Redefining Realness by Janet Mock Page A

fishy odor. It was pungent and alluring to me, the kind of aroma that hit notes of a home I longed for. Auntie Wee Wee crumbled Ritz crackers between her hands, topping her tuna casserole, which she made because it was my favorite. Tuna reminded me of Mom; I could see her reading a book, just like Belle, and spreading tuna over crackers, white crumbs collecting on her lap. Like Mom, Auntie Wee Weehad a calm presence, one that made me feel safe to be just as I was. She acknowledged my tenderness in big and small ways without reprimand or rehabilitation. I’ll never forget the time she took me to Kmart and bought me a sleeping bag for my sleepovers. In the aisle, she asked me to pick out the one I wanted. Skipping my eyes over the burgundy, the blue, and the green bags, I pointed at a lavender sleeping bag that called loudly after me. It had to be mine. My aunt didn’t bat a mascaraed lash as we carried it to the checkout.
    Full of tuna and fresh out of the shower, I went back outside alone to the playground, just as the sun was retiring for the day. I found Jamie, at one with the gray-blue sky, swinging, the soles of his Jordan-clad feet parallel to the gravel I stood on. The little follicles on my forearms rose as I joined him up there. My hair flirted with the wind, and in the air with Jamie, I felt like the only girl in the world. Soon we settled down, lazily swaying from side to side in our adjacent swings. He leaned in toward me and fingered a ringlet with his right hand. Soon my coarse curls struggled to make their way between his golden fingers. It was the first time someone had admired me. My hair, the only mark of my girlhood, was being touched in a way I had never been before.
    Sunday soon came, marking the end of my springtime retreat. Keisha would remain here as I returned to life as Charles. I was mourning her end as I gathered my stuff in Mechelle’s room. Dad sat in the living room watching TV with Auntie Wee Wee, waiting to take me home. Then I heard an unexpected sound: Jamie’s voice. “Are Keisha and Mechelle here?” he asked from the front door.
    “Hold on, baby,” Auntie Wee Wee said. “Mechelle?” she called toward the back.
    I hadn’t planned on saying good-bye; I thought we’d just pick up the relationship over the phone. Mechelle looked at me and clucked her tongue as she crossed the threshold of her bedroom.
    “Hey. Where’s your cousin?” Jamie asked Mechelle.
    “Let’s go outside,” she said, hurrying out of the house.
    “Uh-uh, little girl. Don’t you leave this house. You got company,” Auntie said.
    “Where’s Keisha?” Jamie asked again.
    Mechelle just shrugged.
    “Who’s Keisha?” Auntie asked, pressing Mechelle for answers.
    Mechelle was only in the fourth grade and had probably never lied to her mom. She didn’t know what to say, so she began crying. That was when Dad shifted his gaze from the TV to the door. My heart beating rapidly and my fingers interlocked and twisted, I walked out of Mechelle’s room. My hair was tied in a ponytail, low at the back of my neck, as Jamie smiled.
    “Hey, Keisha,” he said, making Dad stand from the couch.
    I didn’t get to say good-bye to Jamie and explain to him who I was. I didn’t have the words as an eleven-year-old to explain who I was to anyone beyond myself. All I knew was that Keisha was real to me, and under the glare of my father, I feared for her survival. Dad wrote Keisha off as some bad joke I was playing, one that had gone on way too long, one that he ensured I wouldn’t play again. He talked nonstop on our way to Denise’s house, his words packing the car.
    “You’re not gay, are you?” he finally pleaded, defeated after his fifteen-minute diatribe. Dad’s face was glowing red, reflecting in the stoplight hovering before us. His voice was sweet as he asked the question, one he was sure I had the answer to. He hoped that my answer would assuage his concerns about me, his sissy boy, the one he gave his name