Deviations

I can’t say I didn’t like my toys; I valued them just as much as other parts of my collections. RC trucks were fun, even if they were labeled "for boys" in the 80s. But honestly, what does it matter if a truck is blue when you can drive it anywhere and over anything? My love for vehicles extended into video games and four-wheelers. My stepfather actually obliged this; it was one of the few things he encouraged in me. We talked about cars—from the classics of the 50s to the modern era. Those machines were pretty. My favorite was the McLaren F1. Probably still is to this day. Driving the four-wheeler in the river bottom was my great escape. My stepfather was not always happy, and he wasn't always nice, so riding to the river became a necessity. I would even take stolen clothes and music with me. Riding around where no one could see was nerve-wracking, but it was also freeing. Even in the middle of nature, I felt real. I could move where I wanted and be me. No judgment, no oversight. Just me, listening to music, jumping hills, and letting the wind whip around my growing hair. My stepfather had less of a problem with the hair in my teenage years. He actually stood up for it, albeit for different reasons. When he was younger, he rode a motorcycle and wore his hair long because "he didn’t know how long he would have it." He thought that was funny, and it made me chuckle too. But I adopted the look for a different purpose: it was a great cover. Since I liked industrial rock and grunge, the 90s baggy pants and band shirts fit the aesthetic perfectly. The bigger the clothes, the better—I could hide the frame I was ashamed of. At least, the one I had to show the world. A strange feeling came when I was much older, a decade after my stepfather had divorced my mother. I was working a stable job, but we didn’t have money. We had a baby and real responsibilities. Then, my car’s timing belt broke while I was driving. I researched it online and realized it was an interference engine—meaning the pistons could have smashed against the valves, destroying the motor. I found a YouTube video on how to change the belt on my exact car. It was not easy. Being front-wheel drive, I had to play with motor mounts and work in tight spaces. It’s not a job I would recommend to anyone, and it’s an experience I will never forget. But I did it. We were two working adults with the best jobs we ever had, just trying to get by with a baby. We relied on WIC and food stamps—programs I am truly grateful exist and hope we never lose as a society. Fixing that car saved us from a debt we couldn't afford. That achievement, as exhausting as it was, felt like a breath of fresh air. I had reduced my options to a binary choice: try to fix it myself, or fail and buy a car I couldn't afford. I was privileged, in a sense, to have a garage and a workshop with tools I had collected—some new and cheap, some given by friends. But another feeling accompanied the success. I believe that every gender should know basic things in life—how to air a tire, how to change oil. It’s useful knowledge. Yet, I couldn't escape the dysphoric nature of it. Having an inner sense of womanhood while performing this grueling, mechanical labor made me feel like less of what I truly was. It shouldn’t—competence has no gender—but societal pressure is heavy. The imposter syndrome regarding my own sense of self was confusing and contradictory. Moments like that evolved into a self-hatred that I sometimes still struggle with. "Not so much now" is becoming a common theme for me. But I guess when society strips a person all the way down, for example the violation I experienced last week, surviving it, things change. Knowing the people I care about understand me, and care in return, gives me an inner peace and an irreplaceable love for my children and spouse. That peace is now my sword and shield.