when I was four. It’s easier for her to describe how his face looked enveloped in the dog’s jaws than it is for her to say the word boy.
I’d asked her how tall she was the week prior. She pauses long enough for me to notice and says she doesn’t know exactly, then comes up with a number. She says a number and then says, every time I come back home, my relatives keep assuring me I’ve grown a little taller. She says it with a nervous smile on her face, like she’s worried they might be right. They keep saying I’ve grown a little taller, but I haven’t grown any taller since the ninth grade.
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