Me, Myself, They

by Joshua M. Ferguson

  One of the challenges for me was confronting some of my extended family members, who felt powerless to help my parents through this dark time. It was a darkness that felt too real for them. I had experienced my fair share of gloom, but I hadn’t distanced myself from it yet. I was still situated deep within my own trauma. I hadn’t found the balance of compartmentalization that in adulthood often helps us to develop coping mechanisms. I was there for my dad in a very conscious, clear, and active way. Yet my relationship with my mom suffered for years because I chose to focus on my relationships with him and with my brothers. When families separate, it’s difficult for kids to stay close with both parents. Children are often forced, impossibly, to choose a side.

  My mom had the strength to live and function through manic depressive episodes for most of my childhood. She is another Amazon in my eyes, a survivor, and an inspiration. I don’t ever want her to feel guilt for breaking free from the confines of her marriage. I can’t judge what was done in their relationship, nor do I have a right to. I don’t need to know the intricate workings and failings of their relationship. I thought that I had a right to know about the truth of her affair, but I now know that I didn’t have that right, and that she was also trying to protect me.

  My mom and dad will always be my parents, even if they aren’t together. My mom needed to make a change in her life. She needed to move on from a life that she no longer wanted. I wish that I could have simply said to her that night in our garage, “I’m here. I love you, and I will always respect you, no matter what.” But I’ve said it to her now, many times, and she knows it.

  My parents weren’t perfect. I don’t believe any parent can meet all of our expectations. They show us their humanity in their mistakes. And I learned the most from them when they became human beings to me, not godlike figures on a pedestal. These events shaped me, made me more brave, courageous, and self-sacrificing. And what happened to us opened a door to a more powerful empathy, because I could see my parents as the human beings they are, not just as who they wanted me to see. Their mistakes helped me forgive the mistakes of others, and to forgive myself in the moments when I almost slipped into dangerous suicidal feelings. Most of all, their survival strengthened my spirituality, made me aware that there are powers beyond, infusing us, protecting us, and at times perhaps testing us.

  My paternal grandmother, Nan Thelma, also expanded my ability as an empath with her own depth of intuition and sense of spirituality. She was the most spiritual person in my life, a deeply faithful Christian who worshipped in the Anglican Church. Sadly, she suffered severe physical and emotional abuse as a child, and I could always sense this suffering in her. Nan Thelma was one of my best friends. She was a dear confidant and companion. She was a survivor who faced many challenges throughout her life.

  As a child I sent her handwritten letters, and in my twenties and thirties I spent hours with her on the phone. Her warm voice came from the love she kept for me in her heart, and it always made me feel special. There wasn’t a moment in my life when I didn’t know how much she truly cared for me. At the end of my phone calls with her, she would always tell me that I would be in her nightly prayers. She would remind me that her angels would always look after me. Her spirit passed on when she was ninety-one years old. She is one of those angels now, perhaps the most powerful one, a guiding and protective energy lifted up by the love she shared with me throughout her life.

  I adored my grandmother for her elegance, beauty, and quiet strength. Her Dietrich-esque eyebrows pencilled with precision, her body adorned with furs, chic shoes, and gold accessories. Her presence emboldened by a scent of sophistication thanks to Chanel Nº 5, and her sharp, manicured nails accentuated further by extra-slim menthol cigarettes. She was a powerful role model to me of femininity and grace. I always wanted to be physically close to her during visits, as if her feminine elegance, strength, and intuition would somehow rub off on me.

  When we knew the end was near for my grandmother, I didn’t want to say goodbye to her, but I had to see her in person before she passed to express the depth of my gratitude for her love. And I’m glad that I did, because my last moments with her ended up being the most beautiful and meaningful of our life together — a life full of laughter, smiles, and conversation. My last moment with her was a spiritual experience that highlighted the power of faith, not just in ourselves but in the people around us, and cemented our empathic bond forever. I can’t put it any other way than this: Nan Thelma said hello to me on the day that we also said goodbye to each other in this life.

  “Goodbye, Nan. I will miss you. Thank you for loving me and for always being there for me,” I said to her with hesitation and sadness at the end of my visit in palliative care.

  I sensed a sudden wave of energy as she looked into my eyes and said, “Be a good girl, Joshua. Be a good girl.”

  Oh, my goddess, I can’t believe she just said that, I thought as soon as the words left her mouth. I froze in that moment and looked at her with a widening smile. Here she was at ninety-one years old, recognizing me as a trans person in the best way she could. Seeing me with empathy, making me feel respected and appreciated. My grandmother gave me the greatest gift when she greeted me — the real me — for the first time, and on the level of language.

  Being seen as I am by people is a remarkable feeling, and my grandmother gave this gift to me in the most unexpected moment. I wanted so much to tell her that I appreciated her for seeing me. How did she know to say this during our last conversation? Nan Thelma always knew when I was trying to hide difficulties in my life. She could always sense my suffering with depression and the uncontrollable effects of being an empath. She was inquisitive and curious. Sometimes, she would gently nudge me on the phone and encourage me to explain what was bothering me, even while she was experiencing her own physical and emotional challenges. Her last words to me made me realize that our goodbye wouldn’t last forever. “If things get tough,” she said, “I’m two steps behind you, always there.”

