One in Every Crowd (5 page)

LAST MONTH I SPENT TEN DAYS AT HOME IN THE YUKON, doing research for a new project. I went through as many family photos as I could lay my hands on: sorting through the magic red bag of memorabilia my Aunt Roberta keeps in her basement and sifting through the gigantic mishmash of memories crammed into a box in my mother’s guestroom closet. My Grandma Pat won the organization award; hers were some of the only photos actually placed in albums, and each album had a glossary of subjects and decades listed on the inside cover in her bold, confident script. I found a citation for drunk driving from the seventies for one of my uncles, not totally out of character for him, but it was issued at ten o’clock in the morning, which was impressive. I unfolded a stiff and stern letter written by the principal of my father’s high school, which would later be my high school, explaining to his parents just why he was going to have to repeat grade ten. It wasn’t for lack of intelligence, he made sure to point out. I found a lot of pictures of me as a kid. Way more than I remember anyone taking at the time.

There is the one of me with my dad and my Uncle Rob, who are on either end of a broomstick loaded down with lake trout; I am crouching underneath the fish between the two men, blood spattered up to my elbows, proudly holding up a string of grayling. Me in a campground somewhere up north, exploding out of the willows, carrying a giant log of firewood on my back. Me on the first day of grade one, in a line-up with all the other little girls on the block; all the neighbour girls and my little sister are in sparkly new dresses, their chubby knees scrubbed and squishing out of the tops of sparkling white knee socks. I, on the other hand, am wearing blue corduroys, black rubber boots with red-brown toes, and my Davy Crockett fringed buckskin jacket. Me, in my grade two class photo, front-toothless in a plaid shirt, pearly snaps done right up to my chin, sporting an Andy Gibbish shag do. Me smiling in full hockey gear, lined up with all of my teammates, the only girl in the boy’s league.

None of this was surprising to me; I appear to be the same kid I remember being. What I couldn’t believe, in retrospect, is that anyone in my family could have actually been surprised when I came out of the closet at eighteen. The evidence was everywhere, right from the start; how could anyone have missed it?

I decided to investigate.

I called up my Aunt Roberta first, because it was almost eight o’clock in the evening, and she goes to bed early. I asked her if she ever suspected that I was gay when I was little, if she ever wondered about the hockey and the buckskin jackets?

I heard the kitchen chair complain about being dragged across the linoleum, and she sat down.

“I know this sounds silly, but I always thought you were just who you were. An amazing little strong personality. Thought you got it from your dad.”

I asked her if Gran had ever said anything to her about me and the gay.

“Gran’s gone to bed already, but I do remember her saying to me that you were exactly right. All you kids turned out to be exactly who God meant you to be. I mean, you can call her in the morning if you want to, but I know that’s what she’ll say.”

My grandma Pat was good for an awesome quote, as usual.

“I never labeled you as anything. You were just boyish, and you did boyish things. Keep in mind that we didn’t think like that back then, you see. Any knowledge of homosexuality I might have had would have gone back to Victorian times. All those novels. You probably skirted under my radar, because you weren’t wearing hoop skirts and high button boots.”

My mom swore she had no clue whatsoever. “My mind never went there. I just let you be what you wanted to be. Not very helpful, I guess. I’m sorry.”

My Aunt Cathy echoed my mom. “I just thought you were a little brat because you refused to wear a dress to our wedding.”

My Aunt Norah thought my sister and I were simply polar opposites, that was all. “Carrie was the prissy little girl, and you … weren’t. You were just your own little people. When you were in your teens I remember thinking … knowing somehow that you weren’t happy, that you seemed tense inside your own skin. I knew there was something going on with you, but I didn’t know what it was. We didn’t have to have a label for everything back then.”

My Uncle John was cooking an omelet in the background when I talked to him. “Sorry, kiddo, but I can’t identify the moment we realized you had gone to the dark side. We were just glad you weren’t stupid. There’s no cure for stupid. There was that one time, you were only six or so, when you gave me supreme shit for not attending to my fishing rod, but I don’t think that had much to do with your sexuality.”

My Uncle Rob was pensive, thinking over his response a bit before speaking. “Well … you can see why we wouldn’t have thought much about it. There’s lots of hetero butch chicks out there, to be honest. Especially up here.”

“On the other hand,” he continued, “maybe a guy should have twigged due to your aversion to wearing a dress, but who cares, anyway? I’ve always said, it’s your soap and your dick, and you can wash it as fast as you want.”

So it appears that for all those years, in all those photographs of that little tomboy, there was only one member of my family wondering about me.

And that was me.

I CALLED MY COUSIN UP THE OTHER DAY, and partway through our usual gab he informed me that Layla, his stepdaughter, had some very exciting news.

