Walsh Family Universe V2

Chapter 36
First Grade

The back-to-school shopping in late August felt surreal. Shannon pushed the cart through Target while Ash walked beside her, now tall enough that he didn't need to ride in the seat anymore.

"We need pencils, folders, a lunchbox..." Mom consulted her list. "Oh! And you need new cleats for fall baseball. Your feet grew again."

"Can we get the blue ones?" Ash asked, looking at the display of sports equipment with genuine interest.

"Of course. Let's get those first, then school supplies."

Ash—six years old now, physically—had grown significantly over the past three years. Taller, leaner, more coordinated. His adult consciousness had watched his body develop with fascination and something close to satisfaction. This body worked. Moved well. Was strong and capable.

Was finally, undeniably his.

They found the cleats—bright blue with white stripes, perfect for the competitive baseball league he'd be joining in September. Then moved to school supplies.

"First grade!" Mom said, picking up the supply list from St. Catherine's. "Can you believe it? My baby is in first grade."

Ash could believe it. Three years of preschool and Pre-K and kindergarten behind him. Three years of sitting through lessons teaching him things he'd learned decades ago. Three years of pretending basic addition was challenging.

"Do I have to go?" he asked, not for the first time.

"Of course you have to go. School is important." Mom handed him a pack of pencils to put in the cart. "And Mrs. Rodriguez is supposed to be wonderful. You'll make new friends, learn new things—"

"I already know everything they're going to teach."

Mom's expression softened. "I know, baby. But you still have to go. It's part of growing up. And besides, there's recess and gym class and art. You like art."

Art was tolerable. Recess meant he could run around. Gym class would probably be easy given his athletic abilities.

But sitting through phonics lessons when he could read at a college level? Learning single-digit addition when he understood calculus? Pretending to sound out words?

The irony of his situation wasn't lost on him. Here he was, a twenty-eight-year-old—well, physically six—who'd once been obsessed with art and books and creative expression, now more excited about baseball cleats than school supplies.

He'd become a jock.

The thought made him want to laugh and cry simultaneously.

"Can we sign up for swim team too?" he asked as they headed to checkout. "Marcus said they have one for six-year-olds."

"I'll look into it. You might be busy with baseball though."

"I can do both."

Mom smiled. "My little athlete. When did you get so sports-focused?"

When his body finally worked right and physical activity felt good and success in sports earned praise and belonging in a way his art never had in this life, that's when.

But he just shrugged. "I like it."

The first day of first grade arrived on a Tuesday in early September. Ash wore his new uniform—khaki pants and a navy polo, now in size 6 instead of size 3T. His backpack had a baseball logo on it, purchased after much deliberation at the sports store.

The old Ash—the original Ash—would have chosen something artistic. Would have decorated it with patches and pins. Would have rolled his eyes at sports branding.

New Ash—Noam—had picked it because it matched his cleats and because other kids on his baseball team had similar ones.

The transformation was complete, and somehow he'd barely noticed it happening.

In the car, Mom reviewed the day. "Lunch is at 11:30, you know where your classroom is, Mrs. Rodriguez knows about your... situation. She'll challenge you appropriately."

"Okay."

"And remember, be kind to the other students. Some of them are still learning things that are easy for you. Be patient."

That was the hard part. Being patient while a teacher explained concepts he'd mastered before most of these kids were born.

St. Catherine's first grade hallway was louder than the preschool wing. Bigger kids, more energy. Ash found his classroom—1-B, Mrs. Rodriguez written on the door—and took a breath.

Here we go again.

Mrs. Rodriguez was young, maybe thirty, with kind eyes and a classroom decorated with inspirational posters about growth mindset and trying your best.

"Good morning! You must be Noam!" She crouched to his level. "I'm so excited to have you in my class. I've heard wonderful things about you from Mrs. Brennan."

"Hi."

"Why don't you pick a desk? You can sit anywhere for today, then we'll make a seating chart."

