by Aimee Herman
Monday, December 13
Dear James,
Down the street from my house is Lyle’s, which is a little outdoor farmer’s market where we get our tomatoes and basil and potatoes and other stuff when the season is right. During Christmastime, Lyle lights up the giant tree outside his house and market with blinking lights. Growing up, Dad called it the seizure tree. Lyle no longer grows in New Jersey. He died before we ever started going there. Now it’s run by Lyle’s son who is also named Lyle, so it’s almost as though Lyle number 1 never existed until you ask. But as suburban as this area is, there are punk rockers and Jehovah’s Witnesses and some urban legend about a farm further upstate where all the animals have two heads. Have you heard that? I write all this to say that a part of me is missing out on something. Longing for something else. I know I’m not supposed to figure it all out right now or even when I’m eighteen or gosh, will I ever figure it out??! But I just feel like New Jersey is keeping me from understanding all this. I want to travel and see what lives and breathes on the other side of the turnpike.
Last night, Reigh and I talked on the phone. She’s heading to Minneapolis. Her visit with her mom didn’t go so well. I found myself talking about you. I asked her if she ever tried to kill herself.
“I tried a bunch of times,” she said. “Never good at it. And I remember my best friend growing up named Kyle always told me that we fail at the things that we aren’t supposed to be trying in the first place.”
“When was the last time?” I asked.
“Actually, about a year before I transitioned. I just couldn’t be in this body anymore. It’s like losing your luggage and having to wear someone else’s clothes and use someone else’s toothbrush and just borrowing all these things that are not yours. I had run out of borrow time. I was ready to give it up.”
“And then you just decided to stop trying?”
“Well, a friend of mine called Tito sat me down and urged me to face my fears.”
“Like fear of living?”
“Fear of being the human sleeping inside me.”
I think about getting my period last month. Feeling like my insides were being battered and like I had no control over what was coming out of me. I didn’t mind the hair sprouting beneath my armpits and on my legs. Even my pubic hair felt good to me because it became like a curtain, hiding the parts I didn’t care to see in the first place.
“I started seeing someone and got diagnosed—”
“Diagnosed?” I ask.
“Gender dysphoria and transsexualism. There is a giant book put together by a bunch of crotchety white men—that’s how I imagine it anyway—alphabetizing all the various disorders and diagnoses. The DSM.”
“Reigh, um, can I ask you . . .”
“Sweetie, you can ask me anything.”
“After you transitioned, did you stop trying?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“And did you ever have any regrets? I mean, do you ever miss your old body? Sorry, I don’t mean to . . .”
“It’s okay. You know, in the beginning, I felt . . . let me think on what words I want to use here . . . it’s kinda like searching for the perfect pair of shoes. You finally find them, and they look exactly as you’d dreamed they would on you, but they’re tight because they’re new. I used to dress up in my mother’s clothing all the time. As a kid, I’d just parade around in my bedroom when I was alone. But after committing to living the way I knew I needed to exist, there was that initial moment of just feeling like I needed to stretch it out, you know? Walk around. And not soon after, I completely forgot what it was like to not be like this. Because this was how I was all along.”
I smiled. I smiled because something in me understood. The missing puzzle piece at Aunt Wenda’s. The missing finger floating up at the beach.
“Before I transitioned, I was always looking for my tribe. When I finally lived as the woman swallowed inside me, I knew I had found it.”
“James was gay,” I blurted. “He wrote about it in his notebook. His dad found out. Made him feel awful about it. James never . . . he never got to find his tribe.”
“Oh sweetie, don’t you understand? You were his tribe.”
I felt a rush of tears just fall from my eyes.
“But he didn’t even talk to me,” I said. “He just wrote everything in a notebook. And the one person he really cared about—maybe even loved—completely stopped talking to him. This kid, Brian, in my grade. I wish he had said something to me. Other than making fun of . . .”
“Eler, he probably saw a lot of himself in you. And didn’t know how to articulate it. But you have his words now. That means something.”
“It’s strange, you know?” I said. “Because people who aren’t gay just use one word. Straight. Or heterosexual, I guess too. My mom’s friend Flor has been giving me lots of books to read, and I’m learning all this vocabulary that they definitely don’t teach in school. It’s not just gay for boys and lesbian for girls. Or bisexual for both. You know, T’nea is bise—” I stopped myself and took a deep breath. “I called myself lesbian because I thought that was my word. The word I’m supposed to call myself because I’m a . . . a girl, but . . .”
