I Am J

I Am J

by Cris Beam


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A powerful and inspiring story about a transgender teen's struggle to find his own path — and love his true self.

J had always felt different. He was certain that eventually everyone would understand who he really was: a boy mistakenly born as a girl. Yet as he grew up, his body began to betray him; eventually J stopped praying to wake up a "real boy" and started covering up his body, keeping himself invisible — from his parents, from his friends, from the world. But after being deserted by the best friend he thought would always be by his side, J decides that he's done hiding. It's time to be who he really is. And this time he is determined not to give up, no matter the cost.

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780316053600
Publisher: Little, Brown Books for Young Readers
Publication date: 11/13/2012
Pages: 288
Sales rank: 148,433
Product dimensions: 5.40(w) x 8.20(h) x 1.00(d)
Age Range: 14 - 17 Years

About the Author

Cris Beam is the author of Transparent, a Stonewall Honor Book and Lambda Literary Award winner. She has an MFA in writing from Columbia University and teaches creative writing at Columbia, New York University, and The New School. I Am J is her debut novel. While living in LA, Cris volunteered at Eagles, a high school for gay and transgender kids. During the 2.5 years Cris taught there, she became deeply involved with a complex but marginalized tribe of transgender teens who had nowhere to go but the streets, one of whom became her foster daughter.

Read an Excerpt

I Am J

By Beam, Cris

Little, Brown Books for Young Readers

Copyright © 2011 Beam, Cris
All right reserved.

ISBN: 9780316053617


J could smell the hostility, the pretense, the utter fakeness of it all before they even climbed the last set of stairs. He was going to this party for Melissa, though she knew he’d hate it, though she’d have friends to talk to and J would stand there in the corner like a plastic tree, sucking at a beer, steaming in his too-many shirts and humiliation. The stairs were already sticky with spilled drinks, and reggaeton thumped through the door.

“Come on, J, you have to go with me. Daniel’s gonna be there,” Melissa had whined to him earlier that day at school. They were sharing a Diet Coke in the school’s emergency stairwell. The place was littered with cigarette butts and graffiti; every few days, some student dismantled the alarm, looking to sneak off and smoke. Daniel was Melissa’s latest crush, a quiet guy who played chess with the old men in Washington Square Park and who always had a Strand book bag over one shoulder. J thought he was pretentious.

“I hate parties,” J had said. “And I hate everyone at this school.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Melissa had answered, tapping the brim of J’s cap. She leaned her head on J’s shoulder. “What happened now?”

“Got called a dyke again.” It had happened a thousand times before. Dyke, aggressive, AG, butch. Whatever the names, none of them fit. He’d considered the possibility briefly, when he first realized he was in love with Melissa a few years back, but he’d never felt like a lesbian.

“Oh, sweetie,” Melissa said, lifting her head from J’s shoulder and trying to meet his eye. She sounded exactly like Karyn, her mom.

J shrugged off her concern even as he longed for it. He stared straight ahead, steeled his jaw.

“I know you’re not one,” Melissa said. “I know you just have your own style, like me. Screw this school. And…” Melissa paused. She pulled at a binder clip holding back a strand of curly hair. “Even if you were gay, it wouldn’t be the biggest deal. It’s not like a tragedy or anything.”

J jiggled his knee. “I’m not, though.”

“Okay, dude. I didn’t say you were.”

Melissa had recently taken to calling J “dude,” which J loved. In J’s mind, if not in anyone else’s, he was a he. He couldn’t go so far as to actually think of himself as male anymore; he had let that dream go at puberty. Now he tried not to think about gender at all, except when the world outside his brain barged in and forced him to. Which happened about every other minute. Still, saying she felt like something close to blasphemy. In J’s head, he was nothing; in J’s head, he was just a head, floating, trying to forget he had body parts he hated.

“J—” Melissa started. “Come to the party tonight. I want to be with you.”

Melissa smelled like amber, cinnamon, and cigarettes. J inhaled, but quietly, so Melissa wouldn’t notice. He leaned his head back against her wild hair and gave a tiny nod.

Melissa jiggled open the door to the party, knocking aside some sophomores who had been leaning there. Pot smoke obscured his vision, but J could tell this was a nice place. There was a dining room, separate from the kitchen, with African masks on the wall. Three girls J recognized from math class were sitting on the table, legs swinging, all vying for the attention of a senior boy, who was twirling a drumstick and tapping it alternately on each of their knees. Another couple was making out in the foyer, with the boy’s oversize jacket wrapped around the girl so people couldn’t tell he had his hand up her shirt. J averted his eyes as Melissa took him by the hand. “Let’s get a drink,” she said.

The kitchen counter was a pool of spilled soda and Cisco; next to this were giant bottles of gin labeled in a language J didn’t recognize. “They’re out of mixers,” somebody said, walking away. “You’ll have to drink it straight.”

Melissa filled two red plastic cups (one already had lipstick on its rim) with warm gin and took a sip. J swallowed a long gulp and tried not to shudder as it burned his throat. He held the cup by his side and followed Melissa toward Daniel, who was smoking a joint and reading in the corner.

“Hey,” Melissa said, and Daniel looked up, putting a finger in his place. His straight brown hair and pale skin made him look like a zombie. “What’re you reading?”

“Proust,” Daniel answered. “But I’m getting sick of all the madeleines.”

“That’s cool.” Melissa giggled and turned her foot inward a bit.

J hated how Melissa acted around her crushes—overly sweet and dumb. He’s a fake, J tried to psychically transmit to Melissa. Can’t you see that? A total ass.

“If you don’t like girls named Madeleine,” Melissa said, giggling, “maybe you should put down your book. You know J, right?”

Daniel glanced mildly at J and said, “I don’t think so.” J widened his stance and grimaced. They had met several times before—sitting next to each other on the same ramshackle stage at a school awards ceremony for high math scores, and through Melissa in the hallway. Daniel turned his attention back to Melissa. “Have you read Proust?”

Dios mío, J said in his head, just the way his mother would. God. He put on his toughest scowl, but he felt, in his mouth, that it looked more like a pucker.

