The Best Boy Ever Made Page 3

  “Okay, shoot.”

  She paused a long time. “It's something I have been wanting to talk to you about since last fall...”

  Last fall, around her birthday, when it happened. The it she wasn't ready to talk about for the last six months.

  “I've been struggling for a long time with who I am, with how I fit into things, you know?”

  Yes and no. I knew she struggled but I never quite understood.

  “I have felt for some time that something is wrong with me, that I am not, right, somehow.” She handed a full bucket back towards me without looking. I took it and handed her an empty one. I took the full bucket back to our processing station and poured the rich warm milk into one of the tins we had prepared.

  “I am more like a boy,” she said.

  I sighed. This is what's been bothering her? “You're a tomboy, Sam, so what?”

  “No,” she said with surprising vehemence, “it's more than that. I am transgender.”

  “Transgender?” I repeated back, “what's that mean?”

  “I want to be a boy,” she said.

  I came back and sat on the bucket again. “You think you are telling me anything new?” I said. “I've always known that. You remember your sixth birthday? Who bought you that cowboy set you wanted so bad, with tin sheriff's badge, the vest and the cowboy hat?”

  She chuckled at the memory. “You did.”

  “That's right,” I said. “I did. Mom tried and tried to get me to buy a pretty princess pony, or at the very least the cowgirl set. But I was adamant. I knew you, even then, and I knew that would make you more happy than anything else in the world.”

  “It was the best present ever,” Sam said. “Only thing that even came close was Dad's.” Mr. Oleson had gotten Sam a full set of plastic farm animals. He too knew his daughter.

  Sam sighed, risked a quick glance at me and then went back to the milking. “It's more than that, though. I know you know I've been a tomboy. I knew sometime around the beginning of high school that I would never grow out of that feeling and it scared me.”

  “You don't have to grow out of it,” I said sharply. “You are perfect just the way you are, Sam. Someday you'll find some nice guy that will love you just the way you are.”

  Sam shuddered. My blood ran cold, was my friend gay? Was that what she was trying to tell me? My eyes narrowed, “Sam, are you gay?”

  “No.” she growled. “I mean, it's not about that, I am transgender.”

  “I don't know what that means,” I said.

  “It means I don't just hate acting girly, I hate being a girl,” she said. “I hate these floppy useless things.” She gestured at her chest. “I hate my period. I hate any reminder that I am a girl and not a boy. I hate it so bad,” her voice dropped almost to a whisper, “I hate it so bad I almost killed myself.”

  The words hit me like a ton of bricks. Sam, kill herself? I put my hand on her back. “Sam.” It was all I could think to say.

  She turned and I saw tears in her eyes. “It was the night of my birthday. I was just so, I don't know, down about all this stuff. I came in here. I wanted to use a rope, to hang myself.”

  “Don't,” I said.

  “I didn't,” she replied, “because of you. We had just gotten the goats, remember? I was scared that you'd come to check on them and find me. I couldn't stand the thought of doing that to you.”

  She paused. I was crying now, too. “I turned to go back inside and there was Dad, just standing there. The look on his face, somehow he knew what I'd been thinking about. We both just sort of broke down. They took me to a counselor the next day. Since then we've been talking about how I feel and it's gotten a little better. It's still hard some days. I've got to do something, Alecia, I've got to, or I'm going to die.”

  I believed her but, “what can you do? I mean, you are born either a boy or a girl. There's no other choice, is there?”

  “I want to transition.” A word I had heard; transition. It meant to change. I didn't understand it in this context, though.

  “What's transition?”

  “There's stuff they can do,” she replied. “I can take hormones. I can have surgery. I can become a boy.”

  “You mean like a sex change?” I wasn't raised in the nineteenth century after all, whatever Brit says. “I didn't know they did those for women.”

  “It's different for people like me, female to male. It's more the testosterone then the surgery thing, but it's better than nothing.”

  “Okay.” I shrugged. “You want to become a boy.”

  “I am a boy, on the inside. I want the outside to match.”

  “When is this going to happen?” Inside I was trying to absorb all of this, outside I was being my usual practical self.

  She shrugged. “I told Mom and Dad. They say they love me and will accept me no matter what, but they are scared. They don't want me making changes to my body like this.”

  I took the full bucket of milk she handed me and went to dump it. She let the goat out of the stanchion and led her back to the pen. “So,” I asked, “What does that mean about, like, boys?”

  “I perceive myself to be a boy,” she said. “For me to be with a boy, that would be gay. I don't see myself as a lesbian, either, though. I am a man. A straight man.”

  The next question out of my mouth surprised both of us. I don't know why I asked it, even. “So if some girl were attracted to you, would they be a lesbian? Or straight?”

  “I am not sure.”

  We busied ourselves with the goats after that. We took turns at the milking stanchion and with no further problems, got the entire herd milked. We had five full tins, which we drug up to the house and placed in the large cooler Mr. Oleson had set up in the basement for our project. As I placed the last tin in the cooler Sam said, “You know, if you don't want to do this project with me now, I'd understand.”

  I wheeled around and looked her in the face. She was scared. “I said I wanted to do this, didn't I?” I said.

