You were not raised in violence.
When you were eight, a boy told you that you were weak.
You never thought of yourself in that way before that moment.
You were strong.
Not as strong as your older brothers, but strong enough to throw the ball back and push them when they were mean to you.
You were fast.
Though not as fast as your brothers,
who had longer legs and better lungs,
who stretched ahead, but always looked back,
who never teased you for being lesser.
When the boy at the park told you that he bet you couldn't throw a punch,
you slugged him as hard as you could in his stomach.
He laughed.
You blinked back frustrated tears and hit him harder, faster.
Your friends pulled you away, and you all promised never to tell your mothers.
You were not raised in violence, but you want to know why there are boys who are beaten and kicked,
when the bullies don't raise a hand to you.
You want to know why the others are less than you.
You are twelve, and you fall in love with a girl.
Even though you think you are one.
You tell her in whispers that you might be a boy, and she says she'll love you either way.
You break up a month later.
You're not sure you ever loved her.
You are thirteen, and you date the girl again.
You have short hair now,
refuse to have it long because it feels Wrong.
You quit the soccer team because for the first time,
you're the slowest one on the team,
and your breath comes out in wheezing gasps.
You are afraid of what this means.
The doctors tell you it's asthma.
You are still thirteen, when you tell your parents you've been a boy this whole time and are very sorry for not telling them sooner.
Your mom says she supports you,
but she still won't let you change your name legally or start hormones you need.
You wonder if she really loves you.
Your ma is proud of you,
but you knew she would understand.
She wants your mom to understand.
They fight through you, and you want it to stop.
It has only been a month, and you meet a new girl.
Her hair is red as the fire you build to keep warm on cool summer nights.
You think she's the most beautiful person you've ever seen.
She tells you she loves you.
You love her.
You want to run away from home,
your mom is too much to deal with and you want to go away.
But you don't.
You think you hate your mother, and you tell her so.
She cries.
You regret it.
You didn't mean it.
You were not raised in violence, but in September you try to take your life.
You wonder for months why you faked and acted like you were fine, conning your way out of the hospital before they could help you.
It's November now, almost December, and you need new shoes.
Your feet are too small and your features too soft and the clerk thinks you're a girl.
You tell Sarah how much you hate this,
and she tells you that you're too sensitive and should be happy that at least she doesn't know what it's like to hate everything about yourself,
to cry yourself to sleep every night,
because your body is wrong and you want out of it.
You feel betrayed.
You break up with her that night.
You cry a lot.
She apologizes.
She begs for you to take her back.
You cry.
You refuse.
She tells you that she's the best thing that will ever happen to you.
That no one will love you like she did.
She's right, people don't love the same way.
You block her number anyways.
You were not raised in violence, but you want so badly to be in some now.
You look for fights everywhere you go,
and curse yourself for never finding the opportunities.
You hear about Mike Brown and Tamir Rice and Eric Garner,
and you want justice so badly it burns under your skin.
Your mother won't let you go to protests.
You sit at home and wonder how you never realized you grew up in violence all along.
You were raised in violence, but shielded from it.
You remember a crazed homeless man insisting that your ma was a man in drag.
You remember realizing that your mother steered you away from the homeless on the sidewalks out of disgust, rather than rational fear.
You remember that day with the boy in the park.
You were raised in violence and you are not afraid to face it,
but your mother still is.
You were raised in violence.
You shout your differences as loudly as you can.
A war cry.
A dare.
You hope someone will realize you were never better than those boys who came home from school with bruises and black eyes.
They never do.
You don't know why.
-J.M.