“I don’t read at parties,” Melissa said, smiling flirtily. “I socialize.” And then, as though she owned the apartment, she added, “Can I get you a drink?”

J marveled at Melissa’s social skills as Melissa and Daniel pushed their way back into the kitchen. He sat on the arm of a couch and drank some more gin. This apartment was nice; the old dark thoughts of pocketing a few valuables rushed through J’s mind. He shook his head to get rid of the thought. Bad, he thought. And, Who are you fooling? You’re no gangster. He looked at his shoelaces, which Melissa had played with just the night before.

She had toyed with them, those very laces, in her apartment, right after their squabble about the cutting. Most nights, after school, J went to Melissa’s apartment. Melissa lived on the Lower East Side, in a studio apartment with her mother. It was even smaller than J’s family’s place, and much messier—with books and dance tights strewn about, two cats nuzzling against the worn furniture. Melissa and her mom were close; Karyn was in school herself, studying psychology in college, and she was full of ideas. She read the tarot cards of anyone who came through her door, and loved to stay up late drinking wine out of miniature jelly jars. Karyn was black and had been with a white man, Melissa’s dad, who had been little more than a hit-and-run, and this too was fascinating to J. His own parents were so conventional, hanging out in the building, talking with the neighbors, making dinner, watching TV. They’d stopped talking about whose sons back in PR were growing up, getting handsome, might make a good match for J, but still. J knew that aside from college, his parents’ slowly slipping dreams for him involved a white dress and a three-tiered cake.

Yesterday, like most days, they got to Melissa’s place and just hung out. J went online, and Melissa changed into dance clothes to stretch. He’d looked over at Melissa, who was flexing her biceps in a sports bra in front of the mirror. Melissa was a dancer and a cutter; like J, she was obsessed with her body, but unlike J, she admitted it. She wore her drapey sleeves long to cover the pine needle–length lines on her arms, nicked out every few nights with a razor she kept in her purse. She studied these cuts closely, monitoring their progress, scanning for infection, and she examined her musculature, too, wanting her legs to be both strong and lean, so she could jump higher, her shoulders perfectly broadened for lifting. Melissa’s dream was to join a company like the one Pina Bausch had founded—athletic, urban, and strange. Whenever she could, she stretched, pushing an elbow up and down her back like a cricket, bending in half and curling her forearms around her knees.

Melissa was smart, and J loved her for that. Melissa didn’t mind J’s long silences, the way he couldn’t muster a witty comeback, didn’t seem to have a political bone in his body. Melissa said she liked J’s photographs—she was the only one he showed them to—though Melissa spent most of the time talking about Melissa. Melissa’s curly wild hair, always tied up with pieces of yarn, or multicolored rubber bands, or even paper clips, matched her personality. Melissa’s hair, Melissa’s clothes, even Melissa’s cutting said, “Look at me.”

“Melis, those cuts look nasty. You should talk to a counselor or some shit, for real,” J had said, nodding at the fresh scars on the inside of Melissa’s forearm. “Why do you do that?”

“Shut up,” Melissa answered, pulling on a shirt. “They’re from the cats.”

Melissa plopped on the floor and stretched her upper body out over one leg. “Why do you wear fourteen million shirts when it’s a hundred degrees outside?”

“I don’t know. It makes me feel better.”

Melissa looked up at J from the floor, checking to see whether she’d stung him with the shirt comment. When she saw that J was still looking at her, she playfully untied J’s sneakers. “I read a book about people who cut themselves. It was called Cuts. Anyway. Supposedly tons of people do it, something about bringing the pain of your insides to your outside world so you can see it. Or master it. Or something.”

Melissa’s cuts were close together and scabbed up in little black dots, like several short strings of beads. J wondered if he’d ever have the courage to let someone cut into his skin, if a scalpel or a knife could help get the tormenting thoughts out of him.

Melissa went on. “But people stop. So I’ll stop, too. Probably when I get into a dance company, and I don’t have so much stress in my life. It’s not like I ever go deep—so stop worrying.”

“Okay,” J said, but he had already stopped worrying, if that’s what he’d been doing, already stopped paying attention to the words Melissa was saying. Instead, he was watching Melissa’s fingers twisting and untwisting the laces on J’s sneakers, as though they were the ears of some animal. She was so gentle with the laces, so tender and attentive, it made J feel dizzy.

J remembered learning to tie his shoes when he was a kid. He was probably four. His dad had bought him a pair of Nikes that almost matched the Air Force 1 mid-tops the older kids in the neighborhood wore; J had begged for them at the store, and Manny had given in. That was back before his dad had gotten so involved with the union. J worshipped his father then; he remembered copying the way Manny walked and sat and smoked his endless packs of Marlboros. J would pick up unlit cigarettes and hide them in his fist, puffing into his curled thumb, making his dad laugh and laugh.

“These are bunny ears, Jeni. You just have to cross them,” Manny had said, taking J’s tiny hands in his own. “And then you just make a tunnel for one loop to go through, and you’re done. Look. Like this.”

“My dad taught me to tie my shoes,” J said to Melissa, trying. There always was more to say.

“Mmm-hmmm,” she answered. She was still playing with J’s sneakers. She had undone the laces and restrung them, looping them through the holes in straight lines instead of X’s. “Your shoes look better like this.”

As she worked, the sides of her palms brushed J’s ankles. He wished he weren’t wearing socks, wished it were summer.

“My dad used to be so great,” J continued.

“Your dad is great.”

“Yeah, but…” J trailed off.

“At least you have one.” Melissa narrowed her eyes at J again, tugged at the hem of his pants. She reached up under the cuff, above the socks, and felt his calf. “You’re hairy.”

J glared at her. Melissa knew better than this, he thought. And still, the pull of her touch—she felt like landing the perfect photograph in the viewfinder, just before you pressed the button. That mix of jittery stomach and absolute stillness—that rare sense that somehow all is right in the world. He loved it. He hated it. An image of a car crash he’d seen on Cops flashed through his mind.

“M, I gotta go.” J stood up and bolted out the door.

Suddenly, at the party, someone tapped his shoulder. J looked up from his laces.

