The Bold World Read online

  “Have da chil’ bring me dat glass of cold wa-ta!” Joe was great at imitating his dad’s accent and the Ghanaian way. We laughed and imagined what it would be like if we dared to bring up the esoteric conversation of body versus soul, something I’d been recently thinking so much about.

  “So I shouldn’t explain to Grandpa G as soon as he walks through the door that form follows feeling and we exist as spirit first?” We both chuckled over the scenario, knowing damn well that that wouldn’t do.

  “I have an idea.” Joe winked at me—problem solving had always been his thing. “It’s not brilliant,” he teased, “but it’s very, very, very good. Why don’t we just ask my dad to change his wording, just say ‘he’ instead of ‘she’? Keep it simple.”

  “Yup!” We high-fived. It was decided: We would stick to what was most pressing—asking Dr. G for his most basic level of acceptance: to simply refer to Penelope as “he.”

  Joe and I were often at odds when it came to Penelope, but that night we found some common ground.

  Two weeks later, when Dr. G arrived, we sat him down at the kitchen table to deploy Operation Pronouns. I poured him a tall glass of water and placed a proper Ghanaian meal of hot lentil soup and rice in front of him to set the tone. Never mind that Joe had actually cooked the meal earlier. I made sure to be the one serving and smiling, enthusiastically giving our family patriarch every bit of my attention in order to keep his defenses down. It would only make our case worse if he thought the family had abandoned tradition entirely.

  We slowed our normally frantic pace way down that afternoon, letting Dr. G taste the soup and savor the spices. Seeing his father’s obvious pleasure, Joe went in for the ask: “Dad, would it be okay if you used male pronouns for Penelope?…It’s just what he likes.” He was staying on script, keeping the explanation sparse. Joe and I took a seat on either side of Dr. G, crossing our fingers under the table. We smiled and waited, then smiled some more. We were nervous. Very nervous.

  I remember once, during a family discussion, Dr. G told me never to speak after Joe. “Because men always conclude important conversations,” he’d said. It startled me, such blatant sexism. And then I recovered and quickly spoke up, trying politely to revoke what he’d said.

  “Dr. G,” I started off, “although that might be your way, in our house Joe and I are—”

  He cut me off right before the most important word, “equals.” “It’s not my way,” he said with a laugh. “It’s the way.” He turned toward Joe, done with me, and I, too, looked over at Joe—for backup.

  Joe, just as stunned as I, had a guilty look on his face that read Sorry, babe, for my father and his ways. Let’s just move on without any extra drama.

  Today, under these circumstances, Dr. G could easily have told us how disappointed he was in our parenting, how bad a woman I was to teach a girl to act like a boy, how weak a man Joe was, unable to keep order in his own home. Gender roles—male as lead and female as subordinate—were inflexible. A boy was only one thing: strong and dominant. And a girl was the opposite of that. End of story. These roles were not to be subverted, mangled, or messed with in any way. So we braced ourselves for the worst.

  Dr. G ate a bit more of his soup, wiped his mouth with his napkin—then slammed his hand down on the table, letting out a big, booming laugh.

  “Ayyy! It’s no problem at all! In my language of Twi, Jodie, we don’t use gender pronouns. I never remember them anyway! He, she…It’s all the same to me!”

  I wanted to thank God and praise Jesus all at the same time, but instead I leaned back in my seat, making eye contact with Joe. I winked at him, showing how grateful I was for his idea. We couldn’t have asked for a better response. I don’t know why Dr. G didn’t probe us on the whys—but he didn’t. He never asked why Penelope preferred to be called he or him, or why we felt it so important to do as Penelope preferred. Blessedly, thankfully, he only said, “Sure.”

  We sat together at the table for another hour feeling grateful, listening to Dr. G tell us good-time stories of his childhood in Accra, bringing us into his world. Many of the stories we’d heard before, and others sounded familiar but with just a touch of added drama. Dr. G was a showman, and on that day we threw attention his way as a thank-you for making a potential conflict almost undetectable.

