Just Joyce

A few nights ago, the boys began disclosing their anxiety about starting school with a transsexual father; specifically, what will their friends think if/when they find out? Ezra (10) thinks full honesty is the best policy, and is eager to tell everyone that his father changed sex. His argument is that once everything’s open, there are no secrets and there’s no ammo for potential bullies or teasers. If there is no secret, then you don’t have to lie, and all you have to do is be proud. In contrast, Lane (11) wants absolutely no disclosure at all — why upset the balance of things when it’s not necessary, he says.

In order to break the impasse, we talked about specifics of when we all might be called upon to explain our story. In one scenario, I take them to school (or I come to school to bring a forgotten book, or I come for some other normal reason), and upon leaving, someone asks, “who was that?” Ezra said the right answer is, “That’s my dad, Joyce,” and Lane really didn’t even want to consider the possibility of having to explain.

I told them that I’d do whatever they wanted because they’ve been so supportive and loving during my hard times. If I need to be Aunt Joyce for a while, that’s all right with me, I told them. Ezra would have absolutely none of it: “But that’s a lie, Dad — you’re not our aunt.”

“Couldn’t we just pretend for a while,” asked Lane, and Ezra replied with an emphatic NO.

We talked about the range of truth and lies — after all, on the completely honest end of the spectrum, one might answer, “That’s my dad, Joyce, who used to be a man, but changed into a woman.” And on the lying end of the spectrum is “That’s just our van driver, Joyce.” We talked about ways that all four of us could tell the truth without embarrassing anyone, such as my being simply “Joyce” for a while, requiring no further clarification. It’s true, but it withholds the bigger, more embarrassing story for later.

As a way of dealing with two questions at once (”where’s your dad?” and “who’s that?”), we even toyed with “Dad went away and Joyce came to live with us,” but we felt like it would open up more questions than it would answer.

Like “who’s Joyce?”
Babysitter?
Aunt?
Former father?
Cleaning lady?
Random visitor?

Or “Where’s your dad?”
He’s gone
Joyce took over my dad’s body
He’s a woman now
One day, my dad just started turning into Joyce
Dad was abducted by transsexual aliens
Dad turned into Joyce after working with agricultural chemicals
Global warming turned my father into a woman

A principle we agreed on early was that we needed a family plan so that one boy doesn’t feel the other one has torpedoed his social life — and we vowed as a family to stick to the plan for as long as possible so that we’d be on the same team. Otherwise, Lane will feel that Ezra is trying to ruin his social life and Ezra will feel Lane is going to try to make him lie.

We also talked about another scenario in which the boys have to draw a family tree or tell what their father does or something similar. We agreed that they don’t have to disclose the whole truth during these assignments and that we’d talk to the teachers so they’d know what was going on if they assigned such work.

At one point during this big family planning session, I asked them how much they know about their friends’ parents, and they both said they didn’t know anything. “Don’t you think that that’s a pretty typical attitude among your friends, and maybe they won’t know or care about me?”

“Yeah, but this is different.”

“Do you even know that the men and women who pick up your friends at school are actually their moms and dads?”

No, and they admitted they had no idea how many of their friends had lost a parent, how many had same-sex parents, how many parents were abusive or alcoholic or even transsexual, for that matter, but for Lane, this line of logic runs counter to his fear of being made fun of.

Ezra is hugely insightful, and he offered the observation that the kids probably won’t care, but some of their parents might, and we’d learn when we hold birthday parties or sleepovers because we probably have to tell invitees and their parents about me, especially if they know us from before.

If they don’t know us from before, what do we do? What do we do when they ask questions like, “Are you Ezra’s mother?” I’ve learned from wise people on various online discussion boards that you can answer this question without lying, employing something like this: “Ezra is my son,” or “I’m here for Ezra,” and let people think what they think.

What I can’t do is say I’m their mom because a) they have a mom and b) they don’t want me to portray myself as their mother.

They met with their therapist a couple of days ago and were able to work out a compromise, which is, if asked, I’m just Joyce, not “my dad, Joyce”, or “Joyce, who used to be a man,” but Joyce. This is a compromise that’s acceptable to both boys, and it lasts for one year, after which the younger one can clarify that Joyce is his dad.