Ash chose a desk in the middle—not front where the eager students sat, not back where the troublemakers would end up. Just... middle. Blending in.

Marcus arrived next, his face lighting up when he saw Ash. "We're in the same class!"

"Cool."

Emma came in shortly after, immediately claiming the desk next to Ash. "This is going to be the best year! We're all together!"

As the classroom filled, Mrs. Rodriguez started the day with introductions. Each student had to say their name and one thing they did over summer.

"I'm Noam. I played baseball and went to swim camp."

"Wonderful! I love that we have athletes in our class. Sports teach us so much about teamwork and perseverance."

The day proceeded with establishing routines, going over rules, beginning to assess where students were academically. Mrs. Rodriguez handed out a worksheet—simple reading comprehension with questions about a short story.

Ash finished it in two minutes. Sat there while other students laboriously sounded out words, needed help from Mrs. Rodriguez, asked what certain words meant.

This was going to be a long year.

At recess, he joined Marcus and Emma and some boys from his baseball team on the playground. They played a pickup game of kickball, and Ash felt the familiar satisfaction of physical competence. Running, kicking, catching. His body doing exactly what he wanted it to do.

One boy—Daniel, new to the school—kicked a high ball that Ash caught easily.

"Whoa! Good catch!" Daniel jogged over after the out. "You're good. Do you play sports?"

"Baseball. And swimming."

"Me too! Well, baseball. What position?"

"Shortstop mostly. Sometimes third base."

They talked easily about sports. About their teams, their stats, their favorite players. The kind of conversation that would have bored original-Ash to tears but that current-Noam found genuinely engaging.

"We should practice together sometime," Daniel said. "My dad sets up a batting cage in our backyard."

"That would be cool."

After recess came math. Mrs. Rodriguez wrote single-digit addition problems on the board.

"Who can tell me what 7 + 5 equals?"

Hands shot up. Ash kept his down, staring at the problem that his brain had solved instantly and automatically.

7 + 5 = 12. Also 84 divided by 7. Also the square root of 144. Also—

He stopped himself. Thought about baseball statistics instead. His batting average this season (.672). The number of home runs (23). Stolen bases (15).

That was more interesting than single-digit addition.

Lunch was at 11:30, just as Shannon had said. Ash sat with Marcus and Emma and the baseball boys. They talked about the upcoming season, about tryouts, about who was joining which team.

Emma rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "You're all so obsessed with sports."

"You play soccer," Marcus pointed out.

"Yeah, but I don't talk about it constantly." She turned to Ash. "Remember when we were little and we used to build block zoos? That was fun."

"That was like three years ago," Ash said.

"I know! We were so little!" Emma laughed.

Three years ago. When he'd been actually three. When this life was new and horrible and he'd fought every moment of it.

Now he was six. Now he chose desks in the middle and talked about baseball statistics and felt genuinely excited about fall league tryouts.

The transformation was complete.

And the worst part was that he didn't entirely hate it.

After school, Mom picked him up with the usual questions. "How was it? Do you like Mrs. Rodriguez? Did you make any new friends?"

"It was fine. Mrs. Rodriguez is nice. I already know all the stuff we're learning though."

"I know, baby. But that's okay. You'll get more challenging work as the year goes on." Mom pulled out of the parking lot. "Guess what though? I signed you up for swim team! Practice is Tuesday and Thursday evenings, meets on Saturdays."

"Really?" Ash felt that spark of genuine excitement. "That's awesome!"

"Baseball starts next week too, so you'll be busy. But you said you wanted to do both."

"I do."

At home, Dad was already there, eager to hear about the first day. "How was first grade, champ?"

"Boring. We did addition."

Dad laughed. "Yeah, I bet that's pretty easy for you. But you've got to be patient with it. The other kids are actually learning this stuff for the first time."

"I know."

