The Bold World Page 29

  My sister and I grew up around karate. Back in the 1970s, our dad frequented a dojo on the second floor of a rickety walk-up building on Broadway, and we often spent afternoons there. Daddy was always taking us places that felt different from our mostly white Upper West Side neighborhood, and the dojo was one of those places. Populated with older Black guys in their forties and fifties like my dad, the men of the dojo embodied the distinctly seventies swagger of Shaft. My sister and I were the only kids—and the only girls—in the place. In my memory, the guys kicking and flying through the air, doing flips and rolls, looked like superheroes.

  Dad would teach us the moves he’d learned at the dojo at home, too. The stances, the positioning of our feet. He said he was trying to show us how to find the importance and purpose of our bodies, making them into our greatest weapons of confidence. He’d always strongly believed that you have to train your mental energy in the same way you train your physical energy—the two went hand in hand. Daddy was someone filled with fire and anger at all times, but in all of his fury, he was also aware of the need to force the anger out, knowing if he didn’t, it would likely implode. So he channeled that energy into sports, trying to shake loose his daily frustrations. Recognizing similar unrest in Penelope, I thought karate could be a release for him, too.

  During his first few months at Master Bill’s dojo, Penelope didn’t say much. This wasn’t like him—at home, he was rarely quiet, never able to help himself from jumping into everyone else’s conversations. But as soon as he stepped into the dojo, he became very still, his eyes wide open in observation. He was deferential to the entire environment, to Master Bill’s demands, to other kids’ seniority. Most of the other students—a mix of about fifteen boys and girls, primarily from the neighborhood—had known one another for at least a few years already. They were a well-formed pack. Penelope was the new kid, the disrupter. He had a rough beginning, often struggling to find his place in the group and to grasp the instructions given to him.

  Fortunately, Master Bill—a tall, bald Black man, shockingly in shape at the age of seventy something—was nurturing. He knew that the best route to improvement involved feeling good about yourself, even as you were working through your challenges, and he made sure that that philosophy was felt by his students. In a lot of ways, Master Bill reminded me of the guys at my dad’s dojo all those years back. He was an old-school New York cat—worldly but firmly rooted in his culture. And having been immersed in the practice of martial arts and Buddhism since the 1960s, he knew how to impart vital lessons to his students.

  “There are no advanced moves on the mat, or in life, kids,” he would tell the class, slowly pacing in front of them. “There are just different formations of the basics. The basics are all you need.”

  Each class began with five minutes of silent meditation. It was Master Bill who first told Penelope that the body is controlled by the mind. And that the only limitations on his capabilities were the ones he placed on himself. For Penelope—for all the kids—Master Bill was a living, breathing wise man. At the same time, he was a teacher who took no pity on you if you were, say, five years old and still trying to distinguish between your right and left. “I said left foot, P! Left foot! Your other left!”

  With tears often streaming down his face, Penelope pushed and stumbled through the moves, frustrated but undeterred. After particularly hard days, during the car rides home I’d tell him an aphorism I often repeated to all the kids: “Winners are losers who got back up.” We all go down at some point—him, me, even Oprah—but only winners have the resolve to keep trying. I made Penelope repeat the mantra back to me so loudly during these drives that by the time we got home we’d both be laughing.

  Penelope began to approach his time at the dojo less like an after-school activity and more like an apprenticeship. When he was there, he was focused. On the mat, he was fierce. In time, Penelope got control of his limbs. He learned the contours of his movements, the far reaches of his strength. He was finally figuring out how to see his body as his ally.

  The dojo was good for Penelope. Boys and girls were challenged equally. Everyone was expected to fall, fail, and then get back up again. Like everyone else, Penelope was rewarded when he’d earned it, reprimanded when he fell short of expectation. At home we were practicing embracing transgender—calling it by name, owning it, loving it—but in Master Bill’s class, trans was beside the point. Everyone there knew Penelope only as a boy—not a trans boy, or a “boy who used to be a girl,” but simply a boy. Unlike the other areas of his life—at home, at school—there, he was no longer “different.” At the dojo, he could take his first steps as himself.

