Fresh Ink: "Catch, Pull, Drive" by Schuyler Bailar

As soon as I walk into the building, I’m confronted by two doors: the left marked men and the right, women. I falter, remembering my words from Saturday’s post: “And I am proud of who I am. Please refer to me with he/him/his pronouns....”

He’s not the wordy type. His wiry black hair seems to complement his terse manner.

He’s not the wordy type. His wiry black hair seems to complement his terse manner.

With a nearly imperceptible nod, I’d been dismissed.

Time frozen and the world forgotten, I’d lull myself to sleep in this fantasy, the weight of the cool soil holding me as I relaxed into the depths of the earth until I disappeared.

Despite the extra heartbeats, the cold sweats, the unrelenting anxiety, I have found such freedom in declaring my identity to the world.

It’s just me and my cool blue world. Body tightened in a piercing streamline, heart racing to keep up, mind focused only on executing the correct stroke technique. The water is all-encompassing and pure.

Five or six strokes usually get me across the pool, depending on how tired I am. So the last race of a grueling three-hour practice is probably going to take six.

I can see Parker in my periphery, and the silence of being underwater breaks as I reach to take the first stroke.

I revel in this peace—something I haven’t felt a lot of recently.

Ever since I fully admitted to myself that I am transgender, fear has tinged almost every thought.

The swimsuit ripples against my chest, and I wonder how it’ll feel to swim unencumbered by breasts—how it’ll feel to wear a men’s suit and compete against the boys in a real competition, not just in practice.

When I came out to Mom, she hadn’t said much. It had been during an offhand conversation about a haircut.

He cowers, trying to wash off the soap they keep throwing at him.

In the year that I’ve been on this team, I’ve never heard Parker respond to any of Roman’s jeers.