  “I know but...”

  “I don't go back on what I say.”

  #

  The light was already fading as I set out for home. Sam made sure I had one of my pink coats and a couple of liter bottles of fresh goat milk. She said over and over that I didn't need to continue the project if I didn't want. She didn't want me to feel obligated.

  I kept telling her, just as firmly, that this wouldn't change that. I still wanted to finish this project together.

  What I didn't tell her is that this was going to change other things, lots of other things. Here I was just getting comfortable, thinking things were just like the old days. Now I had to rethink what that meant.

  Why had her revelation surprised me? It was pretty obvious when I thought back on it. Sam had been a tomboy as long as I had known her. She had been more than just a tomboy. I knew since she was five that the worst thing you could call Sam was her full name, Samantha. She'd yelled at the kindergarten teacher over that name.

  When we played as kids we played pioneer. It was our favorite game. I was always the pioneer woman, Sam the farm hand.

  I remembered playing pioneer with Sam. We were six. It was the day after her sixth birthday. I knew this because she was wearing the cowboy vest and badge I had bought her. The vest was wrinkled due to the fact she had slept in it. We were in her room, getting everything together that we would need for our day's adventure.

  “What about your baby doll?” I asked.

  “What about it?” she groused. I forget who bought her the doll, but it was one of many poorly received presents. I am sure she hadn't touched it since.

  “I just thought we could take it,” I said. “It could be my baby.”

  She shrugged, picked the doll up by the foot and handed it over. “If you want.”

  “Is it a boy or a girl?”

  “Why say? That's a lot to put on something so small,” she replied looking intently at the doll.
>
  “What?”

  “Can't it just be itself? Does it have to be a boy or girl, already?”

  I kicked a piece of gravel and slowed down. I was already halfway home and nowhere ready to face it. Sam had always struggled with this. She had always been happiest out in the pastures, with the cows who didn't care one bit if she acted like a girl or a boy.

  But somehow it had never sunk in until now. It had never sunk in that she was so upset that she would kill herself over it. I looked back at her house, as if I expected to see her making for the barn, a rope in her hands and a determined look on her face. I shuddered and put the image out of my mind. She promised me that she had stopped thinking that way. Still it scared me, scared me more than I cared to admit.

  I didn't want to lose her. I couldn't bear the thought. I would do anything to make sure she didn't attempt that again. Even if it meant accepting this, what had she called it? Transition.

  Transition. I had only the vaguest notion what she meant by that and that scared me, too. Maybe that was the other reason this surprised me so much. I never realized there was an option to be another sex. I never thought, well if you don't like being a girl, just go be a boy.

  I mean, I knew about sex changes. But they were things that other people did, in far away places. And they were always boys, boys who became girls. Girls who became boys had never entered my thinking.

  How was it done? She mentioned surgery. Sam having surgery was a pretty scary proposition by itself, but what sort of surgery? I had no idea. Would they graft on a slong? And then there were hormones. She said that repeatedly, hormones, testosterone. I knew all about testosterone. I was a farm girl, after all. It was a hormone like growth hormones or steroids.

  I had the sudden image of a bull, huge due to being pumped full of growth hormones, being led into the ring by a huge, bulked up Sam. Was that what she wanted?

  The smell of burgers made my stomach growl in hunger and brought me back to the present. I was just turning down the front drive. In the fading light I could see people gathered on the front porch, the grill still smoking.

  “We saved you a couple of burgers,” Dad called as he twisted the valve on the propane grill. “In the kitchen.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Did you get the goats milked?”

  I held up the two bottles to show him. He nodded. “Knew you'd have no problems.”

  No problem? The kicking and fussing of the goats had bothered me at first. Then I found out my best friend wanted to pump herself full of hormones and have some surgery so she could be a boy. Then I knew what a problem was.

  “We got it done,” I said and went inside.

  “Alecia, darling, there you are,” Aunt Mandy greeted me as I entered the kitchen. “We weren't sure if a goat had eaten you.” She laughed at her own joke, which was good because no one else seemed likely to.

  “I brought a couple of liters home.” I held up the bottles.

  “Wow, goat's milk. That's wonderful, really.” My sister Brit has mastered expressing herself through slamming doors. Aunt Mandy has mastered saying nice things in an excited way that she doesn't mean. She was eyeing my goat's milk like it was a snake that might bite her.

  I put it in the fridge without further comment and accepted the burger from Mom. I headed for the kitchen island to load the burger down with cheese, ketchup and mustard. Chips, coleslaw, potato salad and all the other fixings of a barbecue were being spooned into Tupperware by various aunts, and I had to hold my plate out like a beggar to get it filled.

  “Your mother says you are on the All State Debate Team this year,” Aunt Mandy said, “and that the topic is homosexual marriage.” There was a startled silence, aunts everywhere looking up from their barbecue clean-up at the word “homosexual”. Realizing that Aunt Mandy wasn't coming out, gossiping about someone coming out, or endorsing any radical notions of acceptance, they returned to their Tupperware.

  “Yup,” I replied, “I hear Scotty's on the team, too.”

