by Jacob Tobia
Returning to North Carolina from New York, I came back stronger than ever, too. Somewhere between the White House and the Brooklyn Bridge, I’d left behind the one thing that had always held me back: my manhood.
Okay, maybe that phrasing needs some work. I didn’t leave behind my euphemistic manhood—my genitals hadn’t changed or anything—but I had left behind the idea of being a man.
There wasn’t a tearful, revelatory moment when it happened. Getting rid of my manhood was less like throwing away an old couch and more like getting rid of an ugly jacket that someone else bought for you that you never liked in the first place. It wasn’t that I made a big decision that it had to go. I didn’t heave and huff and drag a giant piece of furniture out to the curb. There wasn’t one particular moment where I said to myself, I am no longer going to concern myself with being a man.
It was just that, after years of sitting in my closet, unworn, I decided to throw my manhood in the Goodwill bin. And by the time I finally made that decision, it hardly mattered. I had an entire identity wardrobe of texture and color at my disposal. I had labels upon labels, hundreds of identities to choose from—queer, femme, trans, gender nonconforming, genderqueer, genderfluid, gay, fabulous, gorgeous, nonbinary, cute, gender transcendental, genderfucked, unicorn, motherfucking witch—so what could I possibly need “man” for anymore? It was a frumpy, ugly, bulky old coat that I never liked in the first place. It was taking up too much room in my identitarian wardrobe, and it had to go.
And so I threw it out like any number of old things that have long lost their use and cannot be salvaged—a broken stapler, a malfunctioning blender, an old phonebook, a Shake Weight, that calendar from 2012 that you never even hung up.
But this isn’t to dismiss the importance of getting rid of it. When you’ve seen that coat, the one you don’t like, the one you never wear, in your closet for two decades, there is power in finally throwing it out. Your whole closet feels refreshed. The whole room feels different. Renewed. Cleansed.
Without the idea of manhood holding me back, I navigated the world with a new lightness of being. I found new courage. I claimed new power. And I began the years-long process of helping others get on board with my enlightened sense of self.
I started playing with new ways of talking about myself. I started using gender-neutral pronouns when people asked. I wasn’t “him” anymore. I was “them.” I wasn’t “he” anymore. I was “they.” I started to correct other people when they got it wrong.
I stopped saying I was “gay” and started saying I was “genderqueer.” I stopped saying I was a “man” and started saying I was a “person.” I stopped saying I was a “guy” and started saying I was a “flaming-hot mess of a queen.”
And yes, while I knew on some level that these were just words, that these shifts were only semantic—imperfect approximations of far more complicated ideas—they were finally my words. They were words of my own choosing, begetting possibilities of my own imagining.
My newfound experimentation and courage led me to take another, more personal risk: I began the challenging process of setting things right with my church.
As it turned out, I didn’t need to end things with my church; we just needed a break. I had damage that needed time to repair. In high school, I hadn’t given myself the space or time to mend; I kept picking at the scab over and over, desperate for healing. College allowed me the time to properly treat my wounds. As I grew more distant, I also grew stronger in my sense of self and in the knowledge of my own power. It took my freshman and sophomore years of college, a stint in Johannesburg, and a semester in New York before I was ready to really go back to church.
My junior year of college, as I got dressed for Christmas Eve service, I made a decision: If my church couldn’t handle me or love me as I was, I no longer needed to be a member of the congregation. I could no longer afford to be ashamed of my identity or bashful about the fact that God loves me. So, in true Jacob fashion, I strapped on my five-inch chunky platform heels—the same ones I wore across the Brooklyn Bridge—threw on a glitter-sequined vest, adorned my lips with red lipstick, and walked downstairs.
When my dad saw my outfit, he gave me his customary glare. That, I’d expected.
What I hadn’t expected was the look on my mom’s face. In place of the glowing smile she usually had before we went to church together, her face was stern.
“Jacob, do you really have to wear high heels to church? Can you please put on other shoes?”
