Transition

Bantamweight

There are few things that push me as close to violence as the casual commentary I quietly endure most days. And yet I cannot ever really allow myself to react as honestly as I would like. There would be a huge satisfaction in an uppercut to the swinging jaw of the usual sort of commentating culprit. Something that could only be more satisfying were there to be a pop art “Kapow!” in the frame.

But I’m firmly of the opinion that to actually just give in to that impulse would cost me too much. Not in monetary terms or employment or even the risk of a criminal record. It’s more that, for however brief a second, I’d honestly be no better than them. And there is a surprising amount of comfort in knowing that you are not them. Because your branch of the family tree was just fortunate enough to evolve.

Without looking up, I could give a Police Artist a fairly extensive description of every single person that feels it necessary to loudly review my gender. This is chiefly because they are Identikit idiots for the most part. Cut from the same tired cloth. Usually unaware that they might also just be the village simpleton.

But a sodding education means I don’t get to just respond with one swift punch to the middle of their low brows. Rising above things is the new black in this situation. Not because I’m scared. I’m an actual transsexual. I gave up being scared of anything years ago. But the chickenshit narrators of my casual journeys should probably have the sense to be afraid. Because one of these days a girl might snap. And she might have packed a cardboard KAPOW! of her own that very morning.

 

 

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