The boys now feel as if they’re in control of the situation, and this compromise has allowed them to bury their anxiety for a while. Whether this plan will work or not is secondary to the bonding we’ve had in hammering out a compromise and the communication we have had to employ to get our fears out on the table.

The older one is clearly afraid. He thinks his classmates are too immature to get it. I understand the shame and embarrassment, and I’m happy to go along with the plan, but I also asked both boys to consider the possibility that word will get out, so plan B needs to be how are you going to deal with it.

I said they could employ techniques from Kung Fu and just redirect negative energy away from them, saying something like, “Yes, my father changed sex, and I think it’s the coolest thing in the entire world,” which would take a lot of power away from someone, but they don’t really believe it would work. So for now, we’re assuming the plan will work and they will both escape the teasing and shame they assume will follow when their friends learn about my history.

How do I feel? When the boys were crying about having to lie or having to suffer the shame and embarrassment at the hands of their classmates, I felt horribly guilty for having brought this situation into our home, and it’s a guilt that reappears from time to time. There is a line of compromise that maintains my integrity and my family’s health and happiness that’s hard to find sometimes, and in this case, I’m willing to be relatively invisible for a while or to pretend I’m a two-dimensional character in my children’s lives — all for the sake of helping them make it through. I held them when they were born, and have played with them and protected them and taught them what I know about how the world works, and it utterly kills me to feel as if I’m harming them. If I need to lie low for a while or to omit the word “dad” from our public presentation to protect my children, how can I not?

We all know that I’m their father, but for now, the answer to the question of “Who am I?” — the answer that both solves a thorny problem and also catches a little in my throat — is “Just Joyce.”

 

Naming Power

Now the Lord God had formed out of the ground all the beasts of the field and all the birds of the air. He brought them to the man to see what he would name them; and whatever the man called each living creature, that was its name. So the man gave names to all the livestock, the birds of the air and all the beasts of the field.

Like the beasts of the fields, I have been created anew with no given name, but have had to name myself — choosing my new first name, deciding whether to incorporate my old name, and reorganizing the names into a new identity — and this act of naming is a powerful and intimidating act of self-creation and self-acceptance.

But this power of naming isn’t reserved for me. My own children are still debating whether it’s safe to call me Daddy in public places, and are toying with Aunt Joyce and Joyce as more direct answers that don’t call attention to the trans*situation. Whatever they come up with is fine with me, because power of naming gives them control over their environment, perhaps even some sort of control over the helplessness they must certainly feel at seeing their father shimmer away like a summer mirage.

Naming power extends beyond immediate family. My sister Liz’s kids, Lynne and Tye Rhapsody, in discussing me and my situation, asked their mother a few simple questions: “If George is now Joyce, is he, er… she, still our uncle? Or she an aunt?”

“Well, she’s sort of both, I guess — George was always your uncle and always will be in some respects, but Joyce is also your Aunt.”

“What if we called her Ancle Joyce?”

And thus a new name was born, a portmanteau, a powerful combination of two existing and familial terms that sounds like the lowly ankle. I loved the idea when I first heard it, and I’ve grown to love it more and more, especially as I hear it used by my nephew Tye, my niece Lynne, and Lynne’s young child, Ryan, who doesn’t even use the Joyce part, so that for him I’m simply Ancle, pronounced ain-chel by this little 2-year-old …

…which sounds to my ears a little bit like angel, and that’s ok with me.

 

Won’t You Be My Neighbor?

For much of the spring, I had one particular coming-out event lurking in the back of my mind as something that was important not only to me but also to my kids. Living out in the country as we do, it’s important for our children to have their nearby friends. Only a few hundred yards away is the lively household of Tomás and Blanca Rapido, our neighbors with 6 children (2 older girls, 2 boys the same ages as our boys, and 2 little girls). For the past couple of years, there has been a steady flow of kids from one house to the other, sometimes all of them over here in our swimming pool or jumping on our trampoline, sometimes everyone over at the Rapido house. It has been a wonderfully free situation.

When it came time to tell the neighbors about what was shortly to be completely evident (dress, makeup, and so on, things the Rapido children would no doubt notice), I wrote them a letter, enclosed a copy of She’s Not There, and put the package in their mailbox so as to give them time to think things over. The summer break had just begun and everyone was going here and there, but I learned from my children that Mrs. Rapido wanted Mr. Rapido to speak to me about this issue.

