Identity

Most mornings, I can feel the warm air wafting in through the window above my bed. Heat doesn’t bother me. Not anymore. I’ve spent my graduate summer at my parents, and my body’s got used to the high thirties weather.

This morning, I wake up sweltering. My face feels hairy and scratchy, pyjama bottoms tight. I know something is different the moment I open my eyes. There’s something warm and hard between my legs. When I move my arm back so I can sit up, I bang my elbow, hard, on the headboard.

‘Ow,’ I mutter, but my voice comes out like gravel. I wonder if I have a cold coming on, and experiment again.

‘Ow,’ I say, louder. Not my voice. It sounds a bit like my brother’s, but croakier. I sit up.

I feel lighter than usual. Where is the swing and weight of my breasts, coming down to settle stickily against my skin? My shoulders feel further away from me, too. My arms are hairy, my wrists thicker than I remember, with long square fingers. And there, sitting in my lap, is the infamous morning glory. I take a peek to make sure.

Dread mounting in the pit of my stomach. I look for a small hand mirror. Out of bed I stumble, I can’t remember my knees ever jutting out this much. I left the mirror lying on my desk when I checked my freshly plucked eyebrows last night.

My eyebrows are unrecognisable. My face is mine and not mine. I look a lot like my brother, but even more like myself. I recognise the nose from pictures of my father when he was young. Beneath the nose is a very bushy, unkempt, caveman beard.

I rack my brain for some explanation. Some reason for this Freaky Friday calamity. I can’t think of anyone I’ve been particularly mean to, nor can I remember an instance in which I’ve made any kind of wish in the past week which could have led to this. I haven’t even listened to the song ‘If I was a boy’ in years. I have a non-binary sibling, who I infinitely respect, I really do, so I can’t imagine that they could have cursed me with this, could they? Could they?

Everyone knows I love being a woman. I love the women I know, the companionship, the will you come to the bathroom with me?-you’re amazing friendships. The support, the kindness, the freedom and respect with which we treat each other.

The never being too threatening, playing with other people’s (adorable) kids without it ever being weirdo, the welcome and trust you get from people you’ve just met.

I love the dressing up, the dresses, the lack of judgement from your peers whenever you feel like being a different kind of woman. I love being the same gender as Virginia Woolf and Mother Theresa and Rosa Parks, and countless womxn I have met, who invited me into their homes and taught me so much, trusting me in a way they didn’t trust men, simply because I was a woman.

And, controversial—I even like being condescended to, the endless rambles of old men, because I can smile and be polite and learn a lot more, make a great impression with minimal effort, than if they’d allowed me to dominate the conversation. I love exceeding expectations, choosing to be kind over being right. I love my envelope of flesh, too, the hands with which I can caress women and children’s hair in trusted circles, the legs that take me places.

So what am I supposed to do now? Who am I, if I’m not my gender? I desperately want to shed a tear or two, but the tears won’t come out. Weird. Must be some biological tear duct thing.

I rummage through my wardrobe for clothes. The wardrobe feels as small as the ceiling is low. Everything in my room looks smaller, even my king-sized bed.

I throw a lot of my clothes on the floor, all the skirts and tank tops. I can’t find anything I can wear without looking like I’m making a political statement. The last thing I want is to draw attention to myself. I give up and take a towel to the shower room.

I decide to shave. I trim the beard first, and then I take the razor and shaving cream I normally use on my legs. I still cut myself in several places, but I manage a clean-shaven look and pat down admiringly. I slip into my brother’s room and steal a t-shirt and boxers and a pair of shorts. As a woman, I can steal any of my seventeen-year-old brother’s clothes. The t-shirt’s a little tight on my twenty-three-year-old frame.

I go downstairs. I can’t help but notice how loud my footsteps are. I try to walk lightly, on my toes.

‘Is anyone there?’ I call. No response. Thank my days.

I go into the kitchen and pour some cereal into a bowl. When I’ve finished eating, my stomach roars at me in protest. I make myself some coffee, and try to think what else I can eat. I settle for three slices of peanut butter on toast. I’m never this hungry in the mornings.

Finally, I go to inspect myself in the mirror. As a woman, I’m halfway between 5′ 6, and 5′7, or 169 cm. I get my height and broad shoulders from my mother’s side, whose father was a giant. My Grandma likes big men.

As a man, I’m huge. My shoulders are big enough to face down any rugby player, my gorilla-like arms, hanging out of my brother’s t-shirt, are the length of a short woman’s legs. For once, I’m grateful I don’t have a job to go to, or people to see. I’m not quite sure what my mother will do.

I send her a text to warn her that I’ve woken up as a man and don’t know why. She’ll think it’s a joke. I wish it were. I make some coffee while I wait, and sit back down at the kitchen table. I never noticed how small and hard these chairs were.

