Play the game to win…but actually win

Pt. 5

There are two times a girl transitions into a woman.

The saying in my family goes, “When a girl is born, the father cries.” The tears are not of joy but from the assumed doom and sadness for when the baby girl transitions into a woman.

The first time I became a woman, I was twelve. On Halloween in 2007, a sense of internal discomfort abruptly stirred within me, lingering throughout the rest of the day. Unbeknownst to me, my body was changing. Just as you can sense rain before it comes, my body knew a transition was coming.

Without warning, the sensation of a knife thrust into my abdomen took over me. Waves of thrashing pain consumed me, and I assumed I was dying from some underlying condition; my body was punishing me.

Once I learned about death as a child, my mortality became a constant fear. My first time understanding the concept of death was at age ten.

My mother reconnected with her father and introduced us; a few years later, he was dead. It was never explained what exactly happened, but he met his end by presumably being pushed off of a roof during an argument with a friend. My mom kept his autopsy photos; being the curious kid I was, I found them. His face was fragmented by the impact of the fall, and his body was stitched up like a garment sprawled out on a metal slate. His existence became nothing more than photos of his tragic ending. I never told anyone I saw the images, and I couldn’t stomach any food for weeks. Night after night, I was forced to stay at the dinner table and finish my food, and I still never uttered a word; my mother assumed preteen disobedience. I preferred to be in trouble for refusing to eat my food than for snooping. The consequences for spying involved a punishment that included both a physical reprimand and a period of confinement in my room, the duration of which largely depended on my mother’s memory.

Nonetheless, I believed this was the end; I thought I was on the brink of death. It was my first encounter with such excruciating internal agony, leading me to conclude that my demise was imminent. My body seemed to revolt against me, each stab of pain a testament to its hostility. I sat in class, drenched in sweat and trembling, longing to escape my own skin. Remarkably, no one inquired about my well-being, and as the sole person of color in the class, I consistently strived not to attract excessive notice to myself.

When I returned home from school that day, I decided to share my agony with my sister. She quickly assumed it might have been something I ate, but I knew in my heart this was unlike any discomfort I’d ever felt.
Left to my own devices, I retreated to the bathroom and spent what felt like an eternity. My legs grew numb, and a peculiar tingling sensation crept up from my feet to my legs. But the pain stubbornly refused to budge.

In a moment of resolve, I thought, “That’s it; I’ve had enough,” and I rose to adjust my pants. That’s when I noticed it – the lining of my underwear, now stained in a shade of crimson. I stood there in silence, the room filled only with the sound of my racing heart. A mix of emotions washed over me, joy and fear entwined. The innocence I’d once held dear now seemed fragmented and distorted. Was this the moment when I transitioned into womanhood?

At age six, I asked my mother about menstrual cycles and why I didn’t have one like her and my sister. Her response was, “Periods are a curse from God. When Eve bit the apple, the punishment for her sins cursed her lineage. Since we come from her, our punishment is pain through menstrual cycles, brutal pain, and sometimes death during childbirth”. She never told me when, and I never bothered to ask again, horrified by more information that would cause more existential plight and doom. She always had a way of making me regret asking or questioning anything.

I found myself in a fierce internal struggle, contemplating the idea of discreetly disposing of my underwear and never breathing a word about it to anyone. But with a mother like mine, secrets didn’t stand a chance – she had an uncanny knack for sniffing out change. My mother often spoke of how she could detect when a woman entered her womanhood, an ability she had mysteriously developed over the years. She claimed to know when my sister began being sexually active, “you can smell it,” she would exclaim, and she was right. I couldn’t quite fathom how she knew, and I never dared to question the notion.

With my underwear clenched tightly in my hand, I crept out of the bathroom. Head down, I eased into my sister’s room. She was lying on her bed, lost in the world of her headphones and computer screen. From her peripheral vision, she noticed me easing into her room. As I slowly moved toward her, she moved into an upright position in a gradual, deliberate motion. Wearing a perplexed expression and in an uncertain tone, she said, “Taisja…. What the hell is wrong with…?” before she could finish the question, I had thrown my underwear on her bed. Her mouth was agape, and her eyes were as wide as a silver dollar in shock; before she could say another word, I quickly shouted, “DON’T TELL MOMMY”!

