Girl Afraid is a blog about living my life openly as a transgender woman. I hope to discover more about who I am by writing and sharing my story. The thoughts and opinions are my own, experienced from a unique point of view. All I'm offering is my version of the truth, nothing more. Thanks for reading. ♥Gia
“Don’t ever tell anybody anything. If you do, you start missing everybody”
What’s your first positive experience with anything related to the LGBTQ community?
It’s a question I regularly ask folks during trainings. To be fair, I borrowed this question from a friend and fellow LGBTQ advocate. She had asked the question to a group we were co-training to help them think and talk about the LGBTQ community in safe way. Hearing this prompt for the first time, I found myself thinking of my first positive experience, and to be honest, it was really hard to do. Eventually I thought of one, and for the next few months I shared the story about attending my first Rocky Horror Picture
20th Century Fox Films
Show. Every Saturday in Harvard Square 50 to 100 newcomers, or “virgins” as we were called, checked out the show, while many regulars — dubbed “sluts” — returned week after week. I was sixteen years old. The memory and experience stay with me to this day, but I don’t think it was my first positive experience anymore. It’s still a very fond memory, but I can think of few more that were a little earlier.
The story I tell now is about reading Catcher in the Rye, the book with the ominous blood red cover penned by reclusive author JD Salinger. It was 1981, I was fourteen years old, and I attended F. A. Day Junior High, which was located on the north side of town, in Newton Massachusetts. By ninth grade I knew I was attracted to both boys and girls, and also knew my gender identity was very different than what was given to me when I was born at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital, in Brighton, a historically Irish part of Boston, less than four miles away.
I recall struggling as a reader since the 4th grade and hadn’t made huge improvements by the time I entered Mr. D’s English class in the the 9th grade. But Mr. D was different. He was young, athletic, and very handsome. So, with a sparkle in my green eyes, I read the book, hoping to impress my teacher.
To be honest, I recall very little of the novel. In fact in the nearly 37 years since, I nearly forgot about it completely. Perhaps it was too close to home at the time, especially the depiction and emotions of the main character, Holden Caulfield, whose struggle with loneliness, depression and suicidal thoughts weren’t very different from my own back then.
There is one scene I remember to this day, like it was yesterday. After being kicked out of school, Holden’s journey takes him to New York City. While in New York, he checks-in to a hotel. Which I thought was pretty cool for only being sixteen. In his room, he looks out the window and he can see into the apartment or hotel room of another building. In that room, he notices a middle age man undressing and then getting dressed in women’s clothes. Well that was interesting to me. I mean really interesting.
And guess what happens next? Do you remember? I certainly do.
Nothing happens. Absolutely nothing.
Well from what I remember, Holden observes this event and the story moves on. Imagine that?
I know that’s not very dramatic, but that’s the point. Up until that very moment, the stories I had read, and the TV shows and movies I watched, all depicted someone like me, a transgender or gender non conforming person, as a monster, equal to the ghouls, aliens, and giant Japanese creatures I saw regularly on Creature Double Feature every Saturday afternoon on Channel 56. To the world we were criminals, rapists, murderers, serial killers - you name it, we - I was a danger to society and I believed it. Why not?
But when I read this small, seemingly insignificant passage, at the age of fourteen, it certainly left an impression. Sure I forgot about it and Mr. D for 36 years, but in retrospect, I think this was one of the first positive, or shall I say, not negative memories, I had of anything LGBTQ. I also believe there were other bread crumbs left for me along my journey, giving me hope that one day, I could be myself and not feel ashamed.
A few weeks ago, I had the good fortune to spend time with a
childhood friend, and his family as they visited Maine. I’ve known my friend and his family since the two of us were in kindergarten together. He now lives thousands of miles away with his daughter, but often returns to New England to fish for striped bass, visit his mom, family, and friends. While we hadn’t seen each other in a few years, we usually pick up where we left off, like old friends often do.
