My Inner Hermaphrodite

When I was little, I used to be a tomboy. Ok, maybe that’s an understatement. I may have, at one point, said to my grandmother one day, “There are two parts to me: one’s a boy, and the other’s a girl.” In my defense, I was talking about fashion. 

I don’t even remember what led up to that point of the conversation, but it was out there.

She may have been asking why I didn’t dress nicely, or something silly like that. I didn’t see the point—as long as I was properly clothed, nothing was wrong, right?

Ok, sure, sometimes I shared a wardrobe with my grandmother. And by sometimes, I may mean that everything I wore I had stolen from her closet. Oh, and did I mention that I wore the same sweatshirt and jeans every day? For two years?

Anyways, as I was telling her, there was a boy part and a girl part (not physically speaking). I think I was trying to say that at that moment, I was more boy than girl… in a fashion sense. Which is still a pretty strange thing to say.

That was also the day that I became certain that she loved me (sure, she’s said it before, but from the way she refused to let my gorge myself to obesity, I had my doubts). There’s no other explanation why, upon hearing that, she did not immediately bring me to the nearest insane asylum. Also because Asians don’t believe in insane asylums.

I think we would all agree that the fact that I still had friends was a miracle in itself.


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