My mother never went as far as the mailbox, which was attached just outside of the front door, without first applying makeup and putting in earrings. When I was a little girl, I went to school with my hair in order and always matching outfits. My grass stained, torn jeans were saved for the ball field, my pajamas for bed time and each outing was met with appropriate attire. I hated it.
I was a tomboy, of course, but dressing up meant frills and tights, never getting dirty, skirts, dresses and the like. In these moments I waited impatiently for the point in the day where one of my parents gave the word and I would race to put on my denim.
We did not have a lot of money—I still don’t—but my appearance was never limited by that fact and the lesson has never left me. I stopped hating the act of dressing up once I started putting on the right clothes. Slacks. Ties. Vests. A well-made pair of shoes.
I am 5 foot 1 inch tall. I bind my breasts. I have hips. I wear menswear. It is a challenge to find clothes that make me feel handsome. I shop in the boys section as well as the men’s. I look for gender neutral clothing in women’s sizes. It is never as easy as going to the store and pulling something off of the rack, but I’d rather put in the effort than look like a child playing dress up in their father’s clothing.
My gender identity, as it's perceived, is wrapped up in clothing more than anything. More than the masculine space I expand my chest into to fill, more than the protective arm I wrap around my partner, how I’m read in the world at first glance is based on my what I pull out of my wardrobe. I try to keep it dapper.
