Transgender youth and the bathrooms they use have been in the news a lot lately, and in the courts, and it got me thinking. This flash fiction piece is not about politics, or court cases, but about the imagined thought process of a trans-teenager who has to go to the bathroom at school. A cis woman, and a mom of two cis kids, I seek to understand. I welcome your feedback.

 Who Raised You? 

      I had a whole diet soda at lunch. There is something about the sound of the can dropping down into the black cavity where you reach your hand in to retrieve it that I can’t resist. Kaklunk. And it’s only a dollar, an otherwise useless and limp green piece of paper, for a delicious 12 ounce can of pseudo-sweet caffeinated blast of illicitness. I’m not allowed to have it at home.
      But now it’s an hour later and my bladder is crying to be relieved, and I am oblivious to the teacher’s instructions: his master’s degree training, his educational wisdom is failing to make its way even to my short term memory because I’m thinking about running into Robby Love in the hallway on the way to the bathroom. He makes excuses to get out of class all the time and the teachers all hate him so they give him a pass. Sometimes he’s in the hallway because he’s on his way to or from the principal’s office, sometimes he’s just walking around by himself with that wide gait, his pants halfway down his butt, his hands in his pockets keeping them from falling down to his knees. If I use the girls’ bathroom and Robby’s around he’ll tell everyone I used the girl’s room. But if I use the boy’s room and he sees me, he’ll probably punch me again, and call me a girl for not fighting back.
       I can’t stand it anymore and raise my hand.
       “Yes Carly?” the teacher says.
       “Carl,” I correct him, quietly. I wait a beat to see if he’ll say my name, but everyone’s staring at me and my face is hot, so I let it go and tell him I need a bathroom pass. There are sniggers, which I’m used to by now.
        Mr. Blevin waves me up to his desk with one hand, annoyed by the interruption. I stand up and make my way to the front, stepping awkwardly over backpacks, and scooting sideways between the desks and chairs that are spaced too close together. No one moves to make it any easier for me.
       Mr. Blevin has scribbled my name on the little paper pass that’s been photocopied from a photocopy god knows how many times. “Carl” it says, and I smile. I leave the classroom into the empty hallway still trying to decide whether to use the boys’ room or the girls’. It’s super quiet out here and I can breathe. I decide to risk it and lean into the boys’ room door.
       It smells different than the girls’ room, and I wonder if they use different cleaning supplies. Blue for boys, pink for girls. I am in a stall and sitting down to pee when someone comes in. Whoever it is shuffles over to the urinal and, after a pause, I hear the heavy stream hitting the porcelain bowl until it’s just a drip, and then it stops. They zip up and leave without washing their hands. Gross, I think to myself, and my mom’s voice is in my head saying to this kid, maybe Robby but probably not, “who raised you?”