I Never Told Anyone, But...

Gender bender or ardent feminist at 8 years old? Yes, I was.

[I wrote this essay for the Woodstock Bookfest Story Slam and performed it for a live audience on Saturday June 22, 2024. Every story had to contain the phrase, “I never told anyone, but…” and could not be longer than 4 minutes. To my surprise and delight, I won 3rd place. I was in the company of 18 other magnificent storytellers. If it’s a choice between reading it or listening to the audio version, I’d say, listen. Or both! ]

When I was eight, I had a big secret. I liked to wear my little brother’s underwear. Plain white Hanes, with that opening in the front that, well you know…They weren’t girly, or called “panties.” They were comfy. Wearing them felt dangerous, even a little sexy… I was 8, but I was a precocious 8. I’d get the urge, sneak a pair out of his drawer, and satisfy a part of me that I didn’t quite understand.

The other thing I did––I never told anyone, but––one day, while wearing his tighty-whiteys, I decided to try to pee like a boy. Boys could just stand. I wanted that. I wouldn’t have to put pieces of toilet paper on the seat anymore in public bathrooms. No dealing with pee other girls left behind because they squatted to go and didn’t have the manners to clean up after themselves. Girls could be as gross as boys.

There was no lock on my bathroom door. I made sure that everyone was downstairs, so I wouldn’t be interrupted.

I approached the bowl, and considered my options. I looked down at that handy slit. Useless. I lifted the seat, lowered his undies around my ankles and thrust my hips forward, hoping to get some arc. That wasn’t gonna work. Kicking them off, I spread my legs wide and waddled into position, straddling the bowl, and I let loose.

My pee went everywhere except the toilet. It ran down my legs, and pooled on the floor. My heart racing, I tiptoed out of the spreading puddle, picked up his underwear, and started furiously mopping up my pee. I couldn’t get it all, so I grabbed a towel and cleaned up the rest.

I rinsed out the towel and his Hanes and hid them under the laundry in the hamper.

Opening the bathroom door, naked on the bottom, I looked both ways, and ducked into my bedroom to get dressed. I had to rethink this whole thing. I wasn’t gonna pursue boyhood if it was gonna be this messy. I hated cleaning.

Part of me did want to be a boy, but I didn’t want a penis. They were kinda weird and funny looking.

But boys got to do things that girls couldn’t. I wanted to be allowed to wear pants every day. And t-shirts. I hated cooking. I hated clearing the dinner table while my brother just sat and did nothing. I wanted to be allowed to play sports that girls weren’t supposed to play. I didn’t want to play, I hated sports, I just wanted to be allowed. I wanted to take Shop. And boys, boys could get crew cuts!

It was so unfair.

I demanded equality and wore my big ERA button every day. I talked about rights for women and girls to anyone who’d listen.

There was kid at school who looked at me one day, and said,

“What are you?  Some kind of feminist?” He made it sound as bad as being a serial killer. YES, I WAS.

As I got older, I made my own choices. I have the short hair. I do whatever I want. To settle the question of boy’s undies vs. girl’s undies? I went in a different direction. Commando all the way!

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