What We Left Behind

“I’m going to go say hi,” Ebony says. “You’ll be okay on your own, right?”

What am I, a toddler?

“Of course,” I say, but Ebony’s already gone. All right, then. I push past a group of guys high-fiving each other by the Ukrainian-American Brotherhood table and find a spot blessedly free of people so I can collect myself.

A girl rushes up to me and presses a mini Snickers bar into my hand. “Hi! I’m so glad you’re interested in the HSWMS! Let me tell you about what we’ve got planned for this year!”

I blink at the girl. Then I realize this spot was only free because I’m in front of the Harvard Students Waiting for Marriage Society table.

“Oh, sorry,” I say. “I’m not interested.”

I put the Snickers back on the table in case it has abstinence cooties.

I back away from the HSWMS table and allow the throng to carry me from booth to booth. There must be hundreds of them.

Hmm. Maybe I should sign up for some other groups, too, just in case. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to join the College Democrats. And the Japanese fencing-club people look like they’re having a great time waving swords around.

Then I see the giant rainbow flag pinned high on a brick wall. I’ve found the UBA.

The crowd in front is bigger than for any other table in the row. Behind the booth and wading out into the sea of students are upperclassmen wearing bright purple T-shirts that say, “We’re so gay! Harvard UBA!”

Cute. Maybe too cute.

The sign-up sheet is front and center in the middle of the table. All around me, freshmen are elbowing their way toward it, but I linger at the back of the crowd.

Just go up there and sign the list. You don’t have to talk to anyone. Just put your name down and get out of there.

“Hi!” someone perks at me before I’ve unfrozen. It’s an alarmingly cheerful blond in one of the purple shirts. “Are you a freshman?”

“Uh, yeah,” I say.

“That’s fantastic!” the girl says as if we aren’t surrounded by freshmen on every side. “We have special cupcakes for freshmen!”

The girl points to one end of the table. Eight neat rows of cupcakes are laid out, each with the pink letters QF carefully written on chocolate frosting.

“It stands for Queer Freshmen,” the girl says.

“Uh-huh,” I say.

Maybe Ebony was on the right track. There are at least four other LGBT groups on campus. Surely one of them is less focused on T-shirts and cake decoration.

“Don’t worry about her,” a short black guy with a buzz cut says as the blond wanders away to pounce on someone else. The guy is wearing a matching T-shirt, too. “Shari was the bake-sale queen four years running back in Kansas City. It’s safest to humor her. Her bite is way worse than her bark.”

I smile at the guy. “Thanks for the tip.”

We shake hands. It isn’t easy in the press of moving bodies.

“I’m Derek,” the guy says.

“I’m Toni.”

“Tony with a Y?”

“No, I.”

“Ah.” Derek nods, as if this explains everything, and points to my wrist. “Great tattoo.”

“Thanks.”

“Queer history buff?”

I blink in surprise. On my eighteenth birthday I got a blue star tattooed on my wrist. Back in the thirties and forties, blue stars were one of those secret signals closeted people used to aid their gaydar. I’d thought that was cool. I’d also wanted to piss off my mother by getting a tattoo. No one has ever known its back story until I explained it, though.

“Sort of, yeah,” I say.

Derek nods. “Are you trans?”

I blink again. No one’s ever come straight out and asked me before.

No one I’ve met online. No one in the LGBT youth center where I volunteered in DC. None of my high school friends.

Not even Gretchen.

So it’s strange acting all casual about it here, with someone I don’t even know. For a second I want to look around to make sure no one’s listening. Then I decide I don’t care. I’ve been worrying about that stuff my whole life. I’m in college now. It’s time to get over it.

What am I supposed to say, though? That I’m definitely somewhere on the transgender spectrum, and that even though I’ve spent hours upon hours upon hours reading websites and thinking about every possible angle of this stuff, I still haven’t found a label that feels exactly right for me?

There are tons of options I’ve read about. I usually describe myself as genderqueer just because it’s the word the most people seem to understand, but sometimes I think gender nonconforming would be better. Sometimes I think I’d rather go with gender fluid, and a lot of the time I want to pick nonbinary, because that one sounds the least committal. Gender bender sounds cool, but I’m afraid people will think it’s a joke.

Should I try to tell Derek about how sometimes I think just trans by itself is the best word? It’s just that I’m not sure I really consider myself a guy, necessarily, or at least not every day. I just don’t consider myself a girl. If I call myself trans I’m afraid people will think I’m a dude when the truth is, I’m really not there. Maybe someday I will be, but it also seems entirely possible that I could stay exactly the way I am right now for the rest of my life.

I don’t think I should say all that, though. Probably best not to scare Derek off with an ideological rant about the evils of labels thirty seconds after we’ve met.

“I’m genderqueer,” I say.

“That’s cool,” Derek smiles. Like this is a totally normal conversation. Like those weren’t the two most nerve-racking words I’ve ever spoken out loud. “There are a bunch of other GQs on campus.”

“There are?” I haven’t noticed any. Unless Derek is, but I doubt that. From the amount of stubble poking out of Derek’s chin, Derek’s probably been on testosterone for a while. As far as I know, guys taking hormones don’t usually identify as genderqueer. They identify as guys.

Wait. Is that right? How do I know that for sure? Maybe there are hundreds of genderqueer people at Harvard giving themselves testosterone injections as we speak.

Shouldn’t I know how all of this works, just instinctively?

Derek lets out a deep laugh, oblivious to my angst. “Yeah, believe it or not. I’m trying to get more of you guys to join the UBA. I’m the trans outreach cochair this year.”

“Who’s the other cochair?” I don’t see anyone else in a purple shirt who looks trans.

“My roommate, Nance. She couldn’t be here. Had an ultimate Frisbee game.” Derek points to a tall guy with an expensive-looking haircut wearing a jacket, tie and suit pants with a purple UBA T-shirt despite the ninety-degree heat. “That’s Brad, by the way. He’s the UBA president.”