Lucy Grey: Gendernaut

“Spill it, son. Introduce the elephant in the room,” he said. We were on a beach, Mom, Dad, and I, watching the ocean. Some pelicans skimmed over the water’s surface. My siblings were playing and scraping themselves on the chunks of coquina outcroppings, bulwarks in the sand against the sea. I’d never been to this beach before; it was new territory.

We three stood on the line where sand confronted ocean, where our conversation could be swallowed by the sea. I looked at Dad, feeling a cold wave wash in, covering my purple-polished toenails and sending goose bumps up my smooth-shaven legs. “Her name is Grey,” I answered him. My eyes flicked to Mom, then back to Dad. “That’s the name I go by when I’m…” another wave rolled in, splashing higher, “when I’m dressed. Like a woman.”

I looked at my parents then, waiting for their truth, their preconceived notions about their son, to shatter and break like the waves around them. It didn’t happen; the metaphor just wouldn’t coalesce—not even a gurgle. My progenitors just looked at me, emotionless. I guess they weren’t surprised, considering how hard I worked to make this obvious: my first ‘I’m different!’ letter six months ago, my lengthening hair, ‘accidentally’ getting caught with polished toenails and feminine blouses, my colorful socks, my sudden visibly increased interest in my sister’s makeup and jewelry—all these things must have given them SOME clue as to something going on with me. It’s quite possible the parental units predicted this from the first moment, and they never said anything. Maybe they knew before I ever did. BUT IT SURE WOULD HAVE BEEN NICE TO KNOW THIS. Even when I blatantly broke our house’s firmly established gender norms—nothing but a shared glance between my parents. I tried opening a dialog with them, but all I ever got was radio silence. Maybe I just expected Mom and Dad to be more interested in pursuing this matter with me.

Both Mom and Dad displayed very little emotion about my confession. I told them about my involvement with Tri Ess and how wonderfully supportive those ladies are. How Dulcinea actively participates with me, and how we have safe places where we can dress up and hang out, how I’ve journaled about this process, and wanted to share my journal with them. I mentioned that I brought home Luna, that it was a story that might help them understand my position.

They asked if I was gay. “Would that change things if I was?” I replied, as if I was asking for a lecture on honesty with my loved ones, on the difficulties of gay life, which they promptly gave me. I rolled my eyes, hating myself for the next words to come out of my mouth: “Mom, Dad. I’m not gay. I’m not attracted to men.” They confronted me for lying, for mismanaging my money, for dropping out of contact with them. “I’m trying to fix all of this,” I protested, digging my feet into the wet beach; waves smoothed the sand around me, filling the holes around my legs, as if the beach had swallowed me up to my ankles. “It’s all linked back to how I thought you’d react to me, to Grey.”

But I’m not sure they heard me or made the connection. “We love you, Greg,” Mom said, “and nothing’s going to change that. Nothing you do, nothing you wear.” And yet, they’re clearly not happy with this new information. They’ve done nothing to reach out to me, to try to understand what I’m going through. They love the idea of their normal, male son. But this person, standing in front of them, ankle deep in the water to hide hir painted toenails, they don’t seem to want anything to do with.

“You underestimated us, son,” Dad said, dovetailing into Mom’s statement. “We love you. But you underestimated us.”