Though I had done nothing wrong, I knew I was in trouble.

She jumped up, grabbed my underwear, and charged past me in a split second. With my underwear waving above her head, catching the wind from her sprint, she went down the stairs screaming, “MOM TAISJA HAS HER PERIOD”! I stood at the top of the stairs, mortified. I didn’t hear my mom’s response, and my sister had been gone so long that I decided to hide in her room, fearing that I was in trouble. I kept a watchful eye on my sister as she made her way back to her room. Her every move felt like an eternity until she finally broke the silence. A mischievous grin played on her lips as she strolled leisurely to her bed, deliberately avoiding eye contact.

With a nonchalant plop onto her bed, she casually mentioned, “Mommy said to come here.” Nervously, I asked, “Am I in trouble?” Her grin widened, and without a word, she inserted her headphones and returned to scrolling through her computer, leaving me to wonder about the impending conversation with our mother.

Summoning every ounce of courage, I embarked on the journey down the staircase. I descended one step at a time, each footfall a deliberate, measured move. And at the foot of the stairs, there she was, my mother, waiting patiently for our impending conversation.

My mother wasn’t a tall woman, but her domineering presence made her a towering woman. Standing with her hands on her hips, she looked me up and down as if to notice any other changes that might’ve come with my newfound womanhood. I stood before her with my head lowered, waiting for my tongue lashing or maybe her signature move – a slap to the face. After a few moments of silence, in a monotone voice, she asked, “When did you get your period, Taisja?” my voice shaking, I replied, “Today,” and averted my gaze back to the ground after answering.

Though I knew I was telling the truth, I still felt I had been caught in a lie and awaiting my punishment.

A profound sigh escaped my mother’s lips as she lowered her head. Slowly, she circled around me, her steps heavy with emotion, and sat on the stairs. With her head cradled in her hands, her shoulders jerked as she began to weep. Each tear that broke through her fingers landed on the carpet with a noticeable thud. While one might have expected relief in this moment, an overwhelming sense of guilt washed over me, intensifying the weight of the situation.

My mother’s military training had molded her into a figure as tough as her foot calluses. Rarely did she shed tears, and her emotional connection with me was seldom evident. In fact, she spent the majority of her time forgetting I existed until I had done something wrong. With my older sister being more promiscuous than a feral cat and my younger sisters being under three years old and only a year apart, my existence had become equivalent to a house plant; you only notice when it is dying or taking up too much space. But at that moment, all the attention was on me, and it wasn’t good.

For a fleeting moment, I found myself rooted in place as she wept, an uncertainty hanging in the air. The dilemma of whether to take action or remain an observer left me confused. Nonetheless, I took faltering steps toward her, compelled by an inexplicable need to provide comfort.

The notion of comforting her seemed paradoxical, for I couldn’t fathom why I, the one who had supposedly disappointed her, should be offering solace. With her silence serving as my only guide, I reluctantly embraced the role of the disappointing child, burdened by a cascade of self-doubt.
As I reached out to soothe her, a palpable unease seemed to repel me like an invisible force field. My hand briefly brushed her shoulder before I withdrew it, unsure of the right approach. In my search for solace, I sat beside her, attempting to rest my head on her shoulder, but even this simple gesture felt inexplicably wrong.

Ultimately, I decided to stand there with my hands discreetly tucked behind my back, my anxious anticipation growing with each passing moment. I longed for her to speak, to mete out punishment, or simply to offer an explanation. Anything would have been more bearable than the agony of watching her tears flow unchecked.

