Voices

Two months on testosterone — while it may not have been fate, I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be.

I vividly recall being 30 weeks pregnant with my first baby in a London pub. I was lining up at the bar for a soda water, when the man beside me pointed at my tummy and loudly told me I should be at home. Apparently, that was “where I belonged”.

I didn’t trumpet these views to my mommy groups, of course. I wasn’t crass. But when a girl let her daughter cry it out, I decided the tot seemed a tad withdrawn. When a mom told me all her sons were cut, I nodded politely while thinking, she is so deluded. She made up a medical excuse for a pass on child mutilation. When I saw mothers in the grocery store, carseats in tow, I paraded by, baby in wrap, nose in the air. At least those moms could see another option.

How do you love someone who continually does things to hurt himself? I’ve been holding a phone with my stoned, sobbing brother on the other end for nearly 20 years. I keep picking up the pieces, keep having my heart break, because he’s my brother.

I never wanted children. When other little girls were playing with dolls, I played with stuffed animals. Even when I played house, my home was filled with plush puppies.

If I vote for a candidate it will never be because of what is between their legs, for their chromosomes. Just like I don’t want to be held back or advanced because of what is between mine, I look for something more. A candidate gets my vote because of their voting history as a politician, their position on the subjects that are important to me, and their track record.

She unleashed a whole new level of #blackgirlmagic that I did not even realize I needed. And honey, if I didn't realize I needed it, well then hell, you know the world just wasn’t ready.

“Are you a cutter?” the medical aide asked me, gearing to strap a blood-pressure monitor around my upper arm to take my vitals at 11 o’clock one evening.