The discriminatory nature of today’s society is sickening, and no group of people is safe from the bigotry of others.

My name is Kyle. I do my best to be a normal, under-the-radar type guy, but sometimes little details, that betray my true identity, slip through the cracks of my watchful gaze. I am a female to male transgender, and this is my personal tale of transphobia and violence.

I woke up on a Wednesday morning, with a sinking feeling already taking up residence in my gut. I rolled out of bed with a groan meant only for school days. I attended West Mountain High, with a student body of a whopping six-hundred. My sole consolation was that I hadn’t grown up here. Nobody knew me from before I’d started my transition. I could live in stealth and be known right away as the person I’d designed for myself.

My morning started normally enough, with a shower and a ten-minute struggle to pull my chest binder over my head and get it situated properly. Went downstairs to eat, kiss my loving mother good morning, and thwack my little brother on the back of the head affectionately. It was also an injection day. I grabbed my sterile container of medical syringes from its place behind our microwave, my bottle of testosterone, and loaded up. I always had a brief image of a junkie shooting up heroin, and it made me laugh to think that in a way, this was very similar. I depended on my T for happiness and the ability to function positively. I took everything to the bathroom, tugged my jeans down to my knees, and injected myself in the left thigh. Due to the power of suggestion, I immediately started feeling better. With every new dose of testosterone that entered my body, I felt less irritable, more energetic, and stronger. As it faded, I grew moody and exhausted.

I left for school right on time, me being the punctual fellow I am, and the bus ride passed uneventfully. I sat alone, as always. I didn’t mind it, just plugged in my headphones and blasted music loud enough to drown out the antics of the other students. When we arrived at our educational destination, I was greeted by my best friend, Mia.

Mia was the closest thing to perfect that I’ve ever seen. She was so beautifully human, and so completely faulty, that it took my breath away. She struggled with depression and abuse at home, but never uttered a complaint. She had her own problems but took more interest in helping those she loved through theirs. She was gorgeous, and kind, and hilarious. But she didn’t see it. I often wished that she could see herself through my eyes, just once. She’d never doubt herself again. She was the only one who knew my secret. And she didn’t care, she loved me just the same.

“Kyyyyyyyle!!!” She ran to me, her blonde hair flowing behind her. She jumped and tackled me with one of the best hugs ever. I loved those hugs. She wrapped her arms around my neck and I was enveloped in her sweet scent. I squeezed her back for a second and broke the embrace.

“Guess what?” I asked, “I’m getting my top surgery next month.”

She smiled brightly and squealed with excitement. “Oh my God, Kyle!! That’s great! Oooooh good for youuuuuu!”

Mia was my salvation, in a lot of ways.

    We had first period together, and it was always the best part of my day. My hag of an English teacher, Ms. Kayte, hated me. I wasn’t the smartest or the most eloquent in the class, so I spent most of my time drawing in my notebook. Every time she started to say something, Mia would ask a completely irrelevant question about Ms. Kayte’s personal life, which she felt obligated to answer for ten minutes.

    Now, I avoid using the school restrooms at all costs. I went before leaving for school, and first thing when I got home. But today, the call of nature struck me with an intensity I’d never felt. I couldn’t hold it.

    “Ms. Kayte, I’m going to the restroom.” My direct disobedience on her no-bathroom rule left a sour look on her wrinkled face. Now I would be faced with the dilemma of which bathroom to use. By all appearances I was male, but all the paperwork the school had on me labelled me as female. If I used the women’s bathroom, I’d get yelled at. The men’s might lead to a beating. But my bladder was screeching for relief and I had to decide fast. I mustered up some courage and masculine bravado and busted into the guy’s bathroom.

    Empty….Maybe there was a God after all.

    I chose the stall furthest from the door and the mirror, and sat down. Now, the anatomy of the female body causes the sound of our urination to differ greatly from that of men. A high-pitched whistling sound accompanied my release.