  Penelope felt powerful and secure in the community he found in his teammates, and with Master Bill. This sense of security went relatively uninterrupted until about a year into Penelope’s practice. That day, he was on the mat during an in-class practice spar, about to beat arguably the best boy in class. But before Penelope could win, the boy’s mother, who was standing on the sidelines, angrily pointed her finger in his direction.

  “That’s a girl!” she shouted, loud enough for everyone in the dojo to hear.

  Twenty pairs of eyes looked toward Penelope for further explanation. And I watched my son well up with tears. He was embarrassed—called out, by an adult no less, in a place he thought was safe. The class ended at its normal time but with a feeling of confusion. The children were frustrated that their favorite part of the class had been disrupted, and the adults were puzzled by the unexpected outburst. As everyone started packing up their things to leave, I walked over to the mother.

  “I need you to remember that Penelope is a boy. That’s it—it’s not complicated. Just call him what he is.”

  Without indulging any of her protests, I walked away. Inside I was mad at myself for leaving loose ends. This woman helped out with admin work at the dojo, and she had seen the application I filled out years ago when we first signed up for class, on which I’d listed Penelope as a girl.

  No one else made a big deal out of what happened, but I knew I needed to explain Penelope’s situation to Master Bill in our own words. Joe and I agreed to send him the same letter I’d written to our family and to MACADEMY, announcing Penelope as a boy.

  At the next class after I’d delivered the note, I was nervous. It filled me with anxiety to think about what rejection in that setting could mean for Penelope—who loved Master Bill and had come so far under his instruction. Before class began, I asked Master Bill if he’d read the letter. He took a moment to pull away from what he was doing, look at me, and simply say, “No problem.” Then he carried on with the class as usual, treating Penelope as he had always done.

  From that point forward, Master Bill never once stumbled over names or pronouns, as most people did (even me, still, sometimes). To him, “transgender” was irrelevant. Like Bishop, I believe he saw Penelope with his heart.

  As the kids prepared for the Atlantic City tournament, they worked two hours a day, five days a week, perfecting their sparring techniques and improving their katas (a series of movements that, when done well, can be as elegant and graceful as ballet). Observing Penelope in class in the lead-up to the tournament, I could tell he wanted more than just a fun experience at the competition. This kid wanted to win. After each class, Penelope would come home and continue practicing in our living room while the rest of the family cheered him on. Some nights, Penelope even slept in his uniform.

  During the last class before the tournament, the atmosphere at the dojo was subdued. This was the students’ final opportunity to collect themselves together as a team and mentally gear up for what was to come. Once they arrived at the competition, everyone would be dispersed. There would be no time for hand-holding or coaching; the kids would be on their own. And so this was also Master Bill’s moment to drill into his students the philosophy of the dojo one last time:

  “When you fight on Sat
urday, I want you to remember that winning means nothing if you’re not mindful. You are not trying to win—anyone can score points. You’re there to showcase your art. And you will be in excellent form.”

  As we exited the dojo after practice, Master Bill pulled Penelope aside. “P—you ready for this?” Penelope nodded back, ready to win.

  * * *

  —

  Driving up to the casino the next morning for the day’s events, I’m antsy. I keep thinking: What if Penelope’s crushed by a bigger, stronger boy? Someone who forces him to confront the fundamental difference between his own body and a body that perhaps has naturally stronger capabilities? I know all mothers want their kids’ best to be good enough, that we feel a certain amount of anxiety when our child is placed in an arena of objective judgment. I also know that everyone wants to feel the satisfaction of a win. But when the success of winning is so intricately and deeply tied to your child’s validity, as it is with Penelope, the weight of defeat hangs so much heavier. I hated to think about him experiencing the blow of such a personal denial.

