Pageboy, page 12
I loved her profoundly. I wish I’d taken greater care, that I had been further along and not placated until I snuffed the truth. Moving my finger through the flame, I made it dance before licking the tip of my index, rubbing it against my thumb and pinching, extinguishing it in an instant—that subtle hiss.
My body hoarded the unexamined emotions, sensations, wants, and needs. Easy sentences prepared in my brain, stuck. They were visible to me, written out, I heard the voice but my mouth refused to cooperate. Just the tick tick tick of the windup toy, or nothing at all.
Shingles popped out of my spine while filming Inception when I was twenty-two. In a cast full of cis men, I did not understand the role I found myself in. Despite everyone being delightful to work with, I felt out of place. For the first two weeks of the film I joked I would be recast with Keira Knightley, and rightfully so. Shingles communicated the stress my body felt, what my words could not.
In our relationship I’d expected I would finally feel at home, a destination completed, quandaries resolved. She was out, and surrounded by a community of queer women, which I was now a part of. But if anything it slowly exacerbated my dysphoria. I was not settled, I still felt out of place, stirring up the dust. A pinball of projection, I internalized the chaos. It left me feeling bereft of hope.
“How can I possibly feel this way?” I bawled to my therapist. Again. “Why won’t this emptiness ever go away?”
We do not realize the extent of the energy we are losing until we find where it is seeping from. Invisible until it is not. A thought just out of reach. Only now do I understand just how much I was consumed, the degree to which my brain was taken by a desperate, insatiable need to control. A watchtower enforcing my own personal isolation.
My mother recounts the incident in the car when I was fifteen differently than I do. She’d bring it up randomly, perhaps secretly wanting me to correct her, to initiate that conversation. Even changing the location from inside her VW Golf to the park.
“I remember we went for a walk in Point Pleasant Park. You were so cute when you were little, you called it Park Pleasant Park … Anyways, we were on a walk and you were so scared to tell me and then you did and I just got quiet and felt sad. And I think I said, ‘I just don’t want your life to be hard,’ worried how you would be treated in this society. I feel bad I said that.”
Only recently did I finally correct her, creating space for a real dialogue, a healing one. It was after my conversation with Oprah, months after sharing that I am trans. I never believed a time would come when I’d be able to have these talks with my mother. Quite frankly, I didn’t think she would be open to it, and I didn’t want to hurt her, to see her sad. But people can surprise you.
In the end, it was she who initiated the conversation. She was ready, and so was I. We’ve never been closer, and her willingness to change and grow and move through the discomfort has been powerful and inspiring. She’s become my ally. She loves her son endlessly. I’m lucky to have that, to feel such profound and genuine love. What was the most beautiful and meaningful was to watch her bloom as her old narratives and doctrines faded.
Something opened up. She became less fearful. She has always been self-critical, and I grew up listening to her endlessly berate herself, always using the words “stupid” or “foolish.” This has grown quieter, softer, with at least self-reflection, a readjustment, a knowing that she is worth it. As the old constructs continue to crumble, it lets my mother build something new, too. Perhaps her unconditional love for me has begun to extend to herself.
15
“RYAN”
At twenty-six, I assumed that most people knew I was queer, in my private life I was considerably more open and the last step would be to eventually come out publicly. But I found myself again in a deeply closeted relationship and desperately in love. My partner was more closeted than me for a change, but everything is in degrees, people meet at different points of their journey, unable to sync up the tracks. We were together for almost two years, and even some of my closest friends were not aware I was in a relationship. Her parents did not know. I was the friend that came for Christmas. Only her sister and two of her friends knew. We never touched outside, we barely went to dinner. She was in my phone under the name “Ryan.”
We were staying at the Bowery Hotel in New York City. There are often paparazzi camped out across the street, waiting for celebs to pass through. When we were leaving for the day she went outside, got in a cab, turned the corner onto East Third Street, and I walked out a side door and got in. There was a period when she was working in Europe and I went to visit. She was staying in a giant corporate hotel. That sleek and modern vibe, lots of gray. We ordered room service, and when it was delivered, I literally hid in a closet. Light shone through under the door. I listened to the table roll in, the metal covers clang, and her warm voice expressing gratitude. How frighteningly casual some memories can be.