A few moments drifted by, and there, at the top of the stairs, my sister had emerged, her curious gaze locked onto mine. She, too, appeared just as bewildered as I was, moving cautiously down the stairs so as not to intrude on what seemed to be a significant moment between my mother and me. With an air of concern, she gently asked, “Mom, are you okay?” Suddenly, my mother rose to her feet, her hand reaching for her face to wipe away any traces of tears. She responded, “I’ll be back; I need to make a quick run to the store to get your sister some pads.”
My sister and I remained rooted in place, our shared sense of confusion holding us in its grip. In a swift motion, my mother retrieved her purse and keys and made her way out the door, leaving us standing there, still trying to make sense of the abrupt turn of events.

Several hours had passed before her return. She handed me a bag containing bras and pads. A radiant smile graced her face as I gingerly sorted through the bag. I had long been making do with hand-me-down bras from my sister, and now, the prospect of having some of my own, free from the holes of wear, imbued me with a sense of significance.

With her uncanny nurturing guidance, my mother showed me how to use and dispose of a pad, her face reflecting a mix of pride and unusual tenderness. In the spirit of celebration, she called our family members to share the news that I had reached this significant milestone, entering womanhood. Among the calls made, the most important was to my father.
As she relayed the news, my father requested to speak with me directly. We engaged in a bit of small talk to ease into the more profound conversation. After a moment, he sighed, his voice carrying a wistful tone as he said, “Well, baby girl, you’re a woman now.” We sat together in silence momentarily, absorbing the moment’s weight, before I passed the phone back to my mother.
This uplifting spirit from my mother was frightening, but I hesitantly went along with her new disposition in fear that she would shift and decide to be volatile. I had successfully made it to the status of a “woman.”

The day had come to hang out with Seth.

The night before the big day, I embarked on a grooming escapade. I diligently shaved and plucked every unruly hair I could find, leaving no strand unattended. To ensure a pristine result, I even dabbled in the world of Nair. Little did I know that it would lead me to an inflamed chemical burn that took a couple layers of skin with it.

As if the grooming ordeal wasn’t enough, I found myself in a conundrum when it came to undergarments. Thanks to the “no-picking-your-own-underwear” rule put in place to deter any romantic intentions. From the information I gathered up to this point from listening to the girl’s bathroom raunchy talk, guys deemed this important and set the tone for the “act.”

Girls at my school had thong sets, and here I was with mismatched full-coverage underwear and sports bras. I hatched a genius plan to turn an old, outgrown pair of underwear into something resembling a makeshift thong. But the real challenge lay in the realm of bras. My drawer looked more like it belonged to a female D1 athlete brimming with sports bras. As I scoured through my drawers in pursuit of the “sexiest” sports bra to pair with my hiked-up underwear, a creeping sense of panic began to take hold. Deciding on the perfect sports bra became so overwhelming that it threatened to trigger a full-blown panic attack. So, boldly, I opted for a radical solution: going braless. Actually, it was the solution. I figured if it was dark and I got undressed really fast, he wouldn’t notice.

With a covered blackeye, a wedgie from the front to back, and various chemical burns, I headed out the door.

While en route, I tried to lecture myself out of it several times, and with my thoughts racing, the anxiety started to rush in. “Should I go?”, “How the hell am I going to hide this black eye?”, “What if he doesn’t like me in person?” “He won’t notice anything in the dark anyway.”, “What if this is one of those unexpected times the teacher calls home because I didn’t show up?”.

Despite my strong inner resistance, my body seemed determined to follow through with my plan to visit Seth’s house. It was as if I were on autopilot, and I had no choice but to see it through. Usually, using public transit felt like a journey that would last a lifetime, but on this particular day, it was just my luck that the trolley conductor had become a NASCAR driver. The trolley whisked me away so swiftly that I barely had a moment to reconsider my decision before I found myself standing at Seth’s doorstep.

After a few knocks, Seth opened the door. His face was familiar, but his height took me by surprise. Seth had told me he was 5’7, the same height as me, to be exact. Perched on his doorstep, I stepped into his house with cautious steps. Our eyes met in an unbroken gaze as if time itself had halted. Despite my familiarity with him, an inexplicable sensation coursed through me; he felt like a stranger. My mind struggled to reconcile the thought that I even knew him. Though I knew his face and voice were familiar, the connection I assumed would be there was absent. After months of waiting for this moment, here stood before me, a stranger, I agreed to have sex with.

