The Bold World

by Jodie Patterson

  We, the family, needed this community just as much as Penelope did. Despite the blips of team unity—glimmers of being on the same page—the truth was that Joe and I were struggling. We’d been operating in silos for so long it was hard to remember a time when we weren’t. Our years together had shown me that we were so caught up in our own ways of providing for and supporting our kids—supporting Penelope—that we’d each fallen into viewing the other’s style as an attack on our own parenting. A power play for “the right way.” We needed to see—I needed to see—how other parents did it. I needed to feel that I wasn’t alone. And I knew that Joe needed to feel that he wasn’t alone, either.

  And the kids, they needed to see that gender in practice was what I was preaching—that people didn’t come in two forms, but limitless ones. They needed to know that their brother wasn’t just an exception, Penelopes existed everywhere. I wanted all of us to reimagine “I” into the widest sense of “we.” To understand that we are trans, we are cis, we are human. This wasn’t just about Penelope or “those people over there.” It was about the transitioning of every single one of us into a better, more open and loving mindset.

  And so that summer we did what millions of Americans do when they’re in search of a place where they belong: We went to camp.

  I signed everyone up for a four-day overnight experience at Aranu’tiq, a camp specifically for transgender and gender-nonconforming kids and their families. No one complained—but no one was ecstatic about it, either. Joe questioned the type of adults who did this kind of thing. “Jodie, we’ll probably be the only Black family there. We’ll probably be surrounded by hippies in Birkenstocks. We’ll probably have nothing in common with them.” I could see the anxiety all over his face. Privately, I held similar doubts, but I wasn’t about to show my cards. We needed this too much. “Let’s just try it, babe,” I said. “We’ve got nothing to lose.

  “And by the way, Joe-Joe,” I added, “allow me to remind you of the three pairs of Birks between us, currently sitting in our closet.”

  It was a six-hour drive to New Hampshire. The long roads and monotonous hours gave the two of us plenty of time to cast even more assumptions about what might happen over the next few days. Joe’s eyebrows remained furrowed for most of the car ride, his hands clenching and unclenching around the steering wheel. The book on tape he’d been listening to (Eckhart Tolle, I think, for the tenth time) did little to help the situation. He blamed it on the traffic, but I was sure his mind was calculating what we were about to experience, and how uncomfortable it was going to feel to be submerged in a world he wasn’t even sure he wanted any part of.

  We intentionally downplayed our anxiety for the kids, knowing it was probably best for them to enter the weekend without apprehension or a “gender agenda.” We sold them on the idea of a fun camp experience, filled with games, cabins, nature, and opportunities to make new friends. We made the drive there like any of the hundred other road trips we’d ever taken: loading up on junk food, charging all the gadgets, bringing our favorite blankets, and engaging in just about every road-travel pastime we know: Find the Alphabet, Word Association, Hangman, Pokémon, Storytime, and Sing-along.

  When we finally arrived at the campgrounds that night, it was dark; all the other families had gone to bed. We were late (as usual), we were exhausted, and we were nervous. All of us needed to unwind. After doing a little exploring, Joe and I found a hula hoop in a back room off the main hall, and we all took turns twisting and twirling and laughing, closing out the night with our kind of perfect family activity. With a little more calm than before, we made our way to our cozy cabin. I made the beds with a stack of mismatched blankets, sheets, and pillowcases I’d brought from home, and we climbed in and fell asleep.

  The next morning, we woke up early to a gorgeous scene. The camp was situated deep in the woods, and at its center was a huge clear lake. Rolling hills dotted the background, and thick stands of beautiful pine, oak, and birch trees surrounded the buildings. Wooden signs were nailed to the tree trunks, directing us around the camp—bathrooms this way, archery that way, rock climbing around the hill, the mess hall at the center of the grounds.

  Breakfast began at seven, and all six of us—Joe and I, Penelope, Othello, Cassius, and Georgia (Nain was working in the city)—made our way toward the mess hall, past the clusters of rugged log cabins, where everyone gathered at the beginning of the day. Before pushing open the doors, Joe and I instinctively took long, deep breaths, fixing our faces into smiles, preparing ourselves. Preparing to be awkwardly Black—the standout family, the one and only. Preparing for the racial divide to get in the way of what we came to camp to do.

  The buzz of chatter in the hall hit us at full volume when we opened the doors. Families sat together at long wooden tables, digging into bowls of oatmeal and plates of eggs. With Penelope and Othello tugging on my arms, and Cassius close to his dad, I did a quick scan of the scene—and the very first thing I spotted was a family of four across the hall. Do my eyes deceive me? I thought. Are they…? Yes! Black folks!

  “Well, well, well—would you look at that?” I turned to Joe, slapping him playfully on the arm.

  We made our way toward them, and as we did, Joe started to smile. We got a little closer and he broke into a grin. “No Shit!” he said under his breath. “That’s Yaa.” I recalled the name because it was unusual—Yaa was his high school girlfriend from back in Boston. Sitting across the mess hall at our transgender family camp was Joe’s teenage sweetheart. His first serious girlfriend, whom he hadn’t seen in decades.

