Choices Chapter 22

Author’s note: For various reasons this story was delayed. Now, God willing, it will continue, hopefully to an acceptable conclusion. Let’s just say Miriam needed a break from dealing with the agonizing issues of having a transgender child in 1956. Readers are encouraged to spend some time with previous chapters to better understand this one. Enjoy.

On the drive home from the restaurant that freezing Friday evening in late January 1956 my thoughts turned to God, the controlling one, and my faith. Specifically I focused on the Christian certainty of right and wrong. What my husband and I were doing, what we just did, filled me with the conflicting feelings of Christian good on the one hand and the work of the devil on the other. Try as I might I could not escape my heritage and upbringing. I knew from countless sermons, required reading, Biblical memorization and the daily preaching of the Supreme Methodist, my mother, that not only allowing our son to drift toward the feminine and dress as a girl, but now consciously involving our other two children as if it was a wise parental choice, was a terrible sin which no mortal would forgive and God would require hell on earth as a just price for salvation in heaven.

Except that it was too late. A gambler can find religion and repent. An alcoholic could see the light and become a sober pillar of the church. A womanizer could suddenly feel the hurt he caused his family and ask for forgiveness. Granted none of these sinners would likely see the light, especially the womanizer, but any mortal can always repent and find forgiveness and the grace of God, in theory. I couldn’t. Listening to the snow chains on the wheels pound the ice, snow and pavement as we drove from Elm Grove through the hills toward Moundsville, I knew we had gone too far to turn back.

For all intents and purposes my husband and I had bought the outrageous premise, devoutly proposed by our eleven year old son, that a mistake was made at birth, or before, and he was not a boy but a girl. We owned that now; it was ours and no amount of regret, or repentance would make a reversal work. How could we now tell our child we changed our minds; that he would have to give up the girl thing and live as a boy; become a man? Metaphorically it was too late to take the dresses back to Stone & Thomas. How could we now admit to our other two children that we rethought our course and decided repression was best for Jack? Sides would be taken, creditability forever shattered. And one eleven year old would be devastated and destroyed, scarred forever.

Fear and dread overtook me again as I tried to think through the box we were in. In spite of what he, or she, sincerely believed, our child was going to become a man, physically at least. We couldn’t stop that so we couldn’t exactly pretend what we had laid out to our family was going to work; not without calamity right around the corner. Neither Brenda nor Tim asked the question at dinner when we revealed what was going on with their brother and I was glad they didn’t. I was not prepared to discuss the affects pubertal changes might have on their cross-dressing brother.

But they were obviously discussing it among themselves in the back seat as we drove home. I couldn’t hear their whispered conversation over the incessant noise from the chains but I caught a word here and there. Words like “beard” and “voice” were used and Tim said something about “dreams” and they both laughed hysterically. Yes, Tim and Brenda were accepting but they also understood the reality as much as I did.
Now that we had corrupted our other two children, expanded the conspiracy, I worried how it would change our lives, theirs. What would life be like at the Roberts’ home?

My concern was premature. Little changed at home at first. There was no show and tell after we got home that evening and there was no sign on Brenda’s door. I think we were all just exhausted not to mention hesitant. Brenda went to her room without a word to anyone and Jack, who had fallen asleep on my shoulder in the car, went to bed. I tucked him in and kissed her forehead, with mixed emotions and pronouns. Don and Tim turned on the Friday night boxing match and reveled in the testosterone driven physical violence men enjoy inflicting on each other as sport.

* * *

I expected everything about our daily lives to dramatically change after our reveal to Brenda and Tim. There were no more secrets; Don was fully informed and on board, Tim and Brenda knew and swore their understanding and acceptance and Jack had a green light to explore this Becky thing. Actually it was a yellow caution light. To my surprise no one did anything much different for weeks. Jack continued to spend time in his room, or the third floor, presumably in a dress; Tim never mentioned it but stayed away from his brother, and Brenda, when she was home, didn’t ask to meet or bond with Becky as a “little sister”. As for myself, I was almost relieved; this way there was little chance that anyone else might discover our family secret.

My feelings of safety evaporated more than a week later when my mother showed up on my porch. She didn’t ring the bell or knock. She just opened the door and came barging in, calling my name. I was shocked.

“Miriam.” She called. I was upstairs making beds and jumped at the sound. It brought back memories I thought I had successfully suppressed. Why was my mother walking into my house in the middle of the week? She didn’t drive and I knew my father was working, out of town in fact. Grace never did this. On a Saturday or Sunday, sure, I expected to see her but this was as if she was checking up on me.
I ran to the top of the stairs and looking down saw the familiar face of the upstanding Christian woman my mother was. I knew in an instant I was in for a sermon, most likely sans scripture.

“Mother.” I exclaimed with genuine surprise. “What on earth are you doing here? How did you get in town?”

