Sissy

by Jacob Tobia

  Livin’ la vida loca, baby.

  * * *

  —

  When Hurricane Sandy struck New York City in October 2012, I didn’t witness the storm firsthand. As a Southerner, having experienced at least a dozen hurricanes, I knew not to fuck around with them. I left the city and headed to Boston to visit a friend at Harvard Medical School, where the storm brought only a rainy evening and a cold day.

  Back in New York, the storm was relentless.

  For some, recovery was quick. My office at the UN was informally open by Thursday of that week. Subway lines from Brooklyn to Manhattan were still shut down and, feeling a bit stir-crazy having returned to my cramped dorm room, I took the East River Ferry to work. Within a week, the power was back on in Lower Manhattan.

  But not all of New York was so quick to recover. As after all natural disasters, the city’s poor and disenfranchised took the lion’s share of the lasting damage. The Ali Forney Center, an organization dedicated to serving the needs of New York City’s LGBTQ homeless youth, ran a drop-in center out of Chelsea, which had been flooded with a catastrophic three feet of water. Their main youth services center ruined, they were struggling to reopen and needed hundreds of thousands of dollars in order to do so.

  When I read about the Ali Forney Center’s plight, I was with my roommates in my dorm room, looking out the window at the Brooklyn Bridge, now fully reilluminated. I turned around and looked back at my closet, high heels standing at attention on my shoe rack. Inspiration struck.

  “Wait, y’all, I have a stupid idea.”

  “Yes?” inquired my roommate sleepily. Me having ideas and wanting to talk about them was pretty much a nightly occurrence, and after two and a half months of living together, I imagine it was starting to become annoying.

  “Okay, so there’s this shelter for homeless LGBTQ youth in New York called the Ali Forney Center that flooded during Hurricane Sandy. I’m thinking that I want to raise some money for them as my end-of-semester project.”

  “How?”

  “I’m going to run across the Brooklyn Bridge in high heels. I think it’d be ridiculous enough for people to want to donate money to see it. And we all know I’m good at walking in heels—I can’t imagine that running would be that much harder?”

  The next day, I gave the Ali Forney Center a call to let them know what I was planning to do. They were psyched, but somewhat skeptical. Nonetheless, they walked me through how to make a fund-raising page with their online portal, and I was off.

  The next week, I went down to Brooklyn Bridge Park with some friends to shoot a quick promotional video of me talking about the run. We then walked up to the Brooklyn Bridge itself to get some B-roll of me dancing in high heels on the bridge, and that’s when I started to realize that I really had something. As I danced around to Janelle Monáe in my pumps, tourists passing by were enthralled. Some stopped to dance with me. Some asked to take photos. Some simply walked by, mouths agape, certain that this kind of thing could only happen in the Big Apple. The energy and enthusiasm I felt from those random strangers on the bridge convinced me, more than anything, that this project might just have the potential to capture the public imagination.

  After we launched the video and the fund-raising page, things began to grow quickly. We raised $1,000 within the first three days. By the start of the second week, the project had write-ups in four prominent national queer blogs, catapulting donations to $5,000. Seeing that the project was really taking hold, a friend pledged that his company would match any donations I received in the next 48 hours, up to $1,500. We exceeded the match cap, pulling us up to $10,000. And that’s when I got a call from Cathy Renna, a notorious lesbian publicist who was working with the Ali Forney Center pro-bono to get them press about their recovery effort. Given the runaway success of my project, she asked my permission to pitch it to a number of national outlets, and I, of course, said yes.

  Which is how, by the fourth week of the project, I found out I’d been named New Yorker of the Week by NY1, the local news network for 8 million New Yorkers. As part of a special “New Yorker of the Week” series, they were featuring one person from each borough who was helping with Hurricane Sandy recovery efforts. Apparently, I was the pick for the borough of Manhattan, where the Ali Forney Center was based.

