The jig was up. I could stop pretending. My body horizontal on the grimy floor of a BART train was proof that this thing I was doing wasn’t sustainable. By “this thing,” I mean my life.
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Had I been born a boy, I would have been named “Lance Anthony Vitale.” But on February 27, 1977, a seven-pound, seven ounce girl was shoved into the world. I was named “Angela Lee Vitale.”
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Dear, dear body, so little about my childbirth experience had to do with control.
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