Sol Stassi

Gender Dysphoria

“Deep breath, sweetie. Straighten your spine. Bright smile! Think about a happy time in your life.” The words ring empty in my ears. A happy time in my life? Happy? My brain crackled and strained like a record on the brink of making some noise. I don’t know how I was expected to pull a happy expression when here I was, a spy undercover. It was advice a friend had given me yesterday—I heard something that helps people dealing with dysphoria is to act like you’re a spy undercover. I had brainstormed a name minutes earlier, a backstory and everything. Pendleton Schnell was the real name for myself I came up with, the same initials as my actual name. I was an adult with a baby face posing as a high school girl. I had been watching a man, one of the teachers, for months in this faux-investigation—on the brink of some kind of discovery, some evidence against him. Doing homework, projects, and attending class each day was just the name of the game. Taking senior photos was, too.