There is a photo of me, age three, coming out of the house in a cowboy outfit, guns blazing. My brother, Christopher, also in Wild West shoot 'em up garb, has a gleeful grin on his face. I look like a deer in the headlights, stunned and not sure how it got here. I looked like that a lot as a child.
My parents would have never gotten us guns for Christmas, so it must have been my father's mother. I think she delighted in buying us things my parents didn't approve of. The tension on those occasions was palpable. Grandma, the boozing hairdresser with the third grade education, and Father, the shy, self effacing, Philosophy professor. It was not a match made in heaven.
Though guns were not a part of many childhood Christmases, there were plenty of boy toys. Building blocks and erector sets, kites and trains, Hardy Boys and compasses. Nothing in pink, nothing soft and feminine. There was a dialectic to those childhood Christmases that has remained to this day. On the one hand, anticipation and excitement in the air. On the other hand, the hidden knowledge that my expectations would never be met. At the end of the day I would still be odd, little Philip, the weird kid with his nose in a book. I wouldn't find a package from Santa under the tree with a new me inside. One without secrets. One that didn't look like the deer in the headlights. One that could connect with others and feel comfortable in her skin.
As I grew older, the alienation with people only deepened. I was especially reminded of my aloneness during the holidays, because togetherness is the main virtue of Thanksgiving and Christmas (along with mass consumerism). All I want for Christmas is not found at the mall. Feeling disconnected in a room full of people celebrating has never been my idea of a good time, so I isolated more and more.
Through the years; through drug addiction and alcoholism, through recovery, through children and marriage, through birth and death, there was one constant. I was always alone. This weighed most heavily during the holiday season. The more I surrounded myself with family and friends, the more alienated I felt.
Three Christmases ago, I began my transition in earnest. I needed to finally find me under the tree. I thought it would be different. I would discover how to connect with people and put an end to my alienation. The hormones would make me whole. That weird little boy would find a little girl under the Christmas tree, all tied up with a pink bow. She would make him whole. Santa would finally deliver after all those years.
Life's not like that. I feel happy and sad, joyful and angry, manic and depressed. I feel. I feel sometimes for the first time. Yet, I am still alone in a room full of people I love. I still isolate for the holidays. Change takes time. I do feel hope.
I received an amazing gift this year. When I was in the last throes of overcoming my fears of transition, I read a book 'She's Not There: A Life in Two Genders' by Jennifer Finney Boylan. It moved me beyond words and pushed me, finally, past my fears and out in the open. Jenny Boylan is one of my heroes. Sometime later, I noticed that one of my friends was FB buddies with Jenny Boylan and I sent her a friend request on the spot. And then, a few days before Christmas, Jenny posted on FB that she was willing to talk with any of her Trans friends who had a hard time with the holidays (I'm not alone here). I sent her a message without any kind of expectations that it would amount to anything. Surely she would be too busy, or we would fail to connect.
Thursday afternoon the phone rang send a strange voice said 'Is this Phyllicia Daria? It’s Jenny Boylan'. We chatted for about 15 minutes, sharing pieces of our lives. We agreed that I was, as she put it, 'a real mess'. We connected. I was no longer alone for the holidays. Bless you, Jenny Boylan.
At this point, it would be nice to ride off into the sunset as the music swells. That won't happen. I will still be depressed and disconnected, alone in a crowded room. It's a start.
