Alex as Well (5 page)
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I thought about what Vic said, and I rang Alex’s school to ask about whether he was bullied. The lady at reception said that she would get his year advisor to call me back. Then she asked if this is why Alex wasn’t at school this week.
He came downstairs this morning in a girl’s school uniform. He looked straight at me so defiant, like a challenge. Another mother told me once, ‘only engage in the battles you think you can win,’ and that was the best advice I ever got when he was small. A lot of problems resolved themselves when he stopped trying to pick fights with me. Well, he still used to challenge me all the time, but I stopped taking the bait.
It also meant that he won a lot of the time, so I suppose it was less about winning battles and came down to the things I could put up with and the things I couldn’t.
He went through a phase when he was about three where he would push his highchair around the house, and then climb up, and he could reach just about anything. I had some stamps, because I was into scrapbooking for a little while, but he pulled them down and stamped all over the furniture with ink. He did that twice. I was angry and so I threw away all my stamps and ink. Then I cried, because I had really enjoyed scrapbooking. I didn’t get to do it very often—only when Alex was asleep and the house was clean, and all the bills were paid, and the washing finished, which was almost never. I cried because Alex has been so totally demanding, I’m not even allowed to have a hobby that I don’t do. I’m not allowed to own something that’s just for me.
It’s not about the stupid stamps, it’s the fact that I am not allowed to define myself as separate from ‘cares for Alex’, even with something so innocuous as scrapbooking. Does that make sense?
He got a bottle of cough syrup open once, and I was so scared! Nothing was safe from him. So I said ‘right, mister! This is how it’s going to be,’ and I got really tough about the whole scooting the highchair around, and it worked. It also helped that I locked the highchair in the broom cupboard when he wasn’t in it. He was safer and we didn’t fight about that anymore.
Today I tried that again. He told me he didn’t want to go to that school, he wants to go to a different school. I
decided that I would be tough. Tough but fair, and just say, ‘this is what the rules are’.
But I called him ‘mister’. Twice. I didn’t mean to, it just slipped out. It hurt him, and on some level I was glad that he was hurt, because I’m hurting. I’m hurting every day, and he doesn’t care now any more than he cared that I wasn’t allowed to have a hobby. I wanted him to know what that feels like, so maybe he can appreciate what his behaviour is doing to me and stop it.
I don’t want to hurt him, but I also don’t know how to make him understand. I want him to be a person who cares for other people. I am overwhelmed by the gender thing, but much more than that I want him to grow up as a person who thinks about his actions and doesn’t do things that hurt other people. I want him to be happy, but not at the expense of hurting others. I don’t know how you make someone care about other people. How do you do that?
Heather
COMMENTS:
Dee Dee
wrote:
Everything you did today was right, except the name that you used. Don’t beat yourself up. The approach was a really good one. Stick with it! You need to let Alex know that you are the boss. All children need to have boundaries. They can pound on
them as much as they like, but they need to know boundaries are there, and they don’t budge.
In the future, if you think you are going to say ‘mister’, why don’t you try saying ‘sunshine’ instead?
Cheryl
wrote:
Know that we will always be in your corner. You are not going through this alone. This is a safe place for you where peo[ple care.
Georgeous
wrote:
What did the year advisor say?
Vic
wrote:
Let’s take a step back for a minute. What was the thing Alex did that you thought meant he doesn’t care about others? Do you mean wearing the girl’s school uniform? Or telling you about being unhappy at the old school? I’m not clear on how that is hurting you. It sounds more like Alex is establishing an identity. That would have taken considerable bravery, I would have thought. Am I missing something?
Dee Dee
wrote:
Alex can decide he doesn’t like a school, but he still has to go. Imagine if every parent let their kids stay home who ‘didn’t like it’? The schools would be empty. The home is not a democracy. The adults have to make the decisions.
Georgeous
wrote:
I disagree. If he is unhappy and unsafe then he shouldn’t have to go. He’s not going to learn and prosper in an unhealthy environment.
Dee Dee
wrote:
No, he does have to go, it’s the law.
Vic
wrote:
This is not about the pros and cons of school attendance, it’s about Alex.
Che
r
yl
wrote:
No, Vic. This is about Heather, and she’s grieving over the loss of her son, so watch your tone, please.
Vi
c wrote:
Ok, noted, but it sounds like Heather is punishing Alex for things she did when she was three years old. And if Alex knew she was a girl when she was three, but was being identified as a boy, then of course that is going to manifest in some unusual behaviour.
I would have thought that the fact that Alex has enough self awareness to recognise who she truly is, at this tender age, and the boldness to be herself is something to celebrate, not to mourn. I guess it’s just me.
WE GET HOME from the hardware shop and my dad is home. I don’t say anything. He puts his arms around me and he says, ‘I’ve thought about it, and your mum and I have gone around this all wrong. It’s
your
body. They’re
your
feelings. What we should do here is support you in any way we can, because this must be really tough for you. Adolescence is tough enough. Will you forgive us?’
I nod through tears.
He holds my face in his hands. ‘You’re a really pretty girl. Do you know that? But that’s not important. You’re doing something really brave and being true to what’s in your heart and I’m proud of you.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I whisper, hardly able to make a sound through the lump in my throat.
We turn and go into the house. Mum has made a vegetarian lasagne. It’s not very good. I’m glad, because it doesn’t matter. It’s not about the lasagne. She’s trying
and it’s so great. It’s huge.
‘I bought a vegetarian cookbook today,’ she says. ‘It’s going to take me a while to get used to some of these recipes. Hey, maybe after dinner we could go through them together? Tomorrow night you can help me make something.’
‘I’d like that,’ I say.
