A Slight Misunderstanding

By Joy L. Smith

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This piece appears courtesy of GWN’s 25th anniversary anthology On The Art of The Craft: A Guide to Collaborative Storytelling (Harper One).

I wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary. I was just being Joy, being ten at a restaurant and heading to the bathroom.

I wasn’t doing anything out of the ordinary. I was just being Joy, being ten at a restaurant and heading to the bathroom. Normally my twin sister, Cherish, would have gone with me because we were always told “go with your sister,” but for some reason I went alone. 

I dressed how I felt comfortable, in what was my favorite thing at the time. Some girls wore jewelry or tutus. I was in love with my Sprewell jersey and Lee jeans. They were loose and fit with what the boys were wearing. I was a baller, and to complete my outfit I topped it off with my fitted hat that covered my zigzag braids, and headed for the bathroom. 

What was I thinking? Nothing, it was a bathroom, of course other women would be in there, it was no big deal. Despite my attire, I was a girl, and I had full access. As soon as I stepped one foot in the bathroom a lady held her wet hands out as if to stop me and said, “Papi, you’re in the wrong bathroom!” 

“Huh?” I said. 

Suddenly, I was confused and angry and of course embarrassed because, well, people were now looking at me. I was naïve, I realize now. I was at that age where boys and girls were at the same height and my secondary characteristics hadn’t developed yet, so it was easy to mistake me as a boy. 

Still, a boy was the last thing I was. I didn’t think I looked like a boy; besides, I had two earrings in my ear. Duh, boys don’t wear two earrings, I thought to myself. As I sat back at the table, upset and slightly embarrassed, I whined to my godmother that the lady thought I was a boy and Spanish. She told me it was just a mistake, but I was furious. This lady needed her eyes checked but then Cherish said, “You did it to yourself, Joy. STOP dressing like a boy and no one will think you’re a boy. You’re not a boy, Joy,” she said angrily at me. 

I wasn’t the one she should be angry at. I was glaring at her. I wanted to burn a hole in her face. The lady already hurt my feelings; I didn’t need her hurting mine too. Didn’t anyone get that my feelings were bruised? This was a serious situation for me and no one was getting it or trying to make it better. And my own twin at that! She should be on my side. But this was a common statement with her. She always had something to say about my clothing. “Are you really going to wear that jersey again?” or, “Take that hat off.” 

From then on, I slowly stopped wearing my baller hoodies, fitted hats, and my prized jersey. I would never be mistaken again. Before my transformation was complete I was playing basketball with a group of boys, killing them of course, when a boy asked: 

“Are you a boy or a girl?”


I swooshed a three before telling him, “I’m a girl.” I was never mistaken again.