3. Training Camp

The bus vibrates and lurches over a pocked road. We climb steep dirt roads to drive deeper into the foothills of the mountain. I feel my old life slip away the further we travel. Strange how quickly everything can change and we can leave behind all that we've ever known.

None of us talk to one another but I think we all talk to her, that nameless recruit slain by the officer a few days earlier. Even if we aren't speaking to her, she is to us, and her voice cannot be silenced. Lilting and constant, her blood cries out to us, a demand for justice.

I can no longer afford to be myself. I must become more. We must become more if we are to stand up against our oppressors and assert our right to life over the bulging wallets of those who sacrifice us, control us, use us.

Hours pass. I drift off only to be awoken by bumps in the road that lift me off my seat. By the time we reach the camp, night blankets our world and we can see little beneath the sliver of moon overhead. We shuffle into a dark walkway and enter to a room dimly lit. Blank concrete walls climb up from a floor which looks about the same. Cots form a grid with a blanket, sheet, and pillow waiting for its occupants. Two rectangular chests sit at the foot of each bed. And that is all. The air smells plain, no hint of chemicals, no sign of life.

This will become my life. I will carve out my soul to become a shell for war to fill me. Goodbye, Skye. How tragic that our world requires such a sacrifice, that I would leave myself behind before even figuring out who I am.

No one gives instructions. The fourth years file in a line and march to the bunks on the left. I join the other two first years to take my place in the row beside the fourth years, noticing last names written on the chests. We all make our beds in silence, careful to catch each wrinkle.

Inside my chest, I find five pressed and perfectly folded uniforms alongside five sets of pajamas. I pick up the beige pants and white shirt, finding undergarments pressed beneath the two. I notice fourth years entering a room on the right and follow after them to find short showers on one side and toliet stalls on the other. Sinks line the middle of the room, no mirrors, and no place to put our belongings. The men and women share the same area.

I have never felt more like a child than I do now. Glancing down at my clothes and then to a toliet stall, I scurry in to change. We all prepare for bed, donning the same outfit and following the same routine so that we all begin to look like the same person, no matter our differences in height and skin color and gender. Conformity seems like irony in the Resistance.

That night I struggle to sleep. My heart feels like it's jumping around in my chest. Late in the night, right when I had finally drifted off, another load of recruits enter, this group much larger than ours. By the time morning comes and I follow the fourth years to breakfast, served in a room as plain as our sleeping quarters, the number of recruits has swelled. There must have been a hundred of us, possibly more.

Since there's only three first years in our group, more than half of our fourth years venture into other groups who could use the numbers. We're left with Green Eyes, the Brunette, and a man who sat adjacent to me on the bus. Our uniforms bear no insignia and no one rushes to volunteer their names. We are truly stripped of our identity. If I wanted to discover Green Eyes name, I would have to sneak over to his trunk and read his label.

I decide to wait for him to share it with me. I know I'll make it through the four years of training. I must.

Training begins the moment breakfast ends. The facilities are simple. The skills we must learn are not. Every day our routine remains the same. Breakfast. Training. Lunch. Training. Dinner. Training. Bed. Repeat.

On the fifth day, my body feels as though it's being sucked into the ground. We've focused on conditioning so far, mainly running and working out. Our combat training has taken place with punching bags. Today we face off with a partner. I am paired with Green Eyes, not by chance, but by stubbornness. I'm desperate to show him that I'm competent and nothing will stand in my way.

We warm up to start off. The first years sparred together prior to coming to training camp. This is my first time facing off with someone more experienced.

I throw a few punches his way and he blocks. He does the same for me. A buzzer blares, our signal to switch activities. It's time to do this for real.

Excitement and terror leave me jumpy. I try to cover it in the fight. I launch an attack, hoping he can't see how little I know about combat. I stick to the few hits I've focused on and feel confident in.

I kick high to his chest. He sidesteps. Pivoting on my heel, I bring my elbow to his face but he catches me with his left hand.

Smack.

His forearm slams into my belly, pushing me back across the ground.

I freeze. Grab my midsection.

He hit me. He actually hit me. As badly as my gut hurts, the fire which explodes within me at the indignation overwhelms all else. Screaming, I lunge at him, wrap my arms around his neck in a blind attack, and try to knock him to the ground. In my mind, I'm strong enough. My rage has fueled me and given me a strength that far surpasses what these scrawny arms and legs ought to be capable of.

Green Eyes doesn't budge.

The fiery rages collapses in on itself like a dying star and I'm left clinging to this fourth year, grunting as I dig my toes into the ground trying to move him.

I feel his sigh as much as I hear it, welling up from deep in his chest. He grabs my arms, pushes me a few steps back, and shakes his head at me like a disappointed parent. Even in my frustration and humiliation, I don't miss those butterflies in my belly at feeling his touch, as platonic as it might be. The warring sides of my attraction and his clear annoyance inspire me to find a hole to crawl in and never return.

"Control your anger. If you become slave to it, you're weak, and weak means dead."

His words double up the pain in my belly. I would rather that he hit me again. Ripping away from him, my eyes begin to burn and my heart races at the thought of crying in front of him and all the other recruits. He already thinks I won't make it. Didn't even share his name with me.

I can't stop the tears from springing into my eyes. The harder I try the worse it is.

I lower my head to try to hide my face. Maybe he won't notice.

His shoes withdraw from my sight and I don't have the courage to look up and confirm what I know. He saw. He saw and he's leaving me.

