A YEAR IN BATTLE ARMOR

On Genderfluidity and Dressing for the Occasion: A Non-Chronological Retrospective

Teller Fox

Dinner Date(s): To meet your poly friend-with-benefits’ girlfriend. 

Arrive late, and talk like you run on Energizer batteries. This is boy mode – partly because boy mode feels safe, but partly because you want her to feel safe. You are not competition. Hence, the white overshirt, the flat chest, men’s jeans, and red high-top Vans. You take off your leather jacket, but he’s still wearing his – brag that you pull it off better. Meet her eyes while you chat (do not, under any circumstances, look at him). Try to insinuate that you’re the type to ride a motorcycle, until she makes you laugh so hard you snort pizza up your nose. As usual, you give yourself away.

Back to the Office: To flaunt self-discovery after three years of pandemic haze. 

You’re getting double-takes, you think, for your blue hair; the dye is still fresh. The summer A/C is blasting, but you absolutely shun the signature piece of Corporate Fashion for Chilly Little Guys – the tech-bro vest. Instead, you sport a dove-gray blazer over a loud dress shirt. Purple chinos. A bolo tie drives your point home like a blade. When a senior executive starts, “You look...” you finish his sentence. “Different?” you say. No one can say you aren’t generous.

Concert Attire: To see a metal band, as a pretty boi amongst manly men. 

You immediately recognize your mistake. The crowd is in wrinkled black band tees and faded black jeans, unsmiling but polite, drifting like cigarette smoke through the venue. You’re in faux leather leggings and a black jacquard jacket that shows off your cleavage – your second error. There is a non-zero quantity of drunk staring. Still, the jacket reminds you of your shoulders. It’s impossible not to stand straight as the guitar screams through your ribcage; thunder, rebellion, stare back. 

A Visit Home: To play pretend with Mr. Caterpillar and the Butterfly Queen. 

You’re bellowing a wizard’s spell when your nephew says, “You should be a witch, since you’re a girl.” “Debatable,” is all you – an adult – can think to say, but he is already spinning into the next fantasy of chrysalises and the threat of rain. The Conversation has not been had with the kids, and you don’t want to be the one to ask for it. “Aunt” itches like nails on paper, belying your binder and guys’ tee. Later, at the waffle house, you lock eyes with another visibly queer person, standing at a table with their own straight family. You think, you hope, you are clockable – that you are seen.

October Bonfires: To attend a “goth casual” gathering for tired over-thirties. 

The trans girls are resplendent in black dresses; the men overcome any divisions of orientation to ignore the very notion of themed outfits, as a collective. The host is in pajamas. If you can’t break your own rules, what is life for? No binder today; you’re among friends. You fold yourself in moody reds and blacks, crimson eyeliner. It gets cold after sunset, but there is hot cider and a fire pit. We throw oversized sweaters on over our ensembles. Autumn wins, deliciously.

Surgical Intervention: To remove a benign ovarian cyst of unusual size. 

You bought the softest bathrobe, and the softest pajamas, and the softest slippers. You spent too much, actually, but it’s almost Christmas, and it settled your nerves to plan. Your last “serious” ex has offered his guest room so you don’t have to recover alone. An entourage of pets trails faithfully up and down the stairs in his wake, and you’ve joined them: cheerful dog, grumpy cat, whiny human. A package arrives with new boxer shorts, because god, you want to feel sexy – impossible in oatmeal-stained sleepwear. You are not allowed to touch yourself for three weeks. Insults upon injuries.

Open Mic Night: To perform, which is to say, to finally stop acting. 

No one else is wearing a costume on the night after Halloween, but your friend-with-benefits is also your bandmate, and neither of you are done with the season. He shrouds himself in the Sandman’s trenchcoat. You join him onstage in a jade hood, oxblood bracers, and a single pauldron – a ranger in combat boots wielding a bass guitar. The kind of costume you’ve dreamed of since you were ten. A glance – then, “Zombie” by The Cranberries rumbles from your fingers. Rebellion returns, beating in time with control. Euphoria. It’s the strength to carry your own context on your back. You make yourself legible to the world, to a moment in time. We all give ourselves away. Armor looks good on you.