It’s been 25 months since my first T shot. When I look in the mirror I see only the man I’ve always been. And yet…

I walk up to the register. The sales person comes around the corner and without hesitation, “Do you have a rewards card miss?”

I respond immediately in an effort to erase what has just occurred. At the lowest register of my voice I say “No” to the question and the situation in general. No recognition of her error registers in her eyes. I ask myself, “Is there any possibility I misheard?” I review words that sound like “miss” to see if there are any substitutes I could attribute this to. But no. I am certain. The word is reverberating in my brain and shaking my sense of self. I complete a full body scan trying to find that which betrays me and desperately try to center my response on who I am at my core.

Is it my height – or lack thereof? Are my hands too small? My eyebrows too narrow? My hairline too full? No, I’m wearing a hat. A hat that routinely resulted in being correctly gendered prior to transition…why is this hat not working now? I hadn’t spoken a word so its not my definitively non-cisgendered dynamic speech pattern of which I am hyper conscious.

There is zero possibility she has “pegged” me as trans and is being antagonistic. This is perhaps the worst part. If she were being intentionally cruel my response would be strong and my sense of self retained. But she genuinely just read me as a woman. Her brain subconsciously added up the data in that moment and decided the correct honorific was “miss.” So…not just a woman, but one who is young and unmarried…

What does it say about me that I am offended? It is not as though being a woman is somehow inferior. Unless its my own subconscious misogyny… Maybe I am not the feminist I claim to be.

She is performing manners, exactly as society has taught her. It isn’t her fault.

“Did you find everything you were looking for?”

-pause- Is my heart still beating? There is so much…air. Why is none of it in my lungs? I might pass out.

“Not quite.”

“Can we find something for you?”

-pause- I have to get out of here.

“I’m quite certain you don’t have it.”

When will this transaction end? Shouldn’t this machine be prompting me for my pin by now? What is happening with my heart rate? I feel flush. I have got to get out of here.

I want to ask, “Why?” But I am certain she wouldn’t know why. The lack of critical thinking that results in such thoughtless misgendering is incompatible with insight into why it happened.

I can’t even look at her. I have got to get out of here. Now the machine is beeping at me, prompting me to remove my card – I’m not sure how long its been going on for. I have to get out of here – this exchange. This store. This parking lot…city…this life. I have to get out.

“Have a nice night.” And, since we are just performing politeness I muster, “you too.”

Its only 6 miles home but long enough to fall apart. I would cry, I think, if my hormone levels didn’t make that nearly impossible. Because this world is entirely hopeless. Because this young cashier is our future. Because all of my effort is so effortlessly erased. I can’t breath.

When I get home, my love inquires, “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

She remains fiercely present. Its kind of annoying and comforting simultaneously. She hugs me. I pretend to be annoyed because I’m just trying to keep it together.

I remove the vile from the drawer. 1 needle to draw, 1 needle to inject. Syringe. Alcohol wipes. How many more injections might it take to trust my presentation to not betray my identity?

I drip with the privilege I am afforded. And yet…