  The accolade didn’t come with a trophy or anything, but we did get to film a special spot for NY1 where I pretended to “train” in stilettos for the run—doing jumping jacks, stretches, lunges, sit-ups, and push-ups. In case you were wondering, yes, push-ups are much harder wearing heels. I’m not a physicist, but it’s something about your feet being even longer than they normally are. And about most high heels having pointy toes.

  The funniest part of all this was the fact that I wasn’t even a New York resident. It was like studying abroad and being named Parisian of the Month or Londoner of the Day or something. I felt like I’d single-handedly put an end to the question “How long does it take to really be a New Yorker?” For some people, it can take years. But if you run across the Brooklyn Bridge in high heels, you’re officially a New Yorker—in fact, you’re a lauded New Yorker—within three short months.

  Later that week, I got a call from a 212 number I didn’t recognize.

  “Hello, is this Jacob Tobia?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Hi, this is Rachel calling. I’m a booker at MSNBC and we were wondering if you’d like to come by on Thursday for an in-studio interview with Thomas Roberts about your Brooklyn Bridge run?”

  “Um, yeah,” I replied, gulping for air. “Yeah, that’d be great!”

  “Okay, wonderful. I’ll be in touch with more details via email. Looking forward to having you!”

  “Yeah, looking forward to coming on the air!”

  “Oh, and one more thing—can you bring the actual shoes that you’ll be doing the run in? We want to have them in-studio for the segment.”

  After going downstairs to call my mom and freak the fuck out, I took a moment to Google Thomas Roberts. He wasn’t an anchor who I was familiar with, but then again, I didn’t really know any MSNBC anchors other than Rachel Maddow.

  For those who aren’t familiar, Thomas Roberts is, without question, the most gorgeous man in news (sorry, Anderson Cooper). His jawline alone could kill twelve people. They’d all just be sitting in a café or a bookshop minding their own business when kapow! Thomas Roberts walks through the door, they get one look at his jawline, and instantly drop dead on the floor. Add piercing blue eyes, a laser-cut smile, and a body that might’ve been stolen from Hercules, and you get what is, perhaps, the worst person I could’ve possibly had interview me.

  I mean, if I had to sit down with Rachel Maddow or Melissa Harris-Perry, I would’ve been nervous because I love them, but I wouldn’t have had to worry about accidentally giggling like a third grader with a crush. With Thomas at the helm, I had to be prepared for the very real possibility that I would step in front of the cameras, take one look into his baby blues, and melt into a glittery pink puddle on live television.

  A few days later, my “running” heels at my side, I showed up to 30 Rockefeller Plaza for the interview. Sporting my new fancy dress pants from Topman, sky-high “interview” heels, a collared white shirt, my grandmother’s earrings, and a blazer with a grandma brooch, I was dressed to kill. I sat down for a bit of makeup—just a touch of powder, really, I wasn’t confident enough yet to wear lipstick and eyeliner on national news—and before I knew it, I was being ushered into the studio.

  I didn’t know quite what I’d expected, but it wasn’t this. The schedule of a live news show is grueling, so Thomas and I only had about three seconds to say hello before he jumped into the segment’s headlines and I waited on the side. After watching him do his thing for two minutes, they placed my “running” heels on a high table next to Thomas and sent me up to the platform for the interview.

  �
�Now, remember, don’t look directly at the cameras, just pretend they’re not even there. Focus on talking to Thomas,” the producer said, attempting to comfort me.

  But the cameras don’t make me nervous, I thought. Thomas does! I mean look at that face, my God.

  Before I could dwell on the thought any longer, it was go time.

  “In New York City in October,” Thomas began, looking to camera and ignoring me, “a four-foot storm surge gushed into and through the doors of the city’s leading shelter for LGBT homeless youth. That flooding utterly destroyed the Ali Forney Center’s drop-in site and caused hundreds of thousands of dollars of damage. The center is now struggling to get back on its feet and one young man is offering financial ‘heeling’—by putting on heels!”

