by Jeff Garvin
And maybe this isn’t only about me anymore.
CHAPTER 21
DESPITE MY PROTESTS ABOUT GETTING carsick, I end up in the backseat of Solo’s hatchback on the way to LA—windows down, music up, and heater cranked to full blast. For the first ten minutes, Solo and Bec fight for control of the stereo; Solo wants to play XTC, but Bec has just acquired an Against Me! bootleg that she insists is “the proper soundtrack for tonight’s festivities.” Which prompts Solo to assert that he doesn’t actually know what “tonight’s festivities” are, which leads to an argument over whether Solo ought to know where he’s driving us. I had almost forgotten he doesn’t know what the Q is.
That’s when the vague nausea of carsickness gives way to stomach-dropping dread. Even if I don’t say a word tonight—even if I sit quietly and just listen to everybody else in the group—Solo will know. Maybe not the specifics, but he’ll know something. Of course, he must suspect something already; our talk at the Reagan Years proves that. But when he sees the whole picture—when he finds out what I am—what if he’s repulsed? My guts churn again.
Solo turns down the music and glances at me in the rearview. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Just tired.”
“We’re almost to the exit. You need me to pull over? You want a 7UP or something?”
I shake my head.
“All right.” Solo turns the music back up, but not as loud this time. A moment later, I feel a hand touch my shoulder.
It’s Bec’s.
I sit up when we pull into the parking lot. My temples and upper lip are slick with sweat—whether from nerves or from Solo’s heater, I’m not sure—but the cool air feels good when I step out of the car, and my stomach settles a little.
“Where the hell are we?” Solo says, glancing around at the empty buildings.
“West Hollywood,” Bec says. “Almost Beverly Hills.”
“Are you sure?” He glances down the alley, then frowns at Bec. “It doesn’t look very safe.”
Bec looks him up and down. “I’ll protect you.”
Solo laughs. Bec smiles.
We start across the parking lot, Bec to my left, taking her short, quick strides, and Solo ambling along on my right. Suddenly, I don’t know how to walk. Almost sixteen years of doing it without thinking seem to vanish in an instant, and now I’m just putting one foot in front of the other in a series of awkward, robotic lunges. Part of me wants to lean toward Bec and take her hand, and the other part wants to jam my hands in my pockets and match long strides with Solo. Instead, my arms just swing dead at my sides, making me feel like some sort of ballerina ape. I’m so distracted and self-conscious that I catch the toe of my Chucks on a pothole and barely stop myself from eating asphalt.
“You all right?” Solo asks.
“I’m cool,” I reply. My voice comes out oddly low, as though I’m imitating some rapper. Bec shoots me a bemused glance. I blush and look away.
This is what I was afraid of: being caught in some kind of relational limbo between masculine and feminine. I close my eyes for a second and try to sense which direction my internal compass is pointing—but it’s as if there’s too much interference, and I can’t get a clear reading. So instead, I concentrate on walking and try to pretend nothing is happening.
Kanada greets us at the door. She performs an elaborate European cheek-kissing ritual on Bec, then collects me in a tight hug as though she’s known me for years, her strong, lean arms almost squeezing the breath out of me. At first, it’s overwhelming, and I feel a claustrophobic instinct to withdraw; but after a moment, I find myself hugging her back. I can’t actually remember the last time someone hugged me like this, and I don’t want to let go. I feel a pang of disappointment when she releases me and turns to Solo, her smile widening even further.
“Well, look at this hunk of pure love,” she says, extending her hand. “I’m Kanada.”
“Solo,” he says. And then, instead of shaking her hand, he bends deftly at the waist and plants a kiss on it. “Enchanted.”
Kanada squeals with delight and throws an arm around Solo’s neck. “Ladies best back off. Her Majesty claims this one for her own.”
Solo smiles, and I think I see a tinge of red on his brown cheeks.