  “Yes.” She beamed at the mention of her son. “We are so proud of both of you. Traditional marriage has got to be safe, with two such fine outstanding youths speaking out in its behalf.” We were a good Catholic family, there was no question which side of the debate we were on.

  “I suppose you have been researching the subject already?”

  “Yup,” I replied.

  “I have been something of an activist for traditional marriage, if I don't mind saying so myself.” Aunt Mandy never minded telling people her political views. “Want to show us what you've got? I would be delighted to critique it, help you out anyway I can.”

  I shrugged. I didn't need Aunt Mandy's critique. I knew what I was doing. Her views on gay marriage were pretty much limited to the NOM fact sheet that Father Hornsten had passed out in church one Sunday. I had one, too, and it was one of my sources. Still, she wouldn't let up, so I decided I might as well give them the spiel. “After I eat I'll get my Macbook out.”

  Part of me wanted to take my time eating, make her wait a little bit. After all it's kind of rude to expect me to give an impromptu speech on the topic of gay marriage at a family gathering. I didn't. I was starved for one thing, and it would do no good. I might as well clean my plate, get my Macbook and give my speech. I did have most of my research done already, which is more than Scotty, I am sure.

  I think I have mentioned by now that my family is pretty staunch Catholics. Well, both of the sides are good Catholics, but we have slightly different ideas on what makes a good Catholic. My dad's side, thanks to Great-Grandma Becca's influence is made up of devout Catholics. We go to mass every Sunday. Evening Mass. We are farmers and chores come first. God understands. Becca reads in her bible daily and has always tried to live her life accordingly.

  Mom's family is the other kind of good Catholic. They go to early Mass because, a) it looks better and b) it doesn't interfere with Sunday brunch or football. You know they are good Catholics because they go out of their way to make you aware of this fact. They take any political stance the church approves of. They even stand on the street corner in front of abortion clinics with signs.

  They've tried to get me to go but I won't do it. I believe abortion is wrong and it's against our religion. It's not that. It's just, Great-Grandma Becca hears about this stuff and she just sighs and says, something like “Matthew 6.” You know, the whole bit about the hypocrisy of preaching loudly on the street corner. That's how she feels about most pro-lifers and it's how I feel, too.

  “Why do you have a list of things in favor of homosexual marriage?” Aunt Mandy commented the moment the slide show popped up on our TV. I love MacAir, by the way.

  “We are supposed to give a balanced view,” I replied. “We have to address all of their arguments.”

  “I see,” Mandy said. She didn't see the need to address the concerns or arguments that some homosexual might make.

  I launched into my speech. It was a little on the long side. I would have to shave it down to fit it in the five minutes I would be allotted. On the slide show there were two columns that slowly grew point by point. On the right were the “National Organization of Marriage” talking points. On the left were a similar set of talking points for a group called “Equality” something or other.

  Aunt Mandy sat erect, her face sharp and attentive. Cousin Scotty looked sharp, too. He was no doubt trying to remember my sources so he could look them up later. Mom was sitting erect and looking towards me, but her eyes were blank. The rest weren't even trying to pretend to be interested. Dad might have been paying attention at the start, but his head had dropped. Grandpa was in the recliner and his head had been down for some time. I was having to increase my volume to talk over his snores.

  I was coming up on what I saw as my key point. The entire argument was based on a false premise. “Gay people do have the right to marriage, already,” I was saying.

  “They do?” Aunt Mandy asked. It startled
several of the male family members awake.

  “They have the right to marriage,” I affirmed. “They can marry anyone they wish, in a normal traditional marriage. If they choose not to marry a member of the opposite sex, that's their business.” It was straight out of the NOM web page. Gays had the right to marriage, the right to heterosexual marriage. They didn't have the right to change the definition of marriage that had existed for thousands of years, however.

  Then it hit me. Who would Sam marry? She had the right to marry anyone she wanted, as long as it was a boy. But she didn't want to marry a boy. I wasn't sure what all was going on with Sam, but that much was pretty clear. She saw herself as a boy. For her to be with a boy would be gay to her. I couldn't say I understood anything about how she felt. What I could understand was that she was dead serious when she told me.

  Who would Sam marry? She couldn't marry a boy because she felt like she was a boy. She couldn't marry a girl (if a girl would have her) because, well, she was a girl wasn't she?

  I suddenly felt like I had a lump in my throat. It was dry. I paused and reached for a Coke, even though I knew it wouldn't help. What would I tell Sam? She knew I was giving this speech. She knew what side I was on. We had never talked about it or anything like that. She knew my family and it was sort of a given. In her typical Sam way she hadn't made a single comment.

  It didn't matter if she said anything or not. Could I stand up in front of the entire state, the entire world and tell my best friend she couldn't get married because she thought of herself as a boy? I wasn't sure.

  “Is something wrong?” Aunt Mandy asked as my pause dragged out.

  “No,” I lied, “I am just tired.”

  I pushed through with my speech. I had to. I was committed. I would have to give this speech again and again, at the debate. I needed to do some serious thinking first. I plowed through, closed my Macbook and accepted the polite applause from my family. I made the excuse that I was feeling pretty tired and went to my room. It didn't matter, everyone was ready to leave anyway.