She would question queerness. Was it true, or simply a consequence of privilege, of having the space to think about it? Similar to thoughts I had when the idea of being queer felt impossible, believing as an actor that I would never be able to come out, praying to God knows what, please make me like men. When I think back, I questioned her sexuality, too, in a way that was harsh and unfair, prying for an answer she was not ready to give. I was angry at her, but I had all the information, I wanted to stay. Still repulsed with my entirety, truth be told, the person I was angry at was me.
Often at parties we would hardly look at each other. As if a sudden catch of the eyes would spill the queer beans.
“What, so you don’t even look at each other in public?” one of my closest pals asked.
I remember one party. I wanted to go home, but she had the key and I had to get it from her. We needed to perform a stealth operation, conceal it all, sharp in the palm.
“Maybe we should both get boyfriends?” she suggested one evening as we lay in bed, to throw people off, as if that would mitigate the shame and vigilance. We were in an open relationship, so technically it was not an unreasonable question.
“I can’t do that, but if you want to you should.” The word “should” came out sharp, a pulled pin, it was just a matter of time now.
For an extremely closeted couple we had a lot of fun, discreet but adventurous sex. On rocks just below the Pacific Coast Highway, hidden in boulders in Joshua Tree National Park, on an airplane. An unconscious yearning to be caught, to have no choice. Forced through the door.
We met making a film together. We would hold hands under a blanket in the back of the transpo van. Reaching instinctually. It wasn’t discussed. It didn’t need to be.
I remember the first time I saw her. I sat waiting in LAMILL on Silver Lake Boulevard when she walked in. She was radiant—her dress, her smile, how she pushed her hair from her face. The way she formed a thought moved me, concise, distinct, intelligent, emotional. She didn’t seem afraid. Her best friend sat beside her, out of focus. We discussed books, activism, our collective consciousness, and the deep intelligence of nature. Driving south down Laurel Canyon at Sunset Boulevard, I would pass a giant photograph of her, the poster for her latest film. Her beauty is dangerous, I’d think, it’ll cause a car crash.
I didn’t want to come out. I wanted to be with her, we loved each other, cared deeply and had a meaningful time together. There was a lot of goodness there, healing even. We took an epic trip to Nova Scotia for her birthday. Down to Sable River, not far from my father’s hometown on the south shore. We traveled north, stayed in a friend’s cabin outside of Pugwash. We hiked, made food over the bonfire, swam under a waterfall. I remember napping in the late afternoon, waking up to the gloaming, her favorite time of day. She slept with my head on her chest, I soaked in the silence, her smell. I wish I could bottle this, I thought. I felt the quiet pain that comes with being in love, the risk of it all. We drove along the Northumberland Strait and made our way up to Cape Breton. She told people she was meditating in Maine. I said I was going to visit my folks.
We flew from Halifax to Toronto and waited for our connections in an Air Canada lounge, the space between us locked shut. We were flying to different locations, I can’t remember where. I sat drinking the free espresso while she took the book I was reading, Sex at Dawn, and began to write in the back sleeve, an outpouring of love, one of the most beautiful letters I have ever received. How sad we never got to flourish.
It was not a sustainable relationship, just like when I had kept people hidden. The lying, the anxiety, the disgust. People didn’t “think she was queer,” but they definitely assumed I was, and I don’t think she could handle the shame. Ultimately, she had to do what was best for her, and unfortunately it resulted in my heart being shattered.
Not long after she ended things, one of my only friends who knew about Ryan encouraged me to get out and stop wallowing in my pain. Alia’s friend Sam was having a small games night, did I actually want to go? No. But it felt important to force it, to stop with the self-pity.
“Watch Ryan be there,” I joked.
“No no, she’s not in that circle.”
Which was true.
