Short story: Nightlight

            A child’s nightlight is a curious thing.  A guardian, you think?  Living deep in the dead of night, when no one’s watching, it waits.  It watches.

            … It watches.

            Little things, theses nightlights are, for little things, the children of dirt and dust.  Of miracles, of processes, of love affairs, of bumps in the night – yes, of bumps in the night.  Of the night.  These children of the night crawl into corners and gaze out with big eyes.  Swirling lights and big voices and fists, and rage, and glowering eyes: these are the secrets that plague the mind of the child, the child of the night.

             The nightlight waits, and it watches.  In fact, the child is sleeping right now under the covers, and the nightlight is his special friend, his voyeur.  A guardian, you may think, and yet you ponder.

            … It watches.

*****

            “Timothy, buddy.  Wake up little man.  Breakfast is ready!” These words from the boy’s father, though shouted by him, were nothing but tumbles of mumbles slowly clearing themselves from the smoke as he left behind his dreams in the back spaces of his conscience.

The boy sat up and yawned with half-opened eyes.  He crossed his room, past his teddy bear lying on the floor, and to the wall socket to turn off his nightlight, which shines all night, every night, without fail or flinch.

            “Timothy!”

            “I’m coming!”

            One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Four steps, the boy counted, to get from his nightlight to the door of his room.  Thirty-seven to his seat at the kitchen table.  He yawned again and his father asked, “How was your sleep, son?”

            “It was ok, I guess.”

            “No boogie man this time?”

            The boy took a deep breath, then puffed his cheeks and let out a big blow.  “Gone with the wind!” 

His father chuckled and kissed Timothy’s forehead.  “That’s a good boy. See, Timmy, some things that may seem scary to us – like the boogie man – were actually things we made up in our heads.  And since we made them up, we can destroy them, with all our might.”  His father posed as a body builder would, flexing his arms.  “Now, hurry up and get dressed.  The bus will be here any minute.”  Timothy finished his breakfast, jumped out of his chair and commenced his thirty-seven step journey back to his room.  One.  Two.  Three.  Four.  Five.  He stopped at the doorway and looked at his father.

“When is Mommy coming home?”

His father sighed.  “You always ask me that, Timothy.  My answer is no different from the many times you’ve asked me that before.  Now, get dressed.”  Stubborn Timothy held his step with his innocent, persistent face.  “Go on, now.”

            Timothy sighed, turning around.  He slumped his head.  Six.  Seven.  Eight.  Nine. . . .

*****

            In the classroom, Timothy’s seat was by the window.  Often times he would tune out.  There was much to see.  He looked at the trees, the sky, the clouds, the wind.  The road, the cars, the grass.  Stray cats, squirrels and birds.  The sunshine, rain, people.  Their shadows.  That’s what he had a knack for, seeing people’s shadows, disfiguring in length and shape as the people walked on the sidewalk.  Shadows, shadows, everywhere, especially when the sun was out and there were no clouds.

            “Timothy, are you listening?”  He found himself tuning out again.

            “Yes, Ms. Jensen.”  But he continued to turn his gaze toward the windows.

****

            Timothy had told his father that after school, he was going to hang out with James at the park a few blocks away from the school. 

            “I bet I can swing higher than you did last time, Timmy.”

            “Just try.”

            James sat on the swing and started swaying his legs to gain momentum.  Higher and higher he swung, up and down, up and down like a pendulum.  He was gaining some air and as this happened, the smile on his face was widening and widening.  From the ground, Timothy yelled, “Bet you’re too scared to jump from so high.”

            “Oh yeah?”

            “Yeah.”

            James swung a couple more times, and then a couple more times after that.  Finally, he decided not to.  “Nah, forget it.”

            “What’s the matter?  Too scared?”

            “No!  At least I’m not scared of no boogie man ha-ha!”  Timothy grew silent and red as a ripe tomato.  “What’s wrong, Timmy?  I’m only playin’.”  But Timothy already got his backpack from off the ground and was about to leave.  “Hold on, Timmy, hold on, will ya?”  James finally got off the swings, ran to his backpack, then caught up with Timothy.  He put his arm around his shoulders.  “I’m sorry, friend.”

