Brandon Coming Out

“You can’t tell me how to live my life!” he screamed through his tears as he slammed his bedroom door. For the last few days, that’s how nearly every conversation with his mother had ended, with sobs and isolation. He hated it. He wanted out. But being only 15, there was nowhere else to go.

Why? he thought. Why does it have to be like this? Why can’t she love me the way I am?

The relationship between Brandon and his mother had always been brittle, but ever since that fateful day, the day the package came, any bond the two might have shared had broken, seemingly beyond repair. It’s not like it’s that big a deal, he said to himself. I’m the same person she’s always known.

It came on January 6, something that Brandon had been wanting for a long time, and he finally decided to spend his Christmas money to get it. When the box arrived, so did feelings of elation. He took the package and some scissors straight to his bedroom. Taking special care not to plunge too deeply while cutting—it was fabric after all—he excitedly opened it, revealing what appeared at first glance to be a white tank top, but upon closer inspection had a wide band of elastic covering the top half under the straps. A chest binder. His first chest binder.

That night, while his mother and father were asleep, he made his way quietly to the bathroom, so as to not wake them up. He wanted his big reveal to be a momentous occasion, and having them walk in would just not do. Brandon opened the cupboard under the sink and took out his father’s hair clippers, along with a pair of hair cutting shears that his father had always kept inside the box. For the first time, Brandon was about to see himself as he had always wanted to be seen. He sectioned off pieces of his waist-length hair using pony tail holders. Hands trembling with excitement, he opened the box and grabbed the shears. He lifted his right hand holding them up to the first of many pony tails and cut it off about two inches from the holder. The hair fell to the floor as a wide grin spread across his face. He gained confidence and courage, and did the same with the rest of the pony tails. Pony tails are for girls anyway.

Once he finished cutting most of his hair off, he put down the shears and took out the elastic holders. He smiled as he looked in the mirror at his new shorter hair, but he wasn’t done yet. He selected the one inch guide comb, remembering what his father had said about always being able to go shorter if you want, but never being able to get length back, and snapped it onto the clippers. He plugged them in and turned them on, giggling a bit at the buzzing, knowing that what he was about to do was going to be magnificent. His hand trembled slightly as he raised it to his hairline, a bit nervous about cutting his own hair for the first time. He pressed the guide comb against his skin, and glided the machine over his head, marveling at how easily it passed through and cut the hair. He repeated the motion again and again until all his hair was the same length, and then turned off the clippers. He switched the guide comb for a shorter length for the back and sides of his hair, and when he was finished, he grinned widely at the boy staring back at him.

He quickly cleaned up the hair from the bathroom and went to bed, and he dreamed about tomorrow, about his parents hugs and finally being free as the boy he was.

“Carolyn! Breakfast!” His mother’s voice rang clear as a bell that glorious morning, the first day of living his life navigating the world as a boy. The smell of maple and bacon filled the house, and he excitedly jumped out of bed. This morning, though, instead of a bra, he’d wear his new binder. After changing out of his pajamas, he put on his basketball shorts, picked up his binder, and walked over to the mirror. The sight made him shudder with disgust. He hated everything about his body, especially his breasts. He wanted to tear them off. As a matter of fact, there were many marks on them from him clawing at them during fits of manic dysphoria. He suppressed a shudder, folded the binder over itself, and lifted it over his head. He pulled it down and unrolled the bottom half, just like he’d been shown via YouTube videos and other internet forums. It was tight, but it was supposed to be. It was meant to flatten his chest, after all. And looking at his reflection, it did its job. His chest was no longer jutting out, no longer visible at all. He went to his closet and took one of his button downs that he bought with the rest of his Christmas money and pulled it over his new binder.

Pure elation filled his heart. He was the happiest he had ever been to see himself this way, with his new hair and his new presentation. With a deep breath, he looked his reflection in the eye and said, “New day, new me. Let’s do this.”

He stepped out into the hallway and came face to face with his dad. A puzzled look came onto his father’s face, followed by kind understanding. “What’s your name now, kid?”

“It’s Brandon,” he replied, stepping forward to give his father a hug. He knew that even if his mother was unaccepting, he’d always have the love and support of his amazing father. After all, his father had even dated transgender people, even before society was more accepting of the idea. Brandon tentatively walked toward the kitchen, took a deep breath, added bass to his voice, and said, “Mom, I have something to tell you. I’m transgender."