The Pants Project

Bankridge Middle School had a strict uniform policy, unlike nearly every other school I could have attended. Everyone had to wear a white shirt, a tie, and a black V-neck sweater. I was fine with that. I actually kind of liked the idea of a tie (black-and red striped). And the shoes were fine too-Mom had found these awesome black brogues online. But then whoever wrote the uniform policy decided (whyyy?) that girls had to wear skirts, while boys were allowed to wear pants.

Sexist. Dumb. Unfair. Even the moms agreed with me. Mom said she hadn’t worn a skirt since her cousin’s wedding back in the nineties.

I thought about trying to convince them to let me go to another school, but Bankridge Middle School is the best school in the district. The moms are really big on education and how important it is and blah blah blah. Plus, Maisie was going to Bankridge, and there was no way I wanted to face the trauma of middle school without my best friend by my side.

So I was stuck with it.

“Girls must wear a black, pleated, knee-length skirt.”

I bet I read those words a hundred times during summer vacation. I stared at the computer screen, willing them to morph into something sensible.

The problem wasn’t the last word in that sentence. Skirt wasn’t really the issue, not for me. The issue was the first word. Girls.

Here’s the thing:

I may seem like a girl, but on the inside, I’m a boy.

I realized there was something different about me when I was around seven or eight years old. I didn’t just wake up one morning and think, “I’m a boy!” It sort of crept up on me and tapped me on the shoulder a few times before I started to pay attention. I began to think that the word “girl” didn’t quite fit me. It was like a shoe that was too small-it pinched me.

It wasn’t something I thought much about at first. It didn’t seem to matter whether I was a boy or a girl. The moms treated Enzo and me exactly the same, except I was always allowed to go to bed later because I’m older. I was able to wear whatever I wanted at home and at school. Still, I knew it was something I should maybe talk to the moms about, but the words dried up in my mouth every time I tried. It’s not really something you can just blurt out at the dinner table. “Please can you pass the ketchup? Oh, and by the way, I think I’m a boy, not a girl.”

At first, I was just antsy when people used the word “girl” or “daughter” or “sister,” or when they insisted on calling me Olivia even though I told them to call me Liv. Liv wasn’t perfect, but it was a whole lot better than Olivia. Then I began to feel angry and upset for no reason. Except it wasn’t for no reason. Most people would get angry if people insisted on calling them something they’re not.

And then there was The Incident, which actually had nothing to do with me being a boy, but suddenly everyone was talking about my “anger issues” and watching me like a hawk all the time. So when it was time to go shopping for my school uniform, I didn’t throw a tantrum. I just told Mom I would rather stay home, and she actually let me do that. She took my measurements and went by herself. It’s a good thing too because I’d probably have Hulk-smashed the entire store.