Alex as Well Read online

  ‘I need a new birth certificate.’

  ‘You can get that from Births Deaths and Marriages. You fill out a form. It’s quite straightforward. Heidi at reception can help you with that.’ He looks at his watch.

  I open my mouth but I’m not sure where to begin.

  Ok, the beginning is this: ‘No, I mean a new birth certificate. I want to have my gender legally reassigned.’

  He stares at me. Then he really stares at me, and he’s doing what people have always done as long as I can remember. He’s trying to figure out if I am a boy that wants to be a girl, or a girl that wants to be a boy.

  I’m staring at him right back because Crockett has hairs growing out of his nose. I don’t care how busy or important you are, you can attend to stuff like that.

  Why does it matter whether I am a boy or a girl?

  But it does. It really, really matters. People want to know which one you are. They want to be able to decide what you are, even when they are just walking past on the street and will never see you again. It’s crazy. Most people don’t see it as a grey area. They are physically affected when there is confusion.

  They are repulsed.

  For me it’s a very grey area. Greyitty grey. We are the Earl and Countess of Grey, Alex and I.

  Now that you know, you’re probably wondering what I look like. I kind of have that Tilda Swinton Cate Blanchett Cooper Thompson–ish ice-queen, cleaved-from-stone look. I’m beautiful/ugly. Pale, long and bones. Like a duck carcass. People get an emotional response when they look at me. It’s fascination and loathing. Because they can’t figure out what I am.

  ‘How old are you?’ he asks.

  ‘Sixteen,’ I answer, biting my lip. ‘Soon,’ I clarify. ‘In a year…and a half.’

  He puts the papers down and folds his hands on the desk. ‘I’m sorry. We do wills and contracts, and property title searches. That’s our thing here. You are obviously going through something’—Crockett waves his hand, searching—‘profound, but we’re not the right fit for you.’

  ‘Where do I go then?’ I ask. I pick at my fingernails as I explain. ‘I want to go to a new school, but I want to go as a girl, and now they want to see a copy of my birth certificate. It says I am a boy.’

  ‘You could just tell them.’

  ‘Just tell them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  I curl my lip. Alex says, ‘They’re going to go, “Yeah, that’s fine, come on in! None of our parents have any problem at all with a transgendered freak getting changed with our little boys and girls. Why, our English Master wears French knickers, and our Scripture Mistress has a very handsome Fu Manchu. You’re going to fit right in!”’

  Crockett looks at me for a long time. I’m wondering if I’ve overdone it, and he’s pissed. Finally he says, ‘Getting your gender reassigned is not something you can undo. Adolescence is a very confusing time. You should probably think about it for a while longer before you make any decisions.’

  Now I am pissed, because I wasn’t just walking past his shop and thinking, I know, I might get my gender reassigned today.

  Ok, maybe I did, but it’s been a long time coming.

  You know what it feels like? It’s like someone got it wrong to start with. That’s what I feel inside. When I was born they went it’s got a noodle, it must be a boy, but I’m not a boy on the inside.

  I say to Crockett, ‘Have you ever heard someone sing the wrong lyrics to a song, like that Beatles song, “She’s got a chicken to ride”? It’s wrong and it seems so silly to you that the other person could think that’s how the song goes. But then imagine you heard everyone sing it, like, even the actual Beatles. So you assume that, ok, they must be the real lyrics, even though it’s absurd. It’s like that.’

  The whole time I’m talking, Crockett watches me, but I don’t think he gets it. I don’t know why I thought he would.

  ‘Have you talked to your parents?’ he asks.

  My head drops and I stare at my hands. I have painted the nails a dark purple colour, but I bite them and it’s half worn off, so it looks more like I slammed my fingers in a door.

  ‘I told my mother,’ I say slowly. ‘She says I am a pervert and I am killing her.’ I pause because the next bit is harder to say out loud, like when you fall off your bike and skid along on your elbows and you’re afraid to look because you know there’ll be no skin there.

  Because at least my mother has the delusion that I can change, that it’s some naughty thing I am doing to annoy the crap out of her because I am a teenager and one day I will wake up and I won’t feel like I am a girl trapped in a boy’s body.

  But my dad, he knew it wasn’t a joke.

  ‘You should do up your office. It makes you look daggy. It looks like you don’t care about your work. Paint it a different colour. And the pictures should be at eyelevel because they’re for looking at,’ I tell him, looking around the room. ‘I saw that on one of those renovation shows.’

  ‘What about your father?’ he asks.

  ‘I told my dad and he left.’

  My lip does this weird, involuntary stretch to the right, so I grab it.

  Crockett just looks at me. I don’t know what he’s thinking. He’s all inscrutable, and I am out there on the ledge. I think most people know, just by looking at me, that I have a screw loose, but this is the first time I have opened my mouth and asked for help.

  He says, ‘I’m sorry.’

  4

  www.motherhoodshared.com

  This is my first post. Almost fitfeen years ago I had a baby, and after the birth it took them ages to let me hold it, and I was saying, what is it? A boy or a girl? But they just kind of looked at me. They wrapped the baby up, and nobody said anything to me. They were all looking at each other.

