Taming the Wilds with Food

  Ch 1: New World, a Goal is Set

  “WAAA!”

  “WAAA!”

  “ZYKEIROK ATUAL!” A strange voice called out.

  I forced open my eyes to see a strange man standing over me. He looked like a stereotypical Native with paint on his face and feathers in his hair. His skin was also darker, but not to what I would call bck.

  “Mahu kuta.” A tired feminine voice called out.

  I tried turning my head to see but found minimal movement. I twitched as someone lifted my body. I was turned around and looked upon the face of a simirly darker-skinned woman, panting as her hair was frizzled. She lifted the dress she was wearing over her bosom as I was brought closer to the area.

  ‘WAIT WAIT WAIT WAIT!’ I thought in panic. But I had no strength to fight it as I was brought to the left orb and subconsciously tched on.

  Did I reincarnate? With all my memories intact? With that thought, I felt my mind fade into dreamnd.

  I was born in the early 2000s. My parents were moderately wealthy. It’s not like I had the test phone or wore designers. But we didn’t hunger for healthy food. We lived a moderate life in a three-bedroom home, and the combined income of my full-time father and part-time mother made life go well. Of course, something tangible was always missing, but I shrugged it off, thinking I was lucky to have a good life compared to so many. I graduated from High School as a B average student and took two years in community college before transferring to a state university.

  Afterward, I fell into some financial hardship as I juggled massive debts and an entry-level job that barely met my needs. I often had to do food delivery on the weekends so I wouldn’t have to resort to drastic measures like moving back in with my parents. But that all changed when I met her.

  She had knocked on my tiny apartment door, asking to borrow some sugar. Cheezy and predictable, I know. But I could only think one thing in that bed hair, in those casual clothes, and seeing her holding out a coffee mug. Beautiful.

  I gave her the sugar she asked for and agonized over when I would see her again. I would run into her the next day while I was getting mail. As a thank you, she invited me into her equally small apartment for some casual chatter. It was filled with half-full boxes. She had just moved in the previous week and was still unpacking. Like the good Samaritan I was, I sacrificed my free Saturday to help.

  By the end of that day, I worked up the courage to ask her out, only to get rejected. She was a lesbian. I had never felt so embarrassed before. She offered to be friends, and knowing I had no shot, I took it. Better to be her friend than resent her. We did live in the same building.

  Soon enough, we hung out regurly as friends. We often went to a bar to drink with other buddies and occasionally acted as each other’s carpool drivers to save money. Then, out of the blue, she invited me to a local pride parade. I was confused, as I wasn’t gay, but she expined that everyone was free to join. People who weren’t part of the community but supported it were called allies.

  I figured it wouldn’t be the worst thing to do. Boy, that was the turning point in my life. I met a group of colorful people of various ages. However, the ones who made me gravitate toward them were those of the trans community: boys who looked like girls, Girls who looked like boys, and people who looked like the gender they preferred. It was a shock.

  To be clear, I had understood that such people had existed. But I just never focused on it. Sure, I had wondered a few (hundred) times what it meant to be a girl, but never followed up on it. Especially when my parents didn’t show much support for the group. If anything, it looked like condemnation.

  The group took one look at me and practically dragged me towards them. They didn’t say I was trans, just that I looked like I needed “education” on the matter in the form of personal stories. Many of them described the range they felt. Some felt that their bodies would feel terrible, like pinpricks all over, while others were only apathetic to their bodies. That struck a chord in my being.

  When we got back to our building, I sat in bed for several hours, mentally agonizing over the possibility of being trans. I argued that I couldn’t be, but those words felt hollow. So I decided to experiment. I would try a few small things. I would grow out my hair and a beard. Some men pulled off long hair quite well.

  About half a year ter, the beard was itchy and annoying to see in the mirror, so I shaved it off without another word. After a full year, my hair was noticeably longer, and I liked it. I didn’t join my friend at the Pride Parade that year because I feared being dragged off again.

  Soon, I felt drawn to online stories of people being turned into girls, and I felt warm whenever I imagined that happening to me, not that it was possible. Later, a couple of weeks after the day I discovered that side of the internet, my friend offered me a date.

