Real Man Adventures (7 page)

I’
VE BEEN THINKING
I should probably include something about the children here, perhaps something funny, like when I had to, for the first time, explain the definitions and purposes of periods, cramps, uteruses, ovaries, and vaginas to the girls while the three of us were on an emergency mercy mission to the pharmacy to buy tampons for their mother one rainy night.
¹
Or something heartbreakingly sweet, like how soon after I started living with them and my voice wasn’t as low as it is now, the older one expressed to me that she wasn’t uncomfortable with my being “a different kind of boy,” but that her sole concern about it was that she worried that it made me
sad if a waitperson mistakenly called me “she” when we were out to dinner.
²
Or perhaps I could include some sort of sociological observation, like how I noticed early on that being with the kids made me pass more readily and seamlessly than anything else when out in the world—for example in the bubble of Disneyworld, where nobody would ever question that I, even with a voice that didn’t entirely match the body at that point, was anything but a real, normal, standard-issue dad, standing in the blazing sun with his wife and kids on line for Big Thunder Mountain.

But you know what? I’m feeling particularly protective of the children, and likely always will, so that’s all I’m going to say about them right now.

_______________________________

1
. “It’s not fair you’re a boy and don’t have to bleed,” observed the little one, aged seven at the time.

2
. To which I responded by explaining that it didn’t make me sad at all, that it was completely normal for those mistakes to occur, and that there was nothing for her to worry about or concern herself with. So basically all lies, except the last bit.

A
NOTHER GAME, THIS ONE
played with my friend J—: It must’ve been around fifth grade, roughly the ages my kids are now. There was no winning, no object of this game, so I suppose Truck Driver and Hooker should be classified more as “imaginary play” than a game.

We played it in my childhood room, with the door closed, as soon as it grew too dark to roam outside. Details are fuzzy, and I don’t remember whose idea it was initially, but the “game” usually started when I would drive up to J— in a make-believe semi truck and pump my fist two times like I was yanking the horn cord over my head. Then I would roll the window down (manually), coming to a stop in front of her. She would be hanging out on the foot-high carpeted platform on which my mattress rested, fake-filing her
nails, bouncing a leg over a knee, pretending to be bored. As soon as I got my window down, she’d eagerly approach my cab, look up at me, and say something like, “Twenty dollars.” To which I would either nod my head, “Okay,” or—more likely—shake her off gruffly, starting to roll the window back up and pull away in my truck. At which point she would desperately chase after me, suggesting “Fifteen!” or even “Ten!”
¹
When I was satisfied with the price, I’d stop the truck, open the door, and indicate that J— should hop in.

I was supposed to have been piloting a sleeper cab, naturally, and what happened next would take place on my bunk in the back of the cab. After I drove off and parked somewhere private (rest area, truck stop?), I would unbuckle my seat belt (safety first!) and tell her to get in the back and lie down on the bunk. Which was in reality just my small bedroom’s deep-blue, scratchy carpeted floor, where J— would lie on her back and wait.

The more I try to recall details, the more I feel the entire scene begin to slip away (probably for the best). But I know for certain that what happened next is that I would hold myself horizontally over her, without ever touching her body. Our clothes stayed on, because I had no idea what I was actually supposed to be doing, but I do remember huffs of hot breath and flushed cheeks and a sweaty hand held mere millimeters from her privates, just hovering over
her like that. And we’d stay there until my arms would start shaking from keeping the one-arm push-up position for so long. And then I’d roll off her.

And the game was over.

_______________________________

1
. I guess prices have not changed much since the early 80’s, as just recently I was walking alone on St. Mark’s Place in the East Village in New York when a methy looking girl came up behind me, told me she liked my jacket, and then got right up in my ear and in a raspy-ass voice offered, “Want a quick hand-job for ten bucks?” (It was nine in the morning.)

A Six-Word Memoir

Guys dug me. I mostly declined.

Another Excerpt from a Draft of the Letter I Eventually Sent My Parents To Let Them Know I Wasn’t Their Daughter Anymore

…I
DON’T REALLY KNOW
how to continue to “protect” you from this information, which is not new and has been floating out there for a long time. But I can say that some of your past reactions to the details of my life have colored my willingness to continue to share those details with you. I take responsibility for my side of that; it has been a default choice on and off to include only information that I know will go over without an emotional explosion—it’s exhausting for me to constantly teeter on the edge of disappointment. I’m sure the denial is equally exhausting to you. As a result it’s frequently been easier for me not to reveal all things to you. To remain in orbit, intersecting only occasionally so as to leave three quarters of life out. Like leap year. Because the negative reactions involved (often to any change, big or small) have included fear, skepticism, and
anxiety—in lieu of things like acceptance or a willingness to try to understand or to be happy because I say I am happy and able to be myself in the world. Life is short, and who knows how much of it is left at any given time. You raised me to be strong and smart enough to know and be myself. Not to live a half life.