“Eler, you can call yourself anything you want. Hell, you can make up a word. This is your existence. Your words are free; you get to use whichever ones you want.”
“I like gay. But also, I don’t know, I like boy too.”
I felt the impact of that last sentence pound against my chest. It made me think of Dara. When she was really young, way before we met, her and her family were in a car accident. No one was too hurt, though she said the car looked like a crushed accordion. She said her mother was hurt the worst because she was driving. The airbag came out and broke her nose. I still don’t understand how a bag of air can hurt someone, but she said something about impact and sharp dust or something. Anyway, that is how I felt in that moment on the phone with Reigh. The impact of a giant bag of air pounding into me. Just from words.
“A word is just a word. You get to give it meaning.” Reigh interrupted my thoughts. “So, tell me . . . what do you mean?”
“I guess I am realizing that my closet is bigger than I thought.”
“You are finding your colors, Eler. Your wings are expanding. Don’t be afraid of your butterfly. Your flight is the best part of living.”
A crackling of silence filled the air between us.
“I saw my mother yesterday,” Reigh said. “Perhaps for the last time. She kept calling me Ernest. Said, ‘Ernest, your hair is so long.’ I’d correct her and remind her to call me Reigh, but she just couldn’t speak it. So, I began to call her by her first name. ‘The curtains in the kitchen look lovely, Berta.’ As we were eating lunch, I said, ‘Berta, are these tomatoes from the farmers market or . . . ?’ And then, finally she said, ‘Ernest, please call me Mom. I don’t like you calling me by my name.’ To which I replied, ‘Then, please call me Reigh. I don’t like you calling me by any other name either.’ Growing up, anytime I did anything wrong, my mother would call me by my entire name: Ernest Raymond. I hated my middle name because I only heard it when I did something wrong. But when I chose to take on a new name, I liked the idea of keeping a part of me but changing it a little with the spelling.”
“I like that,” I said. “Did it change anything?”
“Oh, my mother is pretty damn set in her ways, but it cut a little of the tension away. She called me Reigh once. And then went right on back to Ernest. Used male pronouns too, which made being out with her really strange.”
“Where’d you go?”
“Just to the pharmacy to pick up her prescription. I was going to stay at home, but she asked me to come along. I figured she’d want to keep me hidden. She even . . . oh my goodness . . . she even introduced me as her son when we ran into a friend of hers. That was awkward.”
Reigh laughed, but even in her laughter, I could sense sadness.
“Listen, some people you can’t change
,” Reigh said. “But that’s not going to change how I exist. So, I just smiled at her friend and in my softest voice said, ‘Hi, darlin’, I’m Reigh.’ Then I kind of tossed my hair and complimented her on her outfit. Told her I had a dress just like it at home.”
“Will I ever see you again?”
“Honey, I will always be a stamp away. Maybe two, depending on how much paper you stuff in there.” She laughed.
“I just... I feel so . . .”
“And you better give me all the details when you have your first date with Prince.”
I smiled. Oh, yeah, T’nea.
Tuesday, December 14
Dear James,
I walked in on Shirley and Ted kissing on the couch when I got home from school. All I want to say is that it was simulttanisly simultaneously gross, but also neat to see her happy again. And Flor’s got Theresa, who I still haven’t met yet, but she seems super happy too. Maybe it’s my turn now.
Actually, T’nea and I were on the phone for almost two hours last night. I thought we’d run out of things to talk about, but she’s really easy to talk to. I spent most of the conversation trying to build up my nerve to ask her out on a date. I was secretly hoping she’d ask me first. Maybe we were both too nervous. We’ve already been to first base. Why is the thought of going on a date so scary?
Wednesday, December 15
Dear James,
During class today, Ms. Raimondo asked us to write down three goals for the new year. Here is what I wrote:
Work on being unafraid of myself and the butterfly I am becoming
Ask T’nea out on a date
Read more books about people like me
DEAR ELINORE,
HERE IS WHEN I KNEW. IT WAS WAY BEFORE BRIAN AND DIRTY MAGAZINES.
