I commented some weeks ago how I used the boys’ bathroom for the first time. After that, I used them four more times, but then arrived to the conclusion that it was nearly as uncomfortable as using the girls’ toilets. Not because I didn’t like it, but because I wasn’t getting used to it. I had made sure nobody had seen me, but there were limited times in the day when the bathrooms are free to use.
I had been wondering about whether I should ask the school for a key to the teachers’ bathroom so I could do my business in peace, and after a couple of weeks of writing and re-writing an appropriate letter in which I could ask such a request, I finally gained enough courage to hand it in to the director. Between mumbling and stuttering I managed to give the letter to the subdirector, who I have as a teacher, as she promised to redirect it to the director (she didn’t seem to notice my nervousness). I tottled off to my next class while I tried to forget about what I had just done, but only an hour later the subdirector came to get me. I followed her into the meeting room meant for parents with troubled children (this is also the place where you phone your parents to come and take you home after you faint or vomit, so I was familiar with the place).
She dangled a key in front of my face, snapping me right out of my thoughts. She said she had no idea I was going through this and, should I have told them earlier, they would have happily given me the key. She also gave the letter back to me since somebody might read it if they kept it. I asked which bathroom door the key worked with. She said any and all bathrooms I wanted, and proceeded to tell me where all the staff toilets were located – I had already done my research though and, analyzing the situation, knew which ones I should use and when. I said thank you and that was the end of it.
I keep the letter under my cushion and re-read it every night before going to bed just to remind myself how great the world is. I fall asleep with a smile on my face, but am sad I can’t share the news with anyone other than my art teacher (“Hey, you wouldn’t guess what happened!”).
I crossed the director in the hallway the next day and thought that it would be good if I gave her a polite thank you smile in return for what she had done. As I did so, I realised the look on her face. Not a rude look, but an uncomfortable one. She knew my secret. I was a strange being in her eyes and she didn’t know what to do about it. Scared that I might ask for more. She had found herself in an unknown situation of which she had not been warned of. I knew that look. I was now the school transsexual in her eyes.