Becoming Nicole

by Amy Ellis Nutt

  On another night, feeling lonely and a bit down, Nicole wandered into her parents’ bedroom and asked if she could sleep with them. Kelly was watching The Tonight Show, and Wayne was almost asleep. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Nicole tiptoe carefully over to his side of the bed, trying not to wake him. Then, just before sliding in under the covers, she carefully placed her new breasts on the nightstand next to the bed.

  —

  ABOUT A YEAR AFTER MOVING to Portland, Kelly was hired to be the executive assistant to the city’s sheriff, where she quickly learned the department had one of the best transgender prisoner policies in the nation. Staff was trained to make sure transgender female prisoners were assigned cells with other females, not males. There were no incidents of harassment, no derogatory comments. Rather, there was a simple, even dignified acceptance that started at the top, with the sheriff.

  Life at home, however, was anything but simple. Once, on a weekend afternoon, with Kelly and Wayne doing chores and the kids on their own, a thunderous crash sent them all running toward the sound, which appeared to be coming from outside the house. Kelly thought she’d seen Nicole moments before going up to her attic bedroom, so the horrifying possibility that her daughter had just plunged through her bedroom window and was lying in a heap by the side of the house seemed all too real. Jonas and Wayne dashed outside while Kelly grabbed her phone and tried to dial 911. She didn’t have her contact lenses in and her reading glasses weren’t nearby. Blindly she pushed at the buttons. Just then, Nicole sauntered up from the basement where she’d been playing video games.

  “Hi, guys, what’s up?” she asked breezily.

  “Oh my God,” Kelly said.

  She grabbed Nicole and hugged her close just as Wayne and Jonas, confused, wandered back inside.

  “I thought you were dead!” said Kelly.

  “Thank God you’re okay,” said Wayne.

  Without hesitating, he and Jonas joined Kelly and Nicole in one big family embrace and they laughed with relief. The noise turned out to be someone moving furniture next door, but it was clear from their initial reactions just how much strain they were all under, especially Kelly. They’d been through so much, and trouble seemed never to be more than a few minutes or feet away. It was almost like they all had posttraumatic stress disorder, always expecting the worst, always in “what next” mode.

  —

  WHEN THE ORONO PROPERTY finally sold, Wayne moved into cheap graduate student housing. Kelly and the kids, who were now in the eighth grade, were also able to move into a new home several blocks and a world away from the duplex. It was a street of modest, single-family houses and stately trees. The backyard wasn’t huge, and a commuter train ran by several times a day, just beyond the fence. But it had more room, including a patio, and there were no police sirens in the middle of the night.

  In the spring, Nicole had an appointment to see Dr. Spack at his Boston clinic. He told her he might start the estrogen sooner than age sixteen, as originally planned. Nicole could have kissed him she was so excited. When she’d first met the doctor she’d been a bit intimidated, but he gave off an aura of assuredness that always seemed to put her at ease. In fact, after the first couple of visits, Nicole began to think of Dr. Spack as family. So whatever he needed to do to make her fully female, it was all right with her. Spack started Nicole on estrogen right away. She was thirteen. She would also need to continue taking the male hormone blockers until she underwent sex reassignment surgery. Everything was moving ahead at the right pace, he assured the family, just as he’d expected.

  After the appointment, the family had lunch at a dim sum restaurant in Boston, then rode the elevator up to the eighth floor of the building that housed GLAD’s main office in Boston. They were greeted by several GLAD staffers, including their lead lawyer on the lawsuit, Jennifer Levi, the director of GLAD’s Transgender Rights Project. After twenty years as a litigator at GLAD, she was a nationally recognized expert on transgender issues. This was the first time the legal team had met the family face-to-face, and they were eager to tell them how strongly they believed in the case, but that not counting appeals, it could take as long as two years before it was all over.

