Some Old Man I Really Hate.

Father (Is that what I should call you?),


This isn't about why you hate me. I know exactly why.
We all know how much you wanted a girl. You got one – physically that is.
We all know what you really wanted.
You didn't just want a girl – You wanted a perfect girl. A girl, your idea of perfect.

I wasn't meant to play with boys.
I wasn't meant to like sport, or to climb trees, or get in the mud.
I wasn't meant to ask you why boys can only like girls, and girls can only like boys.
I definitely wasn't meant to tell you that I was different.

I wasn't meant to read or write or wonder.
I wasn't meant to pay more attention to teachers than to doing my hair.
I wasn't meant to question things, or find your flaws.
I wasn't meant to think.

And God knows I've been deprived.

I was meant to want dolls, and dresses, and toy cooking sets.
I was meant to dress my Barbies, style their hair, apply their make-up.
They were meant to swoon over Ken.
Three Ken's for twenty Barbies. That's how it works in your world.

I was meant to obey, to follow blindly.
I was meant to think I deserved it all, that I was wrong.
I was meant to be a toy, to be hit and penetrated.
To cook and clean and smile and give head.

And God knows I'm the fighter you never wanted.

This isn't about why you hate me. I know exactly why.

***

This is about how you hate me. I do not understand how.

I did not choose to be a 'girl' on the outside.
I did not choose to be what I am on the inside.
I did not know what you really wanted.
I did not understand your 'perfect', nor did I want it.

I didn't understand girls. They didn't like me.
Sport was fun, toy cars and video games; The height of my childish enjoyment.
I didn't understand what our bodies had to do with love.
I never flinched at a male, and was transfixed by women.

I wanted to learn about the world. I thrived on knowledge.
Books were my escape. Writing became my cure.
Teachers loved me. Questions found me.
I was trapped between what was said, and what I heard.

But God knows I've learned what books cannot teach.

I had no use for dolls, they made me feel ugly.
They highlighted what we all knew – I was not like them.
Mother got upset when they wrestled in the mud,
And you were angry when you saw them undressed.

I am not emotionless. I am not empty-headed.
I felt every second of it. I understood every word.
I believed – though did not understand – that I deserved this.
I thought this would stop if I were to become a boy.

Now God knows – and you know – that your life is in my clenched hands.  


- Your burden of a daughter