Our eyes remained locked in a mutual stare, his gaze scrutinizing my face while I secretly hoped he wouldn’t notice the black ring covering my eye concealed beneath my bangs. What felt like an eternity passed with us just staring at each other, a palpable awkwardness settling in the air.
The silence was finally shattered by a discreet cough from Seth’s father.

The house was cast in darkness, except for a solitary glimmer of light emanating from the kitchen, where Seth’s father was busy drying his hands, seemingly waiting for Seth to introduce me. Navigating through the dimly lit living room, Seth’s father’s eyes roved over me, studying me not once but twice before finally nodding in acknowledgment.
Fully aware of the purpose that had brought me here, I found it impossible to maintain eye contact. In a hushed voice, I managed a quiet “hello,” prompting Seth’s father to cast a quick glance at Seth, and then a brief exchange of words in their native language followed. I couldn’t understand a word, feeling somewhat out of the loop but relieved that I couldn’t understand. His father resumed with the dishes; Seth took my hand and led me down the stairs to his room.

Hand in hand, we descended a creaky wooden staircase into the depths of Seth’s basement. An odd chill hung in the air, mingling with the pervasive humidity, and I couldn’t help but wrestle with an internal conflict. For a fleeting moment, I entertained the wild notion of sprinting away as fast as my legs could carry me and unleashing a blood-curdling scream, but somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

In my mind, I played out the scenario, and strangely enough, the one I had concocted felt more rational than the one I was presently in. In the dimness of the basement, we moved deliberately, navigating our way to the back left corner. It was there that Seth’s makeshift bedroom came into view. I couldn’t help but find it slightly peculiar that his parents had chosen to carve out his living space in the basement.
Seth’s room boasted its own walls, a window, and even a door. As we entered, I was taken aback by the level of maturity it exuded. A large TV adorned one wall, surrounded by a vibrant tapestry of LED lights, and the whole space gave off the vibe of a gamer’s sanctuary. I awkwardly lingered near the doorway until he extended an invitation inside. With his help, I removed my coat, and he directed me to take a seat on the bed, where the uncertainty of the evening began to settle in.

In the days of phone conversations, our chats used to flow effortlessly, and we could talk for hours, our laughter echoing through the receiver. But at this moment, we found ourselves in an unfamiliar and uncomfortable silence. Each passing second added to the realization that the person before me felt like a complete stranger, and I was trapped in a situation I couldn’t escape.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, OMG shit. What the hell am I doing?” My thoughts raced, taking control, while I sat there, as immobile as a cardboard cutout, perched on his bed, reflecting on the life choices that had led me to this moment.

As I contemplated making a swift exit, Seth stood by, flipping through TV channels in search of a movie to watch.

Gradually, my prolonged silence began to unsettle Seth, and he abandoned the quest for a movie to watch. Awkwardly surveying his room, Seth launched into a rambling discourse about his staggering collection of 250 pairs of shoes, detailing their origins and the stories behind their acquisition. His voice, however, became a mere backdrop to the whirlwind of thoughts racing through my mind.
I responded with nods and forced smiles, feigning interest in his words while remaining utterly oblivious to the content. As our conversation drifted, Seth proposed that we lie down and cuddle. He hastily removed his socks, exposing his neglected toenails, and I couldn’t help but think that I might have gone to excessive lengths in my grooming efforts to prepare for this very moment.

I cautiously reclined on his bed, uncertainty, and anxiety gripping me as I pondered what lay ahead. I lay there, gripped by fear, my head resting on the pillow, and my heartbeats reverberating in my ears. Seth switched off the light in the dimness, slipped into the bed, and drew me closer with his arm.
The closer our bodies came, the more my tension mounted. Stuck in a fetal position, I longed for nothing more than an escape. I knew I had the freedom to leave and wasn’t trapped, yet I hadn’t granted myself permission to do so. I had convinced myself that I needed to see this through, and it was an agreement I had made with myself, leaving no room for deviation from my self-imposed course.
Seth continued to browse through TV channels until he settled on the movie “Friday After Next.” It was a far cry from what I had envisioned for my first intimate experience. I had pictured music and a softly lit room, but instead, I found myself watching Chris Tucker and Ice Cube smoking weed.

