It’s been a while since I’ve felt like this–
pre-judged before I even speak,
because they know
what’s in my pants
doesn’t match
my hairy body,
my bearded face,
my bald head.
It’s not because I’ve been lucky.
It’s not because it hasn’t existed
where I’ve been.
It’s because I hide.
I engage stealth mode.
I live blended into the cis,
the straight,
the comfortable assumptions.
Denying what’s in my pants is one thing.
Worse, though,
is denying my experiences.
Denying who I actually am.
But I can’t stop thinking about
the doctor who mocked me,
who looked at me like a problem,
and told me they wouldn’t help.
This was before telehealth.
Before FOLX.
Before care could reach you
without begging someone
to believe you first.
I needed a doctor
to vet my body
before it could become mine.
I had to go through
extensive psychological testing
so strangers could decide
whether my body was
allowed to tell the truth.
As if I had not already survived
the longest test.
Worse still,
passing cut me off
from any community I might have had,
because even inside the alphabet,
sometimes the LGB
still rejects the TQIA.
Not all.
But enough
to make stealth feel less like hiding
and more like survival.
I’ve had gay men look at me
like they’ve been fooled,
as if attraction is a trap
I set with my body.
I’ve had lesbians look at me
like I defected,
like becoming myself
was a betrayal
they are allowed to punish.
And the bisexuals laugh,
or sigh,
and tell me I don’t know what I want,
as if wanting myself
was never on the table.
And then there are the ones
who want me like folklore,
like a rare thing
they can say they touched.
They make my body into a myth,
a story to tell later.
Just rare enough to chase.
Just strange enough
to make them feel brave.
But not human enough to respect.
So I lean hard
into passing privilege.
Because I have learned
how comfortable privilege can be,
especially when I’m afraid
that no matter how much wood I shed,
how close to human I become,
someone will still say:
“You’ll never be a real boy.”
Chestnut Cowboy 