Tag Archives: opinion

First Home

My imprint is no longer
in the memory foam beside your sleeping body,
my fingerprints don’t grace your windows
blurring outside images of strangers,
my breath isn’t on top of yours
creating sweet agreements, dinner plans,
my laughter has emptied
from hallways where my photograph once hung,
my footprints have been erased,
vacuumed away with time,
my name has been scratched out
of the home you made for it in your heart

so it’s time to move out.


A Boy Called Cameron

I know a boy. Let’s call him Cameron.

Cameron will be 13 years old this year. He has blue hair, green eyes and a huge, toothy smile that takes up half of his face.

Cameron also has scars scattered across his body, the kind that your eyes can’t help but notice when he takes off his sweater. They’ve been there since I met him two years ago.

When I met Cameron, his name wasn’t Cameron. His parents had named him Hannah.

Just like how his scars don’t match his smile, Cameron’s biological sex never matched his mind, heart and soul.

Cameron is the first person I’ve ever grown close to who is transgender.

His parents noticed something was wrong when they saw how unhappy he was in his biologically female body. Unlike the thousands of unaccepting and prejudice parents out there, Cameron was lucky in the sense that his parents supported him when he told them he felt like a boy, not a girl. They encouraged him to dress and act how he wanted to, to defy any gender norms set in place by a hateful society.

Despite all of the love and emotional support Cameron gets every day from his parents, friends, family and people like me who simply have the honour of knowing him, Cameron suffers from depression.

I watch this kid, just 12 years old, wake up every day and take a handful of pills, some of which are for the hormones, some of which are for the testosterone, some of which are for the anxiety and depression that Cameron has. He washes them down with a gulp of water before returning to play with his friends or getting ready for school. He goes to doctors appointments more regularly than he is invited to birthday parties.

Cameron faces bullies every day at his school. His classmates grew up knowing him as Hannah, and Cameron’s transition is hard for them to understand – especially when their parents fill their mouths with words they’re too young to understand. He has had grown adults ask him what’s wrong with him, a question he says he is still searching for the answer for. He has been told he’s “sick” for believing he is who he is: a boy.

Cameron learned to hate his body from a young age for showing him as a gender he doesn’t know how to relate with. He has carved his skin to the bone, crying because he wants to be normal, confused because he doesn’t know what that looks like. He has tried to shed his skin like the garter snakes he’s learned about in school, hoping that answers lie below the epidermis.

He’s a little boy, and he spends his days in fear, worrying who will be next to will tell him he’s abnormal, a freak, confused, unwanted, a pervert, disgusting, abominable.

I watched his face when he read the signs that hung on the men’s washrooms:


paired with an LGBTQ flag.

I cannot explain properly to you the exquisite joy I felt watching that boy’s toothy smile break out all over his face in that moment.

It was one thing Cameron didn’t have to worry about that day.


It’s hard to think
I’m worth so much more than this
when the patterns men develop around you
weave themselves contrarily.

After the first few boys
you start blaming yourself
for choosing weak men, unworthy men.
You vow to find a partner
equal to and worthy of
your strength.

After the next several relationships
burn out in similar fashion,
you start blaming yourself for everything else.
You vow to find yourself
and spend years searching
for the ghost of a scared 14-year-old girl,
asking her what went wrong.


After you’ve been used as many times as I have
After you’ve heard every excuse
After you’ve stopped hoping for anything from anyone
After you’ve gutted memories from yourself you had forgot you even had
After tearing yourself apart on the thorns of men

you stop blaming yourself
and start building yourself.