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My back was exposed in a slinky halter as I made my way through Hot Tropics, my go-to nightclub as a freshman at the University of Hawaii. It was about 1:00 A.M., and through the gyrating bodies on the dance floor, I spotted a woman I’d gone to school with. When our eyes met, I felt a shudder.
I was so struck by her that I didn’t notice the towering man with onyx skin in front of me. He stretched out a hand: “Can I have this dance?” He took the lead, spinning me and sliding his hands to the small of my bare back. This man, who I’ll call Branden, made me feel chosen—the reason I had bothered to trade the comfort of my couch for the club. I yearned for someone to say, “Yes, I want you.”
During a break between songs, Branden got us drinks and I excused myself to go to the restroom.
In front of the crowded mirror, I patted my wet face with paper towels, powdered my forehead, and reapplied a coat of gloss. When I returned to the dance floor, Branden was standing with our drinks right where I left him.
“I just heard the craziest thing.” He chuckled. “You won’t even believe it.”
“Try me,” I said, smiling.
“So this woman at the bar taps me on the shoulder, and I’m thinking maybe I know her so I say, ‘What’s up?’ And she’s like, ‘I wasn’t going to say nothing, but I think it’s fair that you know.’”
I knew exactly where this was going. I’d feared this the moment I saw my former classmate in the club.
“She goes, ‘That girl isn’t what she seems.’ She tells me that you was a dude or some shit. Can you believe that?”
It was a lash across my back—a strip of fire, stinging and burning. But I didn’t flinch: Hesitation would have been confirmation. Instead I cackled, doubling over as if I’d just heard the most ridiculous thing. Branden joined me in laughter, and his disbelief was a salve. Later we walked to the beach. With my heels in my hand, I crushed sand under my bare feet and found comfort in the black of night. At the edge of the water, I pushed my skirt down and pulled my top over my head, standing in the cool wind in my black lace thong. I slipped out of my underwear and waded into the water. Over my shoulder, I said, “You coming?”
Branden hurried out of his clothes and swam after me. When he caught up, I let him touch my lips with his and our bodies met under the warm slow waves, and we stayed that way until daybreak, when I felt assured that I’d left him without a doubt in his mind. Later he’d probably tell friends, Once I met a girl so fine, women made up crazy-ass stories about her.
I don’t know what happened to Branden. He was just one of the many men who kept me company when I was young and seeking, who never made it past a few dates. I dangled myself like a charm back then, luring people near me only to push them away when they got too close. I vacillated between revealing and concealing myself. I preferred to be seen and admired yet unknown. This left me alone with untruths that kept me company: It’s too dangerous for them to see you. No one will remain if they truly know you.
A few years later I spent a rainy Friday with my friend Lela at the Museum of Modern Art. We were strolling through a crowded Warhol exhibit when she leaned over and moaned. She pressed her palm into her abdomen: “These cramps are killer. You know how it is.”
I gave her an empathetic nod. It felt like the right thing to do.
Lela and I had attended undergrad together and grew close when she followed me to New York. I couldn’t fault her for assuming I was privy to her female woes; I’d never told her my story. She reminded me of all the women who’d asked me if I could spare a tampon; of the male coworker who said I was innately stronger because I was equipped for childbirth; of the roommate who wondered whether our menstrual cycles had synchronized. I rarely ever corrected these assumptions because they felt like a belonging, and I didn’t want to be pushed out of the sisterhood.
But Lela was more than some stranger pleading for a tampon. She was my friend, and I didn’t want to keep pretending that we were the same. There is no universal women’s experience; there are just our experiences. And I needed to share mine with my friend. As we strolled through the museum, I said, “You don’t know my story, do you?”
Lela paused. “That you used to strip?”
“No,” I said, wishing it could be so simple. “I used to be...in high school I was...OK, at 18 I had a sex change. Some people back home know, so I didn’t know if anyone told you.”
“Why would anyone tell me that?”
“Well, people talk.”
“They shouldn’t be talking about that!” She seemed outraged. “It’s no one’s business.” I nodded, smiling through the awkwardness. Then she added, “I appreciate you telling me, but I kind of wonder why you didn’t tell me sooner?”
“I was afraid you’d think differently of me.”
“Really? You’re Janet. You’re a good person. That’s it.”
Ours was an old friendship, but being seen felt new. Sharing myself that day with someone who heard and affirmed me made me secure enough to eventually tell my whole story. Today I no longer evade or deny my truth; I own it without leaving parts of myself behind.
Janet Mock is an advocate, journalist, and author. This essay is adapted from her new book, Surpassing Certainty: What My Twenties Taught Me.
