Pageboy, page 21
Fired up and ready for a dip, I stood and walked toward the surf. Breaking into a run, my feet hit the ocean, splashing the surprisingly warm water with every step. The Northumberland Strait is said to have the warmest ocean temperatures north of Virginia because of how shallow it is, ranging in depth between seventeen and sixty-eight meters. Separating Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island, the sunsets are always astounding. I dove into the salt water, it had been ages since I was in the ocean. I surfed for a couple years in Los Angeles, my ex Samantha and I went almost every day when we were together. I do miss it, frightening but soothing all the same, it is easy to see how people become addicted. The rush, the connection, you look at the ocean in an entirely new way.
I swam farther out, warm but still refreshing. My eyes stung, and I made a mental note that goggles would be a part of the beach collection in my trunk. I resurfaced, my ponytail soaked and dripping down my back. My body went frigid, not due to the cold, but because I caught a glimpse again. It wrenched me out of the present. My head involuntarily tilted down, chin to my neck, as it did throughout the day every day. My insides tightened, my brow furrowed, puzzled by a body that did not compute. An incorrect calculation that I did not have the answer to. It was exhausting and only getting worse. How will I do this forever?
Nikki went for a swim shortly after me. I dried myself with a towel, avoiding my chest. The blanket sat in the shade. I lay on my stomach, my boobs compressed, taunting me, jogging my memory, demanding I be reminded. I closed my eyes, the sound of the waves pacified me, and I fell asleep.
Nikki and I napped on the beach together, when we woke up it was time to go. I threw on a T-shirt and we gathered our things. Walking back to the car, I looked around at the people enjoying themselves. Kids and their sandcastles. Two guys threw a football back and forth, swim shorts and no shirts. The ball flew with a perfect spin. A woman with a half tent organized snacks, children ran up for juice boxes and ketchup chips. My brain was as hot as the sand.
How do people do it? How do they shut off the noise? And I don’t mean “happy,” they may not be happy, but they seem to be able to exist at least.
People existed with a fluidity that I wished to possess. Motion entwined with the present and an engagement with life that I had lost a long time ago. I needed my routine, I needed specific food. Change or disruption threw me off, which was unacceptable due to my need for control. All I could do was cling. Every day I hung on tight, bound up. A blockage of sorts. I would need to drain the wound.
In the evening we sat around a bonfire. We sat close, sharing a joint, and leaned back to stare at the stars. I looked toward the orchard, it glittered with slithers of moonlight. The darkness behind the trees made me feel useless, no stars would ever guide me to safety, I could not speak their language.
Nikki and I could be apart for years but within moments of reuniting sync up all over again. As I write this, I will be driving up to Nova Scotia next week. The trip will be my first time to Halifax since sharing the whole trans thing with the world. My grip less tight, my mind relaxed, finally the space to hold it all. I am eager to be with Nikki. I want to hug her, look her in the eyes, to show her who I have become, to show her that I made it. It is July right now, so I am certain the beach trunk will come to good use, and this time, no ponytail and no fucking sports bra. Just there with an old friend to soak life in.
After Nikki left, I was alone in the woods again, which I love. I wasn’t sure if I could be someone who lived in a cabin by themselves in the middle of the forest for months, but turns out, I very much am and it may be necessary in order for me to get to the bottom of my own brain. I had to be isolated, I had to not be something to someone or someone to something. I’d exhausted myself, trying with all of me to figure out what was wrong, running from one place to the next, fooling myself into thinking I could find it. But the answer was in the silence, the answer would only come when I chose to listen.
27
PORTAL
When I was in the cabin, I found myself able to connect with creativity again. That muscle I was accustomed to using in front of a camera suddenly held untold possibilities. I started writing a screenplay with an old friend, Beatrice Brown.
We’d met when I was sixteen. The day after wrapping a film in Shelburne, Nova Scotia, I flew across the Atlantic. I had landed the lead in a film called Mouth to Mouth, which would be shot in the UK, Germany, and Portugal. It was my first time in London, and in Europe in general. I was playing Sherry, a sixteen-year-old runaway who joins a radical collective in Camden Town called SPARK and follows them to their commune on the outskirts of Lisbon. As typically happens in the movies, things go awry, and Sherry must do whatever she can to get away from the controlling and abusive leader before it is too late.