Twenty minutes into the movie, Seth initiated a kiss, and then it began.

Seth’s clammy hands navigated through my clothes; it hadn’t occurred to me until this moment that Seth would see me fully naked. After a tug-of-war over every article of clothing coming off, I eventually gave in.

Me: “Ouch.”
Seth: “Wait, sorry.”
Me: “Is it in there”?
Seth: “Sorry, it’s small… how’s that”?
Me: “Wait, let me do it.”
Seth: “Is that okay?”
Me: sigh. “Okay, let’s stop.”

I lay there; Seth’s breaths followed a steady rhythm while I lay still, my gaze fixed on the ceiling. I desperately sought to make sense of what had just occurred, trying to reconcile the reality with the expectations I had been given. I silently wished he would break the silence, say anything, to articulate what had transpired, but both of us remained wordless.

With his face in the grove of my neck, his breath tenderly fell over my skin, and we drifted off to sleep.

Startled, Seth and I both jolted awake to the blaring noise of the television and Seth’s mom’s voice shouting through the open bedroom window. Seth leaned close and whispered, “Don’t move; act like you’re asleep.” However, it was nearly impossible for me to do, as her gaze and mine had already locked. Quickly, I shut my eyes tightly and lay there, as still as a plank, but it seemed to upset her even more.

“SETH!” she yelled, her voice laced with frustration and some words in their native language. When she realized neither Seth nor I would respond, she gave up and stomped away. We waited until we heard her ascending the stairs, her heavy steps fading into the distance. We lay still, our eyes fixed on the ceiling, silently tracking her movements, our eyes directed to every step she took, eventually stopping above our heads.

Suddenly, it dawned on me that I had forgotten to set an alarm. Panic surged through me as I jumped out of bed and reached for my phone. It became painfully clear that I had overslept, and I was supposed to be home a good 20 minutes earlier. “FUUCK!” I exclaimed as I rushed to get dressed, a whirlwind of thoughts and hurried movements engulfing me.

Seth sat up and watched me in confusion and a perplexed expression. I had never told him what I had to go through to spend time with him, and I didn’t plan to. As I put my shirt on, Seth said, “Oh, you do have a black eye,” seemingly to confirm what he already knew. Realizing that in my rushing, I forgot to conceal my black eye, I turned my back as I continued to get dressed.

Silence fell, and all that was to hear was me shuffling through Seth’s room to find my missing clothes. “Vince told me what happened; he knew it was going to happen, and that’s why he didn’t go to school that day,” said Seth. I paused; I felt a lump form in my throat; with every swallow, the lump grew more significant, and my eyes swelled with tears. I wanted so badly to cry, but I couldn’t; I wouldn’t. I couldn’t fathom why he was telling me this now, but I knew I had to get out there. Seth began slowly getting dressed; I felt his stare, and I knew he was waiting for an answer, but I didn’t intend to provide one. I kept my back toward him to conceal my dejectedness; with his words ruminating in my head, I grew increasingly despondent.

Me: “I gotta go.”
Seth: “Okay….. I’ll walk you out.”

Scampering through Seth’s basement, with Seth stumbling behind me, it suddenly struck me that if Vince knew, then Seth knew too. Had they been discussing me all this time? I felt utterly powerless in that moment. “What an idiot,” I chastised myself silently. Upon reaching the front door, I hesitated, unsure of how to say goodbye, and pondered the thought of leaving without uttering a word. I turned to face Seth, both of us making an effort to appear normal. We exchanged a swift, somewhat discomfiting hug and a peck on the cheek before parting ways.

