I wish I could remove this shirt.
Sometimes it’s heavy and weighs me down; other days it makes me feel unique. For the most part, it dictates where I walk, who I speak to, and the people I’m friends with. It’s been on my body since birth but it was never an issue until a few years ago.
I remember my body heating up, I couldn’t wear the sweaters to cover it up anymore. I knew it would have been problematic to take them off, but didn’t know the degree of severity it would have on my life.
People began to stare at me in the hallway at school. I kind of liked the attention at first; it put me in a position I had never been in before. People seemed interested in me for once and would ask me questions. Everything was great until I received a message from an anonymous sender that read “You shouldn’t be wearing that, nobody likes it.”
That night I remember feeling sorry for myself and it made me question who I was. I tried to cut the shirt off of myself, but the fibers were too strong and I only made a tear in the stitching.
Later that year I was walking to meet a friend downtown when two men abruptly approached me. At first I thought they were trying to sell me something. I removed my headphones when they ceased to let me by. I looked up into their harsh gazes and right then knew it was about my shirt.
After pushing myself violently from their grips, I couldn’t help but to let tears begin to fall.
“It’s just a shirt, it’s just a shirt, it’s just a shirt.” I blurted intermittently through heavy breaths.
A few weeks later I experienced a lady yelling at me on the bus. “I will rip your throat out!” she screamed.
I pressed my back into the vinyl seat until it hurt, wishing I would slip through the creases of the fabric and disappear. My eyes darted around the bus, looking for a face of comfort. Each person’s eyes I made contact with looked at me and down at my shirt.
“Why do you exist! exist! exist! exist!” her voice echoed through my head, putting me into a state of utter despair.
Ever since these two incidents, I became anxious in public. I began avoiding busy hallways, particularly those with older boys in them, and I left school for lunch time. After two years of living in sadness and fear, my brain was wired to make myself think nobody liked me.
Then one day, a distant friend told me about a special event for those with shirts like mine. I didn’t know what to expect. As I made my way to the secret location, I paid attention to the shirts on people around me. I saw a girl my age across the street looking around nervously. She was bundled with an oversized sweater and a wavy scarf.
A city bus brimming with people lurched to a stop in front of me. The doors flipped open and they began streaming out in various directions. I frantically tried to catch glimpses of their shirts, but the ones I did catch sight of read ‘straight.’
I felt a tap on my shoulder and I turned to see a boy and a girl with shirts reading “LGBTQ.”
“Come on! Let’s go inside,” said the girl with a big smile on her face.
Written by a Grade 12 Seycove secondary student. Name of writer withheld to protect student’s identity. This submission was edited to fit the print layout space.