After dinner on the first night, we found ourselves sitting on the deck of his rented house, siping red wine, laughing about childhood friends, and looking out on one of Maine’s most bucolic harbors which was being illuminated by the sliver of a waning moon, dancing between the late summer clouds as if they were lace curtains. During our conversation, he mentioned going to a bar earlier in the week and bumping into one of our former teachers.
“You’ll never guess” he said.
“Mr. D?” I blurted out.
“What!, that’s amazing” he replied. “How did you know?”
“I just came to me. He is the one teacher I’d like to bump into, so I said his name. But there’s more.” I continued. “There a story I tell with some frequency, about reading Catcher in the Rye and Mr. D” so maybe that’s why I said his name.”
“Well, he said he usually hangs out at that bar or this other restaurant, so we might be able to bump into him if you like”
To myself, I’m thinking this is too weird. What is Mr. D doing here in Maine? Doesn’t he know he’s the character in story I tell all the time?
The next day, I try to forget about it and enjoy my time with my friend, his family, and the surrounding ocean. But that night, after a long visit with cousins, my friend asks if I wanted to grab a drink and some food at “that” restaurant.
“Who knows, we might see Mr. D?” my friend said with an encouraging tone
“Sure, why not”, I laughed
The place was about 5-8 miles out of town. It was still light, but getting darker by the minute. As we wound our way to our destination I told my friend the story about Catcher in the Rye. All the more reason to find our former english teacher my friend says.
We talk about other life stuff and the conversation suddenly gets serious. I mentioned my struggles with trauma, and how that has affected me and my mental health over the years. He inquires more, and with great sincerity. So I tell him something that only a few people know, that I was sexual abused by a priest when I was a teenager. As you can imagine, it gets real quiet. I let him know about how I’ve only come to understand what happen just in the past few years. I guess those memories were lost, stored in some filing cabinet in the recesses of my brain till I was ready to deal with it or was unlocked by something. That something was watching the film Spotlight for the first time. It was then that my memories started to return. At first everything was vague, just very uncomfortable feelings. They were followed by anxiety attacks, flashbacks, and upsetting dreams. I haven’t had a full night’ sleep in nearly two years. My friend was stunned, but also extremely compassionate.
We tried to make light of the subject by joking about the dark winding road, and that this would be a good place to hide the bodies. We make it to the restaurant and park in a field. Walking across the grass I wiped my eyes. I’m glad I told my friend, but wanted to composed myself.
We step inside the restaurant and my friend asks, “wanna sit at a table or at the bar?”
“Let’s sit at the bar” I replied.
We walk past a guy butchering an Eagles’ song on his guitar and turn the corner toward the bar.
“Well look who it is? He’s here!” My friend laughs.
It’s hard to see, but there he is, sitting alone on far side of the bar, it’s Mr. D., now with gray hair, but still sporting a red sox shirt and a big smile. This makes me happy.
We walk around to the other side of the bar, past what looks like a group of lobsterman, and say hello. My friend laughs it up with Mr. D, and introduces me.
“Hey, it’s good to see you. You were my 9th grade teacher too. And I think you were my sister’s track coach in high school. I’m Gia.”
He’s seems confused. He recalls my sister, a few brothers, and even my parents, but not me. This happens, a lot. So I spill the beans, and tell him what’s up, that I transitioned a several years ago, yata yata yata.
“Wow, it’s good to see you.“
Before too long a friend joins Mr. D. at the bar and my friend and I return to chatting. I order a vodka tonic and he orders a draft beer. We look over the menu and order some food to snack on as we talk.
As the evening carries on we chat a little more with Mr. D, I share that I was a teacher and coach for 20 years. He lets us know that he’s now retired, and visits Maine a lot. He then offers to buy us the next round. My friend says yes, but I decline.
Mr. D. teases, “what are you, a lightweight”?
Haha, think to myself, my 9th grade teacher calling his former student a lightweight. “I”m the driver tonight’ I inform him.
“Oh” he says. “That’s important”
“It is” I reply.
My friend and I decide it's time go and say our farewells.
“It was good to see you, maybe we'll bump into one another again.”