I sat with Alia on the cushy rug in the A-frame’s living room. We sipped tequila as I attempted to lighten my tone, to lift my shoulders, muster some energy that would make me give a fuck.
About fifteen minutes later the door opened, and before I saw Ryan, I heard her, that glowing warmth in her voice. And then, his voice. He was tall and handsome, an artist with scraggly blondish hair and good style. I stood up and we locked eyes, the room melting, my knees on the brink. She stopped looking, attention returning to her date, his hand on her back. I did my best not to stare.
I beelined for the spiral staircase, gripping the metal railing. Alia followed. I stepped out onto the patio, a concrete formation built into the hill. I lit a cigarette and attempted to calm down, my heart palpitating, my hands trembling. Shortly after, they walked outside with a few others. They joined us as the rules of a game were being explained. I glanced at her, taking in how relaxed she was with him.
Unable to deal, I pretended to get sick. “Oh no, I think food poisoning,” I said, hand moving to cover my mouth.
Scrambling to the washroom, I waited for time to pass, avoiding the mirror, I splashed water on my face. Back in the living room, I sat at a table, arms folded, my head resting on my forearms, looking to the side. Alia rubbed my back as Ryan’s date came over with coconut water. He had no idea about our history, of course. It was a kind gesture, but I wanted to take that coconut water and throw it. Alia tried to intervene. Eventually I got up and headed outside to wait for a car. I kept the secret.
I went from a relationship where attending something like a games night together was inconceivable to watching her being touched by him, her enjoying it, existing in the way she never could with me. I guess I should be happy for her, I tried to convince myself. I wanted to be, to be evolved, but it was too much. It unreservedly gutted me.
Someone will break your heart but you will break one, too.
16
SPEEDO
I was utterly distraught when the final coed season for soccer was ending at age nine or ten, as if I were nursing a torn-up heart. My parents asked the league if I could play one more year, stalling the inevitable transition to the girls’ team. To “not be separated from her friends” is how people perceived it. Yes, of course, but the seemingly undue agony wasn’t just about that. The league allowed me one more season. But after that, I was with the girls.
It was humiliating when the ref would turn to me with a probing glare. My short-haired self would be setting up the ball for kickoff but then be interrupted with: “Boys can’t play on this team.”
“I’m a girl,” I’d respond. Not precisely meaning it, but what else was there to say?
A smarmy smile would spread across his face.
Turns out, I preferred that embarrassment, the sensation that indeed I should not be on the team, an innate feeling the instant boys and girls could no longer compete as one, I’d rather that than what came next.
My chest began to grow, leading to awkward conversations about training bras, forcing me to try to find those perfectly oversize concealing T-shirts; my posture began to fold, shoulders caving in. My confidence dwindled in conjunction with my self-disgust rising. And then my period came. While I was snowboarding with my father in Wentworth, an 815-vertical-foot ski hill about an hour and a half from the city. That smell of metallic blood, a robot leaking. My dad went to the store and got pads. I fussed and fiddled until it was secure in my underwear. I’m going to have to wear this diaper every month? I thought. I wished I could wear a tampon due to the chafing, but no fucking way was I attempting that.
My weight redistributed in a way that I did not understand, my clothes from the Gap’s boys section began to betray me. I could not detect myself. I didn’t transform into me—the me I knew I was—like the other boys did. I was desperate to wake up from this bad dream, my reflection making me increasingly ill. Closing my eyes I’d find the memories, the moments of euphoria, of witnessing myself, praying I’d find that again.
An unlikely source of hope emerged. There was a kid I played soccer with until I had to be with the girls. Tim. Tim’s parents had moved to Halifax from Germany around when he was born. His parents were both engineers who lived on South Street, opposite the Holy Cross Cemetery, in an older, tall red house with a storm porch welcoming you. Mr. Peltzer was a superb and exuberant soccer player, he’d give us pointers, explaining the use and importance of empty space, the movement, a small turn, one touch to find it, head up, to push it forward into the unknown.
