to—the first of his children he held in his arms—as he said, “I saw you come out of your mother, man. I was there!”
I didn’t know if gay was the right fit for me. The label hovered over me for years like the red glare settling over my father’s face. I’d been called gay and sissy and faggot ever since I stepped foot on playgroundsin my earliest youth. My father’s thoughts filled the car: My son is an effeminate boy pretending to be a girl in front of other boys, so he must be gay, right? Uncertainty rode shotgun in our conversation.
As a tween, I was living in the murkiness of sexuality and gender. I knew I was viewed as a boy. I knew I liked boys. I knew I felt like a girl. Like many young trans people, I hadn’t learned terms like trans , transgender , or transsexual —definitions that would have offered me clarity about my gender identity. For example, a trans girl who is assigned male at birth and attracted to boys may call herself gay for a short time—a transitional identity on her road to self-discovery. In actuality, though, since her gender identity is that of a girl, and she is attracted to boys, then her sexual orientation mirrors that of a heterosexual girl, not a gay man.
Regardless, gay was foreign enough to my father—a proud black man raised in a Southern Baptist home—that I can’t imagine proclaiming that I was trans would’ve put him at ease. For many parents, having a gay or lesbian child is a lot less daunting than having a trans child, especially in a culture where gay and lesbian people are increasingly becoming more accepted, whereas transgender people, especially trans women, are still stigmatized.
I didn’t have answers for myself or my father, so I cried. I was hurt and afraid. By the time we got home to Denise’s, Dad was talked out, and he wearily whispered to me, “Get in the bathroom.”
I had pulled the vinyl polka-dot shower curtain back and begun taking off my shirt to prepare for my shower when Dad opened the door. He had a stool in one hand and his clippers in the other. I didn’t see this coming, and cried harder in protest. Dad didn’t say a word as he plugged his clippers into the outlet by the sink. I kept my eyes closed and opened them only when containing my tears stung. With the sound of each buzz, my curls fell against my bare shoulders and back before finding their way to the floor. When the buzzing stopped,the black-and-white-tiled floor was covered in tendrils and tears. The mirror reflected a hard truth: You are a boy. Stop pretending .
By the New Year, when every television was tuned to the proceedings of the O. J. Simpson trial, my curls had returned thicker and wilder. They were no longer silky, choosing to grow up rather than down and demanding more room. The only thing to tame them was Blue Magic grease, which I lathered on my hair after every shower, waking up with an oil-stained pillowcase and consistent dreams of Mom.
Though her phone calls and birthday cards halted after my eighth birthday, I held tight to the day that she’d rescue us. I extended blind optimism to Mom. I expected the best from her because my image of her, despite her actions, was untarnished. Instead of facing the reality of rejection, I made excuses for her: Mom was busy; she had a career; she just needed a little time to build a new life that would include me one day. My optimism won out in 1995 when Auntie Wee Wee’s phone rang as the news commentators discussed the latest from the courtroom. “Baby, it’s for you,” she said with the widest smile.
“Hello?” I said into the receiver.
“Charles? It’s Mom.”
When I heard her voice, the opportunity for better emerged, and I immediately forgave her years-long absence because she was a dream come true. I can’t remember what we talked about, but I remember the feeling that things would be better, that Chad and I would have the life we deserved. Auntie Wee Wee had gotten ahold of Mom through Grandma
I didn’t know if gay was the right fit for me. The label hovered over me for years like the red glare settling over my father’s face. I’d been called gay and sissy and faggot ever since I stepped foot on playgroundsin my earliest youth. My father’s thoughts filled the car: My son is an effeminate boy pretending to be a girl in front of other boys, so he must be gay, right? Uncertainty rode shotgun in our conversation.
As a tween, I was living in the murkiness of sexuality and gender. I knew I was viewed as a boy. I knew I liked boys. I knew I felt like a girl. Like many young trans people, I hadn’t learned terms like trans , transgender , or transsexual —definitions that would have offered me clarity about my gender identity. For example, a trans girl who is assigned male at birth and attracted to boys may call herself gay for a short time—a transitional identity on her road to self-discovery. In actuality, though, since her gender identity is that of a girl, and she is attracted to boys, then her sexual orientation mirrors that of a heterosexual girl, not a gay man.
Regardless, gay was foreign enough to my father—a proud black man raised in a Southern Baptist home—that I can’t imagine proclaiming that I was trans would’ve put him at ease. For many parents, having a gay or lesbian child is a lot less daunting than having a trans child, especially in a culture where gay and lesbian people are increasingly becoming more accepted, whereas transgender people, especially trans women, are still stigmatized.
I didn’t have answers for myself or my father, so I cried. I was hurt and afraid. By the time we got home to Denise’s, Dad was talked out, and he wearily whispered to me, “Get in the bathroom.”
I had pulled the vinyl polka-dot shower curtain back and begun taking off my shirt to prepare for my shower when Dad opened the door. He had a stool in one hand and his clippers in the other. I didn’t see this coming, and cried harder in protest. Dad didn’t say a word as he plugged his clippers into the outlet by the sink. I kept my eyes closed and opened them only when containing my tears stung. With the sound of each buzz, my curls fell against my bare shoulders and back before finding their way to the floor. When the buzzing stopped,the black-and-white-tiled floor was covered in tendrils and tears. The mirror reflected a hard truth: You are a boy. Stop pretending .
By the New Year, when every television was tuned to the proceedings of the O. J. Simpson trial, my curls had returned thicker and wilder. They were no longer silky, choosing to grow up rather than down and demanding more room. The only thing to tame them was Blue Magic grease, which I lathered on my hair after every shower, waking up with an oil-stained pillowcase and consistent dreams of Mom.
Though her phone calls and birthday cards halted after my eighth birthday, I held tight to the day that she’d rescue us. I extended blind optimism to Mom. I expected the best from her because my image of her, despite her actions, was untarnished. Instead of facing the reality of rejection, I made excuses for her: Mom was busy; she had a career; she just needed a little time to build a new life that would include me one day. My optimism won out in 1995 when Auntie Wee Wee’s phone rang as the news commentators discussed the latest from the courtroom. “Baby, it’s for you,” she said with the widest smile.
“Hello?” I said into the receiver.
“Charles? It’s Mom.”
When I heard her voice, the opportunity for better emerged, and I immediately forgave her years-long absence because she was a dream come true. I can’t remember what we talked about, but I remember the feeling that things would be better, that Chad and I would have the life we deserved. Auntie Wee Wee had gotten ahold of Mom through Grandma
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