As I hurried back to the trolley, my thoughts raced, and amidst the internal tumult, I suddenly heard my name being called. “TAISJA!” the voice rang out repeatedly. My eyes darted around, trying to locate the source of the call, and I spotted Vince at his front door, frantically flailing his arms to get my attention. To my surprise, Vince lived on the same street as Seth, and a thought crossed my mind: I hoped he hadn’t witnessed me leaving Seth’s house.

Crossing the street to meet Vince, I made a conscious effort to push aside the unsettling information Seth had shared about their conversation. As I approached Vince, I greeted him with a strained smile, and it was evident that his smile was equally strained; there was an air of discomfort between us. I could tell that Vince scrutinized my face, likely trying to confirm whether what he had heard was true. His gaze bore into me, and the unease in the air was palpable.

Vince: “Um, what’s…up?”
Me: “Nothing much. I’m on my way home.”

Vince: “So Seth is your man now?”

Me:” Yeah, anyway, I gotta go home. I’ll see you at school.”

Vince: “Oh”

Unsure of the awkward tension, I walked to the trolley, disheveled and confused.

With every passing moment during my commute back home, a persistent, unsettling feeling gnawed at me. I tried to pinpoint the source of this emotion multiple times on my way, but as I neared home, I still couldn’t quite grasp it, though it felt profoundly unpleasant. A prickling sense of unease seemed to wash over me, and I found myself consumed by a vague sense of disgust. But why?
To my surprise, when I finally arrived home, it seemed no one noticed my lateness. Lost in my thoughts during the entire journey, I had completely forgotten that I was late and had no explanation to offer if questioned about it. It felt almost like divine intervention, sparing me from yet another misfortune, given the hardships I had already endured.
Starting the ascent up the stairs to my room, I took a deep breath and let out an exasperated sigh, my emotions welling up and tears beginning to flow. As I dragged my weary body up those steps, my mind fixated on one solution for dispelling this discomfort: a scalding hot shower. It seemed like the only remedy for that unsettling feeling.
To my chagrin, even the steaming water of the shower failed to alleviate my distress. Frustration and despair grew within me, and I eventually resorted to what had long been my sanctuary: sleep. As a child, I learned to cope with the tumultuous environment of my household by escaping into the realm of sleep. It became my refuge, a place where I could find solace and respite from the chaos of the world around me.

Monday morning arrived, and to my astonishment, people were engaging me in conversation. This sudden shift left me on edge, wondering if the Taisja “hate train” had finally reached its last stop. As I pondered the reason for this unexpected change, it soon became clear: it was Gabby.
Gabby was a 4’11” Liberian girl who had grown up in the same neighborhood as Vince and Seth since elementary school. She was far from what one might consider beautiful, and her personality was as ugly as the rumors she was known for spreading. With small, beady eyes, a nose marked by cystic acne, and lips that seemed capable of spanning a room while whispering in your ear, Gabby was equally repugnant as her reputation. Her antics were well-known to all, and people typically kept their distance from her to avoid becoming the subject of her morning headlines. Even the teachers seemed to prefer saying as little as possible to her.

So, when Gabby approached me at my locker that Monday morning, I knew it meant trouble – not in the figurative sense, but in the genuine one. “Soooo, you’re dating my friend,” she said, her tone dripping with cunning. I carefully considered my response before answering, adopting an unassuming tone as I asked, “Who told you that?” Her quick reply came, “Vince told me, but I told him that I just saw Seth holding hands with some girl walking home the other day.” Her gaze was fixed on me as I continued to shuffle books around in my locker, my heart sinking with every passing second, but I held my composure.

As I repetitively reorganized the same books, a sense of dread settled in, but I couldn’t allow her to gather any more information. With a decisive slam of my locker door, I retorted, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Gabby.” Clearly frustrated that she couldn’t confirm the information she had received from Vince, she rolled her eyes and walked away. I knew she wasn’t finished, but I had managed to fend her off, at least for the time being. The genuine concern, however, was the fact that deep down, I knew she was telling the truth. Gabby may have been a gossip, but she wasn’t known for being a liar….