I had kind of a full-circle moment the other day.
I was shopping on the men’s side of the American Eagle store, as I do, where I get basically all of my clothes.
While riffling through one of the racks toward the back, a mom and who I presume were her two teen daughters passed me on their way out. Before anything was said, I noticed them in passing— one of the girls in particular.
I don’t believe anyone can ever really “tell” for sure about any aspect of someone’s identity without asking, but I do think sometimes you can get a sense of maybe.
At the very least, I saw my own teenage self in this girl— holding a stack of clothes, very plain compared to her sister's, kind of hunched over them a little like she’s scared someone’s gonna notice she’s holding a men’s t-shirt. Hair tossed in an easy low ponytail, bare face, eyes nervously watching all corners of the store. Practically whatever is the opposite of a carbon copy of her mom and sister. Walking through the women’s section with her family, pretending to look… but never really touching anything, never picking anything up, never giving it any real thought.
“Isn’t this cute?” her mom says. “Yeah, yeah that’s cute,” she replies, with forced inflection, and without turning her head. Like she’s practiced the words so much they’ve lost their meaning.
It was like I was seeing myself from the outside for the first time.
I was focused on trying to find a gray shirt on the rack in my size. Their voices drifted and faded out— until I heard an embarrassed stutter, followed by:
“OH! Uhh, y-you’re right, these are from the men’s section. Oops-“
Then I felt someone look right at me. I turned my head.
The moment was brief— the girl looked at me, at what I was wearing. Then her eyes went to my hands, pushing hangers aside, and the stack of jeans in my arms.
That look wasn’t apologetic, or embarrassed, the look of someone who’d accidentally spoken ill of someone they didn’t know was present.
It was the way I had looked at a shoe store employee once, a long time ago, who had a tapered haircut and a masculine demeanor, a low voice and a tank top showing off her biceps and tattoos: Shock, and then… longing. When will I get to be you? A life where I could be freely masculine and unafraid seemed so far away to me back then…
And suddenly, there I was.
She kept the shirt, I think.
I hope I showed her what it could be like. That the life I have— coming out of hiding— is an option waiting for her, too… whenever she feels ready.
You never know the effect you might have on strangers around you, just by having the courage to exist.
