....when every butch I met told me so.
Seriously, I remember the moment so vividly. It was the summer I would turn nine. My best friend was eleven. We were spending our last day together before we would spend two weeks apart. I was to visit my grandparents and she would spend her time productively picking blueberries to earn spending money. We had spent all morning hiking the trails on Sumas Mountain. By noon I started watching her face for any sign that she might be thinking about lunch. We kept ascending the mountain. I was tired but I didn't complain. I never did. I never would. We approached a fallen tree that blocked our path. I started to clamber over the barrier when suddenly I heard her voice, "I'm hungry." Finally, I thought. "Aren't you hungry?" she asked. "You never want to stop for lunch." I looked at her shyly (I know it was shyly, because I was shy). "I don't get tired," I lied. She grabbed my knapsack and pulled out our usual cucumber sandwiches. From her knapsack she retrieved two cans of grape pop...I grinned...my mom never bought pop. We gobbled our lunch. I tried not to. I always liked to save half my sandwich for her. We talked about bikes and how she would teach me to catch a baseball. We talked about friends and siblings. We sat for a long time it seemed. I waited for her to reach for my hand. She always did. She always would. Her tall body and short dark curly hair was a contrast to my smaller body and long blonde hair. Her dark tanned skin gave her substance. I was so blonde I was almost not there. She reached for my hand. I stared at our hands. Clasped. My clean white hand wrapped in her scratched dark hand. I don't know how long we sat there. But we had stopped chattering. We sat in silence. I looked up at her face. She was staring at our hands. She saw what I saw. I kissed her cheek. She tugged my pony tail and said, "We won't get to the top just sitting here." I got up. I felt good inside. We were the same. We were different. We fit.