She's Not There (17 page)

“No, that's not it,” I said. “When I got engaged to Grace, I really thought that the whole gender thing was behind me. It was like, finally, after years and years of struggling with it, I was cured. I threw out all the gear that I had, all the women's clothes and makeup and all of it, and I felt like, from now on, I get to just be one person. I never will have to decide to be a man again.”

“What does that mean, decide to be a man?” Barb said. “How do you do that?”

“Well, when I was a man, it was something I decided I'd do. It was something that I woke up every morning and convinced myself I could do, that it was something that I
had
to do. When I first fell in love with Grace, it was the only time I felt like I didn't have to think about it. It was like, her love made my life possible.”

I was drunk now, and I wasn't sure I was making any sense.

“But how can a person choose to be who they are?” said Barbara. “I mean, I don't understand that.”

“Oh, I think a lot of people do that,” said Rick. “I think
I
did that. I know when I was a teenager, there was a time when I went out with a whole bunch of tough guys, and we busted up people's mailboxes with a baseball bat and did things like that. One night we broke a plate-glass window at somebody's house, and we all drove off laughing, and when I finally got home, I remember seeing my grand-parents, and thinking how incredibly ashamed they'd be if they knew what I'd done.”

“But you didn't wind up like that,” I said. “How come you escaped Gloversville, New York, and wound up a novelist and an English professor? Did you choose to be who you are, or did it just happen?”

“I chose it,” Russo said. “I mean, odds were, I should have stayed in Gloversville and kept breaking people's windows and I'd have wound up like most of the guys I grew up with, playing the lottery and working in a mill. But instead, I decided to be someone else.”

Barbara looked alarmed. “You mean you could have decided to be
anybody
?”

“Not anybody, but the person I became. I think we are who we are because consciously, or unconsciously, we choose ourselves.”

“Yeah, well, that's what I've been struggling with,” I said. “Because I felt like I always had to
choose
to be James. Being Jenny, though, isn't like that. I just am.”

Russo's expression darkened. “Then why doesn't it feel like that?”

“Feel like what?”

“Why doesn't it feel like it's natural?”

“It doesn't seem natural?”

Rick looked at Barb. She looked away. “I don't know, Boylan,” he said. “It doesn't feel like you, though. Not to me.”

“But—this is me. I'm here. This is it.”

He nodded. “Okay.” His eyes shone. “If you say so,” he said.

We sat on the deck for a long time, not talking. In the distance I heard the sound of the buoys out in Camden harbor, the bells clanging as they swayed with the tide.

President William Adams (whom, shockingly, everyone called “Bro,” even though he was neither an African American nor a hippie) was new to Colby when I met with him; he'd been inaugurated only that fall. He had said, in his inaugural address, that the primary issue the college needed to address was
diversity
and that we had to commit ourselves to making Colby the kind of community where an increasingly wide range of people would feel welcome.

The wish is granted
, I thought as I sat down in his office.
Long live
Jambi.

Bro didn't raise an eyebrow when I explained my situation. I sketched out the issues as I saw them, assured him I would comport myself with dignity, professionalism, and a sense of humor, and handed him a copy of Brown and Rounsley's
True Selves.
(I had purchased a dozen of these “transgender primers” from Amazon and handed them out like pretzels as I spoke with colleagues and administrators over the next several weeks.) I gave Bro a list of resources available in the library and on the Web should he or any other member of the community wish to learn more; I gave him a memo outlining the things that various college officers—particularly the deans of faculty and students, as well as the vice president of personnel— would need to know. And I showed him a photograph of me as Jenny, standing next to Grace and my children and looking more or less like a normal mother of forty-two.

Bro, a good-looking man with a square chin and a mop of black hair, said, “Listen, Jenny, it's my belief that this will be a nonissue at the college. You've clearly given this all a lot of thought, and I'm grateful that you've given so much consideration to the implications of all of this for the institution. Ultimately, it's a private matter. To the extent that it affects the college at all, we can only support you as a professional and a colleague.”

Then he smiled. “I will admit, though, that this is the first time I've ever had a conversation like this.”

With the support of the president in hand, I proceeded to move through the chain of command at the college. I met with the dean of admissions and the vice president of finance and the director of communications and the dean of students and the dean of faculty and the dean of the college and the vice president of development. Everyone was generous. The dean of students said she was looking forward to a newer and more intimate relationship with me as her “sister.”

The dean of faculty, a statistician and a neuropsychologist, went one step further. “You understand,” he said, meaning to be generous, “that this is going to have the beneficial effect of increasing the number of female faculty by an
n
of one.”

I looked at the dean, nervously. “An n of one?” I said. “You're saying an n of one. That's beneficial?”

He nodded.

“What's
n
?”

“
n
, Jenny,” he said. “Stands for the number of persons being referred to.”

“Ah,” I said.

I was glad we'd worked this out.

As the number of people I talked to increased, it became clearer and clearer that the secret would not hold much longer. So as the date of my coming out drew near, I met with dozens of people each day. I met with