  On top of that, I’m having flashbacks to the outing incident in class the year before. I wanted to be sure a similar display wouldn’t erupt while Penelope was competing. So, as we pulled up to the Tropicana, I turned to Penelope in the backseat and reminded him that, for today, we should probably stick to calling him P or Penel so we didn’t confuse anyone.

  “Because for most people, Penelope’s a girl’s name,” Joe points out. “And since you’re a boy…”

  Penelope turned away from the window as if he was computing exactly what we were proposing.

  “Okay, Mama,” he said, turning back toward us. “If it makes people more comfortable, they can call me Jack.” I knew the name well. Jack was a kid in one of Penelope’s favorite television shows, Kickin’ It. Jack is cool, good-looking, and the leader of the pack. He’s also the best among his friends at karate. Penelope looked at me, sealing his statement with a wink. A wink! I couldn’t help but laugh.

  After five minutes of weaving our way through Tropicana’s lobby, we finally arrived at the tournament check-in counter. The woman behind the table held a clipboard and a pencil, poised to mark off our names. The sight of her caused sheer panic inside me. I hadn’t thought this out properly. I never anticipated the sign-in scenario. How had I registered Penelope? Had I listed his full name or just Penel? I couldn’t recall. My mind racing, I tried to think of the best way to handle this so that Penel wasn’t embarrassed. Okay, I thought. Just try to peek at the names on the clipboard…upside down…

  “Hi! I’m Penelope Ghartey. G-H-A-R-T-E-Y.” While I was stuck on strategy, Penelope had taken control. “I’m competing in sparring and katas.” I shot a nervous glance at Joe.

  “Umm, let’s see…Yes, welcome, Penelope! You’re all registered. Best of luck!” That was it. No dramatics, no confusion. I had never felt so much anxiety from a simple encounter in all my life, but apparently Penel was handling it just fine.

  That seemed to be the theme of our interactions whenever we were out in public. I still walked the line between wanting Penel to be himself anywhere—everywhere—and at the same time being afraid of what might happen if he did. I didn’t want any of my children to hedge their way through life. But with Penel, I found myself often padding his identity with a little extra protection.

  We left the woman and followed the crowd of people, eventually pushing through two huge golden doors to enter the space where the War on the Shore was well under way. On one side of the room, aging martial arts superstars sign autographs in front of cardboard cutouts of themselves, promoting magic protein powders and breakthrough workout videos. On the other end, compact child warriors flip, kick, and “kiya!” while their overexcited mothers hover close by.

  When we first arrived, without his teammates and Master Bill around, Penel looked a little lost. He spent his first half hour sitting crossed-legged on the floor in silence—eyes downcast and shoulders slumped. He refused to warm up and flatly rejected my attempts at a pep talk. But eventually, the Brooklyn dojo crew emerged into view, bringing with them a bit of New York swag. Seeing them approaching, Penel immediately perked up. With his teammates by his side, he was ready. “Born ready!” as he and his brothers had been chanting for months.

  Contestants participating in the competition range from six to sixteen—boys and girls, all grouped by age, not gender (thankfully). The areas of competition are katas, sparring, and weapons. Penel, in the seven-to-nine age group, will be competing in katas and sparring. Joe and I and the rest of our kids find a spot on the sidelines near Penelope’s sight line, and as he takes to the floor for his first activity, I move a little closer to the edge of the mat.

  Katas are up first. After asking the judges’ permission to begin, Penel takes several steps back and drops into the horse stance: feet planted, legs spread wide and slightly bent, arms straight down by his sides. His fists are clenched, ready for what looks like combat. But then Penel loosens. His moves are fluid but intentional. And his focus is directed inward. He looks like a grown man who has been practicing tai chi on his lawn every morning for the last fifty years. He’s strong and clean—and in my mind, transcendent. He’s become the Buddhist expression of the “water in the wave,” and like water inside a wave, there’s no beginning or end to Penel’s movements. It’s beautiful to watch, and his scores at the end of the round are high.

