Alex as Well

by Alyssa Brugman

  I ask Julia about Brazil and about her host family. She shrugs and answers, but then she asks about me again. I bite my lip, scuff my feet and mumble, which is what boys do when they don’t want to talk about stuff, but it just seems to make girls curiouser. I’m going to go home and write notes, to get it clear in my head, but right now I have to distract them.

  You know what I did? I showed them my really fast clapping. At first they all looked at each other. My heart stopped for a moment, while it occurred to me that they must think I am a looney. It was a mistake. Now I will have to enrol again at a whole new school. But then Amina tries it. She’s not very good.

  Sierra has a go. She’s got the action right, you need to do more brushing so that it’s all in the elbow instead of the wrist. Now they are all doing it, and then they start laughing.

  ‘Rihanna does it,’ Julia says. ‘In that film clip. Which one was it?’

  Amina laughs so much tears are coming out, and she says, ‘Stop it, or I’ll pee!’

  Even while I was clapping and laughing like I was possessed, I stored that away. Boys don’t say that.

  (Please don’t stop the music.)

  10

  ON THE WAY home on the train I send a text to my mother.

  I need steel cap boots 4 metalwork tmrw.

  I’m not sure exactly how she will interpret this request as a personal attack, but I’m sure she has it in her. I’m so ready to just do my own thing without having to spectate some long opera with the wailing and the flailing. Can I just have new boots, do we think?

  I’ll pick u up.

  But she would mean from Joey’s, my old school, where I don’t go anymore, which she should know, since she saw me leave in a different uniform this morning, if she was paying attention.

  No I will meet you @ bunnings in 15 mins.

  She doesn’t answer, so I get off the train and walk down to the Bunnings warehouse. There is a bench out the front, between the lawnmowers and the wheelbarrows. I sit there in the afternoon sun with my legs stretched out and close my eyes.

  It was a good day. No, an awesome day. A new beginning. People liked me, and I got a sense of how it could have been from the beginning for me if I’d made a stand a long time ago, like when I was two. I’m never going to be happy, but I could get close now, I think. I could be almost normal. I could have a friend.

  Of course, what I have is an opportunity to invent not just myself, but my whole circumstance. I rehearse it in my head.

  We have a dairy farm in South Australia. My parents are boutique cheesemakers. We’re here because they’re selling to the fancy restaurants and delis in the city. We’re getting our own counter in the food section of DJs.

  Yeah, I used to name the cows. Tiffany. Bianca. Simone. I didn’t milk them, though. It’s all done by machines. No, seriously, we’re not, like, farmers scuffing around in gumboots. It’s just the same as any business. We have staff to do all that. We live in a normal house. Now. It has a turret, though. Of course I mean a for-real turret! What did you think I meant—a chimney?

  I open my eyes and there is a man standing in front of me with paint-splattered tracksuit pants, and stubble, and skewiff hair. He is staring at little rattling packets of bolts, or rivets in his hands. He’s done well to come out with only a handful. Bunnings is an amusement park for old people.

  It takes me a minute to recognise him. It’s . He looks through me, and then frowns. He doesn’t remember me, just knows that he has seen my face before, so he’s waiting for me to remind him.

  I am about to say something, but my mother stalks up. She has her game face on. Joy.

  ‘I rang Joey’s today. They said you weren’t there.’

  ‘I’m going to a new school now, Mum.’

  She pokes me in the chest so hard it hurts. ‘You don’t get to make these decisions!’ she hisses. ‘If you have a problem, mister, you come to me, and we’ll talk about it. I make the decisions around here. Do you understand me?’

  I look away. I am embarrassed, but Crockett remembers who I am now.

  ‘Do you understand?’ she insists.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. I do understand. That doesn’t mean I agree. They are totally different things.

  Crockett steps forward, hesitates, steps back again.

  ‘Can I help you?’ My mother asks sarcastically.

  He ignores her. He rattles his little metal hardware thingies. ‘For my daughter. Her vertical blinds are sticking. And I’m hoping these will fix it.’ He watches me for a moment. ‘That thing?’ he says to me. ‘I looked it up. It’s doable.’

  Crockett has a daughter.

  My mother puts her hands on her hips. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Crockett looks at my mother and back at me again.

  ‘You looked it up?’ I say.

  He nods.

  Crockett looked it up. A smile spreads across my face. I put my hand over it. He nods again, but this time it’s like a little salute. We’re having a moment, Crockett and I.

  My mother waits until he is out of earshot.

  ‘What’s doable?’ she asks.

  I’m trying to come up with a passable story.

  ‘What’s doable? You answer me, mister!’ her voice more shrill.

  Irritation wells up in my belly. ‘Please don’t call me mister,’ I mumble through gritted teeth.

  She blushes, and laughs. She’s trying to boss me around, but she’s weak and panicky and helpless. And even scared.

  ‘Can we just get some boots? Please?’

  I don’t want her to be like that. She’s no good to me like this. She can be angry, but if she’s going to fight me, she’s got to be sure in her own self what she’s mad about. You know Lois, from Malcolm in the Middle? She hollers at her kids all day long, but I would have Lois for a mum any day. She’s yelling at those kids because she’s a hundred per cent sure they’re doing the wrong thing. When my mum yells it could be about anything. Half the time I’m pretty sure it’s not even about me.

  11

  www.motherhoodshared.com

  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 th
e 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.

  * * *

  Cheryl wrote:

  No, Vic. This is about Heather, and she’s grieving over the loss of her son, so watch your tone, please.

  * * *

  Vic 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.

  12

  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, becau
se 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.