  In the thirty seconds or so it took for us to cross the room to meet them, Joe reminded me of their history and caught me up on the last twenty years. He had a love, he was crazy about her, she dumped him…19 seconds, 18, 17…Took him years to get over her…10, 9, 8…She was married now. They had two kids…4 seconds, 3. She was an amazing woman—the kind I’d vibe with—2, 1…

  “Hey!” A chorus of hellos and hugs ensued. Joe and Yaa were comfortable around each other, even after so much time had passed, and that allowed everyone else to relax—particularly me and John, Yaa’s husband. Surprisingly, there was no tension, no nervousness. Only a feeling of family. We all laughed, genuinely, over this crazy coincidence and agreed it must be fate, or something deeper. Huddled off to the side I could see Cassius and their daughter starting to swap Pokémon cards. It was official: The two families had clicked, immediately and seamlessly. And just as immediately, I saw something inside Joe soften.

  I don’t know exactly what happened to Joe when he saw Yaa, or all the different reasons why he shifted. I never asked Joe how seeing her made him feel. But I suppose that seeing his high school love made him feel at home, as though this strange thing—the thing that landed him at this sort of camp—wasn’t just happening to him alone, in some foreign land. If Yaa was experiencing this, and she came from where he came from—then this, whatever this was, might just be okay.

  After breakfast, we wandered over to a long table where we were encouraged to create name tags for ourselves that included our PGPs—preferred gender pronouns. “Jodie Patterson, She/Her.” “Joseph Ghartey, He/Him.” “Georgia Becker, She/Her.” “Cassius Ghartey, He/Him.” “Othello Ghartey, He/Him.” “Penelope Ghartey, He/Him.” On Penelope’s name tag he drew a boy, presumably himself, smiling wide while riding on a green whale. All around him were floating stars.

  Most families sign up for trans camp because they want space to be themselves. For trans kids and their families, lives can get derailed by what they can’t do: which bathroom they can’t use, which bathing suit they can’t wear, which team they can’t play on, which gender they can’t claim. And when they do announce themselves—“I am a trans boy” or “We are a trans family”—they’re often treated suspiciously, gingerly. Trans families don’t get to be heuristic—making mistakes, learning through trial and error, and eventually finding their way
, all without judgment. And trans kids don’t get to just be kids—regular, goofy, funny, quiet, amazing kids—without the extra layer of suspicion. But at camp, in this land, among this tribe, kids and their families are free to do as they please. Quiet or loud, extrovert or introvert, grumpy or joyful—in these woods, we can simply be.

  Penelope couldn’t get away from us fast enough. He’d somehow managed to meet three new friends and get his hands on the activity schedule all before ten o’clock. With his siblings close behind him, I watched Penelope turn around and wave “ ’Bye, Mom!” before being absorbed into the mass of kids making their way to the gaga ball pit.

  I waved back, half-turning to Joe with one eyebrow raised in surprise, and then the two of us made our way over to the center of the room where the adults were gathering. While the kids played and explored, the parents discussed. We split off into small groups and began the work of laying out ideas, sharing hopes, and articulating worries. We sat in circles. We talked in calm voices. We paused for reflection. The process felt very familiar—it reminded me of the meditation group Mama used to take me to in the West Village.

  We began, as we often do in spaces like these, with self-introductions:

  “Hi. I’m Jodie. I identify as she/her. I’m a mother of five, four of whom are here at camp. Joe’s my husband and he’s here with me.” Joe waved, flashing that smile that got me every time.

  “Penelope is our third child and he’s a trans boy.” My voice cracked. I hadn’t even said anything emotional yet, but already my eyes were brimming with tears. “Sorry, I’m nervous. This is our first time around so many trans families. It’s kind of amazing.”

  Throughout our first session, Joe stayed pretty quiet as people talked, outlining their anxieties and fears. Most of the people there were parents, but there were grandparents, aunts, and uncles in the circle, too. Some were quiet, some were outspoken. Some were bankers, others were artists. Some were brown, like us—but most were not. There were even a few trans parents among us.

  What was surprising was the variety of men in the circle—there were so many types of men there, so many examples of what it was like to be a father. The men were noticeably a bit quieter, a bit more reserved than most of the women in the room. They may have raised their hands fewer times, or were less assertive in these conversations, but in their own way, the men were engaged. In their own way, they were making their way on the journey, just like Joe.

  We put everything out on the table during the sessions, moving words and ideas around. We were having tough conversations that would rattle the infrastructure of any relationship—talk of the body, of gender, of the “labels” that so troubled us. We talked about doctors and procedures, about the future. About things Joe and I had been battling over for years. But there in that space, those things were expected to be discussed—discussed as if they were a right, a must, a necessity.

  I glanced over at Joe to see how he was doing, to reassure him we were in this together, but he was leaning forward in his chair, already all the way dialed in.