"But hey—Mom said she signed you up for swim team! That's great. Between that and baseball, you're going to be swamped." Dad looked genuinely pleased. "My son the two-sport athlete."

That phrase—two-sport athlete—would have made original-Ash laugh. Or cry. Or both.

Original-Ash who'd spent high school cutting class to smoke weed behind the gym. Who'd thought sports were stupid and jocks were shallow. Who'd identified so hard with being artistic and alternative and definitely-not-athletic.

Now here he was. Six years old. Excited about swim team. Already planning his baseball season. Choosing sports equipment over art supplies.

Living the most stereotypically masculine-coded childhood possible.

The irony was almost funny.

He'd spent his original life pushing back against masculine expectations, finding his identity outside traditional gender roles, being proudly queer and artistic and unlike other guys.

Now he had the male body he'd always wanted—finally, completely, undeniably his—and he was using it to become exactly the kind of boy he'd once rejected.

A jock.

That night, doing his extremely simple homework (write the numbers 1-20, practice writing his name, draw a picture of something he did over summer), Ash thought about the trajectory.

Three years ago he'd been desperate to hold onto who he was. To resist becoming Noam. To maintain his identity as Ash.

Now he wrote "Noam Walsh" at the top of his paper without thinking about it. Drew a picture of himself hitting a baseball. Felt genuinely excited about swim practice starting next week.

"My name is Ash," he whispered to his empty room. But the words felt more like ritual than truth.

His name was Noam. On his homework, on his baseball roster, on his swim team signup sheet. Noam Walsh, age 6, two-sport athlete, first-grader at St. Catherine's.

"I'm twenty-eight years old," he continued. But that felt distant too. His body was six. His life was six. His concerns were six-year-old concerns: making the A-team for baseball, improving his freestyle stroke, wondering if he'd get Daniel's dad's contact info so they could practice batting.

"I used to be an artist."

That one hurt most because it was past tense. Used to be. The easel in his room gathered dust. He drew sometimes, but sports consumed most of his time and energy. And honestly? Sports were more fun. More engaging. Gave him clearer goals and more obvious success.

He'd become everything original-Ash had disdained.

And he liked it.

That was the complicated truth sitting in his chest. He liked being good at baseball. He liked swimming competitively. He liked the camaraderie of teammates and the clear metrics of athletic success and the way his body felt after a good practice.

He'd finally gotten the right body—male, his, comfortable—and he was living the most stereotypically masculine childhood possible with it.

The irony would have killed original-Ash.

Current-Noam just rolled with it.

Because what else could he do?

He finished his homework (so easy it was insulting), put it in his backpack with the baseball logo, and got ready for bed.

Tomorrow was Wednesday. School, then baseball practice. This weekend was tryouts for the fall league. Next Tuesday was first swim practice.

Five thousand one hundred and seventy-six days to go.

But today he'd started first grade as a two-sport athlete who was more excited about his new cleats than his school supplies.

Today he'd talked baseball statistics at lunch and made plans to practice batting with a new friend.

Today he'd been exactly the kind of boy original-Ash would have avoided or mocked.

And he'd been happy.

That was the truth he couldn't escape.

He fell asleep thinking about swim strokes and batting averages and whether he'd make the A-team.

Thinking like a jock.

Being a jock.

Living a life so far removed from who he'd been that sometimes it felt like Ash and Noam were completely different people who just happened to share memories.

And maybe they were.

Maybe that was okay.

Maybe you could be queer and artistic and alternative in one life, and athletic and traditionally masculine in another, and both could be real.

Maybe gender wasn't as simple as he'd thought.

Maybe having the right body meant you could do whatever you wanted with it, even if that meant being a stereotype you'd once rejected.

Maybe becoming a jock wasn't betraying who he'd been.

Maybe it was just... becoming.

He dreamed of pools and baseball diamonds and first place ribbons.

Dreams that original-Ash would have hated.

Dreams that Noam loved.

Both true.

Both him.

Always both.