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 But when a girl let her daughter cry it out, I decided the tot seemed a tad withdrawn.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.

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.

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.

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.