It was sweltering out, well, my idea of sweltering at the time. Nova Scotia’s summer temperatures hover around twenty to twenty-five degrees Celsius but can rise as high as thirty to thirty-two degrees with humidity. A few of us boys were at Tim’s. We kicked the soccer ball around the backyard, parents would have been thrilled to know of the imminent exhaustion. Tim’s dad lugged out a kiddie pool. In my memories, it is more substantial than one of those tiny ones, but maybe that’s because I was the tiny one. He began to fill it up, and it struck me, I did not have my bathing suit. Out of sight, out of mind, I hated my swimsuit. I loved swim shorts. Swim trunks, my dad would call them. The words, direct, with two syllables, roused elation in my mouth. Swim trunks. A satisfying crunch.
“We have extra,” said Tim’s dad, upon sensing my concern, “you can use one of Tim’s or Ben’s.”
My face brightened. Tim’s or Ben’s?
I followed him into the house, behind the odor of cigarette smoke. He marched up the stairs, returning to the kitchen with a small red Speedo. Holding it before me, the white drawstring dangled, as if waving.
I’ll just always forget my bathing suit, I thought. I despised those fucking straps, stretching it over my body, concealing my stomach. Every sticky, wet disrobe, I’d wince as it clung, you’re stuck in here. Boys would pinch and pick their drenched and dripping trunks from their thighs. Some glistened in the sun, their small Speedos sleek and tight, Superman’s bathing suit.
“Here, you can wear this.”
Exchanging hands, I was careful not to drop it, a sacred talisman, I felt acutely aware that I could not soil it in any way. Closing the bathroom door behind me, the slam unintentionally forceful, I was intoxicated by the nylon-elastane cardinal treasure. Hurriedly guiding my feet through the holes, I yanked up the Speedo. I climbed onto the toilet, or the edge of the tub, high enough so I could see in the mirror. I tightened and tied the drawstring, looking up triumphantly, grinning ear to ear.
The backyard was no different than it had been. It didn’t matter that an elastic, nylon layer of skin was not hiding my chest. I was frolicking with my friends, just us kids. The only shift was in my happiness, a moment of knowing, a crisp focus, enhancing all the colors and sounds. A rush of joy.
This was only the second time I had seen a Speedo in person. The first time was when I was eight, visiting Prince Edward Island. We drove the three and a half hours, crossing the Confederation Bridge from New Brunswick to PEI, heading to my mom’s pal Brenda’s place. She had a farm in North Rustico, on the northern side of the island. There were a few of us there—another friend of my mother’s, Sandy, came with her two children, who were close in age but a little younger than me. Their uncle, Sandy’s brother Kyle, also hopped over to the island with us.
Sandy’s brother was one of the only two gay people I knew (of) when I was a child. He was the kind of gay they showed on TV sometimes. The way he looked, the way he talked, the way he moved … a gay person. I’d find myself staring, sensing, a recognition. A fuse box tinkered with, my brain distributing microscopic sparks.
The farm was on a fifty-acre chunk of flat, fertile land. There was an old, large house with white shingles that sat proudly and a barn, behind, off to the right, sheltering the chickens that I scrambled out of bed at the first sign of light to feed. Mabel, an ancient, colossal pig, felt like a friend. I’d visit unprompted, wanting to get close, but not too close, skittish of her robustness. Conscious that reasoning with this creature was not a viable option. Opposite the barn stood a few trees, their branches protruding, bending, and curling; the perfect place. I’d remain outside for hours, building a fort, securing it from coyotes with a worn discarded hubcap that I rolled in front of the little opening. I have always loved being in nature.
During this vacation, we went to Rainbow Valley, a small amusement and water park in Cavendish. I never was that into swimming and water parks, and I speculate this had something to do with bathing suits. (I should give water parks another chance, start fresh in my swim trunks.) Waiting in line at the top of the most popular and highest slide, Kyle stood behind me in his Speedo. The wetness over his smooth skin twinkled. His firm, tanned body, the torso a dream. I tried not to look down at the tight Speedo, but I did look down at the tight Speedo. As did the teenage boys behind us.