"Wait," I say.

"There's no time for waiting. No time for crying. This..." He sighs again. "This cannot compare to what's coming. I'm doing you a favor."

I look up as he begins to walk away and tears drop onto my cheeks, trickling down to my chin. This time I don't stop them. "I said wait." My voice roars from my chest, so loud that those sparring beside us look my way. I don't retreat. I can't afford to retreat. "I'm not finished fighting you, and I won't attack you from behind."

He snickers and angles my way, hands in his pocket. "Go home, Recruit."

I sprint with my arms pumping and a scream unleashing from my chest again. He only has time to pull his hands from his pockets and twist to face me fully me when I slam right into him, sending us both hurling toward the ground.

I grab his collar and he throws my body to the side. I nearly lose my grip but hold on. Clambering up to our knees, the fabric of his shirt rips as he tries to push me off him.

"I'm not fearless. I'm not strong." A sob wrenches from my gut as I dig my toes into the ground to keep from being moved. "I'm not a soldier."

He grabs my wrists and rips my hands from his shirt, breathing hard. "Cut it out!"

My chest heaves as he releases me and I lower my hands to my side. "I'm not who I need to be. Not yet. Walk away if you want. Tell me to go home. I'll hold on no matter what anyone does to me."

Silence.

I hear nothing, not just from Green Eyes, but from everyone. That's when I see that the recruits have stopped. Their stares burn through me.

Green Eyes pushes up to his feet, adjusting his shirt that hangs loose around his neck. "This isn't how we spar. Do you see other recruits crying? Screaming? Knocking people to the ground?"

My cheeks burn like he's set them on fire.

"If you're really that determined, then get a hold of yourself."

I want to tell him that it's not how it looks, that I've been through more than he could ever imagine, and that I never give up. But I keep my mouth shut. I've already made a mess that I have no idea how to clean up.

Green Eyes and I leave the room, walking in separate directions. It doesn't take long for a fourth year to escort me to an office on a wing of the building I had yet to visit. We walk down a long hall that feels as though it is collapsing in on me. What if they tell me that I'm going home? What if they don't trust me to control my temper? Mama would be furious with me, seeing me act like this.

We reach an office, simple like all else in this building. Two chairs are positioned before a massive oak desk where the commanding officer, at least I would suppose, waits for me. Grey peppers his hair. His stare is hard, and I imagine the war has carved away whatever softness he had been born with.

The Fourth year leaves me and I force myself to maintain eye contact with the commander. He says nothing for a long time. Minutes pass. Finally, he clasps his hands on the desk, and breathes in deeply through his nose.

"Why should I allow you to continue in this program?"

I swallow hard. "I'm determined, sir. I'll become who you need me to be."

"Everyone who steps foot in here is determined. More than half walk out and of the remaining half, only another half go on to graduate. Determination is nothing special." He taps his pinkies together. "You were hanging on by a thread and now you've lost your temper. So, let me ask you again... Why should I allow you to continue when you have shown me nothing remarkable?"

My stare drops down to my lap. What else can I say? There's people smarter than me. Stronger than me. More clever than me. More brave. This isn't the way the minority of successful graduates start their training. Papa was right. I made a mistake.

"Well, then..." He rolls his shoulder. "We'll arrange transportation for you. Not everyone is meant to join our ranks. I appreciate your effort."

I rise up and make my way to the door. It wasn't supposed to go this way. I was meant to excel and pour every ounce of my blood into liberating our people. When I reach the door, I take a step out, and clasp the doorframe, hesitating.

I can see her eyes, the unnamed recruit. Blank and lifeless eyes that will never see again.

My tongue runs along the indentation on my cheek and the code which marks me as a transwoman.

"I must."

"Excuse me?"

I turn back toward him, my heart aching so badly that I wonder if he can feel it. "You should allow me because I must do this. Maybe I'm not the right person for this program. If we want to win the war, we'll need more than soldiers who were born. We'll need soldiers who have been made." I close the door behind me. "How many recruits have you sent away like this?" He doesn't respond and I don't expect him to. "If you're the commander I trust you to be, then you can turn an ordinary girl like me into whoever you need to win this war. I must fight this war and you must teach me."

"Why must you?"

It feels as if the floor has dropped out from under me and I'm falling through time, the days and years whipping passed me in the blink of an eye. I can see my mom's fuzzy form as I wake from surgery. Before I can think of anything else, before I can look in the mirror or feel my awakened body, I realize one thing: I'm alive. I'm alive and I'm realizing the dream countless trans men and woman and their allies fought for throughout history. I don't deserve it, but I can feel them with me. I can never let them go. I can never let go of anyone who has ever been marginalized, who has had their identity stolen from them, or who has freely given themselves for future descendants they would never come to know.

"Millions of people much more fit than myself have come and gone. They can't be here." Tears fill my eyes again and this time I don't even consider apologizing for them again. "I've been told my whole life that the government paid for my surgery. They gave me the freedom to be the woman I was born to be. My Papa has told me for years to be thankful. It's not this government who made this dream a reality. No." I smile. "This has been bought and paid for in the blood, sweat, and tears, the love, of all those who came before me and who fought for me. For all of us. That we all may live the life we want to live. The government cashed in on their efforts."

In the hardness of his expression, I might see a glimmer of a smile.

"I do not owe them a thing." I clench my fists at my side. "The ones who deserve to be here can't be here. You have me. And I must become more."