“Please say hi to your family, especially your parents,” Mr D says.
On the ride home, my friend and I laugh and shake our heads.
“You need to write about this” he says.
“I dunno” I reply, “it’s seems too….too perfect.”
A few weeks have passed but I’m still struggling how to process several conflicting feelings; seeing Mr. D, catching up with old friends, thinking about Holden Caulfield and Catcher in the Rye, and the news out of Pennsylvania, where 300 priests, were accused of molesting and abusing thousands of children and teenagers, like me.
Why can’t we just have nice things anymore, like rock candy?
We can. They wear Red Sox tee-shirts at the bar or fish for stripers off the pier.
At the state house this spring legislators argued for a bill that would change Maine’s time zone from Eastern to Atlantic. Sponsors say the move, which would place the country’s eastern most state into a time zone shared by Nova Scotia and Puerto Rico, would provide increased economic opportunities and less energy consumption in addition to offering more daylight in the afternoon and evening, especially during winter months.
The story caught my attention for many reasons; first, if enacted, changing time zones would be one of most significant changes in people’s lives in Maine in a lifetime, and second, I think the story is symbolic of our persistent search for ways to harness, understand, and control time. But can moving our clocks ahead an hour really give us what we want? Maybe, maybe not, but we humans, modern humans to be more precise, have a fatal fascination with time travel, immortality, and youthfulness.
One of my favorite movies is Robert Zemeckis’ 1985 classic, Back to the Future. In it, the hero, Marty McFly, jumps into a supped-up DeLorean (a sleek sports car from the 80’s), complete with blinking lights, plutonium, and a device called the Flux Capacitor, invented by Marty’s eccentric friend, Doc Brown, which makes time travel possible. The car is stand in for a time machine, and 17-year old Marty is unwittingly transported back to 1955 as he out runs a group of Libyan terrorist in a Mall Parking lot. Once back in time, Marty reconnects with Doc Brown, and his would be parents 30 years in the past and has to play matchmaker to bring them together so he can exist in the future. Thus is the paradox of time travel.
I’m all for brighter days between November to March, especially since the sun is barely visible for 8 short hours each day, when it’s not cloudy or snowing. I’m also attracted to the idea of forming a stronger allegiance between our Canadian neighbors, Nova Scotia, the birthplace of my mother’s parents and ancestors, a place I visited as a child, once thinking it was exotic simply because it was in a completely different time zone. I eventually learned the truth, Nova Scotia was only a few hundred nautical miles from Boston, where I lived, and I could even listen to the Red Sox on a small radio when I visited Canada in the early 70’s. Time, I learned from early age, was indeed relative.
As part of my job, I regularly attend and present at conferences advocating on behalf of the LGBTQ community, and every time is different. Recently, after a panel discussion on Aging Creatively, a gentle looking and soft-spoken older man asked me if I wouldn’t mind speaking with him in private. We exited the banquet hall through the server’s door in the rear of the half-filled room of LGBTQ elders and found a spot in the beige colored hallway that lead to the kitchen to talk. The gentleman looked faintly familiar. He was probably in his mid to late sixties, his skin was pale and body unformed, like a butternut squash left in garden all winter to freeze and thaw.
After quick introductions we figured out we had indeed met a few years back; it was when I was speaking to gay men’s group, a vestigial remnant from the HIV/AIDS crisis in the 1980’s. I often look back at that time in my life with bittersweet memories. As a young adult and before I embraced my identity as a woman, I assumed a was a gay man, and why wouldn’t I have, I enjoyed, and continue to enjoy flirting, kissing, and having sex with men. But the virus never took hold in me, like it did Jhan, one of my first boyfriends, who by the end of his life, accepted his fate, stopped taking his drugs, and died, like we all will, just fucking too soon.
After getting our introductions out of the way, he asked if he could share something very private with me. I agreed, as this is has become a regular request; it feel like I’ve become a traveling quasi therapist, but without the degrees or series of letters after my name. He leaned in close, and as the faint scent of Gray Flannel floated between us, he whispered in my right ear, “when I dream, I always dream of himself as a woman. Always have.”
