I was merely nine years old when it happened. Looking back, you’d say that it was boys being boys, although the police didn’t see it that way once it happened. Cryptic, I know, but don’t worry, I pn to expin it.
My name is Jake Stetson; yes, like the hat. Short blond hair, hazel eyes, and an average build for my age. I, like most boys my age, py baseball, football, soccer, whatever. It didn’t matter as long as we were moving. Now, I was nowhere near being the star pyer at anything we pyed, but I was an above-average pyer, and I was fairly well-liked because of it. Of course, I had a few that didn’t like me. After all, no one is liked by everyone.
My rival, enemy, the bane of my existence, someone I consider to be a pimple of the ass of the neighborhood and a general waste of space, was Steve Michaels. I’m sure you know his type—a bully. Generally, if you stand up to them, they’ll leave you alone, but oh no, not him, and definitely not his little coterie of hangers-on. They’re too stupid for the message to not mess with you to stick with them for more than a few seconds.
Anyway, the incident in question happened during the st week of 4th grade. Mrs. Kim, our teacher, asked Kelly Anne and me to stay back and help her after school, which we gdly agreed to do. After we finished, we were walking behind school through the pyground as a shortcut home. No, she isn’t my girlfriend. She’s my friend, and Dad always said you should never let a girl walk alone in this day and age. Unfortunately, Steven and his friends were hanging out at the pyground. Seeing that, we tried to make a wide circle around them, keeping to the outer edge of the pyground.
I should probably expin that Kelly Anne is what most would call gorgeous. A typical strawberry blonde with blue eyes, and by any measure you want to name, she’s a beauty, as well as being an early bloomer.
Therefore, she caught Steve’s and most other boys’ attention. To this day, I still think it was hirious that he considered himself to be a ‘dies man.’ Of course, he’s always rebuffed by the girls in school, though it doesn’t seem to deter him.
With all that in mind, you can pretty much guess that he leads his little pack in trotting over to us, which makes Kelly Anne groan and mutter, “Great.” They quickly surround the two of us, leaving us without an easy avenue of escape, and he begins his usual spiel to again try to win her over. All it does is get her to move behind me to get away from him and tch on to my Polo shirt.
Of course, he reacts badly, bmes me for it, and attempts to take it out on me. Even he isn’t dumb enough to think that attacking a girl would help him. It begins with him mouthing off, which makes me smile since he isn’t very good at insulting people, although in hindsight, it wasn’t a great idea since it only served to make him angrier.
I should also mention I hate fighting, but that’s not to say I can’t. Because if I have to, I can fight with the best of them. Dad made sure of that. I’m not a coward either; I just think that fighting doesn’t really solve anything, and I have no interest in proving how tough I am.
Regardless, when he finally loses his cool and takes a swing at me, I put him down quick. One punch to his sor plexus, and I grab Kelly Anne’s hand, shove one of his minions out of the way, and march off without a word said. We make it to the sidewalk when I hear them yelling and look to see all five of them running full bore toward us. Turning to look at Kelly Anne, I tell her, “Run and don’t stop until you get home.”
She opens her mouth, thinks better of it, and simply nods, and then turns to take off, running down the sidewalk. I watch her for a few seconds, then sigh as I begin to turn to face them when they arrive, and my world spins as he sms into me at a dead run. Unfortunately, that causes me to lose my bance and stumble into the street in front of an approaching motorcycle.
I’m happy to say that I don’t really remember much about it because it happened far too fast. What I do know is that I woke up in the hospital three weeks ter. It should be needless to say, but a rge, very heavy motorcycle hitting and then running you over isn’t a good thing. Especially when your face is smmed into asphalt and the rear wheel runs over your crotch.
Suffice it to say I was knocked out. They tell me I had a concussion, a shattered face, a few broken ribs, my pelvis is fractured, along with numerous cuts and bruises, and my balls were crushed and my penis basically destroyed. The doctors tried to put everything back together down there, but there was simply too much damage. So, all they were able to salvage is the head of my penis.
Now, a 9-year-old isn’t really equipped to understand what that truly means since at that age most of us barely have an inkling of what makes boys and girls different and what all that will mean someday soon. The doctors’ said a lot of things that I didn’t really understand, although my dad looked devastated and my mom horrified. It wasn’t until ter that I finally understood.
I didn’t start puberty like the rest of the guys at school. While they got much taller, heavier, and stronger, in addition to their voices changing, I severely gged behind in growth, and my voice never changed. My childish, prepubescent voice remained. I could more or less hide my ck of a penis and balls, but there was nothing I could do about my voice other than not speak at all. Kids can be extremely cruel, so I was picked on quite a bit for being the runt with the girly voice. Aside from literally being tortured by the other guys, very few girls wanted to be seen with the freak.
After my dad expined it all to me, I finally understood, This... well, this is just how things are, and this was how the rest of my life would be. Neither a boy nor a girl, simply a freak somewhere in between, though for me I’d felt like I didn't fit in since I was 4.
I kept to myself for the most part, with my only real friend being Kelly Anne during this whole time.
Mom and Dad felt that despite the accident, I should still try to have a happy life, and they did everything they could to instill that kind of positivity in me. I won’t get into the why of it just yet, but I haven’t been happy with myself since I was 4.