Bea was cast as Nancy, a teenager who grew up in squats, just as Bea had. The character was in part based on Bea, actually, who had often moved around Europe in a small RV, squatting on vacant land and abandoned industrial parks. There was a lot of ketamine, a lot of illegal raves, and a lot of punk music. Bea had a band called Beastellabeast with Stella Nova (aka Stella New), the guitar legend who played with the Rich Kids, Iggy Pop, and Generation X. You do not meet many people in your life like Bea, if any. She is not afraid of people’s silly perceptions and if she is, fuck it, she still takes life head-on.
That first night in London, Bea took me around various squats in Dalston. I’d never been to a squat before. We visited pals of Bea’s at one place where the floor and walls were all gray-and-white concrete with very little light. Bare mattresses, sleeping bags, and blankets were scattered around the room. As we were leaving, a dude who appeared a touch strung out threw lightbulbs at us. They smashed on the pavement as we briskly walked down the road. I worried about dogs’ paws.
“This is called Murder Mile,” Bea said as one of her nipples peeked through a hole in her torn white-and-green vintage dress.
The next squat had a very different vibe, practically posh. An old town house with a large backyard. A place with character, light coming through half-repaired cracked windows. It was packed with people, some watching a projected film, others dancing to music and milling about. Someone always offering you something.
I had my first sex scene on the set of Mouth to Mouth. It was with Eric Thal, an actor double my age who played the group’s leader. This was not a romantic, intimate scene, but coercive and abusive. It took place in a vineyard in Portugal. Outside, behind the main house, chickens pecked about. I had a half-shaved head and wore a tattered jean vest covered in black marker drawings. Eric, shirtless with broad shoulders and strong torso, towered above me. His buzzed hair left his face exposed and full. He never spoke much to me or anyone, which is of course fine, no one is required to be social. I did wonder if he was Method though, purposefully keeping himself separate.
It was a brutal scene to shoot. I was nearly naked, cold back pressed into the hard ground, and Eric, for whatever reason, kept shouting inches from my face. He’d get up, walk away, yell incoherently, and then return on top. No one seemed to mind but me. After the final take of the final shot, the director sat next to me on the cobblestones and burst into tears. I comforted her.
Beatrice and I speak of this period as adults, reflecting on our behavior, their behavior. What seemed clear and pure then is murky now. But I can hold that and also know this was one of the most important times in my life.
Sitting in the back of a pickup truck, driving through the Portuguese countryside, ponytail blowing in the wind, Bob Dylan blaring out of the stereo, speeding by the Quercus suber trees, the trees that produce cork and make up over a quarter of the country’s forests—they are everywhere. Their thick and bumpy bark is extracted and shipped all over the world. Underneath, a dark reddish trunk revealed. The color reminded me of the red soil on Prince Edward Island. They stand sixty-five-feet tall, branches contorted, climbing up to the sky and showing off their coriaceous leaves, which do not fall. Such resilience, growing their skin back again and again. I stared at them in awe, lining the road, never ending. I loved their shape, their pride, the beauty of imperfection. This is one of the moments I breathed in so hard as to never forget.
Both feelings can exist, making up the whole, a fullness that I would not trade, something I try to remind myself when old sentiments turn up.
Bea and I had always spoken about collaborating on a creative project, and now—she in Oxford, me in the cabin with Mo—we had the time, we found routine, discipline, and pushed when we were stuck. It was fun, I found myself stretching my imagination in different ways. I tacked colored note cards on a bulletin board in the cabin, I spent hours talking with Bea, writing. Thinking.
We were shocked how easy it was for us previously to have gotten distracted, to jump our lives over to something else, for someone else. To get wrapped up in an unhealthy relationship and have that become the endless, the only, part of our conversations. Something to distract, to get in the way. For me, I was utterly flummoxed that my brain had the space, that I could sit long enough with any of it. A mind unclouded lets the truth look through. I could sense it over my shoulder, but I was still too frightened to turn.