My heart sank momentarily, but buoyed back up with the strength I’d been building for the past two years.
“Mom, I have been a member of this church for twenty-one years.” I gestured to the floor. “I have been going to St. Francis since I was literally this tall. If they cannot love me and affirm me as I am; if they cannot handle the fact that I’m going to wear high heels to Christmas Eve service; if, after twenty-one years, they can no longer love me over a pair of shoes, then I don’t need to continue to go there. I owe this to myself.”
My mom stood trembling, her eyes watering in frustration.
“But this is my congregation, too, Jacob!” she explained desperately. “I have to deal with the consequences of your actions, too. When you show up to church in high heels or lipstick, I have to deal with everyone’s questions and comments and stares, too. And unlike you, I don’t get to go back to college, far away from St. Francis. This is my community every week—I can’t get away from their judgment about my son, about my child. So please, for me, can you not wear those shoes? Please, Jacob.”
I held my ground.
“It’s my church, too, Mom! And I can’t keep putting off who I am in search of their approval. I have spent years embarrassed of who I am, hiding parts of myself from my church, and I just can’t do that anymore. Can’t you understand that?”
Then I said the line I knew would hurt her.
“You are usually so good at loving me for who I am. Why aren’t you loving me right now?”
The tears broke, falling gently down her cheeks. One thing I’ve learned about my mom over the years is that she cries when she’s angry more often than when she’s sad.
“I do love you. How dare you say that I don’t, after everything I’ve done! You know, you can be so selfish sometimes.”
She was groveling and yelling and pleading all at the same time.
“This is my community, too. I have to deal with these people, too. This is hard for me, too! Can’t you please, just this once, do this for me? Can’t you please, just this once, take off the shoes and just wear a pair of normal shoes? It’s just one service, Jacob! It is only. one. service!”
I stood across the counter from her, stunned into silence. Hot tears fell onto her Christmas sweater.
“I can’t, Mom. I can’t take them off. I can’t do that. This is my community, too.”
“Fine, Jacob. If you’re going to insist on wearing heels, then please don’t sit with me at service.”
A pause.
“I need to get to choir rehearsal. I’m already late.”
I heard the sound of the garage door opening and my mom driving away. Twenty minutes later, I walked gingerly across the front yard toward my own car, careful not to let my heels sink too far into the half-dead grass.
The Christmas Eve service is far from somber. The sanctuary is bright, vibrant, filled with screaming children and chatting families. And everyone is there. When I arrived at church, the parking lot was filled to the brim, abuzz with holiday energy. The sanctuary was covered in twinkling lights, a fifteen-foot Christmas tree stood proudly behind the pulpit, and a brilliantly glowing Moravian star adorned the altar. My sequined vest sparkled in the light.
I walked slowly, sheepishly into the sanctuary. Despite my self-reported confidence, I was terrified. I didn’t know how I would face yet another rejection from my church. I found my friend Daniela and asked her if
it’d be okay for me to sit with her family because my mom was singing in choir. What I didn’t tell her was that my mom usually came down from the choir loft to sit with me after the anthem. What I didn’t tell her was that this was the first time in my life that my mom wouldn’t be sitting with me at a church service. What I didn’t tell her was that I was shattering inside.
Despite my nerves and anxiety about wearing heels to church, the reaction from my congregation was nothing short of a Christmas miracle. Sure, I got a few nasty glares from new members who didn’t know who I was. And I got some surprised looks from young kids. But by and large, the people who mattered were wonderful about the whole thing.
My old friends from youth group were all delighted at my shoes. They thought it was badass that I had the gusto to wear them to church. And the families that had known me forever just gave me hugs and told me they were glad to see me. Some people even made cute little jokes that I must’ve had a growth spurt in college, because I was so much taller. “What’re they feeding you over at Duke?” one of my former youth group leaders joked. “You’ve certainly grown!”
It seemed that the space had been good for my congregation, too. My absence had, in fact, made their hearts grow fonder.
