I. Genesis, 1:27: “And God created man in His own image, in the image of God he created He him; male
and female created He them.”
II. I bought my first chest binder about four years ago. I ordered it to my friend’s address, as her mom and
my art teacher were the only two adults I had told about my growing awareness that I wasn’t a girl.
Most days I’d wear a tight sports bra, layering backwards camisoles over top (I had read online
somewhere that this worked, but looking back I’m not so sure). I felt the need to space out when I
wore the binder, afraid my parents or classmates would notice and start asking questions I wasn’t ready
to answer. On the days I did wear it, the tightening against my ribs served as a welcome celebration. By
the time my senior prom came around, it joined me under my rented tux. My hair was short and
bleach-blonde, brushing the tops of my ears. My eyelids were smeared with bright green eyeshadow.
My mother’s turquoise earrings dangled beneath a fresh industrial bar. It was the most happy I’d ever
felt in my own skin, and under the blaring of the music and the compression on my chest, I could hear
my ribs singing along with delight.
III. Despite most translations using he/him pronouns, God is not a man.
God is unknowable,
ununderstandable,
unnamable.
I am Who I am,
YHWH,
Adonai,
HaShem.
A being of both infinite names and no names.
A form both beyond existence and intensely personal.
If the first human was made in God’s image, then the first human is more than just man.
male and female: maleandfemale
adam and eve: adamandeve
Them
IV. Now, I wear my binder everytime I leave home, forever chasing after that once-attained euphoria. Any
well-informed trans individual will know that you’re only supposed to wear a chest binder for about
eight hours, but I don’t really listen to that anymore. The crushing embrace against my chest has
become more of a comfort than anything else. A sharp pain has started forming along my collarbone,
like knives and needles stabbing through the muscle and into the bone, leaving phantom scars only I
can see. I lay on my stomach, palm placed over the pain, every breath moving the needles into my lungs
until the scars heal over into sleep.
V. Genesis, 2:21-24: “And the Lord God caused a deep sleep to fall into the man, and he slept; and He
took one of his ribs, and he closed up the place with flesh instead. And the rib, which the Lord God
had taken from the man, made He a woman, and brought her unto the man. Therefore shall a man
leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife, and they shall be one flesh.”
VI. Dotted on my left side, just hidden from view, I have a mole. It’s oval in shape, and if I wrap my arms
around myself, the tip of my index finger fits perfectly on top of it. Pressing against my skin, past the
fat deposits and non-existant core muscles, I can feel the base of my ribcage. I hold the pressure there,
letting my fingerprint carve matching indents into the longest of my ribs. Sometimes, I wish my finger
could move through the dark cluster of cells and bloody sinews, removing the crooked and contorted
bone. I would cradle my rib in my hands, and pick away the one flesh until we are no longer one: only
me, and a hunk of calcium and marrow, and nothing but separation between Them.
VII. as they slept, God reached into adamandeve and took a rib
even as flesh is replaced, human skin will pucker and scar
is the scar small, a spot on the left side just wide enough for a rib to perfectly slip through
or deep lines carved into their chest, in the center of the ribs, right below the pectorals
a permanent loveletter of that removed and transformed
as adamandeve grow into two being: separate but connected
VIII. Sometimes, I can see scars on my chest that aren’t there yet. I trace along the non-existent jagged line
below bunches and folds of slick skin, letting the mirror show my pastandfuture all wrapped up into
one figure. In these moments, my binder holds onto the fresh scent of detergent, unsullied by my
body’s buildup of oils and sweat. The needles and knives fade away, little fingers of God finished with
their heavenly intervention. My collarbone can breathe again, not weighted or pressed but balanced
and connected at the base of my throat. The feeling is phantom, and soon I will have to turn from the
mirror to face reality. And yet. Closing my eyes, the flowers of eden bloom around my heart. Even
when badly damaged, ribs hold an amazing capacity to grow back.