I had canceled that initial consultation with the surgeon in New York City and never rescheduled. I found myself doing what I could to avoid the conversation, and with any friend who had known, I shut it down. Losing myself in tumultuous spirals that only extended to my therapist, and some not even to her.
I just need to learn to be comfortable.
I am being too extreme.
I just need tighter sports bras.
You can’t, you’re an actor.
Suck it up.
Suck it up.
Suck it up.
Was I going to U-turn again? Or perhaps another would bring me home, return me to when I almost reached it, a last-minute stumble, a jump for the train.
I sat in a small blue, green, and white lawn chair on the front porch, a spot I had unofficially made mine. It’s where I probably spent most of my time there. And where I am sitting again as I write this, looking out the same window. The wild plants and grass are much higher, the top rising a foot or so above the sill. A wall of trees stands at the bottom of the hilled yard. The tips of their bright summer leaves sway in front of the high noon blue, with stoic evergreens intermixed throughout.
My mind kept returning to this question, whenever I saw anyone who knew me—really knew me—so I asked Bea: “When was the first time I spoke to you about potentially being trans?”
I was surprised at how long ago it was. Right before my twenty-ninth birthday:
“The first time was back when I lived in Stroud. After a long silence you asked me if I thought you were trans, there was like a hot tsunami of emotion coming from you, and time slowed down and everything expanded, and it felt like a relief. It was the conversation that hid behind our growing up together, back when we had no words, or at least, I didn’t, just a sensation, and when the words began to flow, it was this sweet juxtaposition of something hard to be said at first, but also so easy and light, this sense of a world finding its breath, one that resonated with your essential life force.”
I can state unequivocally that I would not be here without Bea.
Fuck, I’ve made so many U-turns it seems the dizziness has affected my memory. Receiving this from Bea prompted flashbacks. Friends I had asked, friends I had told. And again and again, I pushed it down, down, and down. I moved on to the next role, the next photo shoot, the next relationship, the next airport, the next tighter sports bra. I just have to deal.
The blue, green, and white lawn chair squeaked whenever I moved. In the middle of the night, the tiniest movement could startle a buck that unknown to me was standing in the darkness. The panicked bolt made Mo go off, the excellent guard dog he is.
My brain would not stop. I was writing in the day, reading, going on long hikes by myself that I should not have been going on by myself. When the evening hit, the dark sky reached to the forest floor, complete silence other than a far-off truck making its way down a distant road. In that stillness, it would come tumbling down, but there was nothing left to say, nothing left to do. I felt trapped, unable to take off my clothes, sleeping with my shoes on. The candlelight flickered on the window, making my reflection barely visible. I looked down to my hand and clenched it. The words were always the same, I just needed to shut up.
Hard and sharp, I struck myself with my knuckles. Surprised at my temerity, I glanced back down at my fist. Inspecting it, I looked at both sides and then, WHAM! Again. And again. Harder. Sharper. I pummeled my face, pounding next to my right eye. Some other force working to knock it out.
Bruises materialized. I’d be seeing people in a couple days, friends who were coming up to stay briefly at another cabin nearby. I had to surmise a way of explaining it, or a way of hiding it.
Did I trip and fall? Hit the side of the table?
That seemed made up. I iced it on and off, obsessively checking the mirror.
Maybe I dropped my phone on my face while lying on my back?
The bruise was way too big for that.
Maybe you need to just tell someone?
Nope, I wasn’t going to do that. I attempted to cover the shiner with foundation. Dabbing it with my finger, trying different strategies. It worked somewhat.
My face hurt, but the pain came mostly from shame and guilt. I felt awful about what I had done to my body, about covering up for my self-abusive self. Sleeping in my shoes was one thing, battering my face was different, a breaking point. And there it was, that edge again. A body smarter than me.
A few days later, back in my favorite chair, I watched the trees as gusts of wind passed through like clockwork. The movement of the branches interrupted the late afternoon sun, the beams pierced through and waltzed effortlessly with the motion. The marks left by my fist had partially faded, the sting as well. Discreet Music by Brian Eno spun on the record player.
