Peach’s Letter
Chase parked next to the clinic and stepped inside. That’s when they saw her. The receptionist. Long, golden curls. Immaculate cardigan. A subtle glow… Possibly from the LED panel behind her head. She looked up and smiled, the kind of soft-focus smile that precedes a magical cutscene.
Chase blinked. Princess Peach?
Peach’s secretary slid the envelope across the desk with a clinical grace. “Here you go… But do you want a protection sheet?” “Oh yeah.” Chase smiled ecstatic. Thanked her. Bowed slightly, even. She had glowed. Outside, the sun was cinematic. He opened the letter in slow-mo, letting the anticipation breathe. His heart racing.
Yes. There it was. The gods of bureaucracy had clicked “approve.” The phrase that would grant access to the medical gates: “Not intersex.” The confirmation. The checkpoint. That little phrase: not intersex. Chase winced. Because in his moment of victory, the sentence echoed like a bureaucratic curse, one that upheld a cistem built on erasure.
What did it mean, really, to require a “not” in front of someone’s existence in order to unlock rights? Intersex people had to be explicitly disavowed for the machine to keep running. That “not” was more than a technicality. It reinforced a cold logic where the only way for Chase was to prove they are a Not Intersex Binary Trans Man. This was about border control. Access meant proving what you’re not. The cistem demands subtraction until you fit. The key to unlocking the next level of the Transition Game. Insurance-paid top surgery: press start to continue.
But just beneath it, a note: “Patient previously self-administered testosterone, which explains hormone levels.”
The glowing edges of the world pixelated. Chase stared at the paper like it had morphed into a police report. Because now it might be. Self-administered testosterone wasn’t a side note, it was potentially a legal tripwire. An administrative “oops” that could be recoded as evidence of recklessness. Or non-compliance. Or whatever the DIK’s mood was that day.
He sat at the very edge of a bench, balanced on one cheek only. The rest was covered in a tacky film of old beer, cigarette ash, and mysterious sticky textures that probably had rights of their own. The letter in their lap. The breeze no longer triumphant. A pigeon strutted past, paused, and shat on his 3D-printed sneaker. They say you can’t change the world you walk on. But you can change your shoes. Chase looked down. Apparently, that was bullshit too.
They had talked to the GP beforehand. Had even broached the awkward topic of how medicine is political, actually. The GP had insisted no, it was more about professionalism. But here he was. With a letter that casually confessed to a possible crime: self-administered T might not be, but this substance without a prescription is. Cistem’s hypocrisy: it criminalizes care while denying access to it.
“Ray,” Chase whispered, summoning their AI twin from the cloud. “Do I ask for a new letter? Ray didn’t answer. He was probably calculating the legal fallout. Or glitching out from secondhand embarrassment. Chase exhaled. Maybe the path forward was to go back. To reset the quest. To ask Peach for a revision. They would have to confront the GP, navigate the power dynamics, and possibly undergo new tests, all while balancing the fragile trust and the absurdity of a cistem that needed to be told, in writing, that someone was not someone else in order to believe they were real.
Chase opened a new draft on their phone. Typed. Stopped. Deleted. Rephrased. Deleted again. It was never just a letter. Every ask had to be a performance, calibrated to soothe the doctor’s professionalism.
Ask nicely. Be a good boy. Vulnerable, but not unstable. Grateful, but not weak. Clear, but never confrontational. Make it easy for the gatekeeper to feel helpful. Let them stay in charge. Never too emotional. Never too certain. Honest. But not alarming. Trusting. But always verifying. Because help came with conditions. Every promise had to be checked. Every “ally” interrogated. Every word a negotiation between obedience and survival.
He’d learned that his words carried more weight when they didn’t sound like they came from him. It was always safer to speak as someone else: your own social worker, your own doctor, or, in this case, a trans organization. That way, the cistem might listen. Might take it seriously. Authority, even when faked, carried more legitimacy than truth spoken in your own voice.
Chase stared at the blank screen, jaw tight. Then asked Ray to make it sound more convincing. Maybe even a little less afraid. Just enough to pass as someone worth helping.
—
Hi Dr. Peach,
Thank you very much for the letter. I really appreciate your support.
A trans organization advised me that only the specific wording from the second page should be included. They mentioned that any additional details could lead to complications. Also, lab test documents aren’t required, just a letter with the exact information you wrote on page two.
Would it be possible for you to provide a revised version of the letter with only that content?
It would help me move forward.
Best,
Chase
—
Hello Chase,
I have written a lot of letters like yours over the years and never has here been any complication. There is no need to revise any of the information.
Best regards,
Dr. Peach
—
Dear Dr. Peach,
Thank you for your reply.
I completely understand that you’ve written many such letters without any complications, and I’m truly grateful for your support in this process. At the same time, I’ve been strongly advised by a trans organization to ask for a revised version that includes only the content from page two. They mentioned that additional details, however well-intended, can lead to issues. This request is not a criticism of your work but a precaution based on shared trans experience. I simply want to make sure everything proceeds as smoothly as possible.
Would you prefer that we discuss this in person? Please let me know what works best for you.
Best,
Chase
—
Hello,
you can pick up your new letter in the front desk.
Best,
Dr. Peach
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