I’m sipping my coffee when I hear the car pull in. My mum and brother are chatting, gaily, unaware, as they start carrying groceries in. When they see me Mum stops, and my brother Simon starts laughing. He bends over and comes round to slap my shoulder.

“Did Lily put you up to this? Genius. Where is that woman?”

“No. It’s me, Lily,” I say.

“Yeah, yeah, very funny. She did a really good job on finding you though, you look almost exactly like a male version of her. Guess that’s why she did it.”

“No, no. It really is me.”

Mum is staring hard at me while Simon continues to laugh. I frown, and scratch my head. Mum puts the groceries down.

“Oh, baby,” she says, “what happened?”

“Mum, you’re not actually going to fall for this? It’s a great but it’s just a prank,” Simon says fondly.

“I don’t know. I woke up and instead of being me, I was... this.”

“Oh, honey,” she shakes her head.

“Mum this is ridiculous, he’s an actor.”

“Okay. Simon, ask me something. Something only I–Lily would know.”

“Very clever on the I/Lily there. And I’m guessing she briefed you on all of her secrets if you’re offering that.”

“Something she wouldn’t have told me, then. Ask me anything. I promise it’s me. I’m hoping I’ll have switched back by tomorrow. I don’t know.”

“Okay, what’s the one habit Mum and I find really annoying, that Lily does all the time?”

“I leave half-drunk cups of coffee and tea everywhere in the house and I forget to put lids back on.”

“Correct. Um. What’s Grandma’s maiden name?”

“Atherton,” I say.

“What’s our secret code?”

“Cookies and milk,”

“Lily could have told you that, though.” Simon purses his lips, unconvinced. But I can tell Mum knows. I can tell she knew from the minute I started moving around. She’s seen through me.

“Simon, look how much he looks like Lily. It’s Lily. He’s got your father’s nose, he looks like you. It’s Lily. I’ll bet you we could ask Lily anything and she’d answer the way Lily would. Because it’s Lily.”

I wasn’t expecting this to be this easy. After all. I am a woman. That’s one of my defining features. That, and the fact I’m a feminist, which ties into being a woman anyway. What causes am I meant to share on social media if I’m not a woman anymore? I mean. I know there’s the environment but—

“Okay. So maybe you’re Lily. What are you going to do now?” Simon interrupts my thinking.

I shake my head. Now would be a really great time to cry. Simon rolls his eyes.

“Well. First things first. I’m going to have to teach you how to be a man, because you’re obviously terrible at it. Don’t scrunch up your face like that, it looks weird when you’ve got that massive honker.”

“Rude,” I say.

We go upstairs, and Simon hands me a bigger t-shirt, so you don’t look stupid, he says. He asks about all the cuts on my face and laughs when I describe the beard I woke up with. When we go back downstairs, Mum has re-heated last night’s lasagne. She gives me a normal portion, and I wolf it down. I make up the rest of my meal with another three slices of peanut butter toast. Mum’s frowning and I can tell she wants to hug me, but doesn’t want to embarrass me. Now I’m a man. Simon has told her multiple times that she can’t cuddle him now he’s a man.

Simon’s adapted to the situation already. He’s taken it in his stride:

“When you and I go out, do you want me to say you’re my cousin or my friend? I don’t think anyone will believe me if I say you’re my sister,”

“Cousin’s more believable, you look too similar, it’s obvious you’re family,” Mum says.

“Sure. Cousin, then,” I say, heart sinking, “how long do you think this is going to last?”

“Well. We’ll stand by you whatever you choose to be and whoever you want to be,” says Mum.

“Thanks.. but.. I want to be a woman.”

“Then you can have a sex change,” Mum says.

“Not like that, I want it to be painless, without surgery, without drugs. I want it like magic.”

“Maybe it will happen then, but for now you’re a man and you’re going to have to get used to it.”

When my sibling first came out as non-binary, Mum and Dad opposed drugs.

Mum’s changed her tune since then. She’s decided that her kids are smart enough to know the risks involved with anything we do.

“Do you think it’s a curse?” I ask.

“It could be a blessing,” Mum says, and squeezes my hand.

Simon decides to take me to the park. I can tell, he’s almost enjoying this. The novelty of having an older brother. He’s mildly disappointed to find out I’m still me. I don’t really like ball games, have no interest in going to his basket ball game next week. But he soon recovers and we resume our usual chatter. As we turn into the park, we’re talking about astronomy and whether Elon Musk is a good man.

“It’s funny. You look a bit different and sound a bit different. But you haven’t changed, you’re still just Lily, you’re still just you. The more I look at you the more I see it,”

“Shocking. Maybe gender doesn’t define us and we really are just individual people after all.”

“Except you eat more, now,”

I launch into a ramble about how crazy hungry I am, when we bump into Margo. Margo is one of my closest friends, she lives about five minutes away from us, but I don’t see her much what with university and having lives. I want to squeal and ask when she got back, but Simon jumps in first.

