I knew back then that Georgie was not going to grow up to be like the other boys. Georgie was different. Not because of anything he said, but because of how he acted and how delicately he carried himself. At 11 years old he was already in touch with the femininity that I wouldn’t embrace until I was 18. A self-proclaimed tomboy, I was tough and rough. I never felt the need to be glamorous or cute. Unlike my sister, who has always been very girly, my scrawny body would not be caught dead in a skirt or dress or shoes. I avoided them the way my toddler avoids the bath. I preferred jeans and Jordans. I enjoyed playing wiffle-ball and touch football, and manhunt. I was everything Georgie was not. While I could call myself a tomboy there wasn’t a word that I could use to describe Georgie. Continue reading Struggling with identity: On the lies we tell and how we deal