A Memorial, An Anniversary, A Birthday, and a Wedding Part III: Be Not Afraid

Posted On December 2, 2018

As I turned our car down a pebbled road in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, I knew we had made it to the right wedding when I saw a white horse pulling a carriage with the wedded couple to be up the path in front of us. Shanna, the bride and a best friend from my childhood, had always been a romantic with big dreams. Although it had been 15 years since we had seen each other last, I was confident that some things had not changed about the people we were.

Due to a packing mishap on my part, Basil and I had been running behind schedule on the day of the wedding: I had told Basil I had packed his dress shoes when, as we learned an hour before the wedding, it turns out I had not. A quick trip to the shoe store was putting us on track to arrive just as the ceremony was scheduled to begin.

The wedding was being held at the 18th century estate of General Edward Hand, an Irish immigrant who became Adjutant General to George Washington during the American Revolution. A white tent had been pitched in front of the Rock Ford barn, a structure with a beautifully rock-masoned bottom, topped with the red and black wood of a traditional barn. It had been raining off and on all day. Basil and I scurried out of the car and over to the tent, trying to avoid the catering truck sliding backwards in the mud towards us. We hurried to avoid the rain and because we could hear the officiant was beginning to speak.

Although I do not like to be late in general, and especially not to special events like this, a small part of me was grateful we had cut it so close to the start. Ever since Shanna had invited us a year before, I had been scared of going to the wedding.

This was not the first wedding which the thought of attending resulted in great anxiety for me. Every straight wedding I have gone to since I have transitioned genders has made me sweat with the thought of all the potential social awkwardness which could abound at such an event. The biggest nightmare looming in my mind before each one has been the parade of parents, aunts, uncles, brothers, and sisters of my friends who knew me prior to my transitioning. I am an extrovert, perfectly capable of engaging in gregarious small talk, but the thought of saying hello to the mother of a friend of mine at their son’s or daughter’s wedding made me shake with fear.

Why? Someone else’s wedding is not about me. I am there for my friends, not for my friends’ parents, aunts, uncles, brothers, or sisters. At this point in my life, having done everything I have done to live the life I want to live, you would think I could give a flying fuck if a casual acquaintance I chatted with for three minutes at a wedding didn’t like my gender presentation.

At the conclusion of Aunt Terry’s memorial service the weekend before, I had told Basil I could put my fears about going to Shanna’s wedding in perspective and not worry as much. But as we took out seats in the back row of chairs in the small wedding tent, my hand holding Basil’s, I could feel my heart thumping loudly in my chest.

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I had met Shanna when I was five years old on the playground at school. She walked up to me, introduced herself, and asked if I would like to be friends. I agreed. That began a friendship that would last the next decade and a half. Although Shanna moved a few times to exotic locations for her dad’s career as a 747 pilot, we diligently kept in touch. The trips I took to visit Shanna in Alaska and Hawaii remain some of my fondest childhood memories.

Shanna’s parents were always extremely kind and generous to me. Not only did they always welcome me into their house, but they also took me on a number of family vacations to Disney Land, Six Flags, and other such places. I always felt like an honorary member of the family. We never had a big fight, never had a falling out. When I went to college in Tucson and she stayed local to the Phoenix area, we began to see each other less. And then when I moved to Los Angeles after finishing my time at the U of A, we lost touch.

How did I go from an honorary member of the family for fifteen years to being gone for the next fifteen years? Since attending the wedding a few weeks ago, I have been wondering the same thing myself.

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When Basil and I arrived at the inpatient physical rehabilitation facility that mid-September afternoon, we arrived to find Aunt Terry’s friend Linda talking and laughing with Aunt Terry. Now both in their late sixties, they had become friends in high school. The topic of discussion had somehow turned to the length of Linda’s skirts when they were in their teens. Linda demonstrated to Basil and I how she used to walk with a bend in her knees past the windows of the school’s administrative offices so none of the adults would see how short her skirts were. 

“You dressed like a slut!” Aunt Terry exclaimed playfully.

Basil and I erupted into laughter as Linda chuckled in agreement, “Yeah, I kind of did.”

By this point in the year, Aunt Terry had either been in the hospital or a rehab facility for a total of three and a half months. Nearly every time Basil and I came to see her (which was at least once a day every day we were in Buffalo), one of Aunt Terry’s friends was there already, had just left, or would arrive just as we were leaving. While there was a core group of four or five friends who would visit regularly, there were many more who would call frequently as well. People brought Aunt Terry treats, brought her flowers, ran errands for her, did her laundry, picked up her mail, and nearly everything else you could imagine. Her best friend Jan would convert the first floor of her home, including having a wheel chair ramp built, so Aunt Terry would have a place to come after being discharged, so she could learn to walk and care for herself again. Jan would dedicate all of her time during the first few weeks Aunt Terry was out of the hospital in July to caring for Aunt Terry, until she had gone through enough rehabilitation that she could be left on her own for periods of time.

Basil and I marveled at and deeply appreciated the depth of the relationships Aunt Terry had and the kindnesses of all the people she knew. It was a heartwarming testament to the power of friendship and community.