  They played a clip from the promotional video my friends and I shot, and before I could register how weird that made me feel, Thomas jumped back in.

  “All right, and that runner is here with me now, Duke University student and LGBT activist—”

  Oh my God, did he just call me an LGBT activist on the news? Like it’s an official thing now? He’s so dreamy . . .

  “—Jacob Tobia. It’s great to have you,” he said, turning to me.

  “It’s great to be here,” I managed to croak.

  Do not start giggling, Jacob. Don’t you do it!

  “Now, your personal story is tied to this, however, you had a much more positive experience in coming out, so why did you want to do this type of stunt for the Ali Forney Center?”

  Phew, a softball question, okay.

  “Well, December fifteenth for me marks the five-year anniversary of coming out to my family, and I figured that there was no better way to celebrate it than to give back to youth who have not had it as easy as I have, LGBT youth who are without homes.”

  Then Thomas asked me a question I was not at all prepared for, the one question I’d sorta hoped wouldn’t come up:

  “What we just watched is the teaser video. You have not run across the Brooklyn Bridge yet—that’s coming up on Saturday. But why do this in five-inch stilettos? I mean, you’re in heels right now. Is this something you normally do?” he asked, quite reasonably.

  Though I held my composure for the cameras, I squirmed inside. How do I answer this? How do I talk about my gender identity on the national news when I hardly understand it myself? I mean, I don’t even really wear high heels at work yet. Was it a bad idea to wear heels to this interview?

  Thankfully, I didn’t have time to think. I didn’t have time to doubt. I simply had to speak, to put one word in front of the other until they made a sentence. I took a deep breath and, surprisingly, formed a coherent response:

  “Yeah, I mean, I wear high heels normally,” I said naturally, coolly, as if it were the littlest thing in the world. “It’s part of who I am. It’s how I express myself. And I figured I’d take my fabulosity and put it to a good cause, y’know?”

  I think Thomas might’ve almost been taken aback by the eloquence, concision, and thoroughness of my response. I was proud of myself. He kept it moving:

  “All right, so when we talk about that, these are the shoes right here. This is the pair that you’re gonna wear on Saturday? I mean, these look brutal. And dangerous.”

  “Ummm. My feet will be hurting a little bit, I’m sure, when—”

  “Can you see these?” Thomas gestured to the camera. “Look at this!”

  “Yeah, I mean, they’re large. I’m not messing around. They’re five-inch heels, and I’m sure that my feet will be a little sore, but it’s the least I can do to help out youth who’ve had it a lot harder than I have.”

  “This is a bold move,” he said, changing directions, going in for the hardest question yet. “Do you think that you’re breaking stereotypes by doing this, or do you think that you’re lending to stereotypes for people who might be critical of what you’re doing?”

  Oh, shit.

  Oh shit oh shit oh shit. Now a masculine gay man is asking me live on television whether I think being feminine is an embarrassment to the gay community. Crap crap crap. I know he’s just playing devil’s advocate, but still! I’m hardly even an adult!

  But there was no time to think. I opened my mouth and, once again, was pleasantly surprised by the words that came out.

  “I think that the best way to break through stereotypes is to embrace who you are no matter what, and this is who I am, so I don’t think I—I—”

  I fumbled for a second. Then I regained control of the ball.

  “The critics can say what they want to say, but I’m proud of it.”

  His point about respectability politics dismissed, Thomas moved on: “What’s been the response so far, and how much money are you hoping to raise?”

  “It’s been incredible. I was originally gonna raise $2,000, and now I’m at $10,000. And I hope that today through Saturday I’ll be able to double it.”

  “All right, and . . . these . . . I still can’t get over these shoes. I mean, look at these things, look at that heel!”

  He then picked up my shoes from the table to show them to the camera. I really hope he can’t smell them, I thought. I’m not sure how clean they are . . .

  “Oh, they’re not too bad,” I said, attempting to assuage his worries.

  “They’re not bad, but I’m just saying, to run a mile is gonna be tough, but we wish you nothing but the best of luck, Jacob.”