OK, thought I — it’s not a write-off, and it holds the promise of communication and understanding. While we were waiting for Tomás to come back from a business trip, Lane and Ezra called the Rapido’s a couple of times to invite them over to jump on the trampoline or to go swimming, but they always said they couldn’t. When Tomás got home, he came over and we spoke for a couple of hours, during which time he explained that they didn’t have any framework for understanding my situation, and that they didn’t want to expose their children to the harsh realities of the world. They had spoken to them about my situation, so it wasn’t that the fact of my situation was abhorrent, but rather the exposure to it was troubling. He said several times that they just didn’t know anything about this condition, but that they would try to learn, which is promising.

“I understand,” I explained. “You’ve got to do what’s best for your children, and I respect your choices that you make for your own children. What I’m worried about, however, is the subtle, unspoken message that my own children will receive, slowly, inexorably, as they visit your house freely, but realize that your children can’t visit our house because their father is a monster.”

He assured me that they were being very respectful of my situation and that they would never even suggest such a thing, which I believe completely, but the very visible fact of the matter is that the flow of children between neighboring houses has been altered, and my children know that it means something.

I’m in no position to dictate to other parents how they should raise their children or what they should think about me — I believe they have every right to find me monstrous or abhorrent and to curse my name under their breaths if they so choose. But because my children enjoy their company (and for the record, I have always enjoyed the Rapido children’s company, so playful and fun and respectful), I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place. I can’t demand acceptance and I can’t demand that their kids come over and play at our house unless I promise to hide or leave town. I don’t want to slink away because this is my house and my life and I’m proud of what I’ve done, but I don’t want to harm my children’s relationships with their friends.

So for the moment, the only workable situation is for me to watch my children daily run over to play at the Rapido household while I clean the pool for swimmers who no longer visit and pace the empty house wondering if I’ve lost my children to more wholesome people than I. The veneer of reality is almost the same as it used to be — happy children running around in the country, carefree and playful — but the sadness and distress that lies just below that veneer bleeds through and creates big, ugly stains that I imagine growing to touch on all aspects of my children’s lives — especially their relationships with their friends (not only the Rapido’s, but all their other friends) in the coming school year.

Patience, I tell myself. Patience and prudence are much better than impulsiveness and rashness. Deep breaths and positive images of love and acceptance and a fruitful future.

 

At the Family Table

In dealing with my hometown, my family, and my friends, I often ask myself the questions that I imagine everyone else is asking: What would your parents think? What about Elizabeth, your dear mom, and Frank (nicknamed “Rowdy,” for a reason), your good-ole-boy father? Would they be proud of you? Would they disown you? Would they make ashamed apologies to their friends at the bank, coffee shop, post office, or bridge club?

Rowdy died in 2002 and Elizabeth in 2005, and I won’t have a chance to find out what they’d think. I do know that my sister and I have embodied all of their values (whether we liked it or not), and we’re doing just fine with me, so I’d like to think that we can extend that acceptance and love backwards a generation to imagine a homecoming that’s loving and excited and proud. And that’s the image I carry with me in my dealings with hometown people — I’m a little bit Elizabeth and a little bit Rowdy, and even through I’m doing something really different, I’m not ashamed of it, and I don’t expect anyone I tell to be ashamed, either.

Your good name and your word were all you’ve got, I was told growing up, and I believe my name is still good and I keep my word in all my dealings, perhaps even more so now that I don’t have the albatross of GID around my neck.

My mother was a Law, and I still have my uncle John Law to keep me tied with her family, and I still have my aunt Phoebe and uncle Pat on the Bailey side of the family, and these siblings of my parents represent to me a tracing of my family history and values through which Elizabeth and Rowdy are tangible. Our relationships are just evolving with my personal news, and I’m looking forward to talking about our families in the coming years.

Last time I was home, my sister Liz said that I looked just like our mother, which is not only a beautiful compliment to me, but is perhaps yet another kind of external proof that I’m still a member of our family, that I’m still welcome at our holiday table, with immediate and extended family all seated together in a supportive holiday gathering.

Joyce and Mom, 1962