Believe me, I tried to do like they wanted, but I was fighting a battle I wasn’t equipped to fight. I hated myself. I hated mirrors, except for when Kelly Anne and I would py dress up. I hated going outside other than to visit Kelly Anne. At the time, that seemed to be the theme of my life, hating not only myself but life and most everyone else because of it.
Due to all of this, I became an outcast that no one other than Kelly Anne would talk to. Like, they thought that if they did, they’d end up like me. For the next few years, there isn’t much else worth telling.
I first noticed some slight changes months earlier, but rather than run to my parents about them, I kept quiet, not realizing what was happening to me. Then, the changes aren’t so subtle. They are definitely not the changes I would have expected, but changes nonetheless.
The first real clue I had was when I noticed my clothes weren’t fitting me right. It would have been one thing if I’d been growing out of them as most other kids did, but that’s not what was happening.
Most boys grow out of their clothes vertically. Me, I was growing out of them horizontally, but I wasn’t gaining weight. My pants still fit in the waist, but they were getting tight in the butt, around my hips, and I was beginning to have a hard time getting them over my thighs.
Mom finally noticed after the seam ripped out in the rear of another pair of my jeans. It only got worse as I continued to grow in those areas. Despite all of that, my tummy was ft as a board. Heck, my waist even seemed to be getting even smaller. Odder still was how sensitive my chest was becoming. I tried to merely shrug it off as passing irritation, but once it finally got to where wearing any shirt was torturous, I brought it up to mom. She made me pull up my t-shirt, took one look at my chest, and immediately made a call to our family doctor.
Even with me bugging her to find out what she thought was wrong, she simply kept repeating, “Let’s wait to see what Doctor Jalil says.”
Two days ter saw me at the doctor’s office being poked and prodded around the puffy areas and my nipples as she “Hmm’d and Huh’d,” then finally sent us to have lots of blood taken from me for tests along with saying, “When we get the results, I’ll call you back to set up an appointment so we can discuss what we find. Until then, try not to worry.” We returned to the doctor for the test results a week ter. The nurse soon calls my name, and we follow her back to an office, not an exam room as expected. We had to wait about ten minutes before the doctor came in carrying a file full of papers with her.
After greeting us and apologizing for taking so long, she sits down. Opening the file in front of her, she begins, “Well, I have to say this is a first for me. I consulted with my colleague about your results, and she agrees that we have a situation. The accident five years ago is the root cause. His body doesn’t have the capacity to make testosterone for male puberty; then add in the AIS diagnosis when he was 11, and here we are.
“Male or female, we produce both testosterone and estrogen hormones in varying levels. Males produce much lower levels of estrogen than females, and even then, the effects are suppressed by testosterone. For Jake, the estrogen is finally having an effect, and we’re seeing the results.
“Succinctly put, Jake is beginning to see the changes of female puberty. However, the levels of estrogen are nowhere near what they would be for a normal girl. That’s why it’s taken so much longer for any changes to manifest and why they are progressing so slowly. Nevertheless, the effects are here, and it’s the reason his hips are widening, body fat is redistributing, and he’s developing breasts. It just takes longer for these effects to show up in someone who is not biologically female.”
Mom gasps as her hand flies up to cover her mouth while I merely sit there. Mom looks over at me with sadness and sympathy in her eyes, which makes me frown unhappily.
The doctor leans back in her chair and continues speaking in a monotone manner, as if she is passing a sentence. “So, this leaves us with no real option since we tried giving him testosterone before and found out he has AIS (Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome). So, option one: we do nothing, and he’ll slowly develop female characteristics. Or, option two: we supplement the hormones to elevate them to a normal level. Eventually, he’ll have to consider whether he wants to undergo genital reconstruction surgery.”
Mom asks lots of questions, most of which I don’t even hear as a multitude of thoughts vie for attention. However, one question she asks does manage to capture my attention. “How long will it be before he’s more of a girl than a boy?”
Her mouth drops open in an 'O' of shock, and her eyes widen when I sharply reply, “What do you mean? I already am!”
She closes her mouth and says, “Jake, you don’t mean that, do you?”
My expression hardens, and I matter-of-factly state, “I do. I mean it. I’ve never liked myself. I hate the way I look in the mirror. I always have. It’s just that with Dad, Grandma, and Grandpa always compining about how the sissies are taking over the world, I couldn’t tell you!”
Mom’s face pales as she listens to my outburst. She reaches out and grasps my hand, her eyes brimming with tears. “Oh, baby, I had no idea you felt that way.”
I shrugged, suddenly feeling drained. Dr. Jalil gently clears her throat. “Jake, there's nothing wrong with how you feel. Many people struggle with their identity. What’s important now is figuring out what’s the best course of action for you.” She pauses as she searches my eyes, then continues. “I’m going to refer you to a psychotherapist who specializes in gender issues. I recommend you see her and proceed from there.”
Mom nods, squeezing my hand. “Of course, we'll do whatever is best for Jake.” She turns to me, her voice soft. “Baby, I love you no matter what. Regardless of what your father or grandparents might say or think, I’ll support whatever decisions you make.”
A lump forms in my throat since I’m both grateful and overwhelmed by her support. “Thanks, Mom,” I whisper. “Can I please be your daughter?”
Her eyes well up with tears again, but this time she’s smiling. She pulls me into a tight hug, her voice thick with emotion. “Of course, baby. Of course, you can.”
