Chapter Eleven

“Open-minded. Like hell I’ll ever try that again.”

(Before we start,this is written  in burial, unfiltered  honestly of my inward thoughts, I meant no hate to anyone or any group,I am still learning. It's just my own conflicted  thoughts)

Okay. I know I’m an asshole—but I’m not evil.

I am willing to open my eyes.

Nah. Who am I kidding? I just need medical treatment.

“Where to find ‘my kind’?”

Countless times, I’ve seen transgender women waiting at bus stations. How do I know?

Tall. Heavy makeup. Baritone voice.

“Hi, are you transgender?”

Then I imagine getting slapped. Hard.

The person gets on the bus. I’m left behind, licking blood off my lip while my cheek swells like a microwaved dumpling.

Okay—maybe that one was just a drag queen.

Yeah. That’s the scenario I imagined. So I didn’t ask.

But somehow, I ended up tagging along with an old schoolmate to Pink Dot.

I was told I looked like a straight white guy with seventy-two types of phobias.

Not exactly the approachable kind. I get it.

So I tried.

I flipped my room upside down to find a rainbow shoelace. Tied it around my arm like some kind of fashion statement,I look gay,but I think for today I am going for that.

Bought two bags of rainbow Skittles to share,because they are rainbow candies.

I was ready.

Ready to “get my mind opened.”

Even if I still can’t accept the idea of broken things being celebrated.

It’s not normal. It’s not natural.

But fine. I’ll keep my thoughts to myself. I just want the info from the transgender booth, then I’ll be on my merry little way.

When I arrived, the group was already at the event. I’d been waiting at the train station for an hour.

It’s fine.

(No, it’s really not. I was pissed. But I kept it to myself.)

They were with more people—maybe they forgot about me.

I knew two of them. The rest? Strangers in every imaginable shape and size.

I was told there would be another boy,I was going to talk to him but I just couldn’t tell which one.

Then I saw Mallisa—another old classmate.

Something about Mallisa—I don’t know. I didn’t expect to see that face, but some part of me hoped I would. So when I did, I went straight over.

Didn’t even say hi to the others. Not because I forgot—because I didn’t feel the need to.

They were the kind of kids I’m... really not a fan of. But I’ll keep my unintuitive judgments in my head, where they belong.

Mallisa was wearing a pink striped flannel. Made me think of Judy Hopps from that movie. I liked that.

The place was packed.

Flags. Balloons. Yelling. Music.

So. Much.

Maybe this is what “having a great time” looks like.

I’m here to have a great time.

It’s awesome, isn’t it?

Yes. I’m being sarcastic,it's awful. 

I found the transgender info booth—two trans adult individuals working there. I spoke with them like my psychiatrist told me to, took some notes. I appreciated it. I did.

No offense—but it was my first time being this close to “my kind.”

And as they answered my questions, I couldn’t help but stare.

At their chests.

Lady lumps. Full. Round. Proudly shown on what used to be a dude’s chest.

How fascinating.

I even wondered if they still had an Adam’s apple. I looked up—and yeah. They were both staring at me. Like I was some kind of freak.

“So, uh—sorry if I’m using the wrong term—are you trans-fem?”

I couldn’t even hear their response.

Judging by their faces—I definitely used the wrong term.

I left a postcard at the booth. It’s a thing.

People write messages they want others to hear.

Mine said:

“I don’t want to be different. I want to be like everyone else.

—Daniel W.”

Someone with a rainbow flag tied like a cape handed me a pink torch.

This was supposed to be my “safe space.”

These were supposed to be my people.

I should get used to this.

I walked around.

So many people.

An overwhelming number of defective, flawed people.

My psychiatrist was right,I can not only find my kind here,I can find any kind and every kind.

No, Daniel—open-minded. Remember?

I stopped at the history panels. Read about Pride in Singapore.

Googled the flags. There were so many. Too many.

Then I observed.

The whole place was filled with young people who looked completely lost—like they had no idea who they were or what they were doing.

One moment stuck out:

A girl in a short pink skirt—barely covering anything.

Yes, I was staring under her skirt.

Not because I’m a creep.

Because of how she was sitting. It was hard not to.

She had two high ponytails.

She was hugging a plushie.

She called herself a “trans masc.”

I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

I refuse to believe we’re considered the same thing.

She was cute—in a girl way and only a girls way.

Why would a boy want to dress like that?

Most of the kids there wore the most questionable things—shouting strange terms, making noise I barely understood.

Maybe I’m too traditional. Maybe I’m just out of touch.

So I gave them the benefit of the doubt.

Tried to.

But they really know how to have fun I'll give them that.

what I saw looked more like chaos than community.

The older folks were fine,they were slaying.

I sat beside Mallisa, who had three flags pinned to a backpack.

I asked what they meant.

“Aromantic.”,"A gender"

Does that mean anti-romance?

Not liking anyone?

It can’t be. Can it?

I didn’t know what to say.

Am I just... too closed-minded? Too judgmental?

Am I just an asshole?

Yes, I support inclusion.

I believe in diversity.

I absolutely think young people deserve a safe space.

But this—this wasn’t what I hoped to see.

Young people need thoughtful, healthy exposure.

Not... whatever that was.

What upsets me even more is that now I get it.

People like this might be unintentionally taking away the support others desperately need.

No wonder it took months for me to get diagnosed.

To the system, I’m the same as that confused girl in a tutu claiming to be a man.

But we’re not the same.

One of us needs medical help.

The other is just... whatever is happening.

It frustrates me.

It saddens me.

I thought I just hadn’t found my people yet.

But maybe... I’m just an alien.

Everywhere I go.

I’m disappointed.

In the experience, sure.

But more in myself.

Because I can’t get over it.

Can’t get over them.

Can’t get over me.

Maybe I was wrong about those kids.

I hope I was.

But I doubt it.

On the train, I was exhausted.

Mallisa sat beside me.

I didn’t say a word.

Afraid I’d mess it all up.

Afraid of the barking, biting thoughts I kept caged in my broken skull.

But Mallisa wasn’t like me.

Not bad.