  I was confused. She had expressed that she was a lesbian, so I asked her for further crification. She stuttered and said I felt like an “Exception.” That hurt, like I was something removed from the rule as the only male she liked, but I decided it wasn’t a bad idea to humor her. We went out.

  It was a great time, albeit the suit felt wrong… off to me. I hadn’t noticed, but my date was overseeing me when the waiter came and asked how we would handle the check. My date “Misgendered” me by calling me a she. I had never felt such a flutter in my body before. It was warm and tingly but disappeared when she “Corrected” herself, ciming tiredness.

  I was slightly shocked but said nothing as my date had paid for the food and drove us back. She led me to her apartment and sat me down on the couch. She then took a seat and rested my head on her legs. The dress she had on felt nice on my face. The fabric was far softer than anything else I had worn.

  After falling asleep, I discovered I was still on the couch when I woke up. It was morning, and my date was still there, sleeping with my head in her p. My sudden wake-up caused her to wake up as well. After I switched to less constricting clothes, she told me to return to her apartment.

  When I returned, she sat me down. I remember those words. “You’re a girl.” Those words weren’t accusatory or incorrect. Suddenly, it was like I had discovered what I was missing all my life. I broke down in her arms and cried for over an hour. It was the first time I could express myself to such a degree.

  She was my rock as I figured things out. I used what little health insurance I had and spent a few sessions with a therapist who specialized in gender transitioning. With the help of my doctor, I started HRT, and at the beginning, it sucked, but it got better. I was happier than ever. By the time the third Pride Parade came around, I had been gifted this beautiful Trans pin by my girlfriend.

  It was embarrassing to be marching out there, but expressing myself as the girl I was was fun. By the end of it, I had no doubts left. I was a girl. But then came the most challenging part—my parents.

  I hadn’t seen them since a little after I started transitioning, before any physical changes took pce. They had invited me for Thanksgiving dinner, and I brought my girlfriend for support. My parents questioned why I wore so many yers, and I made excuses for being cold. I had also tied my hair up in my hat. I was thankful I hadn’t had vocal surgery, as faking a male voice for a prolonged time would’ve been hard.

  Eventually, through the dinner, I organically brought up the topic of the LGBTQIA community, only for my family to explode. My parents, grandparents, aunt and uncle, and older cousin had only negative things to say. The only person in my bloodline who looked uncomfortable was my five-year-older brother.

  I nearly had a panic attack from that alone. “You know, I’m gd you’re not one of those trannies.” My mother had said in a disgusted voice. “Gd you never asked to wear my dress a second time.”

  Had I done that? I didn’t remember. I felt sick. “I-I-I need to go.” I rushed out of the house, which felt more like a hostage situation, and sat in the car that my girlfriend and I had arrived in. She soon came out to comfort me.

  After ten minutes of freaking out, I came to a decision. I was going to come out to my family. Either they cut ties entirely or come to accept me as I am. I took off most of my yers, a more womanly figure exposed. I walked back in and spoke before anyone could say anything, their mouths agape in shock.

  “Nothing changes if you break ties with or accept me.” I paused. “I’m a girl. Some part of me has always wanted to be a girl. Nothing changes that fact, and I sincerely hope you, my blood, can accept that fact of life.”

  It was silent, but then someone threw a cup at me, hitting me in the head. It didn’t shatter, but it did hurt. “Get out.” Hearing those words was even more painful. At that point, I began disassociating, so I couldn’t remember who said those words. It all just got blurry from there.

  My girlfriend carried me to the car after I became catatonic, and before I realized it, we were back at the apartment, and I was sleeping with her in her bed. I wasn’t sure what had happened, but all I knew was my family was gone. I no longer had those people.

  A few weeks ter, my Girlfriend and I decided to pool resources and move out to a different city. I didn’t want to risk meeting my blood retives in the wild. During the move-out process, I received two letters, one from my mother and one from my brother. The one from my mother, written in cursive penmanship, stated in no unclear terms that I was out of the will and disowned unless I gave up my “Awful Behavior.” I didn’t bother to reply.