  Maybe it didn’t have to be ugly after all. Maybe we could get through this. Maybe with a little change here and a little shift there, the impossible was actually feasible. That day, eating lentil soup with the oldest and most traditional man of the family, Joe and I felt in control. If we could set the stage for Penelope’s happiness, as we’d just done with Joe’s dad, Penelope and the family—and perhaps the world—could all coexist without much upheaval. The future felt manageable.

  * * *

  —

  Next up, Penelope’s fourth birthday. I had grown up with birthdays being big, creative celebrations. Some years Ramona and I had a baseball theme and all the guests would meet us at Riverside Park for a day of games and pizza. Other years Mama would hire a clown who balanced me in a chair on his chin. We had fancy dinner parties at the house for our ten closest friends, or more low-key gatherings on the Vineyard to celebrate a sweet sixteen. However they were done, birthdays were always a big deal, and I carried on that tradition with my kids.

  But with Penelope, birthdays had become a bit more calculated. As things like dolls and hair bows and books about sassy little girls revealed themselves to be the worst possible gifts for Penelope, I decided we should forewarn relatives about his “preferences”—just in case they hadn’t caught on yet.

  “Let’s get ahead of the situation with the family, Joe, like we did with your dad—without getting into the pronouns thing. Maybe we could just politely ask that they not gift anything ‘girly.’ ”

  “Sounds like a plan, babe.” Joe and I believed it would be that simple—we’d remind the aunts and uncles, cousins and friends, to cater to Penelope’s tomboy side—sports attire, sports equipment, sports tickets, anything sporty—and steer clear of anything pink or feminine. That would have to do for now.

  We had moved into a beautiful Brooklyn brownstone a year ago, and on the first of October, we invited everyone over to celebrate Penelope’s big day. We gathered on the grand staircase that spiraled through the house to open gifts. I sat at the top of the steps just above Penelope as he ripped open his presents. We watched him grab each present, eagerly waiting for the squeals and smiles. Scooter! Yes, I thought. Signed basketball! Great, so far so good. Soccer jersey! Stickers! Perfect and perfect. There was one last gift to open, and as Penelope tore through the wrapping paper, I could tell from the box that it was a pair of sneakers. I did a mental fist-pump. We’re in the clear! Sneakers! Penelope loves sneakers! I was beaming, knowing how terrible the “wrong things” made Penelope feel. And how the “right things” made him smile. On his birthday, more than any other day, I wanted Penelope to be happy.

  He rushed to open the shoe box, throwing paper wildly into the air, eager to see what was beneath. But just as soon as he peeked inside, the vibe in the room quickly changed from euphoric to awkward. Out from under the tissue paper emerged sparkly, shiny bedazzled sneakers. Jewels upon jewels decorating the front and sides flickered and gleamed in the light. They were the very definition of girly—most definitely the “wrong things.”

  I watched as Penelope’s face went flat and expressionless, as though the wind had been knocked out of him. He looked embarrassed, as though he’d done something wrong. I think because everyone was watching, including the big-boy cousins Penelope idolized, he was determined not to cry. But I could see the disappointment on his face, along with the wall that rose up right in front of him. “It’s okay,” I whispered, putting an arm around his shoulders when he looked up at me. “Just put them back in the box and say ‘Thank you.’ ”

  Those damn sneakers never made
it out of the box again.

  Later on that night, I let all my frustration bleed. “Joe, tell your family to show some respect for Penelope. Don’t they know by now that they’re not going to break his will with a pair of sparkly pink sneakers?” Did they think he would change his mind about being a girl because of some present? Were they trying to massage girlhood back into Penelope by way of not-so-subliminal gifts?

  Just a week earlier my mother had made a similar mistake and I’d sent her an email, politely trying to explain why it was so wrong:

  Hi Mom,

  Thanks so much for thinking about Penelope and the cute gift. I know it was out of love!