            “I didn’t see the boogie man last night.  But I did see him the other nights, don’t you believe me?”

            “My mom tells me that they aren’t real—”

            “Same with my dad –”

            “That they’re just things from our imagination.”

            “Yeah.  But honest to goodness, I swear the Cub Scout’s honor that I saw something.  It comes out of the closet a few times a week and always at night when I’m sleeping, or trying to sleep.  Sometimes it stands over my bed and watches me, but I’m too scared to look.  James, I’m too scared.”  James patted Timothy on the shoulders.  “I’m too scared.”

****

That night as Timothy slept, he dreamed of his mother.  She was a tall and slender woman.  She had nice teeth and short brown hair and eyes of comfort.  Her voice was an alto, a sweet alto that sang rather than talked.  With her voice, so melodic and ever smooth, she encouraged Timothy to read and to use his imagination and to be creative, because creativity meant that you had a mind of your own, and having a mind of your own meant that you were strong and strong-willed, and not in the least unoriginal, a copy-cat of some sort.  A mind of your own meant that you created your own fears and controlled them from the start, the very beginning, like the Big Bang where you were the first mover.  Yet aren't fears but a selfish thing?  A weird thing, like an autoimmune disease?  What is the cure when the source of the problem, the red scare, lay within?

The boy’s mother encouraged him to use his imagination as if it were his own two hands.  She was a good mother, and she loved Timothy so very much, and Timothy loved her equally as much.

In his dream, Timothy was four years old again.  The house, now emptied of guests who’ve come from different towns to celebrate Timothy’s fourth birthday, was left with only Timothy and his parents, who began cleaning the house, sweeping it of plastic cups, plates, utensils, napkins.  His parents wrapped up leftovers and put them in the fridge.  His mother tucked Timothy into bed, then continued to clean the house with her husband.  Mildly they were talking, Timothy heard, and laughing here and there about Auntie Clair’s comment about this or that, or Uncle Jeffrey’s freak accident with the rake and leaves. 

Then suddenly, Timothy heard the front door break open, and there was a third voice – a strange, aggressive and unfriendly voice.  Timothy climbed out of bed and quickly, quietly ran to the top of the stairs, hiding behind the railing, imprisoned by fear.  His eyes were wide open at the scene.  Timothy’s mother screamed. 

Then, BANG!

Timothy woke up in a jolt and his eyes flashed open. His gaze was stationed at the wall on which his nightlight displayed its light, not unlike a spotlight.  On center stage there was a shadow of a figure.  Timothy gasped and thought, “The boogie man!”  He trembled under the covers, closed his eyes tight and whispered to himself repeatedly, “It’s all in my head… it’s all in my head… it’s all in my head… it’s all in my head… .”  When he opened his eyes, this time with hesitance and hope of the boogie man’s magical disappearance, he saw with a skip in his heart beat that the shadow was still there, and it was standing over his bed.  He felt a cold chill run through his body.  He held his breath and tensed his muscles as he froze in terror.  He couldn’t scream.  Even a small cry couldn’t escape the depths of his lungs where even the fear of the boogie man lurked around, haunting him from the inside-out, scratching at the walls of his organs.

In two hours, the boy’s body finally gave up, and he fell asleep.  His dream continued, and he was four years old again.  BANG!  There was a thud on the ground that shook the glasses in the china.  Timothy’s father ran over to the body, screaming, “NORA!”

            The boy woke up, again with a jolt, and when his eyes opened, he saw no boogie man.  But a strange feeling arrested him.  He felt as if that shadow of a figure, that boogie man, were inside of him.

*****

            For the next five days, Timothy couldn’t get much sleep.  His paranoia of the boogie man intensified, and he soon found it difficult to keep awake during the day.  School was a drag.  Going to the park with James took too much energy, and Timothy’s father grew concerned, as they sat at the kitchen table, eating dinner one night.

            “All right, little man, tell me: how do you feel?  What’s going on?”

            “Very sleepy, Daddy.”

            “You still seeing the boogie man, every night?”

            At the sound of the word, boogie man, Timothy cried and wailed like a storm.  His face turned a shiny pink with tears streaming down, so his father hugged him, carried him to his chest, and walked him up to his room, all thirty-seven steps, this time together, father and son.