  So I held teh baby, but I knew there was something wrong.

  Finally the paediatrician came in and told me and my husband that our child was, I can’t remember the word he used. Sexually ambiguous.

  Their advice was to do some tests, and decide which one the baby was more of, and then to raise the child as that sex. But they had to wait until all of my hormones were out of the baby’s system. They told me not to breastfeed either. I think I missed out on a special bond there.

  The baby had a penis, but not a normal-sized penis. My husband and I thought that if the child has a penis then it must be a boy. They said the baby also had no testes, but ovaries, and we could have them removed later. He had injections to replace his hormones.

  We called the baby Alex—not Alexander or Alexandra, but just Alex.

  They wanted to do all this testing all the time, and they got me to keep track of what toys Alex played with and whether he played with girls or boys more, whether he was passive or aggressive. Then when he was four they changed from the injections to oral hormone medication to make sure he kept growing as a boy.

  We kept a log, and he went to see a specialist every few months. When you keep a log you can’t not think about it. You have to think about it every day. You can’t just take your kid to the park and watch them play on the swings. You’re constantly analysing and comparing. Every single thing is a sign.

  We tried not kkeping a journal for a few months, but the doctors went bananas. They said they couldn’t make medical decisions without data and we weren’t supporting our son’s healthy development.

  It’s a lot of pressure. My husband and I started fighting, because we always planned to have more children, but then decided we shouldn’t in case it happened again. He decided that. I still wanted more kids. Then I went off the pill and didn’t tell him, and then later I found out he had a vasectomy and didn’t tell me. And, since I’m getting personal here, he did have a scar there and I was worried it was something bad like cancer. It’s pretty bad that he let me worry like that.

  He thought life was better without the journal. He wanted Alex to stop seeing the doctors. Anyway, long story short, we disagreed about one thing, and then another, and then every s
ingle argument we had became a fight about that.

  As Alex got older, my husband thought we should explain it to him, but how do you even begin to have a conversation like that with a kid who’s already a bit out there? I thought it would be easier for him not to know, and then he wouldn’t get anxious about it.

  And then last night Alex says to us, sitting there at dinner. I’m a girl. Just like that. Three words.

  And my husband explodes at me. I couldn’t stop crying. My husband packs up a suitcase and he walks out. He’s gone to his borhters place. I’m still crying now.

  I can’t handle it. I look at Alex and I don’t think I love him. I know that if we had a normal child our lives would be so much better.

  I want to have a Christmas where I don’t go around the shops looking for non-gender specific toys (which are totally impossible to find) and watching his face as his opens the presents for clues as to whether his hormone balance is right. That’s not the spirit of Christmas, that’s hell.

  I am so angry, and I am angry with Alex, and I don’t know how to move beyond it. I know that makes me a bad mother. It’s also unfair that my husband is rhe one that gets to move out and have a holiday from this life. I am at the end of my tether. I want to have the holiday from my life.

  Heather

  COMMENTS:

  * * *

  Cheryl wrote:

  hang in there, you are in my Prayers daily.

  * * *

  Tammy wrote:

  You are lucky to have your kid. The courts are letting my ex manipulate me into custody agreements I feel are unfair. I have visitation now and it’s not enough. Be thankful that you have your kid.

  * * *

  Susie wrote:

  Please try to not say too much to anyone of a negative nature, and definitely do not share these feelings with anyone. I know it is hard, but once you lose your custodial rights you must almost be Supernanny to regain them.

  * * *

  Jess wrote:

  In my opinion hate is an emotion that is needed to heal. But later down the line you may want to try to give that emotion over to God.

  * * *

  Dee Dee wrote:

  I hear ya. My twins were c-section and I had blood transfusions I didn’t see them for 12hrs after their birth. I really don’t have the same maternal connection with them as I do with my other children.

  5

  I’M WALKING UP the street towards my house. Alex and I. Is it ok with you if we keep us separate? It makes more sense. We sound like two ordinary kids. Besties, and sometimes we get along great and other times we disagree, just like you and I are friends. Because the alternative is a little bit freaky. I know. It’s freaky for me too. I guess we’re in this together.

  Our house is Tudor-style. And it’s always the same temperature. My dad installs air conditioners, so we’ve got the best available system, usually reserved for maintaining the temperature in commercial wine warehouses, or operating theatres—that kind of thing. Our house is freezing in a constant and predictable way.

  It has a turret. It perches on the corner where the two roofs meet. The rest of the house is really badly laid out. Like, the downstairs toilet is next to the fridge, because the kitchen and the bathroom are back-to-back. There’s a wall there, but it’s still gross. Also, it’s three storeys high but the attic is useless. You have to climb up a ladder. And if you want to put anything up there you have to lift it over your head, or hold it while you’re climbing the ladder. So basically there is no furniture in the attic. It has a million shoeboxes, which sounds interesting. You could imagine a Shaun Tan book of it, couldn’t you? But it’s not that interesting. Just documents and journals and old diaries.

