When I saw myself for the first time, I was wearing a green light-up fedora for “crazy hat day” at my school.

I’d seen other girls tie their hair up in a way to make themselves look like a guy, so I did the same, and when I looked in the mirror that morning, I felt this rush of pure joy. There was the obvious novelty of seeing yourself as the opposite gender, but there was also something else. Like I was the only one who was still smiling even as this “joke” came to an end. That was the first glimmer of the person I am shining through.

Hi, I’m Max. I was born in Ogdensburg. I’m a 17-year-old writer, artist and senior at a local independent school. Currently, I’m working on editing the first draft of my novel. My work has been featured in art shows at the Potsdam Library. My favorite song is “Can’t Stop” by the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and I’m a transgender man.

I used to go to a public school in the North Country, and this school was particularly problematic. The administration ignored multiple pleas from bullied students for help, the students were plain hateful, and, as one can imagine, it wasn’t the ideal place for discovering yourself.

In middle school, I knew I was queer in some way, but I was stuck in a school where I was called slurs for sticking up for myself and where the administration ignored every call I made for help. I would march my 12-year-old self to the principal’s office so many times that the secretary knew me by name.

Eventually, I moved to escape that terrible school. But sometimes I wonder: what would’ve happened if I’d stayed? And what about my friends who were queer like me? Or if this was an example of a public school in St. Lawrence County, what does that spell for us? If we let hate breed in our schools, what does it mean for my former classmates who are going to be adults this spring and summer?

Luckily, the small community school where I transferred was like leaving the smog of a big city and going to a rural mountain village. You could actually breathe and embrace being a weirdo. There, I was rehabilitated like a scared kitten. I learned to trust those around me, to be loud and to explore myself.

A year after I started attending my new school, I figured out I was a guy. Unfortunately, I didn’t have this cinematic moment of self-discovery where I ran out into the rain, ripped my shirt and screamed at the sky.

I wasn’t oblivious to transgender people before coming out–I just didn’t think the label applied to me. And yes, for me, the hardest part about transitioning was coming out.

My legal name was my grandma’s name, who was this amazing person–very creative and loving–but she never got to meet me. She died at a young age, and I felt that changing my legal name might diminish the emotional significance that name held for my mom, especially given it was chosen to honor someone so important.

I worried choosing a name from a dumb action movie instead might seem insensitive. Yes, my name is Maximus. Originally considered as an alternative for my brother, the name came from my mom’s love for the film “Gladiator.” I was drawn to the name’s strength and dignity, and how it represented someone who stayed true to himself even when everything was against him. My mom, being the best person ever, simply said, “It’s fine, it’s your name, and all that matters is what makes you happy.” And my dad, being my dad, said, “When are you going to mow the lawn?”

Just like that, I was officially Max. I’d gotten a haircut, some clothes and new pronouns.

Truly, transitioning is so mundane. There was more excitement over the fact I dyed my hair red than the fact I was a guy. I just love my school. I still have the old nameplate where they placed my chosen name over my legal one. My school even took the time to ask what pronouns and name I wanted on my report card. They take so many steps to protect their students and provide a space for growth. They taught me to be louder and that there is a place to belong–you just have to either make it or find it.

Unfortunately, it’s still really hard to find a safe place to belong in general. I went to Potsdam Pride Prom with my friends last year, and one of my friends couldn’t come because their parents were afraid of it being shot up.

Isn’t that terrifying? One of the best nights of my life was overshadowed by a death threat, and that terror worked–that pride month had fewer people than other years.

I still get stares in public, and sometimes I’m so scared to walk into a public bathroom because there’s a chance I could be beaten for being in the “wrong” one. This makes finding a place to pee impossible, or even changing for P.E. downright embarrassing.

Our school would swim at St. Lawrence University’s pool, but they have no gender-neutral changing locker rooms, just two gender-neutral bathrooms that we couldn’t access without the lifeguard and were what felt like a mile away. You try stomping down a cold stairway wet and wearing the goofiest pink swim trunks. It’s not much to the bundle of weirdness that I am, but it’s still hard being an afterthought to your own home.

All of this caused me to have mixed feelings about the North Country, because the people I’ve surrounded myself with are incredibly kind and accepting of me.

When I went to the Climate Summit in Tupper Lake at The Wild Center, they had a gender-neutral bathroom that I could access, which is crazy since a non-gendered bathroom is so rare to find around here. I dare you to try and spot one.

Also, the people here have been so sweet to me for how unusual I am. I have this goofy googly-eyed beanie that is the first thing people compliment me on, and one time I’d bought this mannequin torso which attracted a group of middle school boys. They swarmed me, and for a second, I wasn’t a trans guy–I was just someone with a really cool item. But these experiences were in places where I was safe and were with people who’d accepted change.

In the North Country, we have to admit that change isn’t moving as fast as we want here, and that’s scary. In fact, I get scared by current politics because there’s such a large potential for me to get hurt.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to start hormone therapy when I turn 18, and I don’t know if I can wait until whatever age they raise the legal age to start. I care for both the North Country and the transgender community, but it still crosses my mind that someone so full of hate could just hurt me or my friends.

The transgender community is in such a dire situation, and I can’t lose any more friends.

Two years ago, I went to a funeral for my friend who I miss so much. She was so bright and energetic. One of her favorite bands was Rainbow Kitten Surprise, and she did taekwondo for a number of years before I met her. She picked one of the most metal chosen names ever and was a parkour legend in my head. On the last day of school, she climbed an evergreen tree to the very top and sent us all pictures of everyone playing games down below. She was the living definition of adventure, and she was transgender. I’d even given her a “transgirl care package” filled with my old jewelry from when I was a girl, and she gave me her old sweatshirt.

These memories made our last moments together all the more bittersweet. We were trying to spell inappropriate things on the periodic table, and I had to catch the bus, so I left without looking back–which I regret so much. These stupid precious memories make the curse of what came next greater.

The worst part about her funeral was that her family was supportive; her brother wore a trans flag pin, her chosen name was on her obituary, and their place of worship declared itself trans-friendly. Her family was trying to find colleges where she’d feel safe to attend, and they never spoke badly about her being transgender.

It stings so much, because if there were safer places and it didn’t feel like the world wanted us dead, she’d still be around. If this world was a little kinder, maybe she’d be alive. I plan to make it better for me and any queer people reading this.

I want to speak to the queer community and anyone who’s struggling right now in this paragraph: I can’t guarantee when things will get better, but I know they will. I’ve lived for about 17 years, and for a few of those years, I didn’t think I could go on. But I did. And when I did, I found so much. There was this day in September where my class made apple cider, and we’d gotten off track, tossing a single beaten-up apple around like a hacky sack. In that hour, everything felt right, and like I could breathe. If you’re anything like me, keep living. Things will get better. Every storm has a rainbow, and every revolution has a reason. Now may feel so helpless, but you will make it out.

And if you’re wondering what you can do to help: Please get involved. I’ve already mentioned Potsdam Pride, but you can always check for local pride events that need help organizing. Some great places to donate to are the Trevor Project, which does suicide prevention and runs one of the biggest surveys about LGBTQ+ youth in the U.S., or Lambda Legal, which works nationally on advocacy through the law. Even doing something as simple as being open-minded and doing research on our community is greatly appreciated. I just hope that one day the North Country can be as kind to my community as it is to its neighbors.

I’m Max Charlton. Thank you for reading and have a wonderful day. And if you ever find yourself staring in a mirror, I hope you see the person you’re meant to be.

——

Max Charlton is a young writer who spends his time taking long walks in nature looking for inspiration. On rainy days, you can find him cooped up in his art room creating until the sun goes down.