As service began, I tried to focus on the fact that everyone was being so kind, so sweet, but all I could really think about was the fact that my mom wasn’t sitting next to me like usual, holding my hand. When service ended, I stuck around to engage in the usual post-service chitchat. My mom was nowhere to be seen.
I arrived home to find her sitting at the counter. She took one look at me and her lips began to quiver. She rushed over to me, holding me as she began to cry. This time, they were tears of regret. We stood there, hugging and shaking, for a few moments before she spoke. By that point, I must’ve been crying, too.
“I’m so sorry, Jacob,” she said through her tears. “I will never leave you alone during service again. I never want to do that to you again.”
She didn’t let go. I couldn’t help but notice just how much taller I was than my mother. In my heels, I could perch my chin on the top of her head as she cried into my chest.
“It’s okay, Mom. This is as hard for you as it is for me.” After a minute, she finally pulled away, looking me straight in the eyes.
“I never, ever want you to think that I don’t love you or accept you exactly as you are. I’m always your number one ally. It’s just—this is scary for me, too. You know that.”
I grabbed for the tissue box. We both needed a Kleenex at this point. She continued.
“Watching you interact with everyone at service tonight, I felt so foolish. They love you so much, and clearly are having an easier time dealing with this than I am.”
“Hey there. No one has been more supportive than you, Mom.” I squeezed her hand. “No one. I would never have had the courage to walk in there tonight without you.”
“Can you forgive me?”
“Yes. Of course—of course I can. You’re my mom, after all. I literally came from your vagina.”
She hit me playfully on the arm and laughed. “Okay, now you’re just being gross.”
“Wanna eat Christmas cookies by the tree?”
“I’d love to, sweetie.”
She smiled.
I smiled back.
“Okay, but let me take off these shoes first. My feet are killing me.”
Chapter 8
Sissy, Femme, Queer, and Proud
Have you ever had the misfortune of owning a perpetually itchy sweater? You know the kind: You find it in a thrift store, it likely has rhinestones on some portion of the shoulders, and it’s most certainly from the 1980s. You try it on in the store, and you notice immediately that it’s a bit itchy. But, against your better judgment, you buy it anyway, because it’s sparkly and you like sparkles. You take it home certain that it’ll get softer with time, that one day it’ll become a comfy rhinestone sweater.
You wear it over and over, with discipline, for an entire season, only to find that it is every bit as itchy as when you bought it. You throw it in the washing machine twelve times with way too much fabric softener, but to no avail. After letting it carefully air-dry, you try it on again, only to find that the itchiness hasn’t relented. So you give up and put it away, digging it back out a year later to realize not only that it is still itchy, it also doesn’t really fit anymore.
Duke was a lot like one of those sweaters. It was something scratchy that I’d acquired in a moment of indecision, without enough thought, because the idea of a full scholarship was shiny. I spent the better part of two years trying to make it work, battling the itchiness, trying to wear it out, to find comfort, but no matter what I tried, the itchiness wouldn’t relent.
So I put it away for a while and headed off to New York City. Away from campus for almost a whole year, outside the confines and social pressures that had held me back at Duke, I’d become someone different, someone bigger and stronger and taller. When I came back to campus and dug Duke out of my sweater drawer, it barely fit. I had to huff and puff just to get the damn thing back on. It was bursting at every seam, failing to contain my new and infinite sense of self.
The story of my last year and a half at Duke is the story of a sweater ripping bit by bit, unspooling to the floor, no longer able to contain me or keep me warm. In hindsight, it was a healthy, natural process; an organic shedding of an old skin that no longer fit, a necessary purging of a garment that just wasn’t me anymore.
But while it was happening, it felt like failure. It was terrifying, because I thought Duke was the only sweater I’d ever get. I thought succeeding at Duke was my only shot at a happy, fulfilled, dynamic life. If I couldn’t get it to fit, if I couldn’t make this work, I worried that perhaps I’d never be warm again. Watching my life at Duke disintegrate was devastating. But so is the cost of being uncontainable, so is the price of gender ahead of its time, so is the tax levied against those who are visionary.