  At a reception for the family that night, held at the home of a GLAD board member, Nicole was a whirlwind of energy. She was clearly the star of the show. Afterward, Wayne was moved to write a long thank-you note. He needed to explain to all the people he’d just met how grateful he was.

  In the past we have openly discussed the difficulties and rewards that exist for transgender children with those who are willing to listen. We attempted to answer any questions and work with teachers and staff to help provide a positive learning environment….However, the continued concerns that we face on an almost daily basis have placed us in a position that requires we speak out from behind a curtain.

  It was impossible for the Maineses not to feel the importance of their case among these hardworking people, and they realized that their lawsuit wasn’t just about Nicole or their family. It wasn’t even just their story anymore. The lawsuit, even though it was just a state case, had meaning and significance for many others. And now Wayne, Kelly, Nicole, and Jonas would carry the hopes of those others with them as they sought affirmation from the courts.

  CHAPTER 32

  Born This Way

  Worried about what the kids would do during the summer, Kelly made arrangements for Nicole and Jonas to spend time with their father in Orono, but she also had a surprise for Nicole. She’d heard from someone in Dr. Spack’s office about a transgender camp in Connecticut, one of the first of its kind. Nicole was signed up to attend for a week at the end of August.

  Camp Aranu’tiq (the name comes from the Chugach indigenous people of Alaska and means “two spirit,” or “half man, half woman”) is part of Harbor Camps, founded in 2009 by Nick Teich, a trans man. As an avid former camper, he recognized the need for the more marginalized members of society, especially children and adolescents, to have their own summer camp experience. Although Harbor, a nonprofit, would eventually be able to buy, renovate, and equip their own 112-acre wilderness camp in New Hampshire, in its inaugural year it leased a rustic lakeside campsite in Old Lyme, Connecticut.

  After a sleepless night, Nicole jabbered nervously to her parents and Jonas on the ride down from Orono to Old Lyme. Mostly she didn’t know what to expect. She’d never been to a sleepaway camp, much less one with other transgender kids. There were forty-one of them in total, all eight to fifteen years old. Beneath the name tags they wore around their necks were written the preferred personal pronouns. After reaching the camp and stepping for the first time inside Robeson cabin, the one set aside for the younger campers, Nicole wasn’t impressed. The bunk beds were okay, but the dirt floor, the cobwebs—it was all a bit shabby, she thought. But the campgrounds included a rec hall, an art center, and a cafeteria. There was a volleyball court, yoga, and kayaking. There were also campfires, games of capture the flag, a talent show, and skit night, when they doused one another in blue glitter. Within forty-eight hours Aranu’tiq felt like a home away from home, and Nicole loved everything about it.

  One of the best parts of the day were meals because you were required to switch your seating so you were never next to the same person. At lunch one day, after downing quesadillas and rice, one of the counselors led the group in singing the camp song, which they’d just written—“Aranu’tiq, a great place to be. I love this camp because I can be me”—which led to other rousing, more traditional camp songs, such as “Rigabamboo,” “The Moose Song,” and “Little Red Wagon,” which for some reason segued into Lady Gaga’s “Born This Way.”

  I’m beautiful in my way

  ’Cause God makes no mistakes.

  On one of the last evenings, Nicole wrote, directed, and acted in a three-act play with her cabin mates based on the board game and movie Clue. Nicole camped it up playing Mrs. White, but instead of the sexy widow, memorably and melodramatically portrayed
by Madeline Kahn in the 1985 film, Nicole performed the role as a cranky old lady, a routine she’d developed a couple of years earlier. She’d named her character “Muriel,” and she was a classic curmudgeon, even misanthrope, with a Long Island accent. The audience at Camp Aranu’tiq lapped it up. One of her camp friends played the role of Mrs. Peacock, brash, obnoxious, and loud—just the kind of person Muriel disliked. When another character announces that Mrs. Peacock has been murdered and they all stand around looking at her body, Nicole ad-libbed.

  “I know, it’s a miracle. Her mouth is shut.”

