catapult magazine

Luke’s journal

by Susie Finkbeiner

November 30, 2011

Nobody knows what it’s like being me. Well, at least nobody I ever met. Not out here in the boonies. Maybe if I could get myself to California or New York I’d find somebody who thinks like I do. Somebody who sees the world like I do.

I was born a boy. And my parents made sure I knew it. Blue walls in my bedroom. Always getting me trucks and baseball mitts for presents. My dad taking me out hunting whenever he could.

“Man Time” he calls it. “Time for boys to be boys.”

He’s always taking me to the barbershop. Getting my hair buzzed down to nothing. Talking sports with the other men in our small town, drinking beer while I have a soda.

“Luke’s a shy kid,” he tells his friends. “He likes sports fine. He just don’t talk much.”

The men all laugh and smack me hard on my back.

“I bet he ain’t too shy with the girls,” they say. “Good lookin’ boy like that must have the girls fallin’ all over themselves.”

When they say those things, when they joke about the girls, all I want to do is scream. Because something’s wrong with me. I should like the girls. I should want to touch them, smell them, be near them, look at them. But all I want is to be one of them. And it confuses me. It scares me. Because there’s nobody that I can tell.

I wish I was born a girl. I said it. It’s true. And I can’t undo the thought. No matter how hard I pray or how many football games I watch I can’t seem to get that thought out of my head.

When my parents are gone I peek into my mom’s closet. I don’t put any of her dresses on. I don’t even try on the shoes. I seen some guy doing that on T.V. and it was weird. I just look at the colors and touch the silky material. The ones my mom wears to church are my favorite. And I wish so bad that I could have been born to wear those clothes.

At school I act tough and get in fights. I check out the girls just so my friends don’t ask questions. Sometimes I tell dirty jokes so I’ll fit in. But, really, I’m not like those guys. Not even a little.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I don’t like any of the guys at school. Not like that. I don’t even know who I like. Sometimes it feels like that part of me’s turned down. Like the volume is off. I’m just all confused. So I don’t have time to think about who’s cute or hot or anything.

Thing is, I’m pretty sure it’s a sin to think like this. At church we learn about all the perverts in Sodom and Gomorrah. They preach sermons about all the people who go to hell. And people like me are on that list. At least I think they were like me. And it makes me scared. I don’t want to go to hell. But there’s nobody I can ask for help. They’d all think I was a sinner. And I am. I know that.

So, sometimes, I just wish I’d be done living. I don’t want to hurt myself. But I’d just like to disappear, I guess. It’s a weird thing to think. And I’m sure if my parents knew I thought that they’d put me in the crazy house or something.

I think suicide’s a sin, too. The unforgivable one, I think. Because if you kill yourself there’s no way to ask forgiveness. I guess. They don’t talk about that in Sunday school a whole lot.

Sometimes I think I need to tell my mom. Maybe she’ll know what to do to make it all stop. It just never seems like the right time to talk.

What’ll I tell her? That I wish I was a girl? That I want to go shopping with her? That I don’t want to be called Luke? That I feel like God messed up big time on me?

She’s gonna cry. My dad’s gonna get mad. And then what? They’ll know my secret. I won’t be able to hide anymore.

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December 4, 2011

I hate my life. No really. I do.

Sometimes I’m so stupid and just not careful. I made a huge mistake. I looked up some stuff on my computer. Well, not my computer. The family computer. My dad saw it.

“What the hell’s this?” he yelled from the dining room. “Luke!”

I walked in and there he was, staring at a blog about transgender stuff.

“It wasn’t me,” I said. I couldn’t help it. I lied.

“The hell it wasn’t,” he said. “Who could it have been? Your mother? Me? The only other person living in this house is you.”

“I was just curious.”

“You know where fags go, right? They don’t make it into heaven, that’s for damn sure.”

He stood up and looked at me. A year ago he would have been looking down at me. Now he had to look up.

“I hate who I am,” I said. “I don’t want to be a man.”

“Then what?” He looked so confused. “You want to be a girl?”

I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t even think.

“This doesn’t happen in our family,” he said. “Didn’t I do enough for you?”

“It’s not about you.”

“Then what is this about?”

“I don’t know.”

And then I walked out of the room. He didn’t follow me. I guess he knew I needed to be alone.

Lord. He knows my secret. I don’t want him to know. I never wanted that.

All I can think of to do is make myself disappear. My hunting rifle’s in my closet. There’s a box of ammo in my top drawer. It would be so easy.

So easy.

So easy.

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December 20, 2011

My parents have me put up in this place. It’s kind of like rehab, kind of like boarding school. I don’t know what you’d call it.

I have to talk to a counselor a couple times a day. It’s okay. We just talk about the identity thing. Like what I could do when I feel confused. How I can relieve my stress without putting a rifle in my mouth.

It’s a good thing my dad broke my door down that day.

I was ready to be done. The gun was loaded and cocked and ready to fire. The only problem was I couldn’t figure out how to pull the trigger. My arms weren’t long enough.

But he shoved the door in with his shoulder. Who would have known he was so strong? It surprised me so much that I let the rifle fall on the floor.

“What? Luke? No. What were you…” he said.

He took two steps toward me.

“I’m sorry, Dad.” It was all I could think of. “You must hate me so bad.”

“Never, son. No. Never.”

He grabbed me and held me. I never saw him cry before. It really surprised me. I didn’t think men could cry. But he did.

“Son, I love you,” he said over and over. “Everything’s gonna be okay. We’ll work this out.”

He just held me. He wasn’t mad. Not at all.

I still don’t understand who I am. I don’t know if I ever will. But I do know one thing. And this is the thing that matters most.

My dad loves me.

And he will fight for me.

Even if I don’t end up being the son he planned on.