“Hey Margo,” he says.

“Oh, hi,” she smiles. She nods politely in my direction.

“How you doing? This is my cousin, Logan.”

“Oh, hi, nice to meet you. I’m Margo,” she says.

“Hi, Margo, you live round here?”

“Not anymore. I’m working for some solicitors in M–– but I’ve just popped down for a few days, spend some time with the ’rents. How about you, where’s home for you?”

“Lyon,” I say. I couldn’t think of any names of places.

“Oh? Are you French?” she asks.

“No, no, I’m just working there as a surfing instructor,” I say.

“Oh, I didn’t know they surfed in Lyon?”

“Well, well, when I say Lyon, I really work by some lakes in the Alps, Lyon’s just the closest town and they move me around a lot to teach all aqua sports. But my favourite is surfing. So, that’s why I said surfing.”

“Oh, cool, cool. Well, I’ve got to go, but Simon tell your sister I say hi, okay?”

“Okay, nice talking to you,” Simon says, and waits until she’s out of earshot before saying “surfing in Lyon, ey?”

“Logan? Why did you have to call me Logan? There are so many names and you went for Logan?”

“You look like a Logan,”

“What does that even mean?”

We head towards the trees in the park for some shade, and Simon pulls out some weed. Simon never shared his drugs with me before. Privileges of gender, I guess. He starts grinding and rolls us a joint.

“You’ve had a stressful day. I think you could probably use some of this.”

He’s kind of right. So we smoke and talk as the light dances in the shadows of leaves. My mind stops feeling as tight and my guts unclench. I let out a breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. I tell Simon about morning glory, and he giggles at all of the discoveries I’ve made of male anatomy. I moan about missing being a woman.

“Why?” Simon seems genuinely puzzled, “being a guy is great. Sure being female must have its pros, but it has its cons, too. For starters, it’s way cheaper being a guy. Haircuts cost less, clothes and shoes are usually comfier. It’s also way easier getting dressed, because the minute you wear a clean shirt, people act like you’ve dressed up. As a guy, you won’t have periods anymore.

I’ve never had to deal with the kind of mood swings you had. And remember all those bathroom queues you stood in? Not a problem for me, bathrooms are usually empty. Even when there aren’t bathrooms, you can wee standing up, you can wee almost whenever you feel like it. I’ve never really been worried about walking around on my own, nor do Mum and Dad. It’s usually quite nice heading off to the pub by myself, whereas you always walk with friends to anywhere you go.”

“I like having friends,” I say.

“Yeah, so do I, but I don’t need support groups, and I’m five years younger,”

“They’re not support groups, we just like hanging out,”

“Fine. But trust me. I’m not even full man yet and I can tell it’s going to be great. I’m excited, to be a man, face the world. You’re taller and better looking than me as a guy, so you should be even more excited,”

“You think I’m good looking?” I ask.

″Great looking guy.”

Simon slaps my back. He says that’s how guys hug. We walk home and Mum looks worried, then pleased. I tell her I have accepted my fate. I go upstairs.

I browse holiday resort jobs to teach aqua sports. Then I tell myself not to be silly, that I need to get into the real world. I modify my CV, changing my came to Logan and updating my picture. I send it off to some of the three same engineering companies I’ve applied to before. About an hour and a half later, I get invitations to interview from two of them. I go downstairs feeling pleased with myself, and make a blueberry crumble for dessert.

Mum makes shepherd’s pie for the three of us, because Dad’s away on business. I ask her not to tell him just yet. She nods and gives me a huge portion. Big enough that I might have protested once, but now I tuck in happily. I tell them about the jobs and Simon winks.

“Told you being a man is just as good,” he smiles.

We talk about how I’m going to plan this, whether I tell people I’ve had a sex change or go by a different name, cousin Logan. They compliment me on being a man who can cook, and I think how many of the things which are just normal for Lily are impressive for Logan. Things he can boast about, his sensitivity, his empathy, being a great cook.

“You make such a lovely man,” Mum says fondly, and, finally, hugs me. I hug her back tight, and makes a suffocating sound. I can’t people as tight now. I go upstairs, to my now much smaller room. I text my sibling a picture of myself, and tell them what has happened. They call me, to make sure I’m okay.

They’re working for a University in Vienna, Austria, so we barely see them anymore. I thank them, and I can hear the smile in their voice. Because they know I understand, now, the messiness of looking like a gender you don’t relate to. I’m not sure I’ll ever be a man, not inside of my mind. And pretending my entire life would just be exhausting. I ask about their transition, compliment them on their bravery. I’m still petrified of anyone seeing me, this me.

“Life isn’t who you are, it’s what you make of it,” they say, “try to be happy.”