Serenity Hart kneels in Old Gridania, just near the Greatloam Growery, where the flowers bloom in clusters of white, red, and gold. He wears his Aerith tribute proudly: a red blouse with a cropped jacket, a pink shin-length skirt, brown boots, and a matching ribbon tucked into a braided ponytail. He prays among the petals, unbothered by the monsters that roam too far to reach him. Twelve years of trial and error brought him here.
I had been every race, every gender, but only Lalafell, with its small frame and ambiguous softness, ever felt like home. He is he, and he is they. Their pronouns shift like light through leaves. Each patch adds more dresses, more unlocked glamours, more room. And every time I select a new outfit for them, I feel like I’m building a space that fits.
When I arrived at the first library I taught in, I wore black and gray checkered button-downs, oversized pants, and a black satchel. I didn’t want to be seen. I wanted to be useful. A good worker takes up just enough space to do the job, then quietly slips out the door. For a while, I told myself that was enough. Something bloomed when I started to let Serenity Hart’s influence reach the other side of the screen. My clothes began to shift. Pink became my favorite color. The students noticed first: my pink backpack, pink bike helmet, pink sneakers. I didn’t start loud. It built slowly. But even as I tried to keep things simple at school, something inside me kept stepping forward.
Now I teach first grade. The classroom is filled with Bluey and Super Mario Bros. decals, blending gendered characters. I wear pink shorts and pink glasses and a shirt that reads “First Grade Rocks!” in bright colors across black cotton. My work emails carry a signature that says he/they, just like my essays. My space isn’t a secret anymore. Serenity still walks in his skirts, and I walk into my classroom knowing I deserve to be here. He taught me how.
Into The Spine