The Woman Who Grew Up as a Boy

My mother would ask me, 

“What do 

   you 

  want to be when you grow up?” 

She’d tell me, 

          “You can do whatever you want; 

           just ensure you’re happy.”

She let me choose what I wore, not intervening 

when I wore my favorite yellow shorts 

one too many times. She didn’t bat an eye 

when I told her I didn’t like wearing skirts or 

when I played with cars and dinosaurs 

instead of dolls. 

She loved me no matter who I was. Even 

if in pre-school, I told my art teacher, 

        “I liked all the colors except pink.”

She even loved me when I 

got defensive over a woman demanding I 

close my legs, even though I 

wore my favorite yellow shorts. 

She let me cry 

and held me. She’d 

take the skin off her back if I 

asked her for it, giving me her spine as a tip. 

She gave me everything and more, while he 

gave me nothing. No wonder I chase after something I 

want, but once I have it, I get bored and ask for more.

Once in high school, I wore 

baggy shirts walked with power 

in my stance, with my back curled inward 

to hide the breast that sat on my chest. 

In college, I puff up my chest and show off my breast 

because the beauty of me as a woman can finally impress 

my ego of being powerful and domineering. 

What does that make about me 

as a woman? As a woman 

who grew up as a boy. 

You bought me a tennis racket 

and told me we’d play together. 

Those rackets laid behind my bookshelf, collecting dust 

before my mom threw them away.

You’d take me to the park

and sat on a bench reading a book, studying 

the words on the page, oblivious to 

my tears as I clenched my right elbow. The raised 

scar remains, fading away 

like your fatherly responsibilities. 

I could have played 

baseball with you if you 

really wanted.

But did you 

really 

want it?

Aren’t you happy?

You wanted 

a boy, after all.