In 7th grade, I asked my mom to cut my hair short. “Like Tony Hawk,” I said. She asked if I was sure. If I understood that I’d be made fun of. I told her I didn’t care. Now I know that I meant, I need this. I don’t know why. And it matters more that I look right than if I’m made fun of.

We talk about bathrooms a lot. We celebrate when we find a family bathroom. We cringe at the binary. We talk about North Carolina and Massachusetts. We talk about being kind and that some people aren't. She tells me she wants family bathrooms at her school. She tells me she doesn't want to line up as boys and girls. She gets mad at gendered language about toys at McDonalds. She tells me it doesn't make any sense. Because to her? It doesn't make any sense.