“Hey, J.” It was Mischa, a kid from the group at school that called themselves the Alchemists. J sometimes tinkered around on the computers with the Alchemists after everyone else went home.

“What are you doing here?” J asked, jutting up his chin. Alchemists never went to parties.

“I dunno. Same as you, man. I got invited,” Mischa answered, his accent thickened by alcohol.

J got up and walked away. He didn’t care about this party, but he didn’t want to be seen talking to an Alchemist, either. And was Mischa throwing a punch with the man comment, or was it a figure of speech? He was so sensitive, it seemed. Mischa was a social climber; he was talking to J only to be seen talking to someone, and J didn’t want to help him out. Mischa smelled like body odor, and he looked stupid in his polo shirt. At least J smelled good. Comforting himself with these thoughts, J turned and saw Melissa and Daniel leaned up against a fireplace. The mantel was littered with red plastic cups, and the fireplace was filled with burning candles and melted wax. Melissa was laughing with her head tilted back—a fake laugh J had seen only when Melissa was talking to older boys or bragging about dance companies she was too insecure to audition for. Daniel was running his hands through his hair and looking very serious. He reached out and touched Melissa’s cheek, and she hooked her forefinger into the front pocket of his jeans. J turned abruptly toward the kitchen for more alcohol.

Hadn’t Melissa said she wanted to spend time at this party with him? J fumed as he poured himself another cup of straight gin, warm and sharp-smelling, the bottle slightly gummy from so many hands. When they’d arrived, Melissa practically flew toward Daniel and left J in this nest of vultures, all looking to one-up each other with their sex appeal and their sophistication. J felt like a bald baby bird, waiting to get gobbled up.

As if to prove the point, a Dracula-ish older girl in all black with spike-heeled boots swooped down on J and sneered. “Are you going to let go of that bottle, or do I have to fight you for it?” J was gripping the neck of the gin bottle with his fist. He looked at the girl; she was pretty. He nodded toward the cup she was holding and reached over to pour her some gin. “Thanks,” she said coyly, and half-smiled. Her lips were outlined in black.

Damn, J thought. Does she know who I am? How come I haven’t seen her before? He opened his mouth to say something, to ask her her name, maybe, but only a raspy sound came out, something between a choke and a gasp.

“Are you all right?” the girl asked, concern briefly lighting her eyes.

“I’m fine,” J said, covering his embarrassment with a coughing fit. “I just have a cough.”

“Okay,” the girl said. She looked into her cup as though J might have contaminated it, and then clacked away in her heels. “See ya.”

Loser! J thought. You are such a loser!

J roamed away, too, and found a den, or some kind of office, lined with books. The lights were off, and kids were dancing to someone’s iPod. He thought they looked like a single blob of flesh, an undulating sea creature, tentacle-like arms flailing out here, a butt in tight jeans jiggling out there. The room was hot and short on air, and he sucked at his gin, though it just made him thirstier. He wondered what it would feel like to live at the center of the sea creature, enveloped by bodies. Would he stop noticing his stomach, his back, his stupid legs, and just feel like a whole person for once? Would he belong in some kind of primal, physical way? No. The alcohol was getting to him. He would never belong. He would never wear tight jeans and bangles on his wrists. That much was obvious. He would never be able to talk with other people the way Melissa could—he would never be funny and graceful and easy. The only place J could be himself was on his computer, and there he was Rico, which wasn’t himself at all but a rich man in his twenties, which J wouldn’t be, either.

J was a joke, and everybody knew it. Here he was, in oversize jeans, a baseball cap, and three shirts, looking like an eleven-year-old boy. The top shirt was a ripped sports jersey, and that’s what he was, nothing but an empty shirt, something to be tossed off and thrown away. Why had he worn such a dumb shirt? Suddenly, he wanted to yank it off and just wear the thermal beneath. The room was so hot. Why was it so hot at parties? His head was spinning now; he was definitely drunk. He couldn’t take the top shirt off—people would look at him. And then his breasts would be more obvious. God, he hated those things. Every single day he thought about destroying them. When he first began to develop, at thirteen, J had slept on his stomach every night, trying to stop their growth. But the breasts were determined. They pushed forth from his ribs like animals, fisting their way up from beneath. Even with two sports bras and the extra shirts, you could see their roundness, their adamant shout: I am a girl. J finished the last of his drink and went back to the kitchen for more. At least with a drink in his hand, he thought, he looked something like everybody else. Everyone held a red cup.

All the bottles on the counter were empty, so J splashed his face with water from the sink. He was starting to feel thickheaded, bleary—and sad, the sadness that settles with drinking too much, too fast. A small girl with a face like a mouse said, “There’s beer in the fridge,” and at first J thought she was talking to him, but she was motioning to her boyfriend, who was trailing behind her, red-eyed and spacey. J found a can of Schlitz next to takeout containers and jars of condiments and opened it with a fizz. He took a long swallow. That was better. Lighter than the gin, at least, and cold.

“Dude, you got a light?” a guy with a goatee was saying to J from across the counter. He had a cigarette dangling from his mouth. He seemed to be very far away and too close at once. J reached into his pockets but knew he didn’t have any matches.

“Nope,” he answered.

Goatee Guy walked over to the stove and lit his cigarette from the flame. J studied the way he bent at the waist, feet parted—the way he shoved his hair from his eyes so as not to catch it on fire. Every move was quick and deft, though somehow also thick, as if his bones carried more weight than J’s. “You go to PS three eighty-six?” he asked. It was the New York City public magnet school for math and sciences, in midtown.

“Yeah. You?” J was surprised a stranger—a guy—was talking to him.

“Yeah. I hate it.”

“Me, too.” J tried to look tough, but the room was swaying.

“You know Stacey Ramirez?” the guy asked.

J thought. The name sounded familiar, but his thoughts were sticky, slow. He shook his head.

“She’s only a freshman… and I’m kind of worried about her. She’s in the master bedroom right now giving head to seniors—twenty bucks to anyone who wants it. She was advertising at the beginning of the party.”

“Cool,” J said. He was so surprised that Goatee Guy was talking to him, he almost didn’t register what he had said. J tried to copy the way the other kid was leaning against the counter. He wished he had a cigarette, too. He thought about Stacey, about the line of guys, briefly wished he had twenty bucks, then erased the impossible thought.

