By Iris Harris
/ Flash /
Terrance stands in front of the mirror, averting his eye from the disdainful reflection of four decades. Long, straight, brown hair, his pride and joy. The thought of losing it to age terrifies him. The only part of his reflection he loves. He pulls out a comb to untangle it. His hand runs down towards his shoulders and pauses by his masculine jawline. He lowers the comb and places it on the edge of the sink. A tears glisten in his eyes. My heart winces, witnessing his pain.
He replaces the comb with a razor. Carefully examining his reflection, he applies the razor to his face. Erasing any visible hairs. He raises his left arm and pauses. “Do it,” I encourage, and he shaves the dark forest forming in his armpit. Finally, he shaves his leg hairs. A cloud of uncertainty forms over him. “Ignore it,” I whisper. “Think about how it makes you feel.” He nods in affirmation.
The heaviness etched in his reflection melts slightly. He glances at his chosen outfit for the day. Dark and dreary, replaced by vibrant and self-advocating. A feeble smile forms on his lips. The thoughts of his coworkers shatter through his moment of happiness. The need for financial stability often shapes societal expectations. His decision today could sacrifice his life’s work. Doubt plagues his mind. “Have no doubts. You deserve this,” I nudge. His childhood fears add to the wall of doubt, blocking my encouragement.
* * *
“Boys don’t wear pink. Change your shirt,” the thunderous words of his father. “No son of mine is going to dress like a girl.”
The first time he associated clothing to gender. What makes a boy? Obviously color. His dresser drowning in masculine colors. His heart floating with visions of pastels. His dreams providing visions of happiness wearing a dress. Flaunting the beauty of feminine fashion.
“You’re my son, not a sissy.”
His father’s words lingered with him into adulthood. Walking through the men’s department, he snubbed all the desolate colored clothing, each piece a joyless stitch. Depression grew with his collection of clothing in his closet. Every thread tying him down to an identity he wanted to cut free from.
* * *
“Now is your time to clutch the shears of pride,” I say.
He shakes his head. Change creates reluctance. One poor decision could swipe away forty years of following expectations. Is it rational? What consequences will there be if he follows me? His eyes revert to the mirror, and he meets with his own eyes. He follows the outline of his face. The hardness separating male and female hits. He scrunches his eyebrows, second guessing his choice to pick self-love. “This is stupid,” he mutters.
“Freedom is not stupid. Happiness is not stupid. You deserve to be happy. To live your truth,” I offer. He stares at the mirror. Reflecting.
“Do I really, though?” He says.
“Of course you do. Everyone does.” This is not our first time on this topic.
“But, I have disappointed so many people.”
“No, you have only disappointed your father. A man who refuses to accept you for who you are. It is not your fault. Your mother abandoned you, leaving you with him to raise you. He did the best he could.”
“I will never become the man he wanted me to be.”
“Of course you won’t. It is not who you are. He will always find it difficult to understand you. Before we can help him understand, we must accept who we are. Look at the clothes you surrounded yourself with since your childhood. Did they ever bring you joy? Match who you are?”
The clothes in his closet holding the themed color of manhood. Every thread is a prison bar for a past identity. He grimaces. “No, they never did.”
“Exactly,” I comfort. “We must be courageous. There are many people waiting for you to emerge. Stand up and show your true vibrant colors to the world. Become the leader the world needs.”
A leader? He never thought of himself as a leader. All his life, he hid in the shadows of others. Allowing the spotlight to miss him. “Will you be there to support me in this new role?”
“I will be with you all the way, as I have always been.”
He feels my assurances and cracks a smile at the mirror. For the first time, he sees me. I am smiling back at him. Offering him the confidence and courage he lacked.
“Is this who I really am?” The question escapes his lips.
“It is who you have always been. Suppressed by expectations. Concealed by fear.”
“And what if I am not accepted?” His smile quivers.
“Adversity will find you. That is inevitable. However, there are those who will accept you. Support you. Love you. Just as you learn to love yourself.”
I lower my head simultaneously with him. His hand touches my hair. My hair for the first time, it is my hair. His brown eyes become my eyes. Together, we admire our reflection. Realizing the beauty breaking through the constricted mask of depression. Our reflection removes the drab suit of the name Terrance. Discarding it on the floor. We prepare to dress in our true identity. One full of pride and joy. Completing the outfit with the shoes we are born to walk in from child birth.
I look back at my reflection one last time before heading out into the world. Theresa is looking back. Courageous. Bold. Proud. My clothes are vibrant, full of life. Draping over me are the threads of authenticity. I am a rainbow of bliss. Finally, free from fear and feeling myself ready to reconnect with the man who doubted my existence, my father.