“Jim drove me.” She noted answering the second question first. Jim lived in one of the two cottages on the farm my mother and father rented out. He was married with more kids than the cottage could handle and did chores around the farm to pay the rent since he was constantly out of work.

“And I think we need to talk.” I was already halfway down the stairs by that time; too late to make some excuse like I had yellow fever and tell her to go home for her own safety. My only chance was to divert.

“Is it daddy? Is he all right? Did he do something?” I always called my mother “mother” and my father “daddy”. Invoking him was a calculated gamble. Mother never missed a chance to complain about him and how he was on the road so much, not at home where he belonged, not eating right and not sleeping in his own bed. I suspected she was more concerned about the sleeping part than the eating part.

“Don’t get me started on your father.” She warned as she carefully hung up her coat and headed for the kitchen. “Is there any hot coffee left?” I poured her a cup and sat at the table across from her and waited.

“Have you thought about taking Jack to that doctor I told you about?” She immediately asked. I paused. I simply didn’t know how to discuss Jack with my mother but I knew she was unlikely to leave it alone. She had done something similar when Brenda turned thirteen and I let her wear a little makeup. I told her then not to question how I raised my children. She was obviously hurt but got over it. This was different. She was suspicious and telling her to butt out would raise her curiosity. I decided right then and there to do something I had never done in my life; ask for her advice.

“Actually mother,” I began, “I’m glad you are here. I’ve been worried about Jack and just scared for him. I didn’t want to bother you and well,…” I let tears form in the corner of my eyes and stood up, turning away from her, looking out the window for answers. I don’t think I had ever cried in front of my mother before. Oh, I was a crier, alone, in front of daddy, in church, at funerals, during weddings, reading books and poems, listening to opera and making love to Don. But never in front of mother. I waited for a compassionate voice, a hand on my shoulder, a hug.

“You should be worried.” I got instead. I turned to see the same stern cold stare I was so familiar with. Mother had not bought my act. I remained standing while she continued.

“Miriam, it’s not my place to say but your husband just isn’t up to the task.” I never knew what to expect from my mother and she again did not disappoint. How did her concern about Jack suddenly fall on Don’s shoulders? I was soon to find out.

“Your husband is a nice man. I guess he provides well enough in whatever he does but well, Miriam, he’s just not a good role model for the boys. Now I’m sure he loves them but really Miriam. Can you honestly say that either one of them is going to grow up to be a good Christian man?” I wisely did not suggest one of my sons could grow up to be a good Christian woman. She paused waiting for my agreement with her premise. I glared instead so she dug deeper.

“Tim is a smart boy but Miriam, he has no direction. He has all this energy, he’s so rambunctious, running wild, doing whatever he wants. When was the last time Don made him come out to the farm and do some real work? I can see trouble ahead for him.” With a capital “T”, I was sure. Another pause. I again refused to engage.

“Don needs to get involved with Tim.” Her eyes got that look, the one that said ‘I know everything’. “Miriam, I heard about the fight Tim was in at school with the Adams boy. What in the world?” I wondered if my mother had heard the reason for the fight and knew her grandson was standing up for his brother and Reuben Rogers when Jerry Adams called them ‘queers’.

“If you are going to live in town then Don needs to get Tim in sports or Boy Scouts.” I laughed. I couldn’t help it. The image of either Don or Tim doing sports together was preposterous, and Boy Scouts, well let’s just say that neither of them was suited for any activity that had rules, or expected conformity. She didn’t smile. I knew she was building up to the real reason for her unannounced visit. She wanted information about Jack and why he was looking so different. My mother was on a mission from God.

“Tim and Don do all kinds of things together. Remember, he took Tim turkey hunting last fall and the truck, they’re always working on that or talking about it. Don’s a great father, mother.” I argued defensively. She didn’t flinch.

“Hmmm,” she answered skeptically. “Well, no father would let their son have such long hair, at least not a Christian one.” She added quickly switching to discussing Jack. It was an opening that I took.

“And that’s why I need your opinion.” I fired as quickly as I could. It worked. I caught her off guard.

“Sure.” She agreed turning the floor over to me, looking surprised but skeptical. I sat back down and looked into those steely blue eyes.

“It’s not Don’s fault. He and I have talked about this. We both know something is different with Jack. He’s so…” I searched for the right word.

“Stubborn.” She suggested thankfully not using another “s” word.

“Yes, he is that. I like to say resolved. He really challenges me mother. He knows what he wants. And it’s not…” I stopped in mid-sentence afraid what I would say.

“What boys usually want.” She finished my sentence. “You were going to say ‘Jack doesn’t want what normal boys usually want’, weren’t you?”

“No, I wasn’t going to say “normal” but yes that is what is troubling us. Jack isn’t like other boys.” I was being honest and my mother shook her head in agreement, saying nothing, hoping to learn what was really going on.

