Stay Gold - Tobly McSmith Page 0,16

now. All my little pronoun victories from today gone.

“Dad,” I say.

“What?” he asks, faking innocence. His eyes meet mine; he’s ready for a fight.

Mom places her hand on his. “I’m fine with it, as long as your grades don’t suffer.”

And with that, Mom has ended this conversation. Dad goes back to eating.

After finishing dinner and clearing the plates, I head upstairs to my room and kick off my shoes. I find myself in the full-length mirror and watch as I unbutton my shirt, revealing my binder. I wear it under my clothes to smooth out my chest.

I had already developed boobs when I started taking hormone blockers. I was a year too late. I hate saying boobs almost as much as I hate having them. No, I hate having them more than just about anything.

Gender-affirming compression binders come in all shapes and sizes—the most popular fit looks like a sports bra—but I prefer the more masculine tank top. It’s basically a medical bandage undershirt made of thick polyester that’s so tight it restricts breathing and squishes my organs together.

Exactly what you want to wear for twelve hours on a hot summer day.

I have read stories about trans men developing medical issues from wearing cheap binders for too long. Serious stuff like collapsed lungs and broken ribs.

To me, it’s worth the risk. No matter how much I complain about these polyester torture traps, I wouldn’t leave my house without one on. Binders have become my protective layer, my second skin, my shield that makes me feel safe and more myself. This is the discomfort that I put myself through to feel more comfortable.

The term everyone is using now is gender dysphoria. It’s a fancy way of describing the distress of being in the wrong body. The level of dysphoria that a transgender person feels varies and often causes depression, anger, insecurity, and sometimes suicide.

I bind my chest to ease my discomfort. Chest binders aren’t a solution to my dysphoria, just an incredibly uncomfortable Band-Aid. The solution is top surgery, but I would need to rob a bank to afford it.

Removing the binder from my body is no easy task. (Putting it on is no walk in the park either.) I grab at the bottom like I’m removing any other shirt and take a quick breath to suck in my stomach. The trick is to yank the binder up and over my head in one smooth movement. Most of the time, the polyester clings to my body like it has abandonment issues. And occasionally, just to keep me humble, the binder gets caught around my shoulders, covering my face and trapping my arms over my head. I hop around like a bad magician unable to escape his straitjacket.

I count to three in my head and pull. The binder peels off easy this time. My skin goes cold and prickly, happy to feel air. I throw it across the room and take a deep, unrestricted breath. I’ve been waiting to inhale.

I spin around a couple times, the colors of the movie posters plastering my walls blurring together. I stop and return to the full-length mirror nailed to my closet door. Nothing more honest than a head-to-toe mirror.

My shoulders aren’t wide enough, and my posture is hunched from trying to hide my boobs all those years before binders. I wouldn’t say my body has curves, but my hips are round. There’s no exercise to unround hips; I checked. No body hair. And—I’m missing one important body part.

I hate that I hate my body, but I hate it.

Like Photoshop, I wish my body came with the Copy/Paste function. I’d paste a male chest over mine. Then I would drop in some abs with just a hint of six-pack, broader shoulders, and that trail of hair that starts at the belly button and goes down.

Most importantly, I would add a dick. Any size, don’t care.

After that was done, I would cut that body out and paste it on the beach. Swim trunks and no shirt. Girls spread out on beach towels checking me out. I am comfortable and happy and normal. I open my eyes and frown at the mirror. I am so far away from the body I want. This is my dysphoria.

I throw on a shirt and head over to the crown jewel of my room—an extra-large flat screen. My only present last year for Christmas. Worth it. I dig into Netflix and decide on a comfort movie (Kill Bill), saddle up to my