            He walked toward Timothy’s closet.  “Does the boogie man come out from here?”  Timothy continued to cry and wail and when he saw his father about to open the closet door, he squirmed in his father’s arms.

            “Don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, DON’T!”

            “Calm down, calm down.  Timothy, you have to face your fears.  Being afraid of the boogie man only makes you even more afraid.  You will see: it’s all in your head, son.”  Timothy continued to wail and when his father’s hand lay on the door knob of the closet, Timothy closed his eyes.  His father opened the door.

            Nothing.  No boogie man.  Just clothes, a basketball, some board games, an old fish tank.  Timothy opened his eyes.  He was astonished, speechless.

            “But, but, but, but.”

            “But what?  See Timothy, it’s all in your head.  You’ve got quite an imagination, taking after your mother.”  Timothy wiped his eyes, swallowed the apple in his throat and hugged his father.

*****

            That night Timothy kept a watchful eye on the closet, but the previous sleepless nights were catching up to the young boy that his eyes unwillingly closed and he slipped into deep slumber as one slips on a bar of soap.  He didn’t dream.  So exhausted was Timothy that even in his passive and passed out state his dreams themselves seemed to be taking a hiatus for one night.  Timothy was so heavily sedated by the deprivation of energy which he had spent – all of which he had spent – in his endless cycle of fear of the boogie man.  But it was not until something touched him that he awoke from his dreamless trance.

            His eyes slowly opened and he saw a dark figure, silhouetted by … by… the nightlight, the ever consistent nightlight which has proved to be there from everlasting to everlasting, watching everything that goes on.  Quickly, Timothy became aware of what was happening and his mouth grew dry just as quickly and he found himself, as before when his father opened the closet door, speechless.  His eyes wide-open, he began to recognize the figure.  It was the figure of a woman, a slender woman who now began to pick Timothy up from beneath the covers and hold him to her bosom.  She said with a lilting tune: Timothy, my baby.  Timothy responded, “Mommy, mommy, you’ve come home,” and he allowed her to carry him away, away into the night with the nightlight still shining, watching without a peep. 

Timothy allowed himself to be carried away by his imagination.

Spring cleaning: The end of an old era, the beginning of a new one

With the advent of spring comes spring cleaning, no matter how much hatred I have for cleaning and going through things in general.  It’s a tedious task, and time-consuming task, and yet a very necessary one.  “Out with the old, and in with the new, that’s what I always, eh Fiona?” (Shrek, when he was burping or farting at the dinner table, I forget.)

            Last night I went through my closet.  It’s been organized like this: On the floor of the closet there is a huge basket of random things, like old backpacks, school supplies, blankets, a bag of pebbles that I used to use for my now deceased two goldfish (Dorian and Gibraltar,) as well as my hamper.  Then there is a rack filled with button downs and hoodies, vests and fancy pants.  On top of the rack there is a shelf stacked with three and half piles of paperwork from all throughout college and high school, each stack reaching a height of at least one and a half feet.

            By the end of the night, 75% of those papers have been deemed by me to be put in the recycle.  I would say if I were to stack the piles of paper together one on top of the other, they would be the same height as me.  Now three quarters of that are gone.  The things that I kept comprise papers I’ve written in college and high school, notes about astronomy from the astronomy courses I took in college, music sheets from my high school chorus class, my teaching portfolio from my senior year in college, a packet of short stories that I printed out from the internet that I’ve always wanted to read during my free time during college, as well as notes from various literature classes that I loved.

            Things that I decided to recycle included many papers from high school that I know for a fact I will no longer need later in life.  For example, biology notes, chemistry notes, global and U.S. history notes, economics notes, forensic notes and accounting notes.  And because I know for a fact that I no longer want to pursue teaching, I’ve decided to let go of all my teaching notes from the English teaching program I was in, in college.  They include notebooks of observation from my observation hours I did before student teaching, as well as worksheets I’ve made for my students while I was student teaching.