After Linda left that day, Basil and I stayed longer to talk to Aunt Terry some more. Aunt Terry always tried to put on a brave face and be optimistic about her condition and her road to recovery. Every so often when Basil and I were talking to her, Aunt Terry’s strong facade would crack. For some fleeting moments, I could see the fear and the pain in her face that she likely felt almost all of the time during that period. It broke my heart, but I also was glad she could allow herself to express her pain and sadness with us, that she felt safe to do that with Basil and I.

During one such part of our talks, she said as a tear slid down her face, “One of the things this whole experience has shown me is that I do have a lot of people who love me and care about me.”

My mouth dropped open. Basil and I immediately responded: of course she had people who loved and cared about her! Apart from us, she had a wonderful circle of friends who adored her, who loved her. Basil and I hugged her together, and I found myself struggling to hold back tears. It killed me to think someone I loved so much had felt that alone.

When I had the opportunity to really to get to know Aunt Terry as an adult these past several years, I was shocked at how much we were alike. Not just that we looked alike, or had some of the same tastes in music (Springsteen), some of the same tastes in film (the Godfather trilogy), or some of the same tastes in food (Italian), but how much our personalities matched. We were both bubbly and outgoing, both laughed easily, and were both incredibly stubborn.

When Basil and I began to sort things out after Aunt Terry’s death, I realized she and I had another thing in common: we could both choose isolation and denial when we were afraid, blocking out people who wanted to help us for fear that they would think less of us. Aunt Terry had been struggling to deal with some challenges in her personal life for several years and had been afraid to tell her friends and family, for fear of what they might think. The more times she chose to hide things from people, the more isolated she became. The more isolated she became, the longer it took for the people who loved her to know how much she needed their help.

When I decided to transition genders in 2007, there were a handful of people, mostly my roommates from LA and my brother, who I figured would probably put up with it. There were other people, like my extended family, who I thought might not like it but I was resolved to tell anyway. And then I prepared for the rest of the world to disown and/or permanently dislike me for no one reason other than my chosen gender identity. I assumed I would be cutting my losses and essentially starting my life anew. While the scorched earth aftermath of my transition that I had imagined never quite materialized–a majority of the people I told were accepting and supportive–I still assumed the worst could happen when I revealed my new identity to anyone from my past. Instead of taking opportunities to reach out to old friends, I took a defensive posture, mentally bracing for their disappointment, should they find me on Facebook, Twitter, on in some other fashion.

I did a similar thing when my first marriage began to fail early into its duration: I was so terrified of what people would think of me for being in a bad relationship that I thought it was infinitely better to let myself be emotionally abused, hide my misery for years, and act like everything was fine, rather than make myself vulnerable by asking for help.

This is the heart of what I am re-enacting when I am talking to acquaintances at a wedding for the first time since I have transitioned: in talking to them, I am giving them the chance to reject me, to be horrified at me, to be disappointed by me. But I am also, of course, giving them the chance to get to know the new me, to like me, to maybe even meet the first trans person they are aware of knowing. I am putting myself out there.

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After the ceremony concluded, the wedding party and all of the guests adjourned to the barn. There was to be a brief break before groups were going to be lead on tours of the main Hand house, which had been carefully restored in the last few decades by a local non-profit.

The wedding was small, about fifty people, and I knew there was not going to be enough of a crowd for me to hide in for the entirety of the proceedings. Plus, I wanted to see Shanna and I wanted her to meet Basil. The guest list had been selective and I was honored she had invited us, despite the time that had elapsed since we had last spoken in person.

It was only a few minutes before Shanna’s mother Susan approached us and said hello to me. There were hugs exchanged, I introduced her to Basil, and we began the business of catching up on each other’s lives. She wasn’t disgusted or uncomfortable, but rather was as nice and welcoming as I remembered her being when I was small.

After the tour of the Hand house, the introduction of the wedding party and some initial ceremonial proceedings, Shanna came running up and we exchanged a big celebratory hug. She was just as friendly and happy to see me as she ever had been. She met and hugged Basil. We met and shook hands with Jeff, her new husband. She introduced us to her sons. Later I would get the chance to catch up with her dad, who would regale Basil with stories of when we were growing up, just as one would expect from a father of the bride. Later, Basil and I were even invited into some family photos for the wedding. I was floored to be welcomed so warmly after such a long time away.

Friendships inevitably change over time, grown and shaped by the experiences of the participants within them. There are some that have surprised me with their endurance, and there are others that have disappointed me bitterly when they ended so much sooner than I thought necessary. Sometimes I wanted to shut people out so I could avoid the potential pain and sadness I would feel if they rejected me for who I had become. But going to Shanna’s wedding made me realize I also shut some people out without giving them the chance to accept me.

Our lives are much different than when Shanna and I saw each other last. We have spouses, full time careers, and our families have changed in many ways. I have promised to do a better job staying in touch. I don’t know what shape our renewed friendship may take, but like the time I spent getting to know Aunt Terry’s friends during her illness, I am glad to have been reminded again of what a gift friends can be.