Finding Friends in New Places: Road Tripping While Trans

All of the men around me are wearing what appears to be baseball uniforms, except the names on the back are clearly jokes of some sort. And all of the men are here with what I’m guessing are their sons, small boys dressed also in baseball uniforms with hats jammed just so onto short-cropped hair. I feel as if I am in a swamp of large baseball men and tiny baseball men. “State Little League,” says the receptionist when she sees me glancing around the lobby at checkout.

In this crowd, I stick out. I am wearing shorts and a ratty band t-shirt. My legs are hairy, and my hair is short but curly and unkempt. I have a deep voice, hair on my chin, and I still have breasts. I’m used to drawing eyes and have honed my intuition for possible danger.

I’m here, eating Raisin Bran in West Virginia, because Daniella, one of my oldest friends, and I take a road trip each summer specifically to travel to parts of the US that we wouldn’t otherwise visit. I’m not sure who came up with the concept for these trips, but the idea is to find fun in the places where no one thinks to look, to see this country—all of it—not just the places they put on postcards. On this trip, we are on our way to Nashville from New York, trying every ridiculous activity we can find along the way.

I’m not going to lie—being visibly queer complicates things. But that’s true everywhere, not just on the road. At least, that’s what I tell Daniella when we’re making plans this summer. Daniella is a Muslim, so she has her own concerns about visiting some corners of the South. We started taking these trips right as I started to transition, before any medical intervention. I was still essentially living as a woman, and to avoid danger Daniella would only use my male name when we were alone. As I’ve changed over the years, things have gotten both easier and harder all at once. But the thing is, I don’t want being trans to stop me doing anything. What’s the point of living my most authentic life if I can’t do what I want with it?

This is how I find myself about to get into a plastic boat to go plunging down the Gauley River, dodging class-4 rapids with a group of strangers, later that day. As we line up to get into the boat, our guide introduces himself: 350 pounds, he tells us; his name is Buddha, he tells us; it’s a nickname because of the way he sits at the back of the boat, cross legged, peaceful. We go down the line and I give him my name; I can tell he is surprised but he doesn’t say anything. It’s new, my name; I have no ID with it, but I still sign the safety waiver as William. No one double checks. I correct no pronouns and answer to any given. I don’t feel like explaining myself.

“You can fall out of the boat, just not here,” shouts Buddha a little while later, as we come crashing around a bend in the river. “If you fall out here, you’ll get stuck by Will Rock. Will Rock will kill you.” Buddha commands us to paddle harder and banks the boat hard left against some choppy water. It doesn’t matter though, because one of the biggest waves has already slammed into the man sitting diagonally from me, sending him flying into me—and sending me into the water around Will Rock. I don’t want to die in a river in West Virginia, I keep thinking over and over again. I struggle for a moment against the current, trying to swim against the eddy, but I quickly realize it's too strong. I’ll tire myself out and drown. So, I go loose, let the water pull me under and push me back up as it wants to, taking the biggest gulps of breath I can every time I surface.

After what feels like a lifetime, Buddha’s hands clutch around the straps of my life jacket, hauling me back up into the boat. “I don’t know if you’re a boy or a girl but I sure am glad you didn’t give up back there!” says Buddha, the relief big in his eyes. I laugh (probably because I also want to cry) and I hug him hard.

I keep thinking about Buddha as we pull out onto the highway for the next 4-hour stretch of driving—about how he probably saved my life, about the fact that he had no idea what kind of life he was saving, about how it didn’t seem to matter in the boat. Not one bit.

It’s not always that simple though. When we go ziplining in Kentucky, the guide makes us say a prayer before we belay onto the zip. We also sign a safety waiver that has a requirement that we won’t cuss or look at pornography while on the property. I want to jokingly let slip that I’m a Satanist, but I don’t think the joke would go over well, and I don’t want to risk it. On trips like this, I always listen to my gut. Two days later, when we go skydiving in North Carolina, the air hanger is covered in “Don’t Tread on Me” flags and second amendment paraphernalia. I decide to skip the bathrooms to avoid any uncomfortable questions. By the time we make it back to the hotel, I’ve needed to pee since the jump and can barely hold it.

But then, on the road home, we stop at a Chipotle somewhere in the eastern part of Ohio. We’ve been passing billboards decrying abortion and praising Jesus for 50 miles, or just over 80 kilometers. I don’t expect any friendly faces here. While ordering my food, I noticed the burrito builder staring. My stomach tightens, but then I see her smile. She pulls a very small rainbow flag necklace out from under her apron.

“I like your necklace,” I say quietly.

“Are you family?” she asks me, not charging me for the guacamole.

“Yes,” I say. “I’m family.”