  The campers and counselors convulsed in laughter.

  At the end of the week, before they all went their separate ways, the campers gathered in the cafeteria and passed a ball of yarn from one table to the next until every person in the room was connected by a single spool. She’d spent only a week among these other transgender kids, but Nicole felt she’d made fast friends with at least two other trans girls. They hadn’t talked that much about being transgender; they’d just laughed and gossiped and swapped details about their favorite music, games, and TV shows. Cellphone numbers and email addresses were exchanged. Most of the campers tied the yarn around their wrists. Nicole wore hers until it finally fell off about six months later. She would return to Camp Aranu’tiq two more summers. When she attended the camp for the third and last time, after which she was too old, the final ceremony included a gift for all the graduates: a compass, so that they could always find their way back.

  CHAPTER 33

  A Time for Change

  A few weeks after the start of eighth grade, Nicole learned a celebrity was coming to Portland to speak out against the military’s “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. At five in the afternoon thousands of Mainers, including Nicole and Wayne, stood shoulder to shoulder in a downtown park to hear pop music icon and political activist Lady Gaga. She was there to sing and speak at a rally organized by the Servicemembers Legal Defense Network.

  “My name is Stefani Joanne Angelina Germanotta. I am an American citizen,” she told the crowd, before urging Maine’s lawmakers to pressure the Obama administration to repeal DADT. She offered a new law she called “If you don’t like it, go home,” which would remove homophobic straight soldiers from the military instead of gay soldiers.

  At one point, the singer recited the oath of enlistment, words spoken by every member of every branch of the military when they pledge their service to their country. Wayne had spoken these words some thirty years earlier when he entered the air force at a time when the military was very unpopular in the United States.

  I, _____, do solemnly swear (or affirm) that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic….

  As a brand-new recruit, Wayne had been both scared and proud when he swore the oath to his country. He and Kelly had raised their children to respect the military.

  Lady Gaga, of course, was there to make a point, and so at the end of the oath, she added three words: “Unless you’re gay.” For a moment Wayne felt anger toward the military, but mostly the politicians who had allowed the military, for so long, to dismiss honorable men and women from its ranks because of their sexual orientation. All that hiding and the secrecy, the lying and the shame—it was corrosive. The Maineses probably knew that better than most. Wayne hoped a time would come soon that all four of them could stand up and declare themselves. But until then, they’d continue living undercover.

  Wayne and Kelly constantly worried that Nicole or Jonas would slip up, or that the news from Orono would somehow catch up with them, but it didn’t. In fact, after two years in Portland, few people other than schoolteachers and staff knew that Nicole was transgender. They’d all stayed closeted, until suddenly, in April 2011, toward the end of the eighth grade, something happened that made the whole family question whether they could continue to live in hiding.

  Wayne and Kelly learned the Maine legislature was considering a new bill, LD 1046: An Act to Amend the Application of the Maine Human Rights Act Regarding Public Accommodations. If passed, the new law would allow the owners of any business to decide who could use their restrooms. Furthermore, if someone was denied access to the facility of their gender identification, they would be unable to claim discrimination under Maine’s Human Rights Act.

  Kelly, Wayne, Jonas, and Nicole all felt disgusted. They’d moved their primary residence, given up friends and jobs, spent their savings, and lived in secret, all because of harassment and discrimination over Nicole’s use of the gender-appropriate restroom. Now the state of Maine was looking to roll back civil rights even more, to codify discrimination. Wayne boiled over inside. For so long it had been just Kelly fighting for Nicole. He knew his wife must have felt exquisitely alone. He understood that better—albeit in a different way—now that he was forced to live away from his family. For the past two years, from the outside, they’d looked and acted like any average American family, except that they weren’t. Something needed to change. Something had changed. And Wayne knew exactly what it was.