Kanada leads us in, and we gravitate toward the table in the back as the rest of the group begins to show up. Bec goes from member to member, exchanging hugs and making small talk—she’s almost a different person here, so much more social and outgoing than she is at school. Solo and I hang out by the refreshments table, him gnawing on a stale grocery-store cookie, me sipping at a Styrofoam cup of coffee. When the room starts to fill up, Bec comes back and ushers us to the ring of chairs in the center, and we sit.
Mike/Michelle is dressed as a man tonight, in gray slacks and a white dress shirt, her hair parted on the side and combed back. “Welcome, everyone,” she says. “In case you’ve never seen me present as a man before, this is what Mike used to wear to work.” She strikes an elegant pose, to which the group responds with scattered laughter and applause. Mike/Michelle smiles. “We have some new faces tonight, but don’t worry, I’m not going to single anyone out. So if you want to introduce yourself, just raise your hand and say hello.”
I glance at Solo, wondering how he feels at this point. He sits quietly, observing the group’s members and clearly doing his best not to stare. He probably looks exactly how I looked last week.
The cast is pretty much the same: Kanada sits next to Mike/Michelle, and then there’s Chris, the trans man with the combat boots. Next to him is Herman, the good-looking guy who was holding hands with Bennie last week—but there’s no sign of Bennie herself. Morgan—the group member with the awesome green hair—takes the chair to my left. I recognize the fine-featured face and baggy flight jacket from last week, but this time, only a few strands of that shocking green hair are visible, peeking out the back of a baseball cap with a “T” embroidered above the bill. I’m trying not to stare like I did at my first meeting, but I think I detect a hint of lip gloss.
Mike/Michelle rubs her hands together. “Okay then. Let’s have our opening words.” She reaches out to Kanada, and then everybody clasps hands. It’s kind of cheesy, and I glance around to make a face at Solo, but he’s solemn as a choirboy. So is Bec, for that matter. I wipe the smirk off my face and turn to look at Mike/Michelle. She closes her eyes and tilts her face toward the ceiling.
“Tonight we come together as a community—not to focus on our flaws, but to celebrate our uniqueness. To share our pain, our joy, and our love, and to create a better tomorrow.”
For a moment it’s quiet, and I have to stifle the urge to say, “Amen.” Then Mike/Michelle looks up and there’s a subdued round of applause.
“First, a few announcements. Herman tells me that Bennie couldn’t be here tonight because she’s meeting with her soon-to-be ex-wife and divorce attorney. So let’s all take a moment to send her loving thoughts.”
We clasp hands again, and everyone is quiet for a moment.
“We also want to congratulate Kanada, whose daughter was accepted into the very prestigious All Southern Youth Orchestra!” More applause. Kanada wipes tears from her eyes and waves at the group to stop. Mike/Michelle continues. “There’s another person I’d like all of us to acknowledge, but she’s not officially a member of our group. I’m sure you all must have heard about Andie Gingham by now? The trans girl in Oklahoma?”
A chill runs down my spine. Everyone nods.
“Good. Because I want to acknowledge Andie. She didn’t back down or hide, even in the face of rejection by her own family. Even in the face of violence. She could have let it stop her, and no one in this room would have blamed her.”
“No way,” Kanada says. There are murmurs of assent.
“But she didn’t,” Mike/Michelle continues. “She took the beating and then came out again—to the world. She took a stand not just for herself, but for every one of us. And I want to thank her for
that.”
Even though there are fewer than a dozen people in this little room, the sound of applause bouncing off the concrete walls is almost deafening.
“And finally,” Mike/Michelle says as the applause dies, “I want to thank you for agreeing to switch nights this week. As you know, Trans Health Con is coming up in a few weeks. Remind me, who’s coming? Raise your hand if you’re planning to attend.”
Mike/Michelle, Kanada, Herman, and Chris raise their hands.
“Bennie’s going, too,” Herman says.
“Oh, good,” Mike/Michelle says. “For those of you who haven’t registered yet, there are still spots open. I know you would find it inspiring. In any case, the reason I had to switch nights is that there’s a planning session tomorrow. They’re holding a panel about online community building at the conference, and the chairperson asked me to be the mediator!”
This time there are cheers mixed in with the applause.