  Now you go, ‘Ooh, old diaries, that could be interesting,’ and I thought that too, but they’re my mother’s and they’re full of obscure lists like: Potting mix, light? Anna 10.15. Posted Cindy.

  I made that up. It’s been a few years since I have looked, and I can’t remember exactly what they say. The point is that three storeys sounds as though it’s grand, but the top floor is a million shoeboxes full of crap. Still, it’s totally worth it for the turret, even if you can only see it from the outside.

  And there’s a lesson in that for all of us, Alex says, doing his best TV evangelist impersonation. I suppose he means that I have an inner turret somewhere compartmentalising all my crap and I’m badly laid out downstairs.

  There’s no front garden. The house is right on the street. It’s on a corner block. There is an oak out the front on the kerb. It looks as if it’s been there since the beginning of time. I can imagine it standing there through floods and storms and earthquakes, like a time-lapse movie running in my head. The oak rocks. Some people would look at it and see a thousand coffee tables.

  The oak and the turret. Sounds like a pub.

  Despite the oak and the turret, which I love, I don’t want to go home. My mother is waiting on the front step. She is all bleary-eyed, wearing a rumpled, pilled and wash-faded tracksuit and slippers. She has grey roots. She’s been through the metaphorical wringer. She’s the anti-Clinique girl.

  I stop under the oak, with my hand on its solid trunk. It’s letting through a dappled light, and I have this fleeting connection with the planet, as if I am supposed to be here. That doesn’t happen very often.

  My mother holds her arms out and I sit next to her on the top step while she hugs me and sobs.

  Alex is not buying it. My mother is not hugging me to make me feel better, she’s hugging me to convince herself that she’s not a bad mother, because she can still put her arms around the perverted little freak.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispers.

  It’s the boy Alex being hugged. I stand back with my thumbs in my belt loops.

  This hug is all about my mother. It’s about her granting the love. It’s so generous of her to still be able to love me despite my deformity. I can see her congratulating herself.

  She rubs my shoulders. ‘Shall we get pizza?’

  Because that will make it allll better.

  However, she is trying. I’ve been a girl in my head since as long as I can remember, but this is all new to her, so I’m nodding, and we go inside.

  I appreciate that this is difficult for her. It’s like I’m coming out. Except it’s not like coming out, because I’m not gay. Actually, I don’t know whether I’m gay, because I find girls attractive, but when I think about sex, which I do a lot (I’m General Wood), it’s the girl bits that I find, well, you know. Maybe I am a lesbian. Except that I imagine that I am the girl with the bits.

  That’s not how other people do sexual fantasies. I don’t know how other people do them, but probably not like that. It seems kind of insular, doesn’t it? Being both parties? But then since it’s all happening in my head, nobody can be offended about not being included, can they. If there’s a place you should be able to put yourself first, it’s in your own sexual fantasies.

  I told you it’s confusing. It’s easier to think of me as two, isn’t it.

  The pizza company has one of those automated ordering systems where you have to speak and the computer guesses what you want.

  I say ‘vegetarian’.

  I’m sorry did you say…librarian? Alex says in his best computer voice. Was that…agrarian? Did you say… utilitarian?

  I roll my eyes. My mother is standing there and her face is white.

  ‘What about a chicken and bacon deluxe?’ she asks.

  ‘I’m a vegetarian,’ I say.

  I am. I’ve just decided, right now. Actually, it was when I was under the oak tree, reaffirming my place on Earth. I was thinking about how other people would see that tree as coffee tables, and yet to me it’s so much more beautiful being literally a mighty oak.

  And then, as if I was hopping across stones in a babbling forest brook, my subconscious went:

  I’m

  Not

  The kind of

  Person

  Who kills stuff.


  And landed on the other side a vego.

  My mother is screeching. Her face is all purple, her eyes are bulging and there is a vein in her forehead, like the one Julia Roberts gets, but it doesn’t make my mother vulnerable and endearing, no, she looks like she’s having a forehead hernia. I worry that it is going to burst, and her face will fill with blood under the skin like a big, red balloon which will finally explode and splatter the walls. It’s very distracting. I can’t understand what she is saying.

  I think it went, ‘What new cruelty is this?’

  Alex calmly holds the phone out to her and says, ‘If you want to have a chicken bacon deluxe then have one. No need to have an aneurysm about it.’

  I mean, jeez Louise! It’s a pizza, woman! Get a grip.

  She grabs the phone and starts beating us with it. I shrink away, but she hits me on the shoulder about six times and then she misses me and gets the wall. She takes a breath and has another brain explosion. This time she starts crying and trying to hug me again, but she has boogers, and it’s gross. I back away, so the kitchen bench is between us.

  My mother screams, ‘Why won’t you touch me?’

  Alex says, ‘Because you have halitosis.’

  Which is true. My mother has chronic gum disease and it fair knocks me out of the park, and that’s why I haven’t wanted to hug her for years. I don’t even know if I would otherwise, because it has always been that way, and so I’m conditioned to turning my head away from her stinketty-stink breath.

  I know it sounds like I am being totally rational through this, but it’s shock, and also I’m not shocked at all. I’m kind of used to it, because…my mother has always been…