TC: I’
M ASKING YOU
these questions because I’m too much of a wimp to ask my own parents. Or maybe I’m not ready to hear their answers. Or maybe I’m just being a jerk by not giving them a voice. They are much improved. They are trying. In fact, things are fairly normalized now, because I know they love me and ultimately accept me and don’t want to make me unhappy if they can help it. Not that S—’s and my situations are one and the same, but there
are of course some fundamental parallels. So here goes: What’s your biggest fear about S—’s being transgender?

M—: There have been several fears which have morphed over the years, mostly to do with his being different and the lack of understanding in society. The very first, felt in the anger of initial reaction, was selfish, fear of my
own
social isolation, born of my own insecurity: how S—’s being different would make people think I was “weird” too.

Thankfully, my maternal instincts pushed my selfishness out of the way pretty quickly. My mind then went to protecting my child against people in society who wouldn’t accept him.
Boys Don’t Cry
came to mind (pretty much all I knew at that time about being transgender), and pictures of Matthew Shepard—the fear of other people harming my child because he was different.

Now that I see how S— has handled his life and is well accepted by people he meets (he is quite a charmer), I try to leave those fears alone, but occasionally they creep forward. He is quite “out” in his activist job, could be an easy target really, but that’s just the way he is. So I have to live with that and accept it, and I push those fears to the back of my mind.

I do realistically worry about the long-term side effects of testosterone. I keep asking him to make sure he takes his calcium every day,
²
but again this is something we have no control over, and like most medications, the benefits outweigh the risks.

TC: Do you feel like S— is essentially the same person he was before transitioning?

M—: A definitive yes. I would think people might find that hard to believe, and perhaps I would have, too, had I not experienced it, but he truly is the same
essential
being. I think I am fortunate that S— has been able to explain so much to me and is a great communicator. He can express his feelings in the same way he always did. (Who says men can’t have a female side?)

I do feel, however, that he has also changed
for the better
because now that he feels at peace with who he is, he is in fact much more self-confident, energized, and productive than he used to be when he wasn’t sure of who he was.

TC: When you talk about your child, do you say “daughter” or “son” most of the time? What percentage would you estimate you say “son,” and what percentage do you use “daughter”? Do you feel any resentment about having to say “son,” because in your mind, you had a daughter for so many years and that is what he will always be to you?

M—: My husband and I always say and think “son” and “he.” It took us about a year of prompting from S— before we were able to feel comfortable in doing that easily and, yes, I was resentful and angry at first. But as you come to understand what is going on, you see the reason for it and you lose the resentment. Now when we are around old friends who slip into saying “she,” it feels entirely wrong and we jump on them to “get with it”!

I think we were helped in this adjustment tremendously, however, since we had to move house from Texas to Philadelphia due to a job change about a year after S—’s transition to begin a “new life” ourselves. We made the conscious decision at that time that we would tell people we had a son and leave it at that.

TC: At what point do you tell people the whole story?

M—: When we get to know people better—mostly because it feels inappropriate to tell people personal details about your life (of any sort) until you judge if you want to share everything with them. There are many people in life that you don’t want to get to know any better, yet you still have to work side by side with them, and I just don’t feel like explaining everything to such people. Now, as soon as I know I like this person and want them to continue in our lives, then I will tell them the truth. I must be a pretty good judge of character as I have never had a bad reaction.

TC: What helped you most to understand and be at peace with your son’s transition? Was there a person you talked to, something you read, a meeting you attended, a morning you woke up
and realized something that made you think about things differently?

M—: The first aha moment was pretty early on (about two weeks after his first proclamation), in a heart-to-heart with S—, with him opening his soul to me as to what this meant, how he felt, sobbing from the depths of his being. I knew I had to accept this and deal with it.

It also helped that he brought one of his good FTM friends to stay with us around that time whom I really liked. I never thought of this new person as a “girl,” and that helped me to see how it could be for S—.