            Now onto the rack of clothes.  I love me some button downs but as I’ve transitioned from female to male, it’s time to make some choices as to which button downs still suit me (pun most definitely intended.)  75% of the clothes were button downs, 20% were hoodies, 5% were vests and fancy pants.  Of the 75% of button downs, I’ve decided to give away (in a garage sale, or to another family member,) 65% of them.  Those comprise button downs that were suited for women size small and extra small.  Some are plaid, some are striped and some are solid colors (black, white, green.)  They no longer fit me at all on the shoulders (too tight) and on the upper arms (also too tight.)  I do not like how they look on me and my masculinizing body.  The ones that I kept are ones that I’ve recently bought for the body I have now.

            Of the 5% vests and fancy pants, I’ve decided to let go of all 5%.  They simply do not fit me now.  They were all made for female bodies.

            However, of the 20% of hoodies, I’ve kept all 20% of them since they all still fit me, perhaps even better now than before when they were a little too big, but overall tolerable.

            So that was my closet.  The next step was my dressers, particularly my sports shorts drawer.  Over the past two years I’ve gone through a good amount of physical changes with the hormone replacement therapy.  That called for a plethora of changes in the shorts I wear as testosterone distributes body fat differently than estrogen does.  For example, my butt got smaller, as did my waist, my thighs a little thicker with muscle, and my gut area expanded (the testosterone also increased my appetite.)  I would say that I got rid of 45% of all my sports shorts.  They include shorts that became too big in the butt area, or shorts that were too tight on the thighs area, or too tight in the gut area.

            By the time I hit the bed, I felt as if I had a huge load off of my shoulders.  I’ve never had a spring cleaning session quite as drastic as this.  I cannot wait to have a garage sale, which would symbolize for me the end of the “Bernadette” era, and the birth of the “Brian” era.

Joe's Problem

TRIGGER WARNING: Some of the words and topics in this blog may be too graphic for some readers.  As well, some words may trigger anxiety.

On Youtube, I follow this friend of mine who happens to be a transman.  I’ll call him Joe, and he’s small like I am, though a little younger by a four years.  I like to keep up to date with him because I feel that we endure a lot of the same struggles as small guys; we both have a lot of the same sensitivities because of our lack of height in our preferred gender. 

I had talked to you once about male privilege and about how, upon transitioning from female to male, the way people perceived and treated me as a female is way different from the way people perceived and treated me as a male.  In a nut shell, it goes without saying that the unfortunate reality is that males have an advantage over females in today’s society – absolute equality does not exist, no matter how hard we’re all trying to change.  We are not there yet.

But, what happens if you’re already male, but smaller than most other males?  There is a sub-category of discrimination that I feel is more subtle than the dichotomy (inequality) between males and females.  Taller males are at an advantage over smaller males.  It’s something that society made up, but is also something that nature has contributed to our mindsets.

Naturally, the bigger an animal, the more “frightening” it will seem to smaller animals.  T-rex could scare the crap out of smaller dinosaurs on any given day, and would probably kill them when they’re hungry.  Bullies at school are often bigger and act tougher than those who are bullied.  The point is, in my opinion, we’re hard-wired to be submissive and more cautious to things that are much bigger than we.  However I think society ballooned this intuition by putting it in our heads that bigger is better, more impressive, more aggressive and most of all, more important.

Where does this leave smaller guys when compared to bigger guys?  Statistics show that people will naturally follow a bigger person, than a smaller person.  People will pay more attention to a bigger person than to a smaller person.  Often times, the smaller person is pushed to the side.  This isn’t to say that this is always the case; history has a plethora of examples that exhibit the contrary – look at Napoleon and Martin Luther King Jr. 

But I’m saying, as a small guy like my friend Joe, we face this ‘pushed to the side’ effect on a daily basis.  Sometimes, when I’m talking among a group of people, the others don’t pay attention to what I have to say; instead, someone would interrupt me and people would then respond to what they’re saying and forget that I even opened my mouth.  Sometimes, if I’m waiting on line, like say at Guitar Center, and a bigger guy comes in, an associate would help that bigger guy first until I step in and say, “excuse me, I was here first.”  You wouldn’t think this is a big deal, but as a small guy, I see it as acutely as I saw how different people treated me when I was still female as compared to now, as male.  All these subtleties may not make it to the eyes of other people, but I feel it, blaringly.  And it’s happening every single day.