He pulled back for a second, then leaned back in again, “do you think this means I’m transgender?” he asked with the utmost sincerity.
I breathed in his fragile words, letting them fall gently into my consciousness, like I was trying to catch large brown oak leaves in my hands, slowly descending to earth, without crushing them.
Smiling back, I exhaled. “I don’t know what your dreams means” I shared, hesitantly. “Have you talked to anyone else about this, your partner, a therapist perhaps?”
“No, you’re the first person I’ve ever mentioned it to.”
His words shook me, and it took me a moment to reply, “Thank you, I’m honored, really, I mean it. Thank you for trusting in me”
I asked a few more questions “were there any other clues or breadcrumbs you’ve noticed looking back, other feelings related to your dreams? “Well…I’ve never felt completely happy, and I wonder if this is part of it, maybe I am … really a woman” he replied with some reservation.
I kept my eyes connected with his, and could see that he was scared. I reached my hands out in front of me, palms up, and he placed is baby soft hands in mine, and we gently held each other, quietly for moment. I then tried to reassure him by saying “it’s going to be alright, it will” and as I was saying those words, a server approached us from the kitchen; so we let our hands drop to allow him to pass.
We talked for a few more minutes and out of nowhere he began to recall other moments from his childhood, pictures, magazines, and even dresses. The doors had been unlocked, and with that, there was a twinkle in his eyes, a light, a child perhaps, calling out to him from his past, sailing between the two of us on the river of time.
The lights dimmed, and the church, filled beyond capacity, became quiet. An hour earlier I had dropped my mother off at the side door on Adams Street, which runs parallel with the large brick and Gothic inspired building. Adams Street is one of the primary roads through one of the thirteen villages of Newton called Nonantum, but known to most as “The Lake” where the colors of the Italian flag are used instead of double yellow lines, painted down the middle of many of the roads in this historically blue-color neighborhood, just across the railroad tracks and turnpike. My mother had agreed to be one of the readers for the four o’clock Mass on Christmas Eve, and I volunteered to drive her and attend as well. As the service was geared for families and children, it had become one of most popular attended events of the year and the parking lot and adjacent streets would be filled long before mass was scheduled to start.
Our Lady Help of Christians Church, or Our Lady’s for short, was dedicated in 1881 and is located at the corner of Washington and Adams Streets. The congregation, founded in 1872, was originally known as St. Brendan's, due to the ever increasing population of Irish Catholics in the Boston area. The large chapel can seat over 1400 people, which came in handy when Mother Teresa visited in 1995. It was also in this church that I received my Baptism, First Communion, Confession, and Confirmation, four of the holy sacraments. In addition, I’ve visited Our Lady’s for Christmas Mass each year until I was in my early 20’s, as well on many other special occasions, like each of my sister’s weddings, family christenings, and several funerals. And while I wasn’t around for it, my eventual grandparents, who had only recently emigrated from Canada, were married in the lower chapel nearly 90 years ago. That’s a lot of history with a church, especially for someone who considers herself to be an atheist.
With the church now darkened, and only the final pray and recessional hymn remaining, the choir began singing Silent Night. From where I sat, nestled at the end of a pew with a family I didn’t know, but who were gracious to let me join them, I could see my mom sitting at the back of the alter, surrounded by the other readers, Eucharistic ministers, and choral members, and she was singing too. I joined in, and for a moment I thought I could hear her voice, her strong and proud French Canadian voice, over the thousand other folks singing, it was like she was singing to me. Silent Night - holy night - all is calm - all is bright – round yon virgin – mother and child…
And in that moment, my emotions rose to the surface, and I had to stop singing. Tears dripped from my eyes and fogged my glasses. I reached for my black handbag and grabbed a tissue, hoping the people around me didn’t notice. I don’t know why the moment got to me so, maybe it was the thought of how much my parents have been through this year, both facing significant health concerns, my dad unable or unwilling to attend mass in a wheelchair, my mom facing his death, her own, was this their last Christmas together? I don’t know, and I don’t think they know either.