“It’s not cool, actually,” Goatee Guy said, now eyeing J suspiciously. “Don’t you think we should get someone to intervene? I mean, she’s so young, and I don’t think she knows what she’s doing.” Goatee Guy took a long pull on his cigarette, flicking his eyes briefly over J once more, and then stared upward at a spot in the ceiling, like he didn’t care.

But Goatee Guy obviously did care, and J wondered why. The word intervene sounded so weird. Intervene. Like intravenous. Like the rat J’s biology class would be dissecting on Tuesday. What would it be like to be Stacey Ramirez? What would it be like to give head? Gross. It would be gross.

Goatee Guy was now staring at J as though he expected some kind of answer. J didn’t know what to say. He was thinking about Melissa. Would Melissa do that with Daniel? Suddenly he was angry, very angry. Melissa had come to this party with J, and now she wanted to mess around with Daniel, who sat in corners and read books like he was better than everybody, smarter than everybody. J was Melissa’s real friend; J was there when Melissa fell apart after a bad dance class, when she cut her arms, when she fought with her mother, when guys broke her heart. But where was J now? Talking with Goatee Guy about some stupid girl giving it up for money.

“Look, I don’t care about some dumb-ass bitch,” J said.

Goatee Guy looked shocked. “You’re an asshole,” he said, and walked away.

Wait, what went wrong? J thought. Did that guy think I was a dude? I was being cool to him. Everybody here’s an ass. And he went to look for Melissa.

Melissa and Daniel were still in front of the fireplace, but they were standing closer now. J took a long swig of beer and positioned himself behind a ficus tree that somebody had strung with Christmas lights. Melissa was laughing at something Daniel was saying—what could he be saying?—and Daniel was looking serious and pompous, as usual. Melissa reached out and touched Daniel on the nose, and then touched her own nose, as though connecting them by an invisible string. Suddenly, Daniel leaned in and, very gently, kissed Melissa. J threw up in the plant.

“Nasty!” two girls standing nearby shouted. “Get this bitch to the bathroom!” J felt himself being shoved from behind, and he saw a pathway between the bodies open up before him. Another heave welled up inside him but, mercifully, a toilet bowl materialized, and J made it in time. He slumped down against a bathtub and leaned his head against the cool porcelain. He flushed the toilet, then lay down on the floor. After what seemed like a long time, Melissa’s pink ballet slippers, which she had striped with black paint, appeared in front of J’s face.

“Dude—what happened?” Melissa was shouting. “You just barfed all over a tree!”

J moaned and closed his eyes.

“Come on, let’s get you home,” Melissa said, pulling J up from the elbows, her tone a little gentler. “You can sleep at my place.”

In the taxi, J drank some water Melissa had in her bag, and Melissa gushed about Daniel. “First he was talking about chess and the way it mirrors life. The way most of us think we can move in only one direction, one step at a time. We’re so restricted. But the knights—they get to jump over everybody else and make unexpected sideswipes.” Melissa was glowing. “Daniel feels like he’s the knight, all erratic and misunderstood. He thought maybe I was a knight, too.”

“Are you?” J asked weakly, his head against the taxi window.

“I told him I was a queen, but unprotected. All my pawns have left me.”

“That’s dramatic,” J said.

“Daniel’s the type of guy who likes to hear himself talk. But he’s smart, too.” Melissa looked out the taxi window at Fifth Avenue streaking by. J could tell she was hurt he didn’t like her crush. True to form, she fought back. “At least he doesn’t throw up in strangers’ trees.”

J felt a hot rush of shame. “How was the kiss?” It was torture to ask, but he had to know.

“Wet. Too much tongue. He didn’t know how to be delicate, you know?”

J didn’t. At seventeen, he’d never kissed anybody save for the neighbor girl he’d played “bar” with in fourth grade. The girl, Laureleen, used to live in the apartment downstairs, and after school she and J would take their cups of juice and lean against Laureleen’s bookcase, pretending they were in a bar. J would be the man; Laureleen, a chick he was picking up. They must have seen this on TV. They’d “practice” making out for hours, Laureleen pretending to resist and J encouraging her to take a ride in his car. They never talked about what they did, but they played the game several times. “Daniel’s a fool,” he said.

Melissa ignored him and paid the fare.

Melissa’s mom was out for the evening. The apartment smelled like cloves and candle wax, and the cats were underfoot, meowing for dinner and attention. J had known the cats since they were kittens, rescued from some bodega’s back room in another winter, years ago. Melissa had begged to keep them, and when Karyn relented, J and Melissa had tried to train them to do tricks, one kitten with a ribbon around its neck pulling the other in a plastic toy wagon. J had tired of the game quickly—the kittens were always jumping away and dragging the wagon under the bed—but Melissa was patient, rewarding them with treats and cooing in their ears. She was often patient like this with J, too, encouraging him to talk about the pictures he took, stretching her legs again and again while he struggled to find words. Once when his father and mother had argued about money, Manny left the house and didn’t come home for three days. J went to Melissa’s, and she let him watch all the music videos he wanted on her computer, even though she usually hated the female dancers. That time she didn’t press J to talk, but when he spent the night, she took his hand and held it, kissing his thumb once before he fell asleep. Nobody understood J’s moods like Melissa; nobody else let him be who he was.

Melissa started boiling some water for tea, and J crawled into Melissa’s bed, his head throbbing. The comforter felt thick and warm, like being inside a loaf of bread, and when the kettle whistled, J covered his ears.

“Here, drink this,” Melissa said, handing J a cup of chamomile. “You’ll feel better.” She took off her shoes and pulled her bra off from under her shirt and climbed in bed beside J. He wondered, briefly, if she didn’t want him to say anything about the cuts. Usually she tossed off her clothes with abandon and scrutinized her body in front of the mirror, pinching imaginary fat or looking for blemishes before she pulled on some boxers to sleep. He’d seen her naked countless times. “Want to watch Late Night?”

“No, too noisy,” J said. “My head hurts.”