I WAS IN THE GROCERY STORE WITH MY MOM. MAYBE I WAS SIX? THERE WAS ANOTHER BOY WITH HIS MOM OR AUNT AND HE LOOKED TO BE ABOUT MY AGE. WE CAUGHT EACH OTHER’S EYES, NOT LIKE ANYTHING DRAMATIC. JUST SOMETHING THAT WE BOTH RECOGNIZED IN EACH OTHER THAT WE WEREN’T READY TO REOCONIZE RECOGNIZE IN OURSELVES. I DIDN’T HAVE THE WORDS OR WHATEVER TO SAY, OH YEAH, HE’S A FAG OR I AM. AND I NEVER THOUGHT ABOUT THIS UNTIL AFTER MY FIRST KISS WITH BRIAN. MEMORY VOMIT. YEAH, SEE THAT’S THE THING. NO ONE SAYS, HEY HOW DO YOU KNOW YOU’RE STRAIGHT. YOU JUST ARE. OR IT’S ASSUMED YOU ARE. AND I HAVE A FEELING YOU’RE LIKE ME, ELINORE. IT’S LIKE THAT BOY IN THE GROCERY STORE. I JUST KINDA KNEW. PROBABLY WHY I PUSHED YOU AND CALLED YOU NAMES AND SPIT ON YOU. LOOK, I’M SORRY. AND APOLOGIZING IN THIS NOTEBOOK IS JUST EASIER THAN SAYING IT TO YOUR FACE. BUT I DON’T KNOW. MAYBE YOU WILL READ THIS. ONE DAY. AND YOU CAN DECIDE IF YOU ACCEPT MY APOLOGY. HOPEFULLY YOU WILL FIND A WAY TO BE FREE THAT I JUST COULDN’T.
Thursday, December 16
Dear James,
Aggie is going away for winter break to stay at her aunt’s house in North Carolina.
She told me this while we were eating lunch together. I promised I’d write her letters. I’m not going anywhere, except my dad’s. Greta isn’t even coming home. She decided to take a winter class to make up for one of the classes she dropped. I guess that’s a good thing, though I’m definitely going to miss her.
Tonight was our last group of the year. Nothing too exciting to report. During chair fold-up time, as people were putting away cups and leftover cookies in plastic containers, I talked with your mom.
“I want life to be like it is in the movies. But I guess people just don’t know the lines to the script we write in our head,” I said.
I also told her about trying to build the nerve to ask T’nea out.
“This may be shocking, but I asked Burt out. He barely noticed me. Afterward, he told me that he was taken aback that I asked him. He’s always been rather traditional. He wanted to know if I was one of those ‘bra-burning feminists’.” Helaine laughed and her cheeks puffed up. “Maybe that should have been a sign that we weren’t quite on the same page. But then we wouldn’t have had James and . . .”
When I asked her about how things were with Burt, she just said, “He is living in the basement right now, but searching for an apartment close to the church. I’m not angry at him. I just want to grieve James without having to edit who he was.”
Friday, December 17
Dear James,
In school, we raise our hands every time we want to say something. Even if it’s just to announce we need to go to the bathroom. And once we are called on, everyone looks and listens to hear what we have to say, as though every time is going to be this newsworthy moment. Usually, it’s the wrong answer.
Mr. Lenox will ask, “Who can tell me the answer for ‘x’ after plugging in the quadratic equation?”
Then, someone will raise their hand, stretch it high, and hold it up with their other hand as though their arm is too heavy to wave.
He’ll look around the room and call on someone. Maybe his favorite (Penny, who totally sucks up to him) or someone who rarely ever participates. This is their moment of stardom. Of saying the right thing. Of being celebrated for having actually answered a question. The right answer for the right question. Right?
“X equals seven.”
“Wrong,” Mr. Lenox announces.
James, the thing is, I feel like I am in the process of still figuring out ‘x’, which is me, by the way. I’ve told all the important people in my life that I’m gay and I should feel relief, right? And yet, there is something still itching in me, trying to get out. I was going to write clawing, but actually it’s a bit less desperate. Or maybe I’ve got the right answer, but the question is wrong.
I remember when I was in seventh grade, I was finally allowed to go to the mall and movies without supervision. At that time, Dara and I were still best friends and we’d get dropped off and go crazy in the mall. We played a game called “Charge It” where we’d go from store to store pretending to shop for things for our pretend home and anytime we saw something we liked, we’d say, “Charge it!” like on our pretend credit cards.