In some way, this period was inevitable. Having been a flamer for the entirety of my natural life, it was unavoidable that, at some point or another, I was going to burn out, crumble to ash in order to burn more brightly than ever.
* * *
—
During senior year, the desire to actualize my gender was counterbalanced by a force that controls everyone’s life: graduation.
I was acutely aware of the fact that I would soon be cast out from the ivory tower and into the real world. This was a prospect that terrified me and, strangely, made me cling to Duke and its institutional power even as I was trying to disassemble it. Sure, I needed to ensure Duke’s endowment wasn’t being invested in fossil fuels or weapons manufacturing or child labor,* and yes, I wanted Duke to mainstream gender-neutral housing across campus, but I also needed to figure out how I was going to survive, to eke out a career in public policy, to maintain myself and my life after graduation.
My fear of graduation was rational. In fact, I probably wasn’t scared enough. I should’ve been even more afraid. Yes, I felt tokenized on campus, and yes, I was politically frustrated, but my quality of life as a gender nonconforming person was actually pretty good. What I took most for granted during my time at Duke was the infinite access to public safety. Walking around on campus, I was contained in a bubble of six thousand young people and a couple thousand employees who had gotten to know me and my gender antics over the course of four years. Walking across campus in high heels and lipstick, I was completely free from street harassment. I could walk back from the library in booty shorts, pink nail polish, and espadrilles at two a.m., alone, and not think twice about my physical safety. I could wear whatever I pleased, walk to the dining hall, and pick up some mattar paneer without a care in the world. By the time I was a senior, I was never heckled on campus. I was never called a faggot or spit on or publicly harassed. I was treated with respect because everyone—librarians,
janitors, faculty members, administrators, dining hall employees, Zumba instructors at the campus gym—knew me. And most even liked me.
Graduating felt like falling off a cliff, in terms of my gender. I was going to have to figure out how to navigate professional culture that made it difficult to be gender nonconforming. I was going to have to figure out how to live in a city, how to take on daily life—walking in the street, shopping for groceries, riding public transportation—as a gender nonconforming person. I was going to have to start from scratch somewhere new, and everyone would have to get to know me all over again.
I was terrified of that, of the effort it would take, of the uncertainty. And I was right to be. When I moved to DC after graduation to start what I thought would be my political career, I felt like an alien. Walking around on Capitol Hill in a skirt, I felt like a total outcast, like a public embarrassment. It was horrendous. It was so bad that I left after only two and a half months. And then, even when I moved back to New York City, things were still horrific. The catcalls were constant, the glares and heckles never ceasing every time I so much as wore lipstick. Getting dressed and leaving my house, facing the scorn of strangers and the constant threat of physical violence, became an act of superhuman courage. Some days, the anxiety would win and I wouldn’t leave my apartment. One time two men on the subway loudly discussed whether they should set me on fire for being a faggot. I pretended not to hear them through my headphones.
During senior year, I didn’t know concretely that I’d have to face all that, but I had a sense that whatever I was going to have to face, it wasn’t going to be good.
Which is why I wanted with all my heart to be a Rhodes Scholar. It wasn’t that I cared so much about studying at Oxford or living in the UK—though I certainly didn’t mind the idea—it was more that being a Rhodes Scholar felt like absolute protection.
And it was what everyone told me I should want. At any top-tier school, the Rhodes is coveted as the symbol of academic achievement. At Duke, we had a plaque in the front of the library listing all of the Rhodes Scholars that we’d had over the years. As a scholarship student, I’d been groomed to apply from the moment I set foot on campus. I wish I could say that I was immune to this pressure, but I wasn’t. Over four years, that pressure had taken its toll and what had started as a curiosity about the Rhodes became a full-blown fixation.
