There’s a Girl in the Men’s Bathroom

This essay is from the INDY’s Portrait of Pride series. You can read the rest of the essays here.

It was two o’clock in the morning, and I was soaking wet, my slippery body shimmering under the dim shower light. I rubbed my sudsy hands over my body slowly, careful not to splash or drop my loofah. Washing up as quietly as possible. I performed a silent dance, desperately trying to hide the fact that I was a girl in the boys’ bathroom.

I snuck into the men’s bathroom every night. It was the only bathroom in the all-men’s dormitory that my university had assigned to me, based solely on the gender marker on my driver’s license. When the clock struck two a.m., I’d peer out into the hallway and slink through the night like a transgender ninja. Tucking my long hair into a hoodie and covering my breasts with my shower caddy, I’d shuffle into the greasy boys’ dormitory bathroom. In the dark, nobody could tell I was a woman, and when I was really quiet, nobody could tell I was there at all. Nobody cared about the girl on the men’s floor.

I thought I was so slick, turning off the lights and locking the door before disrobing. The only trace left of me each night was the last bits of glitter from my eyeshadow, collecting around the drain in a ring like a glamorous rash. That stubborn glitter stayed, even when I didn’t.

One night, I bumped into another girl while opening the door. I thought I’d been caught red-handed by an RA, my shampoo clattering to the ground. But as my eyes adjusted to the darkness of the bathroom, I realized I wasn’t the only girl in the men’s building. There we stood, in the dark, two transgirls where we shouldn’t be—a late-night checkmate. She smiled at me before hurrying out, leaving behind nothing but an identical shimmer around the drain.

From that night on, we performed our dance together. Scooting past one another when the coast was clear, holding our breath when a toilet flushed. We rarely spoke, only learning each other’s names after weeks had passed. It was enough that we shared this secret, connecting us through the slick shower walls.

On the day of our building’s centennial anniversary, all the bathrooms in the building were closed off. The pipes were the same since the building’s opening in 1922, resulting in a toxic buildup of lead in the water we used daily. With no other choice, we were exiled to the women’s dorm across the street, looking for a bathroom we could use.

That first night we tried using the women’s restroom, we heard a gasp from a stall near the door.

“Wait, are there boys in here?”

My heart dropped, and I grabbed my friend’s hand, pulling us out of the bathroom we were supposed to belong in. Five minutes later, we found ourselves back at the door to the men’s bathroom. Ducking under the caution tape, we picked the lock with a bobby pin and hurried into the dark, empty room. Without missing a beat, we jumped into the toxic showers and began our ritual, gleefully sloshing around in the lead-laden water, sweaty makeup running down the drain.

To this day, that glitter still probably sits at the bottom of the dorm showers. Even after we’ve left Chapel Hill, the shimmer stays behind. The door to the bathroom is probably still locked, and the transgirls probably still sneak in. Showering in absolute peace.

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