‘Tell me about this new school you want to go to?’ Dad asks, ripping off a slice of garlic bread.
I tell them about Amina and her friends, and about art metal, how I am going to make a letterbox for our house.
They are listening to what I’m saying. I can tell because when I finish a sentence they don’t change the subject and talk about the things they were thinking about while I was speaking.
After dinner we sit down in the lounge room. Dad has his feet on the coffee table and Mum has her legs across his lap. I sit cross-legged in the armchair flicking through the recipe book. We watch
The Daily Show
. They don’t even flinch at the swear words.
‘Have you got homework?’ Mum asks.
‘I did it on the train.’
‘Good thinking,’ Dad says. ‘Our little guy has really grown up.’
And then we all freeze, but I say, ‘It’s ok. It’s going to take some getting used to. I understand that.’
We all relax, and Dad says, ‘Hey, why don’t I run down to the servo and buy us all an ice-cream?’
So we had ice-cream and I went to bed a happy girl knowing it would all be all right. The end.
Actually, that’s not how it happened. Could you tell? I’m sure there are families out there that have nights like that. There must be, but not my house. Our house has never been like that. My mother has never suggested I help her cook. She has always shooed me out because I’m under her feet. My dad has never gone out to get us ice-cream, but I know he likes sweet things because there are always lolly wrappers under the seat in his car.
I imagine Amina’s family. All those kids sitting around arguing, laughing, their dad saying something like, ‘keep it down to a dull roar’. I see her mother tall and elegant, and dark in one of those bright-coloured African headdresses, handing around plates of couscous and eggplant, with the scent of cumin and paprika.
I expect Sierra’s family are probably more subdued. I wonder if they are religious and pray before their meal, holding hands around the table, heads bent.
Julia might even be telling her host family right now about the fast clapping we did at lunchtime. I hope so. The host father would give it a try and she would explain to him about the brushing action.
Ty might be telling his family about a girl he met today.
I hope one of them tells their family about the new girl at school.
This is what really happened.
We get home from the hardware shop and I go upstairs and put some music on in my room. Adam Lambert. It’s perfect. I’m going through all the clothes in my wardrobe.
(What do you want from me?)
I am throwing out all the stuff that is sporty and boyish. I’m setting aside all the things that I might still be able to wear. There’s not much left. Mum has bought every single thing in blue or khaki. I hold up a jacket. It’s a light grey linen. I like the material, but I’ve never worn it. I never found the right occasion.
If I wore it with a wide belt and sewed on big buttons or flowers, or even bedazzled the pockets. Then I am inspired, because I could pretty much bedazzle everything left here. With bright buttons and blanket stitching, and scarves, I could reuse them. I’d like to ask my mum because she is really into craft. I know she knows how to do these things. We could girlify these clothes. We could do it together, but she won’t. She’ll make it into a drama. I have always wanted to do craft with her, but she would do a total head-exploding nana.
What have I got left? There are the clothes I bought the other day, a few T-shirts, some jeans, and some cargo pants. Meanwhile, the unwearable pile is almost as tall as me. I shove the unwearables into some garbage
bags. I have decided to chuck them into the back of the cupboard. She will go nuts if I throw them out.
I need money. I need clothes to wear that match how I feel on the inside. It shouldn’t be so hard.
My dad is standing in the doorway. He’s watching me, with his head slunk down, like an old dog.
‘Can I come in for a minute…?’ He was going to say ‘son’, or ‘sport’, because that’s what he calls me, but I am still in my tunic. I have long socks with ribbons on the top and the steel-capped boots on. I love it. It merges the Alexes. But it has made Dad shut down.
I nod.
He sits on the edge of my bed. There’s not much room with all the clothes I have piled up there.
While I wait for him to say something I tug the braids out of my hair. I can see him in the mirror. He’s crying.
‘Can I be totally honest with you?’
I don’t answer, because how do you answer something like that? No? Please keep lying?
He talks really quick, like staccato, and I can tell he’s been practising, or at least thinking about it. Obsessing. Brooding. ‘I think we’ve handled this wrong. I’ve always thought we’ve handled it wrong, but your mother is the one who is here.’
That’s a good beginning.
‘And you need to give her a break. She tries so hard, and you’re making it as difficult for her as you can. That’s hurtful, Alex. You block her out. She’s only trying to
understand. We both are.’
He puts his hands over his face and his shoulders are moving up and down.
I go back to my drawers and pull out some more T-shirts, sorting them into two piles.
No
sorry I ran off and didn’t tell you where I was
. No
sorry you must have been worried about me
. No
sorry I didn’t respond to your text message.
None of that. He’s just as bad as she is.
There is this show on Nickelodeon and it’s called
Back to the Barnyard
or
Down the Barnyard
or something, and the main character is a cow, Otis, with huge pink udders, except Otis is a he. Nobody ever explains why he has massive udders hanging between his legs. None of the other animals ever draw attention to them. It’s just not a big deal. Otis is cool. It’s hijinks galore. He has a crush on the girl cow. She thinks Otis is hot, even though he has udders. I love that show.
Mum shouts up the stairs, ‘Dinner!’
I bound past my dad and down two steps at a time. Not because I’m hungry, but because I want to get away from that awkward situation. I’m standing there on the bottom step staring at the feast on the dining table. She’s done a roast. She’s cooked the vegetables in the meat juices, and drowned the whole lot in meat gravy. I’m not sure how long it takes to cook a roast, but I think it’s hours and in all that time it has not crossed her mind that I’m vegetarian.
‘What?’ she says.
I turn around and run back up the stairs, pushing past my father again.
‘What?’ she says, getting all shrill. ‘What now?’