  “You know, you gotta be strong. Thank you.”

  “You do, but it doesn’t have to be by running across the Brooklyn Bridge in freezing temperatures—but he’s gonna do it!”

  It was like I blacked out. Like I blinked, and suddenly the interview was over. I’m grateful that I could watch the video after, because otherwise, I’m not sure I could even tell you what had happened. The combination of being on national news for the first time, warding off respectability politics, and dealing with a human being as physically perfect as Thomas Roberts was simply too much for my lil’ queer heart to bear.

  I was so high after the interview, had so much pure adrenaline, I could’ve sworn I was taller and shinier than the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree outside.

  * * *

  —

  I couldn’t have asked for a better day to do the run. For a mid-December day in New York City, it was warm: forty-six degrees, with crystal clear skies.

  After the press junket, the actual run felt like a piece of cake; more of a celebration than a challenge. A few coworkers from the UN and friends from my Duke in New York program joined me to film the run and celebrate at the finish line. In nothing but gym shorts, a Duke T-shirt, and a Santa hat, I set off.

  About two hundred yards in, a thought occurred to me for the first time: Should I have, I dunno, like, trained for this? I mean, is this actually realistic? Can I run the entire length of the Brooklyn Bridge, a whopping 1.1 miles, in these shoes? And what would happen if I broke my ankle (a distinct possibility) when I was halfway across the bridge? Would the paramedics have to walk all the way across the bridge just to pick me up? Do they charge a special fee for ambulance pickups partway across the Brooklyn Bridge? I’d watched countless videos of models in sky-high heels tripping on the catwalk, rolling their ankles. It looked violent enough, and they were only strutting. I was straight-up jogging in those motherfuckers.

  With nothing but youthful ignorance and my own irrationality goading me on, I kept running. I waited for my feet to cry out in agony, waited for the inevitable moment when I’d trip and fall on my face, but those things simply never happened. Each step I took, my foot landed with grace. By divine providence alone, my feet kept going, and I passed the glitter tinsel finish line all in one piece, miraculously unscathed.

  Looking back at the video, one could even say that I finished the run strong. My friends Michael and David, who ran alongside me to film, were out of brea
th from simply running in flat shoes. I’d run the mile in something like eight and a half or nine minutes, a respectable enough time for a mile without heels on.

  Standing on the Manhattan side of the bridge, something dawned on me: This wasn’t only about raising money for and calling attention to a worthy cause. This was also about my identity. In the wake of my conversations with Minh-Thu, in the wake of my struggle to bring my gender identity with me into the workplace, I needed to do something, to make some very public statement about who I was. I needed to reclaim my gender, to own it more loudly and with more vigor than I ever had before. I needed to tell masculine respectability politics to fuck off. I needed to reassert my right to simply be: to show others that I was strong, tougher than even the world and my own heart had given me credit for.

  And if you don’t think that running an eight-minute mile in five-inch heels makes me one of the toughest people you know, then I’m going to need you to prove it, broseph. Go buy your own pair of heels, run a mile, and tell me to my face that I’m wrong. Go ahead, Mr. Tough Mudder. I double-dog dare you.

  * * *

  —

  Sometimes a tragedy like Hurricane Sandy can help a city find its resilience. Destruction can clear the path for audacity, adversity giving way to newfound strength.

  The week after my run, I was invited to attend the opening of the Ali Forney Center’s new-and-improved drop-in center in Harlem. They’d been planning to move their drop-in center uptown for years; they’d just never had the funds to do so. With the groundswell of support that the Ali Forney Center received following Hurricane Sandy, with hundreds of thousands of dollars in new donations and a huge bump in media attention, they’d been able to expedite their plan to move the drop-in center closer to the queer and trans youth—predominantly queer and trans youth of color—who they served. Because of my work and dozens of other fund-raisers, the Ali Forney Center hadn’t just come back, it’d come back stronger than ever.