Yuengling

Handshake or hug? Handshake or hug? Handshake or hug?

The din of Stanley’s attempt at decision-making was crescendoing in his head as he pulled the car into the driveway. For a moment it had gotten so loud it had dampened the endless patter of his husband and his husband’s parents, patter that had not ceased since Stanley and Brad picked Brad’s parents up 45 minutes before in Center City.

“All right–we’re here! Good driving Stan!” Brad’s father clapped Stan on the shoulders from the back seat as he celebrated the arrival at his brother’s house, with the force and enthusiasm one might use to congratulate a NASCAR driver after their final lap.

“Thanks Jerry,” Stan replied, his thoughts returning to the anxiety at hand.

Nearly every holiday Stanley had celebrated with Brad since they began dating eight years before had been spent here, at Uncle Steve’s house. Steve had become the default host of Brodowski family get-togethers because he had the biggest house and the fewest people living in it. Stanley noted a neat row of small American flags had been stuck into the flower beds that lined the front of the brick colonial. He could already smell the steaks grilling in the backyard, and as he fell in step behind Brad and his mother-in-law, he felt like he was walking into a Hallmark movie version of how the 4th of July was supposed to be celebrated.

As his father-in-law threw open the front door and hollered inside to announce their arrival, Stanley returned to his previous deliberation. Handshake or hug? Handshake or hug? For entering the Brodowski house on a holiday meant walking the gauntlet of uncles.

Watching his husband was no help to Stanley: Brad bear-hugged all four of his uncles, one after the other, as he always did. But Brad had established his masculinity with each of his uncles years and years before, as they watched him grow into a young man. Stanley had not been given the same luxury.

As Stanley approached John, the oldest and first uncle in the gauntlet, he finally decided on the close, strong handshake and clap on the back combo. Although all four of the uncles were much bigger than Stanley, he put forth his strongest grip and most forceful claps.

“Stan! Buddy! How are ya? Good to see ya!” John said, some similar formulation of welcome repeated by the three remaining uncles as Stanley proceeded down the greeting line. Despite this, when Stanley finished giving his last handshake, he felt as he did every holiday: like a fraud. Stanley decided to make his way towards the kitchen, where he would impart much less stressful hugs and kisses to the gaggle of aunts and girl cousins who would inevitably be working away plating food, making drinks, and doing dishes.

On the way to the kitchen, he passed by the dining room, which stood empty in favor of eating out in the beautiful Pennsylvania summer day transpiring in the backyard. Stanley noted Uncle Steve and Aunt Tina had bought a new dining room set since they had been here at Easter. Looking around for his husband, he heard Brad already laughing and talking in the kitchen, and so Stanley permitted himself a few moments in the dining room to get a closer look at the new table.

As Stanley ran his hands over the rich polished mahogany, his eyes trailed to a corner of the dining room where a corner table held a blue and white chinoiserie vase. He remembered the pattern on the vase vividly, as he had spent a small eternity staring at it the Thanksgiving seven years before when Anna, his mother-in-law, had announced Stanley was transitioning genders. Stanley’s face reddened as the scene replayed in his mind: Anna standing up as if to make a toast before the meal started, all 14 adults seated around the table, kids peering over from the kids table. He remembered how everyone’s effortless holiday smiles had transformed into o’s of surprise or pursed, puzzled lips as Anna delivered what sounded like a script taken from a PFLAG website.

Stanley realized he was lucky–no, not just lucky–privileged to have in-laws which would embrace the transgender significant other of their only son. But Anna had not told Stanley she was going to make the announcement at Thanksgiving to the family. Stanley had only been on hormones for a few months by that time. While Stanley had sat down Brad’s parents for a talk a month prior, he and Brad were still in the initial planning stages of how they might discuss this change with the rest of the family.

And so Stanley had frozen, glass of cabernet still in hand. He had looked to his right at Brad as Anna talked on and on, but Brad seemed even more petrified than he did, staring straight ahead. And so Stanley did the same, his gaze drawn to the vase, his eyes tracing the navy swirl pattern as his face burned hotter and hotter in a rosy blush.

“So,” Anna had concluded, “from now on you will address him as Stanley, you will say ‘he’, ‘him’, and ‘his’. Most importantly, he is still the same person Brad fell in love with.”

Anna had looked around, waiting for someone to say something. Uncle Steve, ever relishing the role of host, broke the ice.

“Well then,” Steve said, raising his beer stein, “welcome Stanley!”

Stanley exhaled loudly as he raised his glass, just then realizing he had been holding his breath for some time.