Mike/Michelle smiles broadly and raises a hand to quiet the group. “Okay, okay, thank you! Wow.” She laughs. “Now, if nobody objects, I’ll start the sharing.”
“Share away, my love,” Kanada says.
“As you can see, I didn’t have time to change before tonight’s meeting. I went to my son’s debate competition, and I have an agreement with him to present as a man when we’re together in public.”
Everyone in the room nods. Even Solo. I wonder what he’s thinking right now.
“Well, I just—I just wanted to share that I’m bothered by it. Right now.” She puts a fist to her mouth as if to cough. Kanada takes her other hand, and then Mike/Michelle continues. “I’ve been out for years, but it’s still a struggle. And I was really looking forward to wearing this periwinkle top Kanada bought me.”
“And you should’ve seen her in it,” says Kanada. “I mean, damn.”
We laugh.
Mike/Michelle smiles. “My son placed third, by the way. Okay. Who’s next?”
For a moment, everyone just looks around at everyone else—and then Morgan breaks the silence.
“I know I don’t talk much,” Morgan says, and I hear the hint of a drawl in that alto voice. “But I guess I’ll go.”
“That’s great,” Mike/Michelle says. “What’s on your mind?”
“Well,” Morgan says, glancing around the group, “y’all know I came out here from Texas to get away from my family.”
Most of the group nods their heads.
“When I left, my dad pretty much disowned me. I didn’t actually come out, not in so many words, but to my family, moving to Cali and being genderqueer are pretty much the same thing.”
A few people laugh, but not me; I’m transfixed. Genderqueer. I realize this may be the first person like me—or close to being like me—that I’ve ever met. I look at the trace of lip gloss, the green hair protruding from the back of the baseball hat—and all at once, I understand what it must be like for someone else to see me for the first time. When I saw Morgan, my first instinct was to wonder: Boy or girl? And if I saw me, with my untamed midlength hair and my ambiguous wardrobe, I’d probably wonder the same thing. I think of all my mother’s scrutinizing looks, all the lectures about appearance I’ve endured from my dad. Were they really judging—or just trying to figure me out? The idea reverberates in my head like a low gong, drowning out all other thoughts.
“Anyway,” Morgan continues, “I’ve been here about three months. Haven’t heard nothing from my family till last week.” Morgan pauses. When he—or she—speaks again, I expect that calm, alto voice to break, but it doesn’t. “I got a letter from Momma. She told me I ought to get my scrawny ass to church and pray to Jesus I don’t get corrupted by y’all.”
This time I do laugh, along with everybody else.
“It wasn’t the best thing, but . . . well, she wrote. So that’s good. Right?”
“Yes it is, precious,” Kanada says.
Morgan glances around the room. “Anyway. I just wanted to say I’m glad y’all are here.”
Herman shares next, something about Bennie and the turmoil around her divorce, but I’m not really listening—I’m watching Morgan listen. Even after hearing him—or her—speak, I have no idea which pronoun to use, which gender label to apply. And I realize that, while I tend to think of myself as drifting between the two poles of male and female, that’s my individual perception—and, in some ways, it’s too binary for a person like Morgan, who seems to hover somewhere in the middle, or maybe doesn’t envision gender as a spectrum at all. It’s weird to think that now I’m the one clinging to old ideas. Just then, Morgan catches me staring and flashes me a brief, tight-lipped smile. I smile back.
As the applause dies following Herman’s sharing, I notice Mike/Michelle looking in my direction.
“Riley,” she says. “Welcome back. How are you tonight?”
My heart gives a throb of protest. Mike/Michelle must sense my distress, because her face falls, and I get the feeling she’s searching for a way to shift the focus to someone else. In my peripheral vision, I see Solo turn his head toward me.
“I’m okay,” I say.
More heads turn, and now all the eyes are on me. But it’s not like the Gauntlet, not like walking through the halls at school; those eyes are invasive and penetrating. These are curious and patient. These people genuinely want to hear what I have to say.
Mike/Michelle leans back in her chair as if to give me more room to breathe. “Would you like to share?”