Once, we planned to meet at the mall and Dara never showed up. I can’t remember what happened. She forgot or changed her mind, I can’t even remember now. I think I was mad for about five minutes and then I realized I had the whole mall to myself. I mean, I was able to just wander and eat whatever and whenever I wanted. Dara always liked trying on dresses, which I secretly hated. With her not there, I could try on whatever I wanted. So, that one time—and I think I was maybe in eighth grade by then—I went to the boy’s department and tried on a bunch of pants and shirts. I’m not even sure what propelled me there. I remember being in the junior’s section—girl’s side—just out of habit. Then realized I didn’t have to be there. I could be anywhere. I peered across the way and saw a cool blue shirt in the boy’s section. I remember this because I had seen someone at school wear it and loved the way it looked.
I was petrified someone was going to stop me or say something. But no one cared. I felt so slick in a button-down shirt and jeans, terribly baggy yet fitting me in a way that felt right. Boys’ pants had a longer zipper and it puffed by the crotch. I pulled at it; this I remember as though it were yesterday. Gathered it like a ponytail. Puffed it even more.
When I looked at my reflection, I recognized myself in a way I hadn’t before. I never told anyone this—not Dara or Flor or even Aggie—and just saw it as a one-time thing. Dress up. No big deal.
And there were a few other instances like that. Trying on Dad’s ties a bunch of times. Once, stealing one of his cigars and smoking it because I liked that it felt . . . manly. Heavier than a cigarette, which I took from Shirley only once before realizing how gross it was. But a cigar, you don’t inhale—mistake made only once—and it smells thicker. Kind of sweeter.
Sometimes, I feel like a giant road map. These memories are like rest stops, which I actually used to love to go to when I was a kid. I’d always pick out postcards of the places we stopped in to empty our bladders. I wanted to remember that I was there. I guess to remind myself to go back again sometime. Some
rest stops we’d stay in longer. We’d eat a meal, if they had food beyond just the fast kind. Greta and I would be allowed to choose a snack or, if Shirley was in a really good mood, Mad Magazine, my favorite.
“You’re only fifteen,” Flor said to me recently. “You’ve got lots of time to learn all your twists and turns. Don’t be in a rush to understand all of yourself right away. I’m still figuring it out and look how old I am.”
What’s my rush? Could it be that remembering all this past reminds me that my present is not the way it’s meant to be?
DEAR ELINORE,
HERE IS WHAT I’D SAY IF I EVER MET KURT COBAINE. YO. HI. I DON’T PLAY THE GUITAR BUT IF MY PARENTS EVER LET ME LEARN AN INSTRUMENT (IT’S NOT MY PARENTS, IT’S MY DAD) I’D WANT TO PLAY DRUMS. NO ONE COULD EVER REPLACE YOU. AND DAVE GROHL IS COOL AND EVERYTHING, BUT I’D DO ALMOST ANYTHING TO GET SPLINTERS FROM BANGING TO “NEGATIVE CREEP.” WHAT IS IT LIKE TO BE ON STAGE IN FRONT OF SO MANY PEOPLE WHO KNOW YOU ENOUGH TO SING ALONG? WHAT IS IT LIKE TO HAVE FANS? TO BE IN A POSTER ON SOMEONE’S WALL (INCLUDING MINE). KURT, SOMETIMES I THINK ABOUT KILLING MYSELF. IF YOU WERE NEXT TO ME AND WE WERE FRIENDS OR SOMETHING CLOSE TO IT, WHAT WOULD YOU SAY? WOULD YOU TELL ME TO HOLD ON, THAT I’M LOSING MY GRIP? WOULD YOU TELL ME TO JUST DO WHAT I NEED TO DO WOULD YOU TELL ME HOW? WOULD YOU SING TO ME ENOUGH TIMES TO MAKE ME FORGET? YOU GET TO BE HOWEVER YOU WANT IN FRONT OF MILLIONS OF PEOPLE. NO ONE TELLS YOU YOU’RE TOO FEMININE OR NOT STRONG ENOUGH. YOU CAN WEAR EYELINER AND PEOPLE THINK IT’S COOL. MY DAD WOULD BEAT ME INTO ANOTHER PLANET. I’LL NEVER REALLY BE ABLE TO BE ME. I’LL NEVER REALLY BE ABLE TO EVEN FIGURE WHAT THAT MEANS, WHO I AM, WHO I COULD BE.