  The flowers and the color really are not his style. It would be like buying a floral pink-and-orange tote bag for Joe. It would be very strange and it would reflect a disconnect between you and him.

  It’s the same for Penelope. The bag is totally inappropriate for him. When he opened up the box and saw the gift his face told it all. It hurt his feelings a bit and made him very uncomfortable.

  He said he wants to tell you if you ever want to get him a gift, to please buy him something more “rock n roll.” But he also said it looked like “love” and “we could hang it on the wall.”

  When he calls please don’t try to convince him to like the bag or that the bag is OK.

  Colors and symbols mean more to him than you may understand.

  Love,

  Jodie

  I was able to use a bit more decorum with my mother, but by the time Joe’s family struck, I had lost my reserve. I was mad that our preemptive warnings hadn’t worked this time around, and that our efforts had failed. Mad at the family for not giving Penelope what he wanted. And I was mad at Joe, most of all, for not noticing Penelope’s face when those sneakers invalidated everything our son had made so very, very clear.

  “What part of ‘no girly things’ did they not understand, Joe?”

  My anger was valid, but the approach—all wrong. When you come between a man and his mama—his family—it never ends well.

  “Tell them yourself if it bothers you so damn much,” Joe said as he turned away from me, walking into our study and plopping himself down on the couch. “Everyone’s fine but you, Jodie. You’re the one who’s always angry.” He was dismissive, choosing the wide-screen television over us, not giving us a chance to talk it out.

  Joe was right, I was angry. Fuming. Penelope as boy was complicated and intrusive and awkward for everyone—even me. But I wasn’t turning away from it, slinking into an overused couch, pretending it didn’t exist. The study had become Joe’s den, his go-to spot when his max had been reached, when he’d had enough of me. He stayed there on that couch watching movies until the next day.

  There we were again, Joe and I on opposite sides of the battlefield.

  * * *

  —

  A few days passed and I was back in the mindset of figuring this out on my own. I happened to google “transgender child” on my laptop and Jazz popped up, a pretty, petite, brown-haired, bubbly girl no older than six whom the Internet was buzzing about. I clicked on a video and watched Barbara Walters interview her, asking direct, hard-hitting questions without stumping or embarrassing the little girl once. The interview prompted me to dive into Jazz’s YouTube series, where I witnessed her speak words of wisdom far beyond her age: “If someone asked me why I was a boy before and a girl now, I’d say that I have a girl brain and a boy body. I think like a girl.” Whoa. Jazz had nailed it. She had put this thing in crystal-clear perspective and broadcast it for the world to hear. She’s right, I thought. The brain and the body are distinct, not always doing the exact same thing. Jazz had clarified my thoughts in a way I hadn’t been able to do. I was smitten—maybe my kids would fall in love with Jazz just as I had.

  Early the next evening, I called a family movie night. Georgia and Nain happened to be out for a bit and Joe would be behind his computer for the next several hours working—giving me the space to choose, without much challenge, the movie we’d watch. I piled the boys into our living room—Cassius perched on the arm of the couch, Othello curled up in my lap, and Penelope beside me. For hours, we were a captive audience to Jazz and her family, watching them proudly. I thought: This is us. We are proud. We don’t hide. Up to that point, we hadn’t been living anywhere close to how I knew we should.

  “What does transgender actually mean?” Cassius probed, trying to understand this on a cerebral level. “Boy and girl, Mama?” Othello asked, a look of wonder on his face. And then Penelope jumped in, “Was she born that way?” The kids had a ton of questions and didn’t hesitate to fire them off. What I loved most was that they weren’t interrogating Jazz, they were genuinely curious. I tried my best to answer all of their queries, and when I got stumped—which was often—I started a conversation. “Well, what do you think?” “What does it look like to you?” “How do you think Jazz feels?”

  By the end of movie night, Penelope snuggled up to me closer than we’d started, and for the first time ever, he said the words out loud: “I’m transgender like Jazz, Mama.”

