More from my old writing pad:

Seven. Age seven, to answer the question. Of when was it clear you were not like other girls. That you played with firetrucks, Erector sets, made model airplanes, skateboarded, dug holes, fought when cornered, fought when not cornered.

I was eschewing pink, girly, weak, vulnerable as much as I could, as fast as I could. My father said he knew by the time I was seven that I was a failure, unworthy of investment. Let us do a neat dip step, let us not speak of causality.

It is brought to my attention, again, how mannish I can be. Again. Forward, aggressive. My shoulders are broad, my stomach is hard. I am loud, charmless. How protective I am of my vulnerabilities, my softness, my gender.

The man on the subway platform knew what I try to hide. Knew when he said something vulgar to me, then yelled it again, and yet again, leaving me a wobbly-legged fawn blinking dumbly and humiliated.