As the years had passed, the Brodowskis had tried their best to make Stanley feel welcome. The family followed Anna’s instructions and utilized the proper names and pronouns. He and Brad were invited to every holiday, every graduation party, every shower, every wedding. The Brodowskis had packed the church where Brad and Stanley had gotten married, making up for the handful of friends which had sparsely populated Stanley’s side of the aisle. Brodowski aunts remembered his favorite kind of cookie was white chocolate macadamia nut and the Browdowski uncles always stocked the fridge at any gathering with a six-pack of Pacifico, his favorite beer.

And yet despite all this, when Stanley came together with the Brodowskis, he felt shrouded in a thin layer of discomfort, an invisible gossamer on his skin. Stanley was frequently summoned to the kitchen by the aunts to help with plating and serving food. After meals concluded, he always found himself clearing the dishes with Hanna and Julia, Brad’s two oldest cousins. Natalie, the newest mom of the cousins, would enlist Stanley to hold the baby when she needed help changing diapers. When Stanley found the uncles crowded around the TV watching the Eagles game or outside on the patio breaking into Steve’s prized cigar and scotch reserves, they would invite him to join. But every other man in the house was somehow already there–even his own husband.

Stanley had tried talking to Brad about it a few times, each time met with the same rebuffs.

“I thought you liked to cook?” Brad would ask.

“Well, I do. But none of the guys cook at these things.”

“So you are saying only women should do the cooking?”

“No,” Stanley would say, feeling his fingers curl into fists in anticipatory frustration. “But I shouldn’t have to always help in the kitchen. You spent all the time before the meal watching the game!”

“You don’t even like watching basketball that much,” Brad replied.

“That’s not the point!”

“So my uncles and my father are a bunch of sexist pigs?”

“No! That is not what I am saying!”

And so it would go: each argument made up of varying words and phrases, but ending with the same result. Stanley would go to bed furious. Then, he would talk himself down by reminding himself of how fortunate he was to have a successful husband and a nice job: many trans folks had less money and faced challenges with employment. Stanley reminded himself of how many trans folks did not have the same good fortune to have such a loving, accepting family. Stanley would continue to count his blessings like so many sheep, eventually lulling himself to sleep.

Uncle Steve stuck his head into the dining room, jolting Stanley from his contemplation.

“Stan! Buddy! Can I ask you a big favor?”

“Sure Steve–what’s up?”

“Can you run to the store and grab a few extra six packs? John and Rich got here extra early today and have, let’s say, depleted our supply already.”

“Sure. Let’s me just tell Brad I’m stepping out,” Stanley said, starting for the kitchen.

“Oh–he knows,” Steve said, “He was the one who suggested I send you out.”

This was not the first time Stanley had made a beer run for Uncle Steve, and so he easily found his way to the closest state liquor store. Just as the Brodowskis knew his beer preferences, Stanley knew theirs: Yuengling, and lots of it. As he heaved the case of Yuengling onto the counter, he smiled at the cashier.

“Hi–how are you?”

“Fine, thanks for asking. Going to enjoy some beer from America’s oldest brewery today?” the cashier asked.

“Yep. When I first moved to Philly I didn’t understand why everyone thought it was so great. Now here I am, buying cases of it.”

The cashier smiled a little, quickly punching keys on the register. “That’s funny. You know–my pastor at church says we become what we judge.”

“Huh,” Stanley paused, feeling the urge to articulate the phrase himself. “We become what we judge.”

As Stanley drove back to Uncle Steve’s, he continued to think about the cashier’s parting words, surprised at the hold they had on his attention. As soon as he was parked in the driveway, Brad took out his phone and did a Google search. Maybe it was a Bible passage he had managed to miss in his early Catholic school education. Or maybe it was the product of a new school televangelist, like Joel Osteen. Stanley was surprised to see that although there were search results for similar ideas–“We become what we fear,” or “How we judge others is how we judge ourselves”–nothing was an exact match.

On one hand, Stanley thought, the idea didn’t make complete sense. If we were to become everything we judged, Stanley reasoned, he would morph into a Republican vegan helicopter parent constantly checking their Fitbit. So he couldn’t really consider the phrase to be wisdom.

But something about it resonated with him as he stared at the brickwork which held up the front of Uncle Steve’s colonial. Stanley was certain he and Brad would keep coming here for nearly every holiday. Stanley knew he would continue to try to ingratiate himself to the uncles, elbowing his way into game day discussions and insisting he try the newest scotch that had been brought to the house. If Stanley kept trying hard enough, maybe he would never go back into the kitchen again, never be asked to help clear the dishes or watch the kids. Eventually, Stanley might have the opportunity to throw open the gates of the prison of masculinity his husband and uncles had successfully inhabited for so long and saunter inside, finally becoming an inmate himself.