Or maybe it was my own insecurity, separated from my girlfriend who was attending a separate mass just ten miles away, huddled together in a church pew with her two boys and her ex. I felt alone, disconnected and removed from the other parishioners who filled the seats and lined the walls, dressed in their Sunday best, who believed in the magical realism of Christmas, praying for the promise of tomorrow and the all that the New Year may bring.
I looked up to the large faded mural above the alter which depicted the crucifixion of Jesus and closed my eyes. I saw all places I used to go, when I was young.
The other night, after watching PBS NewsHour, which included a tribute to John Glenn, one of America’s first astronauts, and before turning to NBC’s Thursday Night Football, I fell under the spell Magic Moments: The Best Of 50s Pop, a rebroadcast of a concert from 2004, used as a filler and fundraiser more than once. The show featured stars, now in their golden years, singing their hits from the days of poodle skirts, penny loafers, and greasers. I’m a helpless romantic, and while I was impressed by host Pat Boone’s youthful enthusiasm, I was fixated on co-host Phyliss McGuire, of the McGuire Sisters, and her less than subtle plastic surgery, especially her enhanced, and slightly asymmetrical lips, sincerely wondering if that was my fate in 30 years time. But before I could dwell on what might look like for me, she introduced the first act, “Patti Page, the Singing Rage”. Patti Page was the best selling female artist of the 50’s, and when she took the stage ensconced in a blue glittery gown, she was meet with a thunderous applause. And while some of the clapping was embellished during post-production, I felt it was appropriate; like it was her fans, applauding from the grave.
Her first song was her biggest hit, Tennessee Waltz. I know it only because it was featured in one of my favorite films, The Right Stuff. The movie, based on the Tom Wolf novel, is the story of the Mercury Space program in the 1950’s, which includes, John Glenn. As she began to sing, my mind wandered, traveling to place and an idea I don’t recall ever thinking about. How often does that happen? I thought about dancing with my dad, like at my brothers and sisters weddings, my cousins weddings, and even my own wedding some years ago. It was emotional.
And while I feel so fortunate to have shared the dance floor, on more than one occasion, with my beautiful mom who sometimes wore a cerulean blue dress, I haven’t had that opportunity with my dad. It’s not like he wasn’t there, he was, but I grew up and attended most of those events as man in my parents’ eyes.
Friday night I attended our Bangor Holiday event for work. It’s a simple affair compared to our annual Gala, we show up, organize the function room, have a few drinks, nibble on appetizers, give some awards away, talk about our work, and ask for money. It was my job to talk about our work with our guests, both from the stage and amongst the crowd. I’ve been doing these events for nearly three years, and in that time, grown confident in myself as a woman, and as an activist and public speaker. But I was thrown off Friday and felt more vulnerable than most nights. Was it my speech, which addressed some of the disturbing trends we’ve seen in the aftermath of Trump’s election? Was it the guest who misgendered me after finding out we were born in the same hospital in Boston? “He was born at St. Elizabeth’s too” she called out to her friend. Maybe it was the reminder of the Pulse massacre, mentioned during one of the other speeches. Either way, I didn’t see any of them coming, like a comet or meteor crashing into our atmosphere without warning.
I also don’t know why the thought of dancing with my dad got to me so. Maybe it’s the season, it’s dark in Maine in December, the days are short and the nights are long and cold. And while I often catch myself ogling at the star filled sky, I’m reminded how small I am in this world, and on most nights alone as well. My parents have aged right before my eyes, and as I face their mortality this Christmas season, maybe I’m afraid of my own.
Thank you.It is with a degree of
sadness as well as a humble sense of satisfaction that I write this thank you
letter to the MaineTransNet community.I’ve been connected to MTN for nearly eight years, first as a trans person
in hiding, looking for answers, then as a volunteer and group facilitator, and
eventually becoming a member of the board of directors in 2013, which included
serving as both as vice president and board president. It’s been a privilege to
work with a great team of committed board members and volunteers, trans and
allies alike, to ensure the sustainability and vitality of the organization.