  We don’t ever lose the ones we love. They join us on our journeys through life. The memories they imprinted upon us, the love they shared with us, and the appreciation and respect they had for us continue in a way that we can always count on. My Nan Thelma will live with me for the rest of my life — just two steps behind me — while she embarks on a new beginning of her own.

  I found her Bible after her passing. Tucked into the front pages, among some old news clippings, was my birth announcement. When I read it, I was struck by the discovery that there was no mention of my sex or gender — something that is almost always included in such announcements. I took it as another sign from Nan Thelma telling me to be who I am. It was a sign from beyond, knowingly felt thanks to the empathic cord always connecting us.

  My maternal grandmother, Nan Lois, was also a formative force in my life, and we also shared a deep empathic connection. Like my Nan Thelma, Nan Lois was a star; when she walked into the room, everyone turned to look at her. She had platinum, almost white blond hair, a statuesque body, sharp nails often decorated with crystals in the polish, and a golden tan. She had an effortless flair for style, and she looked glamorous even in plain white T-shirts that she would sometimes wear without a bra. This look stuck with me as a kind of empowered beauty since it seemed she was unafraid to show her body. I’m inspired by her expressive power, and the power she felt in her body. I often think about how powerful I would feel if I had a similar body.

  Her death at seventy-three, after a long battle with breast cancer, left me with a grief unlike anything I had ever felt. We had spoken a few nights before she passed. She was in York, Pennsylvania, and I was in Ottawa at the time. I was planning to visit her in the hospital, but she died unexpectedly the day before I was to arrive. I had heard in her voice a few days before that she was very ill, and I could hardly bear the sound of my strong, direct grandmother in this weakened and confused state. I can still hear her and the f
orce she gathered to tell me one last time how much I meant to her and that she loved me. That moment lasts forever.

  I discovered in my mid-thirties, from a news article published in 2011, that she was partly responsible for ending the reign of a notorious sexual abuser in Pennsylvania. Allegedly, this lawyer had assaulted my Nan Lois one day in a bar. He messed with the wrong woman that day. Though he had never been charged, there was good reason to believe that this lawyer had sexually assaulted both clients and members of the public. My brave grandmother hired her own lawyer and sued the man for sexual assault. This was during the 1990s when sexual assaults were rarely reported, a far cry from the current focus and attention generated by the #MeToo movement. This man was eventually disbarred for his actions. The news article stated that his disbarment, and the ongoing litigation to secure damages for victims, was partly a result of my Nan Lois taking legal action and speaking out against the assault.

  I had never been as proud of my grandmother as when I discovered her bravery. I wish that I could’ve told her how much this meant to me, for her to take action and to speak out against sexual assault at a time when there was so much silence around it.

  My Nan Lois also taught me how much I could learn from self-love, a likely consequence of being the victim of abuse. I have an undated letter, sent at some time in my childhood, that came with a notepad. She wrote, “This is to keep a daily journal. If you do this you will be surprised how much you learn over the years. Love you, Nan.” Well, I like to think that this advice informed even these pages.

  I’m the descendant of a long-line of Amazon women: my grandmothers, my mom, and looking further back there were other strong and powerful women in my ancestry. My grandmothers both suffered deeply, and somehow I knew this from a young age. My empathy has been inspired by the powerful emotional connections shared with both of them. Some cultures believe that trauma is intergenerational, that the suffering travels through the bloodline, spirits, and energy across generations. I am a mosaic of suffering, then, but also of resilience.

  I was baptized in an Anglican church when I was a baby. I don’t feel connected to the Christian faith specifically, but I do sense an undeniable energy when I walk into churches, particularly those that have existed for centuries. I feel magic in older churches. They are filled with an emotional energy: sadness, hope, joy — an endless array of feelings left behind. The concentrated energetic faith also pulls me empathically to these spaces. Like the prayers that are spoken in churches, each energetic force gets trapped, like little stories mapped in the varied architecture of emotion and energy.

  My secular spiritual faith, combining parts of Christianity and Buddhism and involving a practice of compassion, respect for sentient life, and the power of prayer, is related to my empathy. The power of my spirituality, a force of empathy really, comes from a source beyond that which can be fully contained in language. Practising spirituality, and my connection to energy, involves a deep desire to know that there is something more than our daily lives, something that we can believe in and channel our faith into by releasing ourselves from the incessant and repeated suffering of life. The need to always categorize our spiritual existence prevents us from finding a similarity in our faith. At my core, I have learned from experiencing my suffering and the suffering of others closest to me — like my dad, mom, and grandmothers — that faith and hope can be life-saving, and they can inspire us towards tolerance and love for one another.

