Molly (right) and me (center), with our "Little," Christien (left).

My transgender tale is as old as time, opening with the devastation brought by puberty upon turning 11, as my mother gleefully delivered the horrifying news that I was finally “becoming a woman”.

I started going to bed every night with crippling anxiety that I was slowly turning into something I couldn’t fathom myself as, and one day I would wake up as someone I couldn’t recognise. The disconnect between my body and self-image begot disbelief, then disappointment, which then transformed into shame.

When I searched my symptoms on the Korean version of Google, I came across the concept of “ gender dysphoria” and discovered that I might be a “transgender” who would have to endure all the surgeries and social stigma that come with that identity. I hastily decided that wasn’t the right fit – I’d already lived so long as a woman “successfully”.

Besides, don’t all women feel ashamed of their bodies? I couldn’t imagine I was anything other than a closeted queer woman.

When I arrived at Brown University – the tree-hugging, activist Ivy League sibling – fresh from South Korea, I was still a closeted queer. My first semester was supposed to liberate me from all those years of lying and hiding. Students were openly queer. Drag Race had a weekly screening. A classroom discussion wasn’t complete without someone commenting, “You know, gender is a spectrum.”

But of course, even at the most liberal of institutions, the international Korean and Korean American students held Valentine’s Day parties only meant for Adam and Eve. It was as though a piece of the Korean peninsula itself had been transplanted here – bringing with it the familiar pressure of heteronormativity, which I had long since mastered conforming to. I breezily talked about “the type of boys I liked,” laughing when someone joked, “Oh, you have so many traits girls would like if you were a guy.”

Dunked in hot and cold waters simultaneously, I didn’t know which temperature to adjust to. Some days, I felt euphoria, as if I’d finally found my true home. Others, I broke down, still trapped in the same closet I thought I’d left at the border.

One day the following spring, I found a Zeta Delta Xi Rush Calendar leaflet slipped under my door. Describing Zeta Delta Xi as “Brown’s one and only queer co-ed fraternity,” the flier listed events with crude yet mysterious names such as “Porn and Milkshakes,” “Fuckboi Healing Circle,” and “W(h)ine about Yoga.”

Fraternities typically bring to mind hegemonic white jock-bros chugging beer kegs. So I had no way of knowing that an inclusive version of the institution was about to launch my transition journey and ultimately help me find my own version of manhood and happiness.

I was nervous tugging on Zete’s heavy door for the first time. I apprehensively approached a room across the hallway with the sign “Campy Movie Night.” Inside, the projector was screening But I’m a Cheerleader.

My only previous experience of queer “community” was in online forums. I’d never been surrounded by so many queer people my age, much less laughing at a classic queer film together. I’d made queer friends, but this was my first time setting foot in a queer space. Feeling out of place and unsure how to act without the mask of straightness I wore in Korean circles, I scribbled my name in the rush book and left.

That feeling of alienation kept me from attending more events. To my surprise, I still received a “bid,” a formal invitation to join the fraternity. I........

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