  It was with such calm and pleasure that Penelope identified himself for all of us to hear. The simplicity of it jarred me to my senses. We needed to fully acknowledge him—completely and absolutely—as boy, without half-stepping around his truth. Jazz’s words, “I think like a girl,” felt so real to me, because this was about Penelope’s brain, not his parts. This was about how his heart beat. Penelope was a boy through and through, from his most thoughtful and intuitive place—his mind—to his most open and loving place—his heart. And we had to believe it with passion, the way Jazz’s mom had done. I was starting to get it now.

  I’d been guilty, we all had, of fragmenting Penelope, allowing only bits and pieces of “boy” to be the reality. We’d agreed to half boy, or a boy spirit, or boy haircut—and even boy pronouns. But still, we were, I was, stumbling over how to let “boy” just be.

  Watching Jazz was a hard slap on the hand. Their family was accepting and communicative around their child—making us look almost shameful in comparison. I never wanted Penelope to be fragmented. He, his siblings, all of us, we needed to be complete. I knew this intellectually, that humans need acceptance, but I hadn’t been able to see what that looked like when it came to transgender, until Jazz.

  Yes, Joe and I had been able to let go of the hair, allowing Penelope to shave it down the sides and grow it high on the top, to have just what he really wanted all along: a Mohawk—not some watered-down baby ’fro. We eventually tossed the cute, frilly bathing suits, slowly letting go of the physical manifestations of “girl,” one little thing at a time. Sometimes we let go because of Penelope’s sheer force, or because of the urgency of his unhappiness, or because something else that day took precedence, like the brilliance of his smile. But even in those moments of release, I was still only partially acknowledging who Penelope was.

  Penelope changed the game.

  But that night, watching Jazz speak about growing up trans, hearing Penelope claim that word for himself, something clicked. His dignity was—and is—more important to me than gender. In fact, it became the most important thing. It became everything. I needed Penelope, like Jazz, to be comfortable enough to talk about himself, and own himself, in front of everyone and anyone. If he couldn’t do that, he wouldn’t survive. And so I let go.

  Had I invited Joe to sit with us, had I been less afraid of the confrontation my decision to watch Jazz might have evoked, perhaps Joe would have opened up completely that night, too.

  Once you can clearly see the urgency in front of you, you let go of that which is less important. You let it go because it no longer needs to be held so tightly—because it no longer serves you. You let go because something else, something bigger, more vital, takes your attention, like living. And when you do finally let go—fully let go—you realize that
you were holding on to a thing, a myth. For me, that thing was the clothing, the hair, the words—those details we assign stories to. But the true energy, I discovered—that which wholeheartedly needs our protection—is called Penelope. And Penelope doesn’t live in the hair, or in the clothing. I can put those stories away, knowing that Penelope will never disappear, because Penelope is spirit. We all are. This is about Penelope, his soul, nothing else.

  Jazz, at all of five or six years old, became my spirit adviser, the one who reconnected me so fiercely to my own child. Wherever Penelope was, I would shift—over and over again.

  FOURTEEN

  What Breaks

  Dear [Insert Name],

  We have some big news to announce. As you may know by now, Penelope has asked to be recognized by family, friends, and the world as a boy. Although born physically a girl, Penelope has expressed through actions, body language, and words a self-identity that is very different from the way the world sees Penelope.

  This has been very hard for us to fully understand, and even more difficult for Penelope to bear.

  Through careful self-exploration, family talks, and analysis, we’ve come to understand more. We’re now supporting Penelope’s request and embracing Penelope as a boy. First and foremost, we love Penelope unconditionally and will offer support on his journey.

  Clearly, we’ve never restricted our kids from doing things based on gender, so essentially, Penelope’s life remains the same. He will continue at the same school with the same friends and doing the same activities. The biggest change will be seen in our words. We are now consciously changing our language to support Penelope’s sense of self. We are very proud of Penelope. As you are an important part of our lives, we want to be able to share this with you as well.