I had a flashback to the feeling on the beach with Nikki. My chest, the staring down, wanting more pressure but despising the reminder. There was always a reminder. Unable to shower, remove my hoodie, eat without anxiety, or eat at all. Sadness came over me, a grief and anger, livid that I could not just be. Exhausted by the distress, a brain that was about to crack, unsure if I was able to cope.
And then something happened.
You don’t have to feel this way.
That voice.
I don’t have to feel this way?
That fucking voice.
You don’t have to feel this way.
I don’t have to feel this way.
This was not miracle water that sprang out of nowhere. This was a long-ass journey. However, this moment was indeed that simple, as it should be—deciding to love yourself. There had been multiple forks in the road, and more than once I had taken the wrong path, or not, depends on how you look at it I guess. It is painful the unraveling, but it leads you to you.
There it finally was, a portal. It was time to step through.
28
NO WORDS
Filming for the third season of The Umbrella Academy was due to commence in January. If I wasn’t able to get the surgery within three months, it would mean waiting another year. The space for doubt was gone, there was no more room for second-guessing. I was thirty-three. From the moment I decided, I had not a single second thought, no little whisper telling me to throw the shift into reverse. I was able to get a consultation scheduled for a month later, they did not think the timing was possible for the operation.
Then, a cancellation. My initial conversation with the surgeon was pulled up by two weeks and a slot for the procedure was now available on November 17, in the nick of time. I thought my Zoom with the doctor would be emotional and overwhelming, it could not have been more chill. Nothing but smiles. I felt listened to, I felt safe. My whole body took a deep breath.
This is a complicated matter to write about, because some people who are reading this have to wait years and years to finally have their surgery, or will never have access to gender-affirming care. I can imagine anyone would feel angry, resentful, and roiled by my privilege, what it allows me. Time during a pandemic to not work and self-reflect. I am not from a place where it is illegal. I was able to go to a private clinic and pay the approximately twelve thousand dollars. I had a place to stay. A friend who had the energy to care for me. Food to eat as I recovered. A job right around the corner, one where I could be me. I didn’t have to depend on a health-care system that would leave me waiting potentially for years.
Even though I am extremely lucky, this narrative where trans people have to feel lucky for these crumbs—that we fought hard for, and still fight for—is perverse and manipulative. Here is the thing—I almost did not make it, the now I finally have I did not see, and all I knew was permanent emptiness, a mystery I would never solve. Incessant, without language, a depth of despair. Shameful, with all that I had—what dreams are made of. I did nothing but sink, dread blanketing me. I couldn’t see what was in front of me. I should not have to grovel with gratitude. Am I grateful? Fuck, yeah! But everyone should have access to gender-affirming and lifesaving health care. It just should be.
I left the cabin at 6:00 A.M. on November 12. Car all packed, Mo in his booster seat, a cooler with pop and PB&J, a full tank of gas, prepared for the two-day drive to Toronto. I didn’t have much cargo, considering I would be in Ontario for ten months. When I originally drove to Nova Scotia from Manhattan I was not expecting to be gone for such a long period. I assumed Covid would calm down and the borders would reopen by the end of summer. Nope, that was just the beginning.
The air was cool, the sky just before light, mist disappeared as I wove through Wentworth toward Amherst. Sun up, clouds rolled in, a mix of clear and rain. Right when I crossed the border into New Brunswick a massive double rainbow filled the sky. Triumphant. I waved. I planned on splitting the sixteen-or-so-hour drive evenly into two days, but as I drove on November 12, my whole being buzzed. Without music, without a podcast, without a phone chat, I flew by where I was set to spend the night, no part of me ready to slow down. It was 6:00 P.M. in Quebec when I pulled up to a hotel in Old Montreal, a thirteen-hour day in the car. Mo and I went for a tiny stroll, never having seen Montreal this empty and quiet. Tomorrow morning’s drive would only be five hours. The cobblestones felt nice under my boots.