“Okay. So let’s talk. What do you think of Daniel?”

“I think he’s a pretentious prick.”

Melissa mock-slapped J on the arm, sloshing tea onto the comforter. “No, he’s not! He’s just quiet.”

“I’m quiet,” J answered.

“So? What does that have to do with anything?” Melissa touched the razor lines in J’s hair, above the ears. “Why’d you shave these stripes in?”

“I dunno. Better my hair than my arms.”

“Ouch,” Melissa said, pulling back but watching J closely. “What’s the matter? You mad at me or something?”

J considered this. “No. I’m not mad. I don’t know what I am. I think I’m just sick from the alcohol.”

“Okay,” Melissa answered, snuggling down into the bed. She curled her feet around J’s. “Let’s go to sleep, then.”

In the dim light cast by the street lamps outside, J examined Melissa’s face. He could see the shape of the large eyes beneath her lids, and he watched her eyelashes twitch slightly, as though some invisible breeze were touching them. Her lips parted, and her breath came slowly; she made a kaaah sound with each exhale, and a curl fell across her forehead. Was she really sleeping? Could a person fall asleep so fast? J wondered. Or was she faking it?

J and Melissa had slept this way dozens of times before. It was the only reason J could appreciate being born female: girls like Melissa—well, actually, only Melissa—let J in on their secrets, their biggest plans, their most frightened, sad places. Melissa let J see how smart she was. Other girls, of course, rejected J, saw only the most superficial aspects of him—the way he was so butch and tough-looking—and they’d run away, thinking he was a freak or a dyke or both. Something predatory, something hard and impenetrable. They’d never know, as Melissa knew, that J was a photographer, that he loved the interplay of light and dark and finding the wavering balance between them. They’d never know how gentle J was inside, and how scared, how he wanted to do the right thing but often couldn’t. They’d never know how confusion and cruelty change people, make them hard—the way the deepest cuts make the toughest scabs. As long as he could remember, J had been taunted, tested, and mistreated for the way he looked.

It was, in fact, in the middle of a schoolroom taunt that J and Melissa had met. It was in middle school, and both of them had been placed in a program called Arts for Gifted Children. Sixth grade was well under way, but J had skipped most of the arts classes—until a six-week photography rotation was announced. All the other “gifted artists” knew one another when J showed up, his old 35 mm stuffed into his backpack. The teacher was reading the roll, and she came to J’s name.

“Jenifer Silver.”

“Um, it’s J,” J said quietly, looking down.

“I can’t hear you; what did you say?” The teacher was bottle-blond, middle-aged. She sat next to a tall stack of magazines that she had brought from home.

“My name. It’s J.”

“Okay,” the teacher said, smiling just a little. “You might be J in your other classes, but this is photography. In photography, we strive for accuracy, for telling the truth in pictures. That’s why we’re not doing digital work here—so nothing can be altered. So in this class, I think it’s important for you to be as honest as the subjects you’re photographing. You’ll be exactly who you are—no deception, no fooling.”

J had no idea what the teacher was talking about, but his head was starting to swim. The other kids had turned to stare at him. The teacher continued. “In my class, you’ll be Jenifer. Roberto will be Roberto, Frances will be Frances. No changes, no alterations, no lies. It’s an important part of the learning process. Understood?”

J couldn’t answer. His tongue felt like a thick sweater in his mouth, and his hands started to sweat. Somebody laughed.

“I can’t hear you,” the teacher persisted.

Suddenly, a girl in neon tights and braids piped up.

“ ’Scuse me, ma’am?” she said, completely unafraid. The girl had a tough street accent, which J would later learn could be adopted and abandoned at will. “J is my cousin, and something real bad happened in our family. She can’t be called Jenifer no more, ’cause of the memories. That’s why her name is J.”

“Oh!” the teacher said, her mouth a small circle, her eyebrows lifted in surprise. She weighed the situation for a moment, seemingly steeling herself for a battle. Then she dropped her armor. “Okay, then. I’m sorry. J it is. Let’s go on.”

After the class, J thanked Melissa. It took all his courage to stop her in the hall.

“Don’t worry about it,” Melissa had said. “That teacher was an idiot. I mean, since when is photography honest? There’s a Picasso quote from the first teacher—the one who taught painting. I love it! It goes, ‘Art is the lie that tells the truth.’ That teacher was waaaay better.”

J knew, right then, that he loved her.

More than five years and countless sleepovers later, J wondered: could Melissa feel J’s own breath as he moved microscopically closer to her in the bed, his own lips now almost touching Melissa’s? He was sure Melissa shifted toward him, too. J thought suddenly of Stacey Ramirez and wondered whether she had really wanted to do that, or whether she just craved attention. Or money. Melissa’s knees pressed harder into J’s, J was sure of it, and a flame rose up in J’s stomach. J’s eyes were closed now, and he didn’t dare open them; Melissa might see him watching and move away. He could feel Melissa’s breath on his upper lip, and though the alcohol smell made him queasy, he didn’t want the moment to end. And yet he wanted more. He wanted to be in the lineup of guys with Stacey Ramirez, he wanted to be in Puerto Rico, he wanted to fly a plane. He wanted Melissa.

Suddenly, they were kissing. J’s mouth on Melissa’s, his hand lightly hovering above her hip. J felt Melissa’s lips part in response, her tongue dart out and back again.

Melissa sat straight up. “J!” she said. “What are you doing?”

Melissa got up and walked across the room. Her bare feet made a slapping sound on the wood floor, and then an overhead light shattered the darkness. J threw the comforter over his head to protect his eyes. “I was sleeping!” J shouted, his voice muffled. “Same as you!”

“No,” Melissa barked. “You kissed me.”

J peeked out from the blankets. Melissa’s face looked strained and confused.

Melissa came back and sat on the edge of the bed. She hung her head and looked at her toes. Her black nail polish was chipped in several places, and she leaned down to pick away at some more. “People warned me about you, again and again and again,” she said. “But I ignored them. I thought you were my friend.”

J just looked at her. His headache was worse than ever.

“J—” Melissa started again, “I’m not a lesbian.”