I nod. “Hey, everybody, I’m Riley.”
The room responds with nods and hellos. My heart is now a lump in my throat, and my breath is shallow. I talk anyway. “I’m sort of . . . fighting off a mini anxiety attack right now,” I say.
“Do you want some time?” Mike/Michelle asks. “Kanada can take you out for a little fresh air if that would help.”
“No.” I’m surprised at the strength of my voice. “I think I just need to sort of push through, if that’s okay.”
“You bet it’s okay,” Kanada says. “We’re here for you.”
The group murmurs their agreement. I close my eyes and take three long breaths. I look up and glance at Bec. She nods encouragement.
“I was inspired by what Mike/Michelle said, about having to dress a certain way around her family. Such a normal thing, for us, feeling out of place. I feel that way all the time. Like I’m from some other planet, you know? Like my soul was stuffed into the wrong body and then dropped off here by mistake.”
The group responds with murmurs of assent, and Morgan nods. But Mike/Michelle narrows her eyes just a little. Her gaze is curious, but intense. I swallow. Why is she looking at me like that? I look away and try to pick up the thread of what I was saying.
“I think everybody has moments like that. It’s not just us. Everyone feels lost. Everyone is just . . . looking. Looking for somewhere to stand. For someone to stand next to.” I look at Bec. “And even though we’re on the outside of everything, maybe we’re the lucky ones. Because we already have that.”
Bec nods slowly, but doesn’t smile. I look around the circle. Kanada is nodding, too, her mouth tight. Chris wipes at the corners of his eyes with his sleeve.
Then I glance at Solo. His head is inclined, his brow furrowed. I realize I’m holding my breath.
“I’m gender fluid.”
I hear the words echo off the concrete before I realize I’ve spoken them. The whole room seems to freeze in place.
For a long moment, Solo is still as a statue. Finally, he glances around the room and then leans closer, as if it’s just the two of us having a conversation.
“I figured it was something like that,” he says. “I’ve sort of been doing homework on gender stuff.” He shakes his head. “God, I hope my mom never looks at my browser history.”
I laugh, and that seems to give everyone else permission to laugh, and they do. Bec does smile now, then turns and punches Solo’s arm. A few people applaud, and Herman blows me a kiss. Kanada stands up and
gives me a long-armed hug. I hug her back as hard as I can, and tears creep into the corners of my eyes. I’ve never been so accepted by a group of strangers—or friends, for that matter. I’ve never felt so . . . normal. And, other than some raw nerves—understandable after sharing something so personal—my body feels amazing. Whole. Almost like I belong in it. It’s the first time I can remember not feeling a single trace of dysphoria; but, rather than exhilarating me, the realization kind of depresses me, because I think about how much time I’ve spent feeling wrong.
When the meeting is over, a few people come up to me and congratulate me on coming out. I smile and try to be polite, but I’m sort of emotionally exhausted, and I’m sure I seem distant. Kanada stands near the refreshments table with Herman and Solo, having an animated conversation I can’t hear. I look around for Morgan, but he or she must have slipped out as soon as the meeting ended. I wish I could do the same. Bec seems to sense my fatigue, because she leans in and whispers, “I’ll get Solo,” then crosses the room to retrieve him.
“Hi, Riley.”
The voice comes from behind, and I turn to find Mike/Michelle walking toward me.
“Hi,” I say.
“Can we talk for a minute?”
“Sure.”
She leads me away from the ring of chairs. “I want to ask you something. But if you don’t want to answer, it’s okay. And I won’t share this information with anyone unless you specifically ask me to. Okay?”
I don’t know what she wants—but the way she’s asking is making me nervous. I glance around the room to make sure no one can overhear. “Okay.”
“What you said tonight, about feeling like your soul had been stuffed into the wrong body. That was . . . very moving. It reminded me of something Alix wrote on Hiding and Other Social Skills. Do you know that blog?”
My breath catches in my throat. So that’s why she cocked her head at me when I said that. She recognized it from my blog. She knows.
