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Hi, I’m from the Future

Hi, I’m from the Future

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Sometimes, I like to imagine that non-cis* folk are the next step in human evolution. Like the cis-person’s genetic future. We are amongst you present-day people, and when you interact with us, you’re interacting with the future – a two-thousand-years-ahead kind of future. We’re the 16.0 to your laggy-as-fuck 6.3 version. We’ve selflessly volunteered to travel back in time to be reborn and save the present-day people from fucking up the future by secretly altering certain world-changing events. How mind-blowingly cool is that?

I think about that when, for the gazillionth time on some hookup app, someone asks if I have a dick or tells me I’m not a real man. When, as the first thing after “Hi,” someone asks if I’ve had the surgery or if I still have my boobs. “Show me your pussy,” is what they say.

“I don’t expect you to understand because I’m from the future,” is what I want to tell them, sighing tragically as I type. I know they won’t even understand that they don’t understand, because they are simple present-day people, victims of our time and their own technological limitations. If they tried to understand, their brains would collapse.

I would shake my head in pity, chuckle and go tsk-tsk, like a grandpa tsk-tsking at a toddler grandkid who defecated all over the fancy family carpet that’s used only for Hari Raya – because babies don’t know any better.

A few months ago, my aunt, in a manner of friendly conversation, told me that some random person is going to feel me up and find out that I have a vagina, and then I’d be screwed. Her exact words were, “Kau nampak macam lelaki tapi nanti ada orang datang kat kau, raba-raba kau, jumpa pantat, baru kau tahu.” (You look like a man but then someone will come up to you, feel you up, find your pussy, and then you’ll know). She’s from Melaka, they talk like that with affection, and maybe she was only half-joking. People from Melaka will cuss at you to show you they care. She says pantat (pussy) all the time. I don’t know. Maybe it’s just my family.

I took it to mean that I could be on a Netflix date, and after three episodes of Bojack Horseman, my sexy date and I would be deep into a heavy makeout session, and then they’d slip their hand down my shorts and …aik? Sapraisss! (At that time of the Aunt Incident, I had not been on a date in 15 months.)

I know she’s worried about my safety and was expressing it in her own special and unique way, so I wasn’t shocked or upset. Anyway, I’m from the future, so how could she ever comprehend?

Instead of explaining the future thing to her, I asked her why she felt random people would suddenly want to feel me up. It’s silly. I demonstrated to her what going up to random people and feeling them up would look like:Ahem, excuse me, boleh raba tak?” (Can I feel you up?)

A distant relative I hadn’t seen in five years thought I was my brother and slapped me on the back when he saw me at my uncle’s funeral. I didn’t correct this distant uncle and humoured him, telling him about my (brother’s) job, when he called me by my brother’s name and asked me, kerja macam mana? (How’s work?) Ok, I didn’t need to be a future person at this particular time. I later told my mother, and she didn’t think it was funny. I assured her I knew enough about my brother’s job, and the information I gave my relative was accurate and up-to-date.

My mother hates my moustache and I don’t want her brain to collapse, so I refrain from telling her about what it is like in the future. The future where no one has diabetes because it has been eliminated and people can eat all the cake they want. She’s diabetic and likes cake, although she shouldn’t.

She hasn’t said anything about my deeper voice or my changing body, but she has told me she wants me to be a girl and get a handbag.

I don’t need to grow my hair long because girls have short hair these days, but I should get a handbag. I told her to specify what kind of handbag so I would remember and not get the wrong one. I declared, these things are important, Mother, these handbags.  

Whenever I tease my mother in English, she takes one key word from my sentence and turns it into Shm-english. “Handbag, shmandbag,” she said, laughing, index finger poised in the air, ready to fake-cane me. She likes to jokingly fake-cane her kids because we’re too big for her to real-cane now.

I love my moustache and hope I eventually get to grow one like a Tamil movie star, or a Gerak Khas extra.

Should I have been upset in those cases and corrected them? I don’t know. I don’t know a lot of things about why people say the things they do, or react the way they do. I’ve gently corrected many people, in real life and on apps. Sometimes I run out of gentle corrections. I don’t want to get angry, and tweet angry things in frustration while shaking my fist at God in the fat clouds (as a kid I assumed this God-entity lived there and sat on a throne, genderless and proud, waving their hand to casually create things like cows and planets and Michael Jackson). Some people take longer than others to open up to new things, but sometimes I just get tired of explaining why I am me. This is when I am a super-cool, ultra-advanced, future-person. So, fuck everyone else.

*I used ‘non-cis’ and put that asterisk ‘*’ there because, while this fantasy is for me, a trans man, this is an all-inclusive scenario and everyone along the gender identity spectrum can have a fantasy and feel superior and cool whenever they like except if they are an asshole.

Cisgender (shorthand cis) – a person whose sex assigned at birth ‘matches’ their gender identity OR a persons whose lived experiences ‘match’ their assigned sex at birth.

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