J sat up straight in bed. He screamed at her, inside his head, louder than anything he’d ever screamed before. I’m not, either!

Melissa, of course, couldn’t hear him. She picked up J’s bag from the floor and said, “I think you should go home.”


Excerpted from I Am J by Beam, Cris Copyright © 2011 by Beam, Cris. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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I Am J 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 33 reviews.
iluvvideo More than 1 year ago
A young man who calls himself 'J'. In high school but struggling to find out who he is and his place in the world. His parents only make his life more stressful. Pressure to make the right choices and decisions seems to come from everywhere. Friends try to understand and help. Can J trust anyone? Oh, and J was born Jennifer, a female. The body he inhabits does not reflect the reality of his life. He is a boy. Add to all the other pressures of adolescence that J is transgendered. Female to male. Not gay/lesbian. Not a phase. Is there no one to turn to. He feels so alone. From a composite of transgendered teens the author has worked with, Cris Beam delivers a truthful, emotionally wrenching and totally believable look into a heretofore mostly unexplored world. J is bright, resourceful, determined and driven. With only himself to rely upon, he navigates school,family and friends (even a girlfriend) in his quest to become as God truly made him, a male. I recommend this book to anyone seeking an insight into the lives of transgendered teens (FTM), parents, teachers and counselors, clergy and most importantly teens themselves. Not only trans teens, but all teens. It truly is an eye opener and will trigger many areas for discussion.
Lawral More than 1 year ago
I was a little scared of this book. I knew that Beam had it in her to realistically portray the transgender experience, so my expectations were super high. I also knew that a book like this has the potential to be filled with well-meaning stereotypes in order to present the most inclusive picture: of trans folk, of Puerto Rican New Yorkers, of the dream of being a "real boy," and more. But my fears were unfounded; I loved this book. J really rang true to me as a character and as a transguy, and his experiences, though not universal (thankfully not everyone has to move out or change schools in order to transition, though some undoubtedly do), were realistic. I Am J was everything I hoped it would be. But I did have a couple of problems. I found it hard to believe that J, who has been looking around on the internet for information and support since he was eleven, hadn't heard about T (testosterone injections) or a (chest) binder until he was seventeen. I'm willing to let that go as it allows the reader to learn about these things at the same time that J does. I don't think it would have been such a problem if the book wasn't so obviously written by someone who, like J's support group leader, "talk[s] about the 'gender binary' and 'those of trans-masculine identification' as easily as reciting the alphabet" (243).* Beam is a very very knowledgeable woman, as evidenced by her previous work of non-fiction, Transparent: Love, Family, and Living the T with Transgender Teenagers. She seemed to have a difficult time balancing her wealth of knowledge with the naiveté of her narrator. This may look like more criticisms than praise, but it's really not! I loved I Am J, and I applaud Beam for taking on the issue of transitioning in the context of cultural and familial expectations, and the fallout from not meeting those expectations, in an accessible and authentic way. Not to mention that she wrote a pretty great story of a teen trying to find his direction and place in the world, regardless of all the issues that J has to deal with. I think this is a must buy for libraries serving youth; it's Luna for the guys. Book source: ARC provided by the publisher. *Quotes and page numbers are from an uncorrected proof and may not match the published copy.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I was facinated by the title whn i saw this at my library. I checked it out and fell in love with the book. I can feel for J while also understanding how his friends might feel, just by reading. Very powerful.
TeensReadToo More than 1 year ago
J has always known he was different. Now almost eighteen, he has decided it is time to commit to who he really is and make the fact clear to his parents and his best friend, Melissa. J was born Jeni Silver. His parents have always seen him as their little girl, but J knows deep inside that though his body may be female, he is truly male. Transgender to be exact. After spending most of his life attempting to ignore the betrayal of his body, J is determined to take the steps necessary to become his true self. He wants his parents and his best friend to come to terms with and accept him as transgender, but even if they don't, he will find a way to get the injections of the testosterone that will lower his voice, stimulate facial hair growth, and help him develop the male attributes that will make him be the person he believes he truly is. Author Cris Beam takes a difficult subject and creates a book that will help readers understand the physical and emotional turmoil of one transgender boy. She is able to explain J's gender frustration from an early age, his secret crush on his long-time friend, the constant jeers and taunts from fellow high school students, and the fear of disappointing his parents, who sacrificed much for their daughter. Readers will experience J's self-discovery, his courage, and his determination in facing the long, hard path before him.
JimRGill2012 More than 1 year ago
I am J tells a story that is rarely told—the coming of age of a transgender teenager. In this case, it’s the story of J, a biracial (Latino and Jewish) transgender boy who is struggling to become comfortable with his gender identity while coming out to his family and friends. J’s story features many aspects of “typical” young adult novels—the search for identity, the need for a sense of belonging, emerging values that conflict with those of parents, romance, the confusion of adolescent sexuality, the pressures of high school. J, however, also copes with the challenges of a gender identity that doesn’t match his physical body. Further frustrating matters, J has few resources he can use to educate himself about his predicament—until he runs away from home and encounters a marginalized community of others who, like him, are gender variant. Identifying the resources that can help him leads J to confront new issues—accepting and understanding those resources, finding a way to make them work for him, and developing the confidence to share his gender identity with those he loves. Although some of the plot developments feel as though they’ve been lifted directly from some standardized paradigm of the challenges faced by most trans* youth (running away from home, confusion over sexual orientation, asserting control over one’s physical development, securing the resources for hormone therapy, finding a community, enduring bullying), Beam has woven these elements into a credible story about a protagonist who is complex, dynamic, and likeable. J is by no means perfect, but it is nearly impossible not to root for his success.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
It's an okay book. Makes me think of my trans friend who just so happens to be called J, too.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I absoublutely loved it. A must read.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I am lost!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
It was a good book that really helped me see into strange and complicated world of transgender teens.
DustinDJ More than 1 year ago
Wish it would had ended differently, but other then that it was pretty good book.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
WinterStrawberryStarz More than 1 year ago
The end was not meet to my expectations but the starting pulls you in her mind of a normal transgender but then during the middle it carefully pieces her feelings for the world and her needs, lust for a boys body. I love Cris Beam, their writing opens the eyes of people going through this. It helps to realize people that want what J wanted with parents like hers can carefully get their wanting to be trans.