I’ve always put trans people’s needs front and center in my role as board president and found great value in listening and getting to know community
members. In the summer of 2015 the board created a list of goals to work
towards as an organization. Included in that list were these key items: increase
outreach to under served community members, improve communication, focus on leadership
development, secure a dedicated office, and become financially stable.
I know in the aftermath of the election, many in our
community are scared, rightfully so, and there remain many unanswered
questions, but I’m pleased (if that’s the right word) to report MaineTransNet
is in a better place today than when I arrived.This is not to say the organization was in a bad place two
years ago, as we were fortunate to have excellent leadership prior to my tenure
as well. But with the hard work and dedication of some incredible people, a few
timely grants, and ongoing partnerships with like-minded organizations, we
achieved the goals we set for ourselves 18 months ago. And while I know our organization is far
from perfect and their remains significant areas for improvement and growth,
our community is growing stronger everyday.
On December 1, my term as board president will come to a close and current
board treasurer Quinn Gormley will become the new president of MaineTransNet. I
couldn’t be happier for her and our organization.I know most of you already know that Quinn is a smart,
passionate, and devoted individual and she will make a superb leader. As
treasurer she has worked tirelessly to focus our attention on becoming financially
sustainable. I am assured that with the ongoing guidance from the board of
directors and people like you; MaineTransNet will continue to be the safe place
for Maine’s Trans community to turn to for lifesaving support, education, and
resources. Thank you again for allowing me to serve this beautiful and
brave community; it’s been an honor.
Make a donation today to support MaineTransNet's lifesaving work. Click to DONATE.
On Friday we learned the US Supreme Court will review an appeals court ruling concerning a Virginia school district’s policy that discriminates against transgender students, in this case, high school student Gavin Grimm. The policy prevents him from using the boy’s restroom. Many of us doing trans justice work have been following this case and many others across the country where governors, legislators, and even members of our own community, have been sending anything but mixed messages to transgender people, especially transgender youth, about our human rights and dignity. As a middle-aged transgender woman I’ve been relatively fortunate in my journey, and even though I’ve been discriminated against, felt terribly alone, and made to feel like a freak, I’m still here. While the path as been challenging, I have a job, a roof over my head, friends, family, and a partner who gives me love, despite the fact that I’m a demanding princess. There are times I feel guilty that my life is good, especially when I hear so many stories of heartbreak, hate, abandonment, violence, ignorance, and shame. I think what gets to me most is people’s indifference, their silence. But I understand, talking about transgender issues can be difficult, especially if you don’t know what to say or if you’re afraid of saying the wrong thing. But trust me, saying nothing is worse.
In 22 days, many around the world will gather for Transgender Day of Remembrance. November 20th is TDOR, the annual day to recognize, remember, and celebrate the lives of Transgender individuals murdered the previous year. I vividly recall attending my first TDOR, standing on the cold bricks and cobblestones of Monument Square in Portland, Maine. I felt relatively safe in the dark, illuminated only slightly by the flicker of the small Passover-like candles lit in memory of people I never met, but felt intimately connect to. In less than two months, I would embrace my identity as a trans person and begin a very public transition as a high school teacher and coach. Attending TDOR was a wake up call for me. As a privileged white girl preoccupied with the fear of loosing my job, spouse, friends, and family, I hadn’t given all that much thought to the idea I could be killed for being myself. But I knew I couldn’t go any further if I didn’t step out of the shadows and begin living.
Last year we read the names of more than 250 transgender individuals, killed for just being themselves, and that’s only the reported cases. In the US alone, there were 21 reported murders, 19 of whom were brave and beautiful trans woman of color. The intersections of race, poverty, misogyny, homophobia, and transphobia, colliding and cutting short lives and dreams at a moments notice. The number of murders in the US this year has already surpassed 2015.
