The Thrill is proud to feature personal narratives courtesy of the Project for Open Voices. Today’s essay was authored by Charles Martin Meins ’12. POV is currently seeking submissions, so check out this link if you’re interested.
One day back in October 2011, I sat down in the counseling center, knowing and dreading the fact that I was about to burst into tears. I explained this to my counselor, detailing this as a fear response, before I confided that I wasn’t genderqueer as I’d thought – I was transgender.
I sat there, a boy-faced senior with his hands clasped around a Styrofoam cup of tea, shaking in my sweatshirt and carpenter jeans, but I said it all the same. “I’m trans. I’m transgender.” I said this to my tea, to the wall, and only then did I risk looking at my counselor.
“I’m sorry…” she said (or something along those lines). Something full of compassion and concern, but also confusion. “I don’t know what that means.”
“I mean, I’m a guy,” I said. “I mean, I’m biologically female, but I’m a dude. I’m a transgender. I’m F-to-M.”