EdGoldberg on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Seventeen-year-old J is a boy born into a girl¿s body. He dresses as a boy, binds his breasts, and attempts to make his mannerisms more masculine. Unable to tell his unsuspecting parents or his best friend Melissa, J feels no alternative but to run away. Wandering around lower Manhattan, he meets Blue, who treats him as a boy, causing him to believe she is girlfriend potential. Checking into a cheap hotel, J is advised by a wizened guest to leave and points him to a clinic where testosterone shots are given to transgender boys. J feels this is the answer to his problems but is disconcerted to learn that he must attend counseling and obtain parental approval for the shots, a process that takes several months. Uncertain, he attends counseling and finds people with whom he can relate. He transfers to a GLBT high school to finish his senior year. In I Am J, Beam writes about an underserved population and covers the emotional hodgepodge that transgenders go through. However, the writing bogs the story down. A more tightly written novel might have more impact. The confusion of the central characters, J, Melissa, J¿s parents is offset nicely by the quiet acceptance of some ancillary characters. Although J is emotionally a man, he does not know how boys act or think. Luna by Julie Anne Peters, tells this story from the transgender girl¿s perspective and is better written. Beam presents the facts and includes a list of GLBT resources. Purchase I Am J to complement your collection in this area.
lilibrarian on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
The story of a boy trapped in a girl's body, this book tells of Jeni, who wants to be known as J, as she tries to get her family to accept who he is and who he wants to become.
mrsderaps on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Ever since I was little, I have always known that I was a girl. I am definitely not a "high maintenance" type of woman, but I have an inner girly-girl that will not quit. I cannot imagine what my life would have been like had I been born in a body that did not match the gender that I felt myself to be. I think it would be devastating.Yet, this happens to people all of the time. They grow up feeling like their insides do not match their outsides. And, in our current society, the outsides are what count. To schoolmates, teachers, parents, relatives, strangers on the street. Gender is not changeable, but fixed.I Am J is the story of a teen who identifies as transgendered. He was born "Jennifer," but has changed his name and hos outer appearance to "J." From the start, this story is well-written and seems to capture the inner struggles and thoughts of J. Every bit about J's thoughts and his need to be accepted as a teen boy ring true. Just as a typical teen girl might try to match her teen role models, J watches young men to model his actions and reactions. Even so, learning the postures of other men is not enough; J wants to be a man.Even though he parents are somewhat supportive, they are not understanding J's situation completely. They think (or maybe even hope) that J is a lesbian; which is not true. J is attracted to girls, but he is a boy. He just has girl parts.But, he may not have girl features and parts for long, if he can help it. He has heard of and researched hormone therapy, and desperately wants to turn eighteen so that he can start getting testosterone shots.Unfortunately, he's not eighteen. And, problems at home are threatening to force J out of his family's apartment and onto the street. He has a the support of his friend Melissa, but she doesn't completely understand what he's going through. It isn't until J is away from his friends and family that he can truly transition to the man he wants to be--the young man that he is.* * *As a teacher, there is nothing more difficult and wonderful than helping teens to realize their visions of who they are and who they want to become. With most teens, this process thinking about possible career paths and interests, with others the process is more laborious and deep. I have had the pleasure of working with a few teens who identify as transgendered. As I stated in this intro to this post, I do not know what this feels like. But, as an educator, there are lots of differences and situations that my students experience that I cannot identify with. Even though I cannot identify with the feelings and emotions of these students, I do have a responsibility to help them to find a safe place within our school where they will feel comfortable and a post-secondary experience that will allow them to transition to the next phase of their life comfortably. This book will find a welcome space on my classroom shelves. I can only imagine the comfort that it could bring to a transgender teen to know that they are not alone--that there are others like them who might share similar feelings, thoughts, worries. Or, this book could open the mind of many non-transgender teens, those who don't know what it feels like to go through this transition. Either way, I am happy to have read this book and cannot recommend it enough. It is a must-have for classrooms and a should-have for others interested in learning more about this topic, or in reading a good book. Because, in the end, that's exactly what it is.
Bellydancer on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
J has always felt different. He felt that as he got older that everyone would understand who he really was; a boy mistakenly born as a girl. But as his body begins to betray him, J starts to wear wraps and started covering up his body, keeping himself invisible from his friends and school mates. But after being deserted by the best friend he thought would always be by his side, J decides that he's done hiding - it's time to be who he really is. And this time he is determined not to give up, no matter the cost, and he looks into the medication that will transform his female self.I loved the story of J, an inspiring character learning to love himself for who he is to become. It is wonderful to see some well written teen fiction on the topic of transgender teens.
LanoraTM on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Reading I Am J brought me back to my college days when individuals are allowed to really hone in on who they are. I found myself able to cry with J and feel his anger. Beam's book touches on a very sensitive topics and I feel it is important for not only teens to read I Am J, but for parents and teachers to read it.What I liked most about I Am J is that throughout J's struggles, he still knew he was transgendered. I applaud the character on that level. So many children and adults are unsure of who they are, so it was refreshing to know exactly who J was.Yes, this book does have a lot of profanity, under aged drinking, self harm and other things; however, they're an important part of this book. It gives a realistic non-sugarcoated view into J's life.