  CHAPTER 34

  We Can’t Lose

  A middle-aged man wearing reading glasses stood silently at the microphone before the House Judiciary Committee of the 124th Maine legislature. Then he cleared his throat and began:

  My name is Wayne Maines, I live in Old Town. I have a thirteen-year-old transgender daughter. In the beginning, I was not on board with this reality. Like many of you I doubted transgender children could exist, I doubted my wife, and I doubted our counselors and doctors. However, I never doubted my love for my child. It was only through observing her pain and her suffering and examining my lack of knowledge about these issues did I begin to question my behavior and my conservative values….

  When my daughter lost her privileges at school and both children and adults targeted her, I knew I had to change and I have never looked back….When she was told she could no longer use the appropriate bathroom her confidence and self-esteem took a major hit. Prior to this my daughter often said, “Dad, being transgender is no big deal, my friends and I have it under control.” I was very proud of her. It was only when adults became involved with their unfounded fears that her world would be turned upside down….This bill tells my daughter that she does not have the same rights as her classmates and reinforces her opinion that she has no future. Help me give her the future she deserves. Do not pass this bill.

  Trembling, Wayne wiped away the tears streaming down his face. It was Tuesday, April 12, 2011, and he felt like he’d just come out of his own closet. He had spoken openly and honestly about his transgender daughter, about himself and his family, and now there was no turning back.

  State representative Ken Fredette was the conservative legislator sponsoring the bill with the support of the Republican governor, Paul LePage. The Maine Civil Liberties Union and several other organizations had gone on record opposing it. The hearing before the Judiciary Committee was a chance for the public to speak, and it was an overflow crowd. Before Wayne addressed the committee, Jennifer Levi, one of the Maineses’ lawyers in their suit against the Orono school district, spoke:

  The only way a business could enforce LD 1046 in a consistent and nondiscriminatory fashion without resorting to gender profiling would be through physical inspections, which raises serious privacy and medical confidentiality concerns and, again, risk of litigation. Not to mention that a person’s anatomy is personal, private information that nobody would want to be required to disclose (or worse, viewed) before being given access to a public facility.

  Levi set out not only the reasons why transgender people should be allowed to use the bathroom of their gender identity, but logically, pragmatically, and legally why enforcing a biological-sex accommodation rule would not work. Everything Nicole, Kelly, Wayne, and Jonas had fought for, sued for, been harassed for, was suddenly at stake, and not just for Nicole, but for every transgender person in the state of Maine. Before he spoke, Wayne wasn’t sure how
he was going to do it, or even if he could. Now he knew there had never been any other option. For years Kelly had quietly borne the family burden of protector and provider for Nicole’s needs. Now it was Wayne’s turn to step up and speak out. He was oddly ebullient, as if he’d finally rid himself of some suffocating weight, and it was all he could do to keep himself tethered to the ground. All those values he’d been taught growing up—defending the defenseless, helping the downtrodden—he’d always thought they meant standing up for a friend or a neighbor or a stranger in need, not his own child.

  No one, however, was confident LD 1046 would be defeated. In fact, Wayne was worried enough it might pass that just days after he spoke at the hearing he called Kelly from work and said he’d been thinking about the state legislators and the upcoming vote.

  “I think they have to meet Nicole,” he told his wife. “We can’t lose.”

  Wayne liked to write things down. Partly it was an organizational habit. He had many thoughts running through his mind. In a way, he talked more to himself than to Kelly, but it was how he worked things out. When he first began to do his own searches on the Internet he was stunned to find so little information for fathers of transgender children. Being the self-starter he was, he realized that maybe he could fill the void. It wasn’t that he knew any better than anyone else how to raise a transgender child; he just thought it could help other fathers if he shared his own questions and experiences. Maybe he’d even hear back from someone. Every few months he wrote a piece for the Huffington Post blog called Gay Voices. At first he posted anonymously, but, encouraged by responses from other bloggers and readers, he began to write more personally. The responses were often a means for further discussion, such as the column he wrote about allowing Nicole to wear dresses. After reading the post, one person wrote: