Never a Girl, Always a Boy: A Family Memoir of a Transgender Journey

ISBN-13: 9781631528866

Media Type: Paperback

Publisher: Sparkpoint Studio (Ips)

Publication Date: 04-21-2020

Pages: 352

Product Dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.40(h) x 1.10(d)

Jo Ivester was raised in a politically active family. In 1967, when she was ten years old, her father moved their family from Boston, MA to an all-black town in the Mississippi Delta, where they were drawn into the heart of the civil rights movement. Because of this experience, Jo is committed to advocating for equal rights for all. Her best-selling, award-winning memoir about her family’s time in Mississippi, The Outskirts of Hope (She Writes Press, April 2015), has led to numerous speaking engagements about racial relations. In the last few years, she has broadened her focus to raise awareness about the transgender community, and now serves on the board of Equality Texas, a non-profit LGBTQ rights organization. When not focused on family, writing, and advocate work, Jo enjoys skiing, walking on the beach, and swing dancing with her husband. She lives in Austin, Texas.

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One The Dress

Winter 2013 – Boulder, CO
Emily (23 years old)

The box had plagued me for weeks. I was overwhelmed by its very presence. Not by its size, which was actually quite ordinary. What terrified me was what was inside, boldly hinted at by the return address, by the pink store label that included the word bridesmaid.
Leaning against the wall in a corner of my room, barely visible under the many jeans and T-shirts I’d tossed in its general direction, it accused me, though of what I’m not quite sure. Usually, I’m pretty good about keeping my place neat. I pride myself on it looking nicer than the typical student apartment. Instead of posters covering the walls, I have framed pictures my mother stitched for me and pen-and-ink drawings I made in my studio art class. Although only a few minutes from the University of Colorado campus where I’m a math major, my home with its large rooms and fresh coat of paint is a clear step up from most student housing.
These last few weeks, however, I’d let the mess take over. Dishes were piled up in the kitchen sink. Dirty laundry was scattered about my bedroom. I couldn’t focus, couldn’t study for my calculus midterm, couldn’t think of anything but that wretched box.
I’d dreaded its arrival for months. When it came, I’d left it unopened, not wanting to deal with what it contained. I’d tried to push it out of my mind, tried to ignore how it made my stomach clench with anxiety. I didn’t even want to think about the dress inside, let alone look at it.
Why had I said “yes” when my big sister, Liz, asked me to be her maid of honor? I’d known right away that it felt wrong. I hadn’t listened to the voice inside me crying out that I’d be miserable, that I would detest walking down the aisle in some frilly gown, on display for all to see. I’d ignored it because I was thrilled that Liz wanted me by her side. I’d ignored it because I couldn’t say “no” to my sister, could I?
The thought of disappointing Liz kept me awake at night, tugging at me as I tried to sleep. It was distressing, a rock in the pit of my stomach. Picturing myself wearing the bridesmaid dress, however, was even worse. I was distraught. So much so that my best friend and roommate, Colin, said, “Maybe you should just send it back.”
I’d met Colin through some mutual friends at the university, and we hit it off right from the start. He was really smart but also laid-back. He was as comfortable in the physics lab as he was writing computer programs, working two jobs while carrying a full course load. He had time because he and his girlfriend, Meg, who he’d been with since high school, were doing the long-distance thing while she was away at the University of Washington.
Colin had accepted me despite my boyish appearance and my desire to be treated like one of the guys. I like to think I look a little like Colin, with his slight frame and eclectic taste in clothes. I recently bought a newsboy cap like his, and sometimes I wear my jeans rolled up like he does when he’s riding his bike, even though I don’t ride.
Each time I considered backing out of being in Liz’s wedding party, the way Colin suggested, I’d picture a confused look on her face and hear her saying, “Why, Emily? Why did you wait so long to tell me? Everything’s planned.”
The longer I waited, the worse I felt. So on a February morning, six weeks before the wedding, I used a kitchen knife to cut the tape holding everything together and opened the box, determined to look at what lay inside. I stared at the crinkly tissue protecting the delicate contents and then froze for a moment, unable to go any further.
Finally, inhaling deeply and gritting my teeth, I slowly reached in for the blue chiffon gown, pausing for a moment as I felt its smooth texture on my fingertips. I pulled it from its packaging and spread it on my bed. All I had to do was try it on. I could do that, I told myself, wincing at the thought. I should do that. But not yet. When I got home from school.
All day long, with every word of every lecture, my mind drifted back to my bedroom, to the dress waiting for me. Why was this so hard? It was only a few years ago that I put on a lacy, formfitting dress to go dancing with Liz, my big brother, Ben, and Ben’s girlfriend, Jenn, when we celebrated my high school graduation with a vacation on a cruise ship in Italy. I hadn’t liked it and would’ve preferred to be in the same slacks and button-down shirt that Ben wore, but I managed. I was even okay with it when people told me I looked pretty. It was all right because I cared about pleasing my big brother and sister.
I tried to convince myself that I could dress that way again, one more time.
After arriving home from class, I walked slowly into my bedroom. My pulse racing, I stripped down and slipped the dress over my head. The fabric was cool to the touch. In other circumstances, I would have liked how it felt, the silky luxury of it. On somebody else, I would have thought it beautiful, no question.
But not on me. I cringed at the thought of wearing it in front of everybody. Our whole family would be at Liz’s wedding, as would her close friends whom I’d known for as long as I could remember, their parents, and their little brothers who’d played with me when we were kids, back when they didn’t care that I was a girl.
I cringed because that flowing dress was so totally and completely inappropriate for me, a prison uniform instead of a beautiful gown. It was the exact opposite of what I like, of who I am. I’m not feminine, and I don’t want to look that way. My throat tightened as I felt my eyes tear up in frustration. I tried to control my breathing, sucking in air and pacing back and forth as if that could somehow make the dress go away. With each breath, it grew more difficult.
Deciding to face my angst head-on, I stood in front of my mirror and looked at the person staring back. I shuddered at my reflection, at the tightly fitting bodice that pushed up and magnified my breasts, accentuating every curve. I hunched my shoulders forward, trying to make my shape less noticeable, but it didn’t work.
Were it not for the dress and my chest, I could have been mistaken for a fourteen-year-old boy, with my short pixie haircut, my unplucked eyebrows, my hairy legs, and my Harry Potter–style glasses. My reflection smiled back at the thought, but it was a sad smile.
Leaving the safety of my room, I walked over to Colin, sitting in his usual spot at his desk in our living room, gaming with some friends as a break from his endless hours of homework. I raised my arms and spun around, allowing him to take it all in. He stared at me, his lips held tightly together and his brow furrowed as he tried to figure out what to say. Seeing the devastation on my face, he finally spoke. “You have to tell her. You’re tearing yourself apart.”
He was right. I couldn’t think of anything else. The very idea of the dress was a constant reminder of how much I hate my body. I have ever since puberty, when there was no avoiding the fact that I was turning into a woman. I’m not supposed to have curvy hips and breasts. I’m supposed to be flat. I know that. I just have no idea what to say to my big sister.
I’ve looked up to her ever since I was a little kid. Five years older than me, she excels at everything she does. Her high school grades were good enough to get her into the University of Pennsylvania, where she played on the women’s soccer team. Always surrounded by a small group of close friends, she seems confident and sure of herself, even more so since Dustin proposed.
Liz and her fiancé had met on a coed soccer team a few years ago, when he was the men’s soccer coach at a small university in Houston and she worked for Hewlett-Packard in human relations. She still works for HP, telecommuting from their new home in Oregon, but he’s moved on to a much bigger program at Oregon State University in Corvallis.
Liz had texted me several times in recent weeks, asking me what I thought of the dress, how it fit. I’d kept putting her off, replying that I hadn’t had a chance to try it on yet. Eventually, though, I knew we had to talk. We scheduled a time when we could do so via Skype, when Liz was in California visiting a grad school friend who was in the wedding party. It was a perfect opportunity.
I planned out what I was going to say, not wanting to present her with a problem without having a solution. Despite that, I was nervous. Twice I tried to connect on Skype but hung up before the call went through. On the third try, though, I stayed on the line until she picked up. She looked relaxed and happy, her long brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wore a light gray top that showed off her well-defined shoulders and arms, the product of hours spent in a yoga studio.
“Hey, Liz,” I said. “How’s it going?”
I couldn’t concentrate as she described all the pre-wedding activities. I focused real fast, though, when she said, “Does your dress fit? Do you need to get it altered?”
I didn’t answer.
“You did say that it got there, right?”
“Ummm, yeah,” I managed to stammer out. “A few weeks ago.”
“Did you try it on yet?”
“I did.”
Liz waited for me to say more. When I didn’t, she prompted me. “How’d it look? Can you put it on now so I can see?”
“It’s pretty,” I said, sounding unconvinced, my words more of a question than a statement.
“There’s a ‘but’ in there. What is it?”
Swallowing hard, I decided to just say it. “I can’t wear it, Liz.”
“What do you mean? Why not?” she asked slowly, her head tilted and her forehead wrinkled as she let my words sink in. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s beautiful, Liz. Really. It’s just—”
“What?” Liz asked again, her impatience mixed with concern.
“I dunno. I . . . I can’t really explain,” I stuttered.
“Can you try?” she asked gently.
How could I tell her that asking me to wear a gown was the same as if she’d expected Sammy or Ben to do so? I didn’t understand myself why I felt that way, so how could I explain it to Liz? I desperately wanted her to understand, to figure out what I was trying to say without me having to actually say it. Maybe then I wouldn’t have to say it to myself.

Table of Contents

Photographs
Preface
1—The Dress
2—The Haircut
3—The Tomboy
4—Puberty
5—The “Swoose”
6—Are You Gay?
7—The Old College Try
8—“Is That Even Possible?”
9—I’m Not Broken
10—Introducing “Em”
11—I’m Not Ready to Grow Up
12—Once a Girl, Always a Boy
13— Maid of Honor
14—Flying High
15—It’s Almost Time
16—What’s in a Name?
17—I’m Awesome at Denial
18—Honorary Bro
19—More Baby Steps
20—Terrified
21—Call Me Jeremy
22—Mom’s Story
23—A New Start
24—Jeremy’s Day in Court
25—A Book? Really?
26—I Just Am
27—Making a Difference
28—My Growing Advocacy
29—Changing Hearts and Minds
30—An Update
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Advice to Parents and Friends of Transgender Individuals
Glossary
Book Club Discussion Guide
About the Author
About Jeremy Ivester