lawral on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I was a little scared of this book. I knew that Beam had it in her to realistically portray the transgender experience, so my expectations were super high. I also knew that a book like this has the potential to be filled with well-meaning stereotypes in order to present the most inclusive picture: of trans folk, of Puerto Rican New Yorkers, of the dream of being a "real boy," and more. But my fears were unfounded; I loved this book. J really rang true to me as a character and as a transguy, and his experiences, though not universal (thankfully not everyone has to move out or change schools in order to transition, though some undoubtedly do), were realistic. I Am J was everything I hoped it would be.But I did have a couple of problems. I found it hard to believe that J, who has been looking around on the internet for information and support since he was eleven, hadn't heard about T (testosterone injections) or a (chest) binder until he was seventeen. I'm willing to let that go as it allows the reader to learn about these things at the same time that J does. I don't think it would have been such a problem if the book wasn't so obviously written by someone who, like J's support group leader, "talk[s] about the 'gender binary' and 'those of trans-masculine identification' as easily as reciting the alphabet" (243).* Beam is a very very knowledgeable woman, as evidenced by her previous work of non-fiction, Transparent: Love, Family, and Living the T with Transgender Teenagers. She seemed to have a difficult time balancing her wealth of knowledge with the naiveté of her narrator.This may look like more criticisms than praise, but it's really not! I loved I Am J, and I applaud Beam for taking on the issue of transitioning in the context of cultural and familial expectations, and the fallout from not meeting those expectations, in an accessible and authentic way. Not to mention that she wrote a pretty great story of a teen trying to find his direction and place in the world, regardless of all the issues that J has to deal with. I think this is a must buy for libraries serving youth; it's Luna for the guys.Book source: ARC provided by the publisher.*Quotes and page numbers are from an uncorrected proof and may not match the published copy.
bookwyrmm on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Definitely the best book (and not because it is the only one) I have ever read on transboys. Very human.
Booklady123 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I received an Advanced Reader's Copy of I Am J by Cris Beam. I did not receive any compensation for my review.This is a very intense and engaging read about a bi-racial teen's gender transition. Beam's story provides great insight to life a transgender teen. This is an issue that prior to reading this book I did not know much about. Fortunately, as well as writing an engaging story, Beam also takes the time to explain the issues.However, I was puzzled about why J, who has known since a small child that he is a boy born with girl parts, waited until he was 18 to seek support. All in all I found this to be well written, with well developed characters. Though the main story deals with J's life as a transgender teen, it also covers all the usual challenges of just being a teen - including difficulty getting a long with parents. J's parents are not very likable. Not only do they not understand J, they seem incapable of giving him any support. Perhaps this lends to the authenticity of the story, as teens are often misunderstood by their parents. This is a good read for not only teens but parents as well. Not only is it entertaining, but it provides some valuable insight as well.
weener on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I make it a point to be familiar with the LGBTQ teen literature in our collection. It started when I did a Pride Month book display a few years ago and had the books just fly off of it. I had to expand my knowledge of these books in order to keep it stocked with books about all types of sexuality and gender issues. So it's always nice to see a new book of this kind. I Am J is about a biracial female-to-male (FTM) transgender teen. J, born "Jenifer," has always know he was really male. He's stuck in a girl's body that makes him feel sick and wrong, so he covers it up with sports bras, layers and layers of t-shirts, and tries to hide it from the world. He learns more about being transgender from an internet search, rigs himself up a chest binder, and learns about testosterone. He's so preoccupied with his feelings about his body that he starts skipping school and seeing if he can pass for male in other parts of town. He runs away from home for a time, stays at a shelter for LGBTQ teens, and enrolls at a special school affiliated with the shelter. When his parents find him, they're not sure what to think. They might learn to be OK with him being a lesbian, but they are disgusted to learn that their little girl identifies as male. He finds some allies in his friends, neighbors, schoolmates, and strangers, and decides to go ahead with his transition by getting testosterone shots. This was really well-written and realistic. All the characters seemed like actual, flawed humans. There were no Mary Sues or pat answers. For instance, instead of all J's problems being solved when he started hanging out with other gay people, most of the gay and gender-variant kids at his new school were pretty obnoxious. But he found a surprising ally in his nosy neighbor Mercedes, who tried to convince J's mom that being transgender wasn't anything to get upset about or even that uncommon, giving her nephew (now niece) and some trans soap opera characters as examples. I learned a lot about what it means to be transgender from this book. For instance J was even a little homophobic. He hated being called a lesbian. He didn't want to be lumped in with gay people. It opened my eyes to the worries that trans teens have: J wants to apply for college, but what about his old name on his transcripts, single-sex dorms, shared showers? J even tries to think about what it would have been like to be trans in past eras, when children were like little adults with jobs and responsibilites. I'm really glad we have this book in our collection because I think everyone can learn a lot from it.
rbd08 on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
I am J is a story of a boy mistakenly born as a girl. J is transgender. He is in his senior year and soon on his way to college to study what he loves and does best. Photography. His senior year though, he decides he wants to change. He needs to change. He wants to look like the person he really is. A boy/man. He's never had so many mixed and confused feelings about completely changing himself until this year. When he finally finds a solution, he doesn't let anyone stop him from getting Testorone. T will help him change his appearence as a woman and make J look and sound like a man, so he decides to run away since he knows his parents will not support him with this. Through this little journey, J comes across new people, and learns that he needs to rely on his parents more than anyone else, because they will eventually get used to J being transgender. I Am J is one of the best books I've read. J is not always person a person who thinks things through, but he is an intelligent, creative person.
andreablythe on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
From the book flap: "J always felt different. He was certain that eventually everyone would understand who he really was; a boy mistakenly born as a girl. Yet as he grew up, his body began to betray him; eventually J stopped praying to wake up a "real boy" and started covering up his body, keeping himself invisible - from his family, from his friends...from the world. But after being deserted by the best friend he thought would always be by his side, J decides that he's done hiding - it's time to be who he really is. And this time he is determined not to give up, no matter the cost."This is a rather sweet and moving story of a young trans man claiming the right to be himself. J is an interesting character faced with a difficult reality. He is who he is, but the world doesn't see him that way. Declaring his existence, even at the risk of losing all the people in his life whom he loves, is vital to his survival. Besides any thing else, for J, would be a lie.People are complicated, and this books respects that fact. Family and friends surprise, and strangers alike (some of whom are also trans), all end up surprising (in both good and bad ways) J at various points. Sometimes funny and often touching, this story brought me to tears several times. It's a great book, which I encourage many, many people to read.
ewyatt on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
J explores his identity and tries to navigate the confusing territory of his gender being misassigned. Although born a girl (Jeni), he has always felt like a boy. Painful and full of promise, J's journey leads him to realize some people in his life aren't going to be supportive and others will offer surprising support. I gained insight when reading this book, and there is also something universal about coming to accept oneself and one's body despite what society might say/expect.