STATION X.IV

I am in the TSA line at the Nashville airport.

I watch the group of girls in front of us. One of them has a monogramed bag, another other has a monogramed necklace. Their clothes are clean and bright. Their hair falls naturally across their shoulders, their makeup effortlessly elaborate.

I study these girls, trying to imagine the labor that went into each of their appearances. Monoliths of the femininity that always felt clumsy when I tried it on – baggy in the wrong places, frizzy, crumpled, wrong wrong wrong. Sometimes close enough but always something giving it away. Looking in the mirror and wondering what I could do to try harder.

The line moves forward.

The TSA agent smiles and asks the girls where they’ve been,

where they’re going. I watch as the girls tell her about their trip.

Watch her smile and laugh with them.

She wishes them a safe slight.

She is charming in the way southern people are notorious for being.

The girls move forward and it’s my turn.

The TSA agent sees me and her eyes narrow.

She drops the charm when she commands “I.D.”

There’s no greeting. There’s no asking where I was, where I’m going.

She looks at the I.D. and then at me.

I know it doesn’t look like me. I know the “W” marker on it doesn’t match with the person she sees in front of her. I try not imagine what she’s thinking.

Just last week this state passed another bill trying to criminalize the existence of people like me. I look ahead at the group of girls one last time, as they take their shoes of to go through security. I think about how easy it must be. Not just in moments like these, but in all moments, to not have a storm inside your head. To not have intrusive thoughts that there is a growing crusade of people around the country who want you eradicated. To not have to put up with the jokes, the comments, the glares, the whispers, the feeling of wanting to rip your own skin off.

The TSA agent is still in front of me, looking back at the I.D. and back at me.

She asks me what my address is.

I tell her.

She continues to stare.

But finally she hands me my I.D.

And I can move forward.

I get flagged by security. I always get flagged. This is because before you the scanner the agent on the other end selects a male icon or a female icon. There is no right answer for me, but they usually guess male, and when the scanner runs, it finds anomalies. This time the scanner has just flagged my leg – not my crotch like it usually does. A male agent comes to pat me down and I don’t say anything, it seems easier. Again, there is no right answer.

I have to pee but I’m scared to go in either bathroom. I settle on the women’s room and perform my usual routine – don’t make eye contact, head down, go in the first stall you see, don’t look at anyone, don’t give them a reason to look at you. They will look, but this way, I don’t see. The blood rushes through my ears until I’m finally out. Waiting for the plane to take me away, take me away, take me away. I whisper to my partner that I want to be back in Denver where boys look like girls and girls look like boys.

I remember a conversation I had with my friend recently, one of the ones where we talk about if it’s time, and what that means. Time to run, time to fight, time to take hold of a place that’s ours and protect it. I wonder where place that is. I wonder if there’s still time.