  Then, when it was his turn to speak, he talked to the group about fathers. How they are often the last ones to understand and the slowest to transition. How they aren’t the ones to make emotional revelations early on, or to process what was happening around them at the same pace as others in the family. As he was talking, I rifled back through our history—how frustrated I was with him when he insisted on calling Penelope his “plumpkin” and his “princess,” long after Penelope expressed dislike for the nicknames. How much I quietly seethed when Joe kept pushing back on me, insisting that we take things slow and not look too deep into what was going on with our kid. How afterward, when Penelope announced himself as boy, Joe told me, over and over, that maybe we should let this whole thing play out without rushing into doing. So often, Joe met my urgency with stillness—with “Let’s just let Penelope be.” So often, I took that sense of calm, that practicality, as a betrayal of Penelope—and of me.

  “Dads just experience things in a different way,” he continued, looking out at the faces in the room, relaxed in his chair as he said the words. “And what’s unfair is that we’re made to feel wrong for that. But our way, the Dad way, has value. We need to be able to articulate what we bring. And own it—and be respected for it.”

  We’d debated and discussed—and outright warred—over our parenting styles millions of times before. But when he said it this way—in an open forum filled with other dads who nodded in approval, clearly recognizing themselves in Joe—I felt humbled; opened and softer in some way. Maybe he hadn’t been working against me all this time. Maybe what I’d been watching over the years was not a man in protest of change but a man processing all the inevitable shifts happening around him. Joe was trying, just as I was. Trying to make sense of something that was hard and complicated, and to proceed with a plan that reflected all his love.

  “I’m here to learn how to support Penelope in my own way,” Joe announced to the group—and to me. “In the Dad way.”

  In those small groups, Joe communicated in a way he never could with me. He could talk freely about not wanting to label his kid, not wanting to put Penelope in yet another box. Not wanting any limits set on his family. There, he found understanding, eyes that connected with his while he spoke honestly and emotionally. He could let his guard down and express himself openly, not defensively as we had done too many times in the past.

  When Joe finished speaking, the room was silent. After a while, a woman whose name tag read “Candace, She/Her” broke the silence: “I’d sure like to borrow your husband for a day—if that’s okay with you, Jodie!” We all laughed, and I looked at Joe with more pride in my heart than I’d felt in a long while, my eyes welling with tears again.

  The feeling that there were others out there going through what Joe and I were going through relieved some of the tension between us. That tension, I now understood, had been eating away at our intimacy. It had been one more thing sitting between us each night—a disruptive element in our already fragile love. A love that was tested with every additional experience we continued to throw into our bubbling, heady mix of kids and careers, ambition and growth.

  Any moment when two people are on the same page, enjoying the same thing, is a special moment. It can happen anywhere—while you’re at home together making a slow-cooked stew, or watching the sun go down over the ocean—these rare, spontaneous times mean everything. They are the reason you stay, the impetus to admit “I was wrong.” They are the pull of love. I was always searching for those moments with Joe. And that day, there in the circle at trans camp, the moment found us.

  * * *

  —

  When I suggest something new for my family or friends to try, I often wonder if I’m pushing too hard—if it’s more about me than them. I am the pusher of the family—foisting travel, or beliefs, or attitudes, or mantras onto my loved ones that they often meet, even on good days, with annoyance—or, on bad days, with disdain.

  At camp, I was just hoping for the best. I wanted the kids, at the end of the day, to have a chance to recalibrate their sense of normal. I wanted Joe and me to unite—to take the walls down so we could approach this new world together, with optimism. And for Penelope, of course, I dreamed for him—always—to feel whole, body and soul. I saw a glimpse into that kind of future for him that summer.

  On the last day of camp, Joe and I attended a panel called Growing Up Trans, featuring a boy named Wes. We sat in the back row listening intently as he commanded the stage. At nineteen years old, Wes seemed not only to have survived puberty but to be glowing in the aftermath. At one point during the discussion, someone in the audience asked if he’d ever considered gender reassignment surgery. After a pause, he said, “No. I’m not changing my body. I’m a boy. This is my body. So, this is a boy’s body.”

  I was mesmerized. Up to that point, a small part of me feared th
at even with all the self-love and confidence I was pouring into Penelope, it might all be undone when his body began to go through puberty, its next biological chapter. For trans people, that transition can be a dark one, marked by anger and betrayal. As the body becomes more gendered, looking either more “male” or “female,” it begins to announce to the world who it’s “supposed” to be. At that exact time, many trans people can feel trapped in the wrong body.

  In order to allow the child to have more time before making permanent, life-altering decisions about their body, puberty can be put on hold with the help of medicines called blockers. And then down the line, after much deliberation, if the child so decides, hormones can be injected, physical changes begin, and a dramatic reshaping of the body takes place. I thought that that was the only path for us. But here was a boy like Penelope who had opted out of the widely used solutions—hormones, then surgery—and declared himself complete as he was. Maybe Penelope could see it that way, too.

  Driving back home the next day, we all had time to think. We now had a new reality to build on. Maybe we were still not all comfortable using the word “transgender.” Perhaps that didn’t fit precisely. But one word that did resonate with Joe and me over the weekend was “nonconformity.” We were a nonconforming family. We would not conform. We would not be broken or bent or forced into any form other than our own natural shape—an ever-evolving shape. Every single one of us would remain free to define our own experience and our own existence as we saw fit. As man, woman, child—and anything in between.