  My brother’s letter was something else. He apologized for not standing up for me and revealed something shocking. He was gay. He just never dared to come out to our retives. I was angry. So angry I almost outed him to our parents, but stopped. If he didn’t want to grow a pair and be honest, I won’t force him. But I sent back a letter stating that we won't be on speaking terms unless he’s willing to stand up for his younger sister. I didn’t tell him my new address.

  My girlfriend and I moved to a city two hours away, which was decently bigger. And with bigger cities came bigger groups of minorities. We put out feelers for the local LGBTQIA+ community, and they welcomed us with open arms. That was where I picked up my new passion. Cooking.

  There was an open cooking lesson for people in the community, and while many couldn’t attend, including my working girlfriend, I did show up. And I loved it. It was amazing. I had found my new passion.

  My girlfriend hesitated but ter agreed to back me if I provided half the cooking css cost. A year ter, I graduated from a local cooking school. My first job was in a low-end food truck.

  Gmorous, I know. However, it taught me much about customer service and allowed me to experiment with new recipes that I published online, and I used that knowledge to bump into a part-time chef at a middle-css restaurant. While I was comfortable with my part-time job, I ter received a personal invitation to work at a rich person’s house. As it turns out, when I posted new recipes, a live-in nanny had been using them, and the rich folks were ecstatic to meet me.

  They didn’t care that I was Trans, only that I made good food. They hired me on the spot and offered twice my pay for the same hours I did. I gave my two-week notice at the mid-range restaurant and celebrated that night with my girlfriend. Two months ter, my life was better than ever.

  Our combined incomes were enough to upsize our apartment to a rger space where my girlfriend could have a home office. We had savings, and most of our debts had been cleared away. There was only one thing left. I saved up my portion of casual use money in a separate account, and a month ter, I had enough to buy a simple wedding ring. A week after, I proposed.

  My now fiancé and I came out and invited co-workers and bosses. And then, I received a message from my parents. I didn’t expect them to be stalking my social media, so I didn’t bother to block them—a mistake.

  The message was long and rambling, but something caught my eye. “I so wish you had invited me. I wanted to attend one of my son’s weddings. Your brother has yet to bring home a girlfriend.” I felt myself seethe. I messaged back a rant of profanity before blocking my mother and preventing her and my father from seeing my social media page. I also changed my number before she could blow up my phone. It was a pain to inform everyone of my new number, but it’s easier than her finding a bunch of random numbers to spam me with.

  As we prepared for our wedding, our fiancé and I barred anyone from sharing details of the wedding until said day. Even if my mother wanted to crash it, it would be too te for her to get there. My partner and I got married 7 months after I proposed. It was a beautiful day at a moderate venue with guests and a few family members of my partner who could make it.

  Anyways, we continued with life until two years ter, we decided to have a child. I didn’t freeze any genetics samples, but that didn’t matter. We wanted to adopt. We spent months looking for any child we clicked with, but had no such luck. And then, tragedy for us. We had been on our way to meet another child, only to be struck by a lifted pickup truck. Our small compact had no chance.

  Both my partner and I were rushed to the hospital; she was out, and I was barely lucid. But… she was decred dead on arrival. They moved to stabilize me, and the st thing I remembered was the mask going on my face.

  I looked down at the clear water, seeing my reflection. I was young, only five years old at the moment. Darker skin than my past life. Brown eyes and Bck hair. Right, I died. As did my partner. Guess it was for the best. Me dying, I mean. If I had lived and my partner was gone, I’m not sure I could’ve gone on. But in this world, there's a chance I could see her again. If she reincarnated like me, as we both passed from the same tragedy, she could be somewhere out there.

  Once I was deemed an adult by my Tribe, I would go out into the world and find her. I would hug her, kiss her, and love her. She was the solid rock in my life, and I intend to be that for her when I find her.

  Of course, I’ll need to pick up lessons on survival and food before I leave the nest. I’m only 5 years old. According to the Tribe, adulthood isn’t until I’m 15. Well, 14 for boys, but I got lucky and was born in a woman’s body. Hooray! Time to spend the next five years learning to hunt, skin, clean, and cook wild animals.

  Don’t worry, Anna. I’ll find you.