“Can I tell Ivan, or do you want to tell her yourself?” he asked her from his end of the living room couch.

I heard her almost teenage voice in the background, saying it was fine; he could go ahead and tell me.

“Layla got her period this morning.” He sounded proud, like she had won the science fair, or got straight As, something along those lines.

I was unsure how I should respond, but they both sounded happy on their end of the phone, so I asked to speak to Layla directly.

“Congratulations,” I told her. “It sounds like some sort of a celebration is in order. You have anything in mind?”

I couldn’t help but think back to my big day. My mom was out of town at the time, and when I called my Dad upstairs to ask him what I should do, he panicked on the other side of the bathroom door, emptied out my mom’s drawer in the other bathroom, whacked his toe on a doorjamb, swore profusely, and then tossed me a box of anal suppositories, mistaking them, I believe, for some sort of feminine hygiene product. Neither of us were proud of me, and we never mentioned the subject again.

“Can you take me to see
The Corpse Bride
?” Layla asked me. “And can we have popcorn?”

“That is an excellent plan,” I told her. “I’ll pick you up at 6:30. It’s a date.”

On my way over, I pondered whether or not I should discuss the merits of menstruation with my young friend. It was obvious that this was a brave new world, and that Layla was being brought up to believe that her period was not a dirty female secret like it was when I was twelve years old, and this was a good thing. But I wondered if it would be strange for her to chat about it all with her butch relatives, or if my silence on the matter would be noted.

“So, you got your period, huh?” I asked her as she did up her seatbelt.

She nodded casually.

“Cool,” I said, feeling like a gigantic dork. “Way to go.”

And that was the end of that.

A couple of days later, I got mine. I plodded through the slush on the sidewalks to the corner store for a box of tampons. I went up both aisles twice, and couldn’t find them.

Finally the guy behind the counter asked me if I needed any help finding something.

Normally, I would just shake my head and grab a can of soup, so I didn’t have to say the word tampon to the guy behind the counter at the corner store, but this was a brave new world. I needed to get with the times, and cast off my shame and embarrassment, for the sake of young girls everywhere.

“Uh, yeah, I’m looking for tampons,” I said.

“For what?” There were two other guys waiting to buy their cigarettes, and they both looked at me.

“Tampons.”

He shook his head again, and cupped one hand around his ear, signaling that he couldn’t hear me, I needed to speak up. I considered my options. I could scream out in a crowded corner store that I needed a box of tampons, or I could run for the door.

I chose the door.

The next corner store had an ample supply, and I let out a huge breath I hadn’t realized I had been holding in. I took the box up to the counter along with a couple of other items I didn’t really need, for cover.

I don’t know why I am uncomfortable saying the word tampon out loud, or acknowledging the fact that I, like almost all estrogen-based organisms my age, get my period. Maybe it is residual Catholicism; maybe it is because most corner store guys think I am a young man on a supply run for his girlfriend or mother. Or maybe I just don’t like to talk tampons with strangers.

“What brand is the best?” The guy behind this counter held up my tampons for the entire world to take notice of.

“I beg your pardon?” I was hoping I hadn’t heard him properly, that this was not happening to me.

“There are so many brands to choose from, and different sizes, too. I never know what I should order, so I ask my lady customers, which one is the best?”

There was another guy behind me in line now, holding a box of Kraft dinner and a loaf of white bread. He raised an eyebrow.

I felt a sudden rivulet of sweat in my armpits. Running for yet another door at this juncture would send the message that tampons are, indeed, a shameful topic. This thoughtful merchant had come to me for help in serving the needs of women throughout the entire neighbourhood, and it would behoove me to behave accordingly.

I took a deep breath and spoke in a calm, confident tone. “Well, I would say that it is definitely a matter of personal choice, similar to choosing the right condom for the job. A variety of sizes would obviously be a good thing, as there are many sizes of … vaginas out there.”

He nodded and leaned forward, interested.

“And as for brand, I always prefer the ones without an applicator for, you know, environmental reasons, but again, I can only speak for my own … I can only speak for myself. I guess as wide a variety as you can carry would be my answer.”

He thanked me and rang in my purchases. “Will you be needing a bag today?”

I nodded, and stuffed my tampons in, out of sight for the walk home. “You gonna watch the hockey game tonight?”

He shook his head. “I don’t follow the hockey. Myself, I like cricket.”

I shrugged. The guy behind me shook his head and stepped up to the counter as I headed for the door.

“Cricket, hey?” He was still shaking his head. “Well, each to their own.”

