THE CHANGE
IN THE BEGINNING, the boys and girls in my village within my age-group looked the same. I was a bigger girl than most, but generally we all looked similar, give or take some things. Then at a certain age some fundamental bits begin to change. The boys grew taller, they grew hair on their faces and other places, and their voices changed. The girls would also sprout hair in new places, their chests would blossom into breasts and their hips would widen, and eventually they would begin to menstruate.
Obviously, being that I was a girl, I thought the changes I saw in these girls and I had seen in my sisters would happen to me, too. Except, nothing was happening for me. But I wasn’t worried about it. I wasn’t in a rush to develop breasts and get my period. I was playing sports, farming, taking care of our animals, and hunting. I figured having a period would get in the way because I saw how it got in the way of my sisters’ and friends’ lives. Sanitary towels weren’t easy to get in Ga-Masehlong or even affordable for most of us. It wasn’t like the spaza shops were selling Tampax and Kotex.
Girls in my village used whatever they could to contain the blood—old socks, rags, even notebook paper. Sometimes this would bring on problems like infections. I heard my sisters and friends complaining of pain and bloating. Truth is this thing sounded horrible. There was also the sense that it was something to be stressed, maybe even embarrassed, about even though it was a natural thing that every girl eventually had to go through. I started noticing girls would just disappear from school for a week or so rather than deal with having a period in class. It got to where I started to feel like maybe not getting a period would be a gift.
I may not have been developing breasts, but eventually I began changing, too. My already deep voice got a little bit deeper; I grew even taller and more muscular. At this point, it seemed normal. I wasn’t built like my sisters to begin with. I looked like a girl who played soccer, boxed, wrestled, and ran and hunted. Anyone who spent every single day—boy or girl—doing these things was going to get powerfully built.
I was deeply aware of and loved my body. My body was strong and sturdy, agile and flexible; I easily learned new moves and tricks. I could ask anything of my body and it would come through for me. I was happy the way I was, but when I’d hear my sisters and friends talk about the budding pains on their chests of soon-to-come breasts, I would wonder about mine. I felt nothing.
I decided to talk to the person I trusted more than anyone.
“Hey mom, I don’t think I’m going to get this period thing like the other girls,” I said one day while I was helping her prepare the day’s food for selling.
“Why do you think this?” My mother turned and looked at me, her eyes wide, her voice serious and almost a whisper.
“I’m not getting these breasts like them. I don’t know, maybe it’s just not going to happen for me.” At the time, it seemed to me that girls would develop breasts and then a period would come soon after. I was completely flat chested and hadn’t felt the growing pains my peers described. I figured this meant I wouldn’t ever get my period.
My mom reassured me everything would be OK.
“You can’t control nature. The only thing you can do is love yourself the way you are. God works in his own time, my child. Be grateful for the life you have been given.”
She was right. Whatever this was or would be, it was God’s will, and my job was to live my life and thank him every day for the blessing of breath and my family. Time went on. I was healthy and happy. Every now and then I wondered why my sisters and friends had their boobs and I didn’t have mine. Sometimes I’d stand naked in the mirror, turning this way and that, looking at my body from different angles, and I’d imagine what I’d look like if I did have them. Then I would just remind myself, “This is the way things are supposed to be. Don’t question God’s will.”
****
I was fantasizing about girls the way most of them were fantasizing about boys. And I wanted them to talk about me the way they were talking about the boys. “Ah,” I remember thinking to myself, “so, I like girls.” I think I first knew when I was about five years old, but at that age you don’t really understand that it’s a romantic feeling, just more of a curiosity. Once I got older and knew what was going on with me, I had no shame in being clear about it when I needed to be.
I have never been in a “closet.” I have never understood the whole Western “coming out of the closet” thing. I never hid who I was or felt I had to. Everyone in my world seemed to know. I didn’t go around yelling that I was into girls but, if I had to address it, I would. If some boy tried me, I’d say it straight out, “I’m into girls. Maybe me and your sister can talk. And if you like your dick, let us not speak of this again.”
My cousins loved how fearless I was when it came to these kinds of things, and they would use me when they liked a girl and were feeling shy about talking to her. They knew I had no problem going up to a girl and just spitting it out.
“Hey. My cousin is there with you. He’s thinking about you in that way. Do you like him?” Then I’d turn around and point to whichever cousin had a crush on the girl. And if there was a girl I liked, I’d tell her.
And there was a girl. The first girl I had a crush on was R. We met in the third grade. I just liked everything about her. She was sweet and very pretty, easy to talk to, and we got along great. She was one of those girls who people just went crazy over. The thing about R was that even though she was a different kind of girl than I was, somehow, we were still the same. She and I became friends, and we’d hang out whenever we could. R was the first girl I ever kissed. We were young and innocent, and it was never anything more than that. Nothing more would happen between us, but I remember the feeling of knowing that kissing girls was what I would be doing for the rest of my life.
Once I knew this, of course, I had to tell the most important people in my life.
One morning, I told my family I had some news to share. It was one of those rare days were everybody was home. Even my dad. They all gathered in the living room. Everyone was waiting to see what I had to say. This way I wouldn’t have to deal with so-and-so’s parents or relatives wanting to have a talk with my parents about any kind of coupling in the future. And none of my sisters would waste their time coming to gossip or whisper to me about some boy who wanted to be there with me.
“LOOK, don’t expect me to come home with a boyfriend because it will never happen. When I grow up, I’m going to marry a woman.”
My family shook their heads, and there were some groans and eye-rolling and definitely some laughter. Just the usual stuff that meant, “Here this crazy girl goes again talking some madness.”
I don’t know if they took me seriously that day, but there were no comments about it being “evil” or against our religion. Even though the pastors in our village would oftentimes find ways to call people in same-sex relationships “demons” in their sermons. No one in my family started screaming or crying. My parents and siblings did not seem surprised. They knew I was my own kind of person. I said it. I meant it. There was nothing they could do about it except know it.
I was beginning to understand myself. What I wanted from life. I had my family, my friends, and soccer. I could have been a better student, but studying wasn’t my focus.
And then, as they say, all good things must come to an end. The life I’d built would change drastically one evening. I had just turned twelve years old.