  Next comes sparring. Penel is up against a boy who is much bigger than he is. His size makes him look powerful—as though he could deliver heavy blows. I hold my breath as they move toward each other. The kid has at least a good two inches on Penel, and next to him Penelope looks like David meeting Goliath. They bow and circle each other, and within seconds Penel is hit. Goliath scores easy points by bopping him on the top of the head—a cheap shot. Penel manages to land a chin tap on the boy, but it’s obvious that his current strategy isn’t enough. He’s several points down, sweaty, exhausted—and close to elimination. It’s then that Master Bill yells “P!” from the sidelines. They make eye contact, and with only body language uttered between them, Penel nods, understanding. Goliath and Penel regroup and begin again. Penel is moving quickly now, hands high to protect himself, shifting from side to side. Then he starts shuffling his feet—one in front of the other so that his shoulders, hips—his entire body—are in constant motion. Switching directions, bobbing, weaving, swaying. Goliath doesn’t know which way to look. Then Penel sees his opening, lunges back, and sends a front-snap kick to the kid’s chest. He scores—and then scores and scores again. He wins.

  Penel advances to the final round and is now face-to-face with a girl I’ve dubbed the Ninja, having observed her at the beginning of the day. She’s clearly a force: While all the other kids goofed off with their teammates during downtime, the Ninja practiced her katas over and over again—without ever taking a break. Her moves were sharp, fast, and diabolical. I’d never seen a seven-year-old look so serious. For her, this tournament was not a game, either. I knew the Ninja stood between Penel and the gold medal.

  Penel is in a zone. After his victory against Goliath, he is amped. With the headgear he’s wearing, I can see only his eyes—and they are lit. They’re speaking a language I learned from my dad. They’re saying I’m about to get mine.

  The round begins. Penel and the Ninja meet on the mat. They bow. Then Penel blasts out of the gate with a spray of chest blows, backing the Ninja halfway across the mat and out of bounds. They start again and Penel jumps from side to side, twisting his body left and right. Then—whomp—he lands a roundhouse sidekick to the Ninja’s head, followed by another long series of chest blows. Dazed, the Ninja retreats, reconsidering her next move through angry tears. At this point, internally, I am in a state. Penel could actually win this! But on the outside, all I can manage to do is squeeze Joe’s hand tighter. Penel dominates the next two rounds with fast punches and kicks. A
fter that, there’s nothing more the Ninja can do. As she walks off the mat in defeat, we all hear her frustrated yells.

  After the match is over, Penel walks over to the Ninja and, showing good sportsmanship, gives her a shoulder pound. He knows what it feels like when it’s just not your time. But this is Penel’s time. He’s won against all the boys and girls in his age group, and he takes the gold in both categories he competed in. He’s beaten the biggest Goliath and the toughest Ninja. As our family gathers around the periphery of Penel’s winner’s circle, Joe and I radiate with pride. We are standing tall and smiling wide, clapping for Penel—and for ourselves. We know, deeply, how much it took to get us here.

  When it’s time for the medals to be awarded, all the contestants line up at the front of the mat. The officials announce our son’s name over the loudspeakers. And when they do, they don’t call him Jack. Or P. Or Penel. There, in front of a room full of strangers, he hears “Penelope Ghartey” amplified throughout the room. And then, beaming that broad smile he’s had since birth, he steps forward to claim what is rightfully his.

  Penelope has won not only the contest, but his own authority—and the right to his full name: Penelope Gloria Adjoa Patterson Ghartey. He’s perfect in all ways. And in his moment of victory, I realize that no adjustments should ever be needed to make him more palatable to others. He’s a boy named Penelope, and regardless of how confusing people might find that, or how contradictory it might sound, the world will have to take him as he is.

  Penelope takes the gold!