I LEARNED MOST OF WHAT I KNOW ABOUT BEING A MAN from my Uncle Rob. Uncle Rob has never let the fact that I was declared female at birth get in the way of our male bonding, and I’ve always loved him best for it.

Uncle Rob taught me how to fish, drive a standard, light a match off of my front tooth, and open a beer with a Bic lighter. He taught me how to make a fist, turn into a skid, light a fire, and shoot a gun. He passed on to me everything he has ever managed to learn about women, and all the Zippo tricks he has ever been shown. He taught me how to tell a story, and how to hold my liquor. All the important stuff. Some of the family reckon I look more like my Uncle Rob than I do my own father, and everyone agrees I look just like my dad.

Uncle Rob and Aunt Cathy flew to Vancouver last week, because Rob had an appointment with a fancy eye doctor. Whitehorse General Hospital is equipped to handle your basic medical tests and common ailments, but anything involving a specialist or an expensive machine requires a trip to the big city. Rob called me from the hotel and told me to round up the stray cousins and bring the girlfriend; he was taking us all out for dinner. Cousin Darryl’s brand new baby had somehow turned into a seven-year-old girl, and I hadn’t seen my cousin Garth since Grandma Pat came to town for her knee replacement three years ago.

I rarely bring a date along to family functions, because more than two or three of us in one room can be hazardous, especially if you are shy, offend easily, are clean and sober, or don’t eat meat. The way my family demonstrates our love and affection for each other has occasionally been mistaken for verbal abuse by outsiders, so I usually don’t take the risk.

But I knew she could hold her own; she is smart and strong and can take a joke. She loves fishing and hates hippies. There was common ground, and she might just fit right in. Besides, I figured, how could she love me and not like my Uncle Rob? He was the man who taught me everything I knew, and I look just like him.

The appetizers arrived in the middle of a raucous debate about flatulence and love: was unabashed farting in front of the fairer sex an expression of intimacy, or the sign of the death of romance? Was pulling the covers over her head actually a form of foreplay? Was our whole family actually lactose intolerant, or did we just not chew our food enough?

My sweetheart was unfazed, and retained her appetite. Maybe she really was the perfect girl for me.

By the time our entrees arrived, the talk had turned to embarrassing stories from when I was a kid, how I had panic attacks when forced into a dress for weddings, and how I finally gave in and wore a satin gown with dyed-to-match pumps to my high school graduation, just like the normal girls did.

“She looked so pretty,” said Aunt Cathy solemnly, like she was giving my eulogy.

“I looked like a drag queen.”

Darryl shook his head. “I can’t imagine cousin Ivan in a dress.”

“I can’t imagine calling her Ivan.” Cathy stabbed a bit of broccoli with her fork. “She’ll never be Ivan to me. That’s just, like, your writing name, right? Nobody actually calls you Ivan in person, do they?”

Cathy asks me this, even though the entire table had been calling me Ivan all night. I stopped using my birth name over a decade ago, but Cathy likes to pretend she doesn’t know this because it makes her uncomfortable. I love her enough to allow her this tiny corner of cozy denial, and my continued silence on the matter helps to hold up my half of her little charade.

I have lots of people who call me Ivan. I only have the one Aunt Cathy. She has never understood why I changed my name, or why I vote NDP. I’ve never understood why she collects Santa Claus dolls, or how she can smoke menthols. It doesn’t mean we love each other any the less for it.

“I’ve always called Ivan Ivan,” states cousin Darryl, God bless him. No wonder everyone thinks he’s gay.

“Are we allowed to have dessert?” squeaks second cousin Rachael.

“Anybody want to try a prawn? Going, going, gone.” Rob speaks around a mouthful of his dinner.

“Don’t chew and talk at the same time, Robert. You’ll set a bad example. There are children present.” Cathy half-feigns disgust and backhands her husband in the upper arm, right where his shirtsleeve stopped and his tanline started. This signaled the official change of subject.

“Set a bad example for little Rachael?” Rob smirks, rubbing his arm where she had whacked him one. “It’s already too late for Rachael, too late for all of them. I saw it on the Learning Channel. A child’s personality is fully formed by the time they turn three. We might as well relax and let it all hang loose. The kid is already who she’s gonna be, all we can do now is love her. It’s out of our hands.”

Rob leans across the table to pinch one of my fries. “Did Garth tell you him and Allison are getting hitched in Fiji? Cath and I are going. You and your lovely lady friend should come too. I’ll rent us a boat and we can go fishing. The wedding is still over a year away, so start saving up. Maybe even Darryl will have a girlfriend by then, and we’ll all go. A family that fishes together stays together, isn’t that what they say? And you two girls would love Fiji. It’s the perfect place for you, really: it’s beautiful there, and the policemen wear skirts.”