“How do I explain it? Maybe it’s nothing. I didn’t have brothers, I don’t know what’s normal, for boys. Jack just isn’t into being a boy much.” I confessed. “Maybe it will change when things start happening for him.” I speculated eluding to puberty. “But right now, he fights me on everything, his hair, his clothes, his friends. He gets good grades and he isn’t mean or angry. He’s just…”

“Stubborn.” She said again.

“Right. Stubborn. I don’t know, mother. I read something about it being harder for boys. Girls seem to know what they want. You know, grow up, fall in love, get married, raise a family. Boys have trouble figuring it out. I guess that might be what is happening with Jack.”

“And that’s the problem, Miriam. You can’t wait. Boys have to be directed to Christian manhood. It’s the only way. Jack may be stubborn but he needs more forceful direction. His hair has to be cut and don’t tell me Jesus had long hair. Jack is not Jesus.” Or Mary I almost quipped. “No offense Miriam, but Don just isn’t the right person to help Jack become a Christian man.” She was right about that but it terrified me where she was going with this.

“And?” I asked.

“Well, you won’t like this but I’ve taken the liberty of talking to Pastor John.”

“What?” I couldn’t believe it. My meddling mother managed to do the one thing that would cause me to explode.

“How could you?” I asked rhetorically. But rather than being drawn into my mother’s mischief I decided to go in another direction, one that would perhaps equally enrage her.

“We’ve taken Jack to a doctor in Wheeling, a psychiatrist.” I said repressing a smirk.

“What?” She couldn’t believe it. This was the one thing I knew bothered my meddling mother. Any deference to matters of the mind was a tip of the hat to the devil, in her view. To her, psychiatry was claptrap; Christians didn’t need help from secular frauds; they just needed to trust in the Lord.

“How could you?” She asked rhetorically. Then she pitched the benefits of Pastor John’s divine work; he would teach Jack how to pray, point out applicable Biblical verses, encourage him to confess and finally explain the wonderful rewards a Christian man would reap with a Christian woman, a rare reluctant allusion to the joy of sex in a union blessed by God, the Creator obviously.

For a moment I actually considered her proposition. I assumed Reuben had suffered through counseling with Pastor John and it didn’t seem to affect him. He was still, uh, ‘queer’. So what harm would it do for Jack to spend a little time with Pastor John? It would be a good cover. I pushed the thought out of my head. I knew Jack. By the end of the first session, Jack would explain Becky to the pastor and there would be a crises in Simpson Methodist Church.

“We had to.” I told her. “We had to find out why Jack wasn’t fitting in; why he was acting strange.” I explained.

“Humph! I’m sure he told you Jack needed lots of visits and it would cost lots of money.”

“Not exactly.”

“So Miriam, when will this doctor convince Jack to cut his hair? And when will he tell him how to become a man, a Christian one?” She asked snidely.

“Actually mother. Doctor Ellis is Jewish.” I paused to enjoy the effect this revelation predictably had on my devoutly Christian mother but quickly continued before she could react. “He doesn’t recommend we force Jack to cut his hair, and well, as for the man thing, what Dr. Ellis does doesn’t work like that. It’s about Jack discovering who he is, something about self-actualization.”

“Self what? You’ve lost your way, Miriam. You and that husband of yours have lost your Christian way. Humph. A Jewish doctor.” She stood up and headed for the door. No hug, no kind word, no support. As she was putting on her coat she reached out and put her hand on my arm.

“I won’t give up, Miriam.” She announced. “I will pray for you. But mostly I will pray for Jack. Only God can help him now. Only God can lead him into manhood.”

My mother’s unannounced visit really didn’t scare me. I knew she wouldn’t go talking to anyone else about her concerns and I felt I could keep Jack from being alone with her; the SM had a way to encourage confession. But what she whispered to me on the porch as I saw her out terrified me.

“Miriam.” She started calmly. “What you are doing with Jack hurts your father terribly.” I’m sure I loved my mother. She was a good person and was never really mean or nasty to me, as a mother. We just weren’t close and we were polar opposites. I adored my father however. He was everything to me and as his only child he doted on me and spoiled me. Disappointing my father was the one thing that truly terrified me. I couldn’t say anything. She didn’t let me.

“He’s afraid you are making Jack into a sissy.” Her words pierced my heart. She turned and was getting into the waiting car before I could react. I stood there shivering until she was out of sight.

After my mother left I didn’t cry. I wasn’t even on the verge. For some reason I felt elated, just like what I had read about being reborn. Somehow I knew my mother was sent by God to me that day. God knew I was second guessing the course we were on with Jack, with Becky and He sent my mother unexpectedly to me as the one person who could make me see with complete clarity that our child was a special gift who needed no help becoming who she was.