In the back of my mind, this has always been one of the main factors that contributed to my dysphoria.  I find myself saying, “Why can’t You make me at least a little bit taller, God?  Please??”  I find that I’m constantly comparing myself to other guys, seeing the effects of muscle growth on bigger bones: bigger musculoskeletal structures.  Jealousy rises and screws with my head.

This coupled with my still existent flabby breasts renders an unwelcomed agitated mind: I’m in for a sleepless night as I’ll be thinking about how all my clothes don’t fit me right and I still have to wear a damn sports bra and people physically have to look down at me to talk to me.

And I’m not even talking about sex yet.

It seems that nothing can escape the clutches of the ‘bigger is better’ motto, even penis size.  I’ve seen it and heard it dozens of times.  When asked, “Does size matter?” the person the question is directed to usually blushes before saying yes, whether they’re male or female.  There are penis pumps and even clitoral pumps.  This is the ballooning effect made literal.  Men feel that if they have a small penis, they won’t be as impressive in bed as if they had a bigger penis.  On the offshoot of this, some women wish to have breast enlargement because they think it’s more attractive.

But where does this leave me, as a transguy?  My trans-dick isn’t nearly as big as a biological dick, no matter how much I want it to be.  When I watch porn, I get especially turned on by heterosexual sex involving creampies.  I wish to emulate this one day with my future girlfriend, but unfortunate, that’s physical impossible.  Will I be able to penetrate her?  Maybe, if I’m lucky, but chances are, I will not.  Will she be “eating” me, or will I be receiving a blow job?   I hope to say the latter, but I just don’t know.  And finally, I can’t produce cum, not matter what.  I can’t even squirt.

When I first started testosterone, I didn’t realize how many insecurities were going to not only rise up, but be more agonizingly tantalizing.  Just like what I said with gender inequality: I’m close, but I’m not there.  I am in between, shaded in gray.

This goes to show (and I believe this to be true for all trans-people) that transitioning and going on hormone replacement therapy isn’t a cure-all for all your dysphoria problems.  It helps to alleviate many dysphoria issues, but it doesn’t permanently fix them all – having gone through surgery or no surgery.  When I finally do get top surgery, I will still sport scars on my chest that’ll never go away.  If I ever decide on bottom surgery (which, if that were the case, I’d choose metoidioplasty,) my new dick would still be relatively diminutive in size.  And most importantly, mentally, a little part of me will still say that I’m…. I’m…. fake.

That is the worst feeling.

In Joe’s Youtube video, he talks about these topics in a serious tone.  He looks straight into the camera as if speaking to a priest during confession.  He lays down the facts and his sadness.  But at a certain point in the video he turns things around. 

He says how lately, he’s been working on accepting himself as a transman, than as a biological man.  Acceptance of yourself in your body is key (notice that I say body, instead of assigned sex.)  Joe has had a history of sexual problems with his girlfriend-turned-fiancé, mainly because these two years he’s been with her, he’s always pictured in his head that he had a natural penis while having sex with her.  In his mind, he didn’t feel that he was pleasuring her enough, no matter how many times she tried to re-assure him that she loved him for him.  In his mind, he couldn’t believe that because he didn’t like – he didn’t accept – what he had as his genitalia.

However, now, he has come to this realization and is trying to accept his body and the parts of it that he can’t change.  This was a huge step for him to do – in addition to accepting the fact that his fiancé is much taller than he.

I’m proud of Joe for making this realization and only wish that I can do the same.  Perhaps, with more time and more experience with dating and having sex with girls, I will.

But for now, I’m working on how I present myself to other people, despite my lack of height.  I told a good friend of mine once that, as a minority, you have to represent yourself and the ‘class’ you’re in, in a good light.  Although I am a small guy at work (with a lot of energy,) I must say – and I don’t mean to brag – that there are a lot of people who look up to me.  Co-workers come to me for advice and for help. Time and time again, both customers and new co-workers suggest that I should be a manager.  This is all validating for me because it proves that I’m representing myself as a small guy who can be a leader, much like Martin Luther King Jr. or Napoleon.  However outside of work, I’m treated differently. 

There seems to be a default mindset in people’s heads: if you don’t know someone you automatically judge them based on physical characteristics such as their size and gender.

It’s all unfortunate, but we must make the best of it.  This is what I’m learning as I continue on my journey.