My favorite thing about the summer is hanging out by bodies of water. A pool, a river, an ocean — as long as the water is cold enough to shock my body when I jump into it, I’m game. But before I even reach the water, a familiar fear creeps up my neck more than any temperature can: taking off my shirt. Once I do, people will see two permanently-hard nipples and two plump, brown lines on my chest.
I shouldn’t be so bothered. I’ve never had the frame that pops up when you Google “summer beach body.” I have stretch marks and skin that’s at least three different shades of brown. My inner thighs are darker (shout out to the hidradenitis suppurativa baddies!), and because I spent my whole childhood wearing T-shirts in the pool, I have a permanent farmer’s tan. No photographer has ever been quick to come shoot me and my conventionally unsightly body.
But being visibly trans at the pool is different.
It’s hard to log into any social media app and not see disparagement and disinformation about trans people. From sports to bathrooms to medical care, cissies are obsessed with telling trans people they aren’t valid and don’t deserve rights. Because I have a beard and deepish voice, I mostly pass as cis — so long as someone doesn’t approach me from the back (my hips unfortunately don’t lie) and I don’t take off my shirt. Doing the simple act of moving fabric over my head opens me up for whispers, question mark eyes, and the occasional transphobic remark that threatens to overpower the benefits of blissing out at the pool.
I’m from Texas, where it’s literally untenable to be outside during the summer unless you’re near a cool body of water, so most of my childhood free time was spent at YMCA pools. And that was great for me; the pool cooled me down and made me feel weightless and calm. Being waterbound is the only time people smaller than me could carry me on their back, and nothing matches yapping with your loved ones while wading in a swimming facility.
Preparing to go swim was what gave me grief. By twelve, I was a bit too butch for a two-piece and a bit too young for the granny-esque swimwear options available to fat people (at the time), so I made up my own lil butch swimwear: T-shirt, a stretched-out sports bra, basketball shorts that went past the knees, swim shoes, and a latex hat to keep my hair dry. This was enough to make me blend into the background, to make everyone forget about my gender.
But honestly, I never did. Every couple of minutes, I was pulling down my T-shirt or looking down to make sure my bra wasn’t lifting up. Though I had the time of my little life at the pool, I’d always envied the guys that were able to feel the cold water splashing on their pecs. Once I was old enough, got a job with trans-inclusive insurance, and stacked enough bread (top surgery costs, even with insurance, ~$1,000-5,000), I became one of them.
While I was recovering from surgery, all I could think about was the imminent scarring. How visible would my lines be? Would my nipples lose pigment like so many darker-skinned transmascs do? Would they even look like pecs? Could I finally swim shirtless? Every day for a month, I changed out the bandages over my scars and held my breath, slowly taking them off and hoping that more and more every day, a lighter scar line and more “natural” nipples would reveal themselves to me. Every time I took off my bandages and a bit of my nipple skin came off, every time a scar started looking like anything but a flat line, I called the doctor’s office in an anxiety-ridden panic. Though I never vocalized it, I wanted my chest to look cis — like those muscley, unclockable trans guys whose scars are so light, you have to be close to them to notice lines at all. I wanted to be like the shirtless boys, feeling the water on their bare skin.
I had a job where I could take off a week of work to recover from surgery, and I had three people willing to take care of me. For whatever reason, I felt self-conscious about anyone waiting on me hand and foot. I would tell my friends “I got it” and get something off a top shelf myself — a huge no-no for healing. Inevitably, one of my scars turned into a keloid. I felt disappointed, scared; what would become of my shirtless swimming plans now?
Shortly after I was cleared to swim post-surgery, I pulled up to a local cold springs giddy and nervous like a child in line for the first rollercoaster. Though I’d ridden this ride a million times, this summer day by the pool was different. There were hundreds, maybe north of a thousand folks at the springs that day, and I had lopsided scars and sensitive nips. Two new things added to my bodily anxiety. Regardless, I pulled up shirtless and ready to splash around in the beautifully cold water.
I’ll never forget all the bulging, question mark eyes watching me from the parking lot to the stairs to the grass me and my partner eventually sat in. Though nobody was brave enough to say anything to me, their retinas might as well have screamed other. In an allegedly progressive city, a few too many people seemed unable to hide their disgust/surprise/curiosity about my chest. They made me self-conscious enough to start putting back on my shirt and accept that I’ll never have a shirtless swim day.
And then, a heaven-send. As goosebumps dotted my skin all over, I saw a short brown guy with long, red scars and pink nipples. He had hairy legs, a five-o-clock shadow, and a pimpled face; a few months on T, I figured. We didn’t speak; he just nodded at me and smiled as I walked by.
Then I looked around and realized: I’m not the only one. Out of the many people around, there were fat folks, queer folks, and folks with dotted skin; folks with wheelchairs and their abled friends, helping them up and down the stairs. There were bodies that were also left off of those “summer beach body” ads, including trans folks like me, and we were all here to find a spot under a tree, then jump in the 68-degree water.
I smiled at him back, then went to my seat.
Hitting the pool now is much better than it was when I was a kid, even though I have my top surgery scars and more eyes on me now. I’ve learned — through therapy and having solid friends — that my scars that tell the world that I’m trans are nothing to be ashamed of. I can’t change the bigotry of others, but I’m always in control of how I personally see myself. Of course, the thoughts still come up of getting a procedure to lighten my scars and stretch marks or to lose weight and even out my skin tone. I know, however, that they are just thoughts that I can let pass me by like the brilliant breeze that hit me that day that I was at the springs.
I don’t actually need an even-toned, unmarked body to be beautiful and worth a day at the pool — no matter what a stock photo subtly tells me. The flesh bag I’m in gets me up every morning and keeps all my faculties working properly. That’s all I need. I’ve also been greatly helped by being friends with other trans people who, like me, love the water. I swam with a group of Black trans folks recently and it was beautiful to see us all with our different variations of brown, wading in a local river.
Since my first day out swimming with my top surgery scars, I try to offer the same confidence that that trans guy gave me. Every time I see a girl/femme with a bulge, a guy/person with my same lines on their chest, or a baddie of any gender with lines all across their belly or dark spots on their thighs or a disability that means they need more time to get to the pool, I smile, nod my head, and look them in the eyes. I hope that this communicates that I see and appreciate them for doing the brave thing that I’m doing too: insisting that we can also claim a spot under the sun.
In the pool, in the courts, and in our homes, we deserve to cool down and splash just like everyone else.