  Florian grew up in a small village in Switzerland called Engelberg, which translates as “angel mountain.” It’s the perfect name to describe the special, almost magical feeling one enjoys when visiting there and spending time with the village’s beautiful people, who live with faith in their hands and hearts. The origin of Engelberg dates to the year 1122, and it’s the site of Florian’s ancestral heritage. The village sits at over three thousand feet above sea level almost in the middle of the Swiss Alps. Another three thousand feet above this village, near Lake Trübsee, is where Florian grew up. We named our production company Turbid Lake Pictures after the English translation of Trübsee. Florian had to travel on a cable car every day back and forth to his school in Engelberg. You can stand anywhere in the village and look up at a panorama that perfectly resembles a majestic painting. It’s truly that beautiful.

  Visiting Engelberg is a spiritual experience. Aside from its natural beauty, the village has a spiritual force that resonates from its Catholic monastery. I cry every time I visit the massive church with its marble altars. I can feel on the edge of my skin the waves of energy that have been left by the spirits who once resided there.

  The first card I gave Florian, a month after we started speaking on the phone, had a picture of a lighthouse illuminating a hopeful horizon. Florian became that light in my life. I wrote to him in that card in April 2006, “Even though we haven’t met, I feel like we have in a way. The light on the front of this card reminds me of you.” In a letter to me from him in 2012, he wrote about us being “unstoppable together.”

  Florian is a special kind of soul, and I understood this even more profoundly when I met his grandmother in Engelberg, Helen Hess. She was the picture of kindness and respect towards me. I first met her in 2009 when Florian had only told his parents and brother about his relationship with me. The rest of his family in Switzerland didn’t know at that time. His Mutti (the Swiss word for mother used affectionately by Florian’s family for his grandmother) embodied a strength and resilience that reminded me of my own grandmothers. She gave me three kisses at the end of our first visit. She then looked up at me with a gratitude that I felt deeply. A connection was formed as we looked into each other’s eyes. I think she saw my love for her special grandson. She could feel it through me. She then said to me, “I know. It’s okay.” I took that as an acceptance of our relationship, even though Florian hadn’t told her about us. He was understandably nervous about telling his family there, considering the family’s traditional Catholicism. I told him right away what she said to me and he seemed deeply relieved. While speaking to her on the phone just days after we returned from our first trip, he came out to her about our relationship and his sexuality. I remember vividly that she told him life is all about love, and that’s all that matters. She could see our love.

  We proudly wear the wedding rings she bought for our marriage a couple of years after that visit. We then travelled back to Engelberg again to explore opportunities to shoot a film in Switzerland, but during that trip we made special memories with her, unafraid to be honest about the love Florian and I shared with one another since she had shown us such unqualified support and love. She enjoyed having conversations with me in English. Our few days in the village were spent walking with her and her sweet dog, Wanda, and going out for lunches that she eagerly awaited.

  We ended up travelling back to Engelberg, our third visit to the village together, to honour her life when she passed away in the spring of 2018. I’m fortunate that Florian’s uncle, his cousins, and family friends have also accepted me. They welcomed me with open arms at Helen’s funeral. It meant the world to Florian, and it warmed my heart to know he could mourn the loss of his grandmother while still feeling loved.

  I don’t know for certain if Helen completely understood my identity — we came from such different generations and cultures — and I don’t think it really matters in the end, because she simply valued and accepted me. I think Helen elevated this love and respect partly because of her spirituality, and how her spirituality informed her kind humanity.

  Florian’s Omi, Maria, his Austrian grandmother, also gifted me with kindness and respect. I only met her once, during the first trip we took to Europe over a decade ago, after meeting Helen in Engelberg. In a small Austrian village, we spent the day with this remarkable woman who had lived through World War II and had many incredible stories to tell us, all narrated in her one and only language, German. She couldn’t understand my language at all, and I cou
ldn’t understand hers, but that didn’t mean we weren’t understanding one another as human beings. I knew she accepted me from the moment I met her.

  After we visited, Florian also made a call to Maria to tell her about our relationship. She told him, in German, “As long as you understand each other, that’s the most important thing.” That meant the world to Florian, to us. And she would continue to ask about me when he called her over the years before she passed away. The ability, demonstrated to me by Florian’s grandmothers, to show respect and acceptance from a place of love is one of the inspiring forces behind my spiritual experience and my opening up to empathic connections with people. Some people lead with a love that seems spiritual and can transcend what prevents many from accepting others as they are.

  My tale of empathy is a story of finding my spiritual self through my suffering, and through the many emotions and even love experienced by those around me. My suffering is not unlike your own. My faith and my belief in a higher power have only increased as I connect with the wholeness of myself as an empathic person. Instead of fighting the integral parts of myself — my depression, my empathy, and the emotional experiences that come with them — I want to accept all of it. I’m on a journey to expand my empathic connections with others, and this has started with accepting myself. I like to think that my empathy is a call from the cosmos and the stars above, informed by our shared humanity.

  eight

  The Magic

  When I was lost and suffering as a teenager, a handful of people in the media and their stories helped transport me away from my pain. I found a home where I could with Rosie O’Donnell, Ellen DeGeneres, and the popular culture representations of gay culture and gender expression. As a teen growing up in the late 1990s, there wasn’t much representation of real queerness, and there were even fewer examples that I resonated with personally.