    Remember that bad feeling I had when I woke up? It was about to come into play, here in this boy’s bathroom. I was still finishing my business when the door opened and footsteps crossed the bathroom. They stopped for a moment, and I grew intensely paranoid and suspicious. I dismissed it as a figment of my imagination, but my new bathroom friend seemed to be listening. I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I heard the door open and close again. I got myself together and opened the stall door, only to come face to face with Blake Holly.

    Most schools have a Mr. Popular, and Blake was ours. Star quarterback, prom king, a real “man’s man”. He studied my face intently, his eyes holding an intelligence I didn’t know he possessed.

    “What are you doing? Too shy to use the urinal?”

    I didn’t know what to say. I’ve never been good under pressure, and I felt more on the spot right then than I can ever recall. I started to sputter incoherently, and he smiled a cruel smile.

    “Heard you talking to that weird chick. What’s her name, again? Maya? Mia? Yeah, anyways, what’s this top surgery you mentioned?”

    I couldn’t speak, much less move. But the sinking feeling in my belly had grown physically painful and the urge to run was strong. But I couldn’t.

    “Answer me! I knew it. Its all been adding up. You don’t use the bathrooms, the locker rooms. You’re not a dude. You’re a chick who wishes she wasn’t. That’s sick. You’re disgusting.”

    He drew his fist back and I cowered with my arms across my chest. The second he began to laugh, I saw my mistake.

    “Only a girl would protect that. A real man would have covered himself a little lower.”

    He hit me then, square in the jaw. I’d never been in a fight, never had the need to learn to defend myself. I tried to duck the next punch but I moved to late and took it on the side of my head. He kept coming at me, profanities and slurs falling from his mouth all the while. He caught me in the stomach and I fell to my knees. Looking up at him, I could see the hate in his eyes. Hate. For someone he’d never taken the time to talk to, someone he knew nothing about.

    He kicked me in the chest and I heard a pop, followed by intense pain. I cried out in agony and wondered how much longer it would be until someone came in. But he stopped, apparently satisfied with the damage he’d done. He spat on my face and left without a word. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t breathe.

    I must have laid there, on that filthy bathroom floor, for at least twenty minutes. Finally, my gaurdian angel came in the form of a pimply stoner coming in to find his eye drops before the next period. He looked at me in alarm and ran out, and for a second I thought I would be laying there for a while longer, but he returned shortly with a teacher who I didn’t recognize.

    The next few hours were a blur of screams, sirens, bright lights and people trying not to jostle me. I woke up in a hospital bed the next morning, with an IV drip in my arm and a pretty nurse taking my blood pressure.

    She looked at me with kind eyes and said, “You took quite a beating, dear. The doctor will be in soon, okay? He’ll let you know what’s going on.” She smiled sadly and left. The doctor did come in eventually, and sat down in the chair across from my bed with a sigh.

    “Well, son, I’m not gonna lie to you. You’re in bad shape.”

    He called me son and for whatever reason, that made the next words out of his mouth a little easier to bear.

    “Broken rib and nose, and a ruptured spleen. We were able to take care of that with surgery, and the internal bleeding wasn’t to bad. We’ve prescribed some antibiotics to help with any possible infections, but you should recover alright. Don’t move around too much, you’re going to be in a lot of pain.” He shook my hand and apologized for what had happened, then took his leave.

    The sheriff came that day, too. We talked for a long while, and eventually, we decided that pressing charges was in order.

    I recovered slowly but surely, and eventually had to go to court proceedings and the like.  That was two years ago, and I’m okay now, physically, but the mental scars exceed those on my flesh. Blake went to jail for assault, and I think he’s on probation now, but I stopped following what was happening a long time ago. I simply want to move on. And I’m doing so. I ended up falling hard for Mia, who came to visit me every other day for the two weeks I was in recovery. We’ve been together for a year and a half, happily. I did get my top surgery, though a bit later than I expected, and even legally got my name changed to Kyle. I still face discrimination but never to the extent of what happened that day at school. I finished classes online and now attend a big college in Los Angeles, where for the most part, people are pretty accepting.

    I’m a happy man.