Girl. The word slipped into my head and put an uneasy feeling in my throat. The urge to say I am not, held there by the alternative of what that would mean. Boy. Boy, could I be?
I ran on default, the labels slipped out of others lips and colored me shades of who I was told to be.
Different. I just knew I was different.
I steadied my breath as the reality of change sunk in. Trees blurred by and I looked at the mileage number on the dash: 5,342.
Deep breaths.
Google maps told me there was half a mile left on my one way trip, and my mind flashed back to the place I’d left. So much of who I was stayed wrapped up in a town long faded from the rear view mirror.
I was built from the Adirondack mountains and alpine plants, I once swore I’d spend a lifetime there. Now five thousand miles of asphalt and road signs pushed that place further and further behind me into the past.
I tugged at the backwards baseball cap on my short hair and glanced nervously down at my paisley button up shirt. I looked Queer as F***. In a rush my stomach twisted to a knot and butterflies threatened to explode out of my chest. I felt unsafe. My Queerness clashed with unfamiliarity of the rural western towns, and I felt an intense need to change into more “normal” clothes.
No sooner had the panic come than my face split into a smile and I laughed nervously at the absurdity of myself. I’d been hired to lead a group of Queer teenagers in trail work across the Pacific Northwest. Being Queer was literally part of the job description.
I swore under my breath and stuck the baseball cap back on. Hiding my Queerness was such a habit. I hid behind fear and shame and uncertainty. I had wrapped my head around this idea that in order to be out and present as anything other than my sex assigned at birth, I had to be sure about everything.
I would have to be sure I was trans, and be able to prove it to everyone else. Sure I could defend why I identify as non-binary, sure of my pronouns, and sure of my name.
Somehow I thought that these things would all just fall into place one day, that I’d wake up and magically know what clothes made me feel good or what name I wanted to use. That in order to be trans, to *really* be trans I had to have an extensive list of reasons and documentation to prove my identity at any given moment.
Last winter it almost broke me, I caved under the paradox of love for a place I struggled to exist in. The connection I feel to the Adirondacks is stronger than any relationship I’ve had, yet I was suffocated. I felt the sameness of the people around me closing in. I whispered in secret about being trans in the middle of the woods. I didn’t feel okay being different in a place that was so homogenous. I needed to get out to survive, to figure out who I was, and to learn that being sure is a myth.
How do you know you’re trans? Well, how do you know you’re cis. You sort of just – know. How did you figure out if you like wearing dresses or jeans? How did you learn you prefer a nickname to your given name? You had to try it out and see how it felt. It’s the same with being trans. I always knew I was different, but I’d never allowed myself to try anything I wasn’t sure of.
That was what this summer was for. This is why I drove 5,000 miles, to work exclusively with Queer teens. After 25 years of others expectations I needed space to figure out what being myself meant. I longed for connection with other people like me.
An automated voice snapped me back to the blurred trees, Google declared my arrival. Full of apprehension I parked my red Tacoma in a shaded spot outside an abandoned ranger station and walked into a new part of my life in the Pacific Northwest
We stood in a circle, all nine of the new leaders as we performed a blur of introductions. My heart jumped to my throat when they reached me, I said the name I’d been repeating to myself over and over for 5,000 miles terrified I would say the wrong one. I half expected someone to shout that I was a fraud. To see the color flush in my cheeks or exchange confused glances. But no one did.
In a gush the butterflies drained from my stomach. It was that easy, free from what others thought I was. I could just be me. I could just be Cam, Cameron, or as my crew came to call me Cam Cam.
Six of the nine leaders were Queer. One was trans. People knew about pronouns, they’d heard of non-binary. I didn’t need to explain my existence or defend the validity of my gender.
Training pushed the Adirondacks further away. Tension I didn’t know I was holding melted away, and I stopped trying to hide myself. I let go of things I didn’t know I was holding. I could be visibly Queer, free from expectations of the people who had already categorized me.
I stepped out of training surprised I could find a group of people who liked me for being me.
What was about to come was nine Queer teenagers. I was not prepared.
The first two weeks with the crew pushed me well past my emotional and sanity limits. I experienced fun types 1-3 and seriously re-evaluated my life choices at least twice a day.
It was a gut-wrenched hurricane of mental health issues among the crew, amplified by no cell service and a tornado of communication mix ups between me, my co-lead and upper level staff.
I wound up within 15 feet of a mother bear and cub, we ran out of incident reports, and more than once I wound up shut in our van with my co-lead at 11:30 at night sobbing into a jar of Nutella wondering how I was going to make it through the season.
But no one died and the rewards were high. The crew members are all beautiful humans and I care about them deeply.
It still makes my chest warm and my eyes well up to think of all the hundred little Queer moments my co-lead and I witnessed. The whole gang dancing and singing in unison to Born this Way, or shouting “hydrate or die straight” in a 112 degree heat wave, affirming each other’s identities at every turn.
Now that I’ve had space to look back on life in the Adirondacks, and time to be surrounded by Queer people and figure myself out, I’m realizing how much I still love that place. I know I’ll be back, and when I am I know I’ll work to make the spaces I wish existed there.
After all, someone once told me that “unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, then nothing is going to get better. It’s not.” .
It will take time but I think we can get there, I care too much about that place to let it get left behind. And I know others care too.
Happy non-binary awareness day.
Keep it Wild and Keep it Queer,
Cam (they/them)
A note on the name: I’m trying and out and after two months I like it a lot, but I may switch it if that changes
We said Cam and I totally agree I really feel in my Heart that you can make it better for other queer people. I think getting your guide license is an amazing idea so you can share your knowledge and make others feel like themselves . You are a beautiful
Writer and are a very caring thoughtful person. I think the experiences you’ve had out there will shape you for ever. Love Dad
Hi Cam, Thank you for sharing this and for making such a positive difference in the world. This post was a very informative read. Best wishes to you.