So with the impending Supreme Court case looming on the horizon, I’m afraid this Halloween weekend, not because of what they will or wont do, but because I know regardless of their decision, it’s going to take more than a court order to change the hearts and minds of many people, including elected officials, school board members, and yes, LGBT advocates as well, some of which don’t see us completely as human beings, but as monsters, or worse, bargaining chips, a threat to people’s safety, privacy, or funding. Unfortunately, as we’ve learned from other civil rights battles, it may take years (and in some casescenturies) to see the promise of progress and feel free from the stubborn and thorny grasp of bigotry and greed. In the meantime, I’m going to keep stepping into the light, even on the darkest of days.
This week, Rosetta, a European spacecraft, crashed into comet 67p, also known as Churyumov-Gerasimenk, after a 12-year journey across time and space. Rosetta lost contact with Earth forever, bringing the historic mission to an end. The team in Darmstadt, Germany, who had been working on this project for decades,
clapped, embraced, and shed tears as the craft crash-landed on the comet that was traveling at 84,000 miles an hour. Ironically, Rosetta, was only traveling at a speed of 3 ft per second (walking pace) as it was embraced by the traveling cluster of rock-like material and dust originally from the Kuiper belt, a disc of remnants beyond our planets, formed after the birth of our solar system.
For me there is something tragic and captivating about this story, especially the thought of Rosetta’s slow demise onto the surface of the racing comet, speeding across the universe, picking up wearing travelers, like gravity’s angel. _______
I had the good fortune to spend last Saturday afternoon with my girlfriend and her two boys. Thanks to my dad, we had tickets to the Boston College football game at Alumni Stadium in Chestnut Hill, an area in Massachusetts best know for the Jesuit college, part of the Boston Marathon route at the top of Heartbreak Hill, and a mall. Chestnut Hill is also part of three municipalities, Boston, Newton, and Brookline, and three different counties, Suffolk, Middlesex, and Norfolk. Talk about identity crisis.
Anyway, it was a picture-perfect early fall afternoon, and while the game was a snooze, BC squashed Wagner State 42- 10, there were a few moments that I can’t stop thinking about.
My girlfriend’s kids are in elementary school, and just a few years apart in age. We’ve been dating eight months now; in fact that Saturday was our anniversary. I knew going into the game that we probably weren’t going stay the entire four quarters. The boys are young, and I don’t have remotely the same interest in college football that I had when I played football as a youth or even when I coached early in my teaching career, but the boys love sports and we thought this was something fun to do together. It was.
Traveling to the game and walking around the stadium past tailgaters and college students was nostalgic for me. As a kid, I remember coming to a BC game for the first time when I was about the same age as the oldest of my girlfriend’s boys. It was special then and still is. My dad graduated from Boston College in 1955 and one of my brothers did too in the 80’s. Because we lived just a few miles from the stadium, our family went to and still goes to home games every year. This was my first time going openly as a trans woman, which sounds weird to write, but for me it was significant.
Two things stand out from that afternoon. The oldest of my girlfriend’s boys is an athlete and also sensitive, he holds my hand in crowds or when we’re crossing the street, and that was no different last week. He also leans on me when we’re sitting as group, which I find endearing and comforting that he trusts me. That happened too. But what really caught my attention were his questions. After each touchdown or score, the BC cheerleaders tumble across the end zone, with the final girl doing round-offs, flips and twists as an exclamation point.
As we watched, he asked, “Gia, were you ever a cheerleader?”
I smiled, and let the thought sink in “no, no I wasn’t, but I’m sure I thought about it." I paused. " but I did do gymnastics until the 10th grade”
With not much of a reaction from him, he asked another question just moments later, “When you played football, did you wear long sleeves under your uniform when it was cold?”
“I guess” I stammered, not knowing he knew I played football.
It took me a few moments, but then the gravity of what he said, eventually hit me. He was able to hold two somewhat opposing thoughts in his head, someone could be both a cheerleader and a football player, plus he was also concerned about football players being cold and being able to perform with long sleeves, that was sweet.
Sitting on a cold metal bench under a brilliant blue sky, the game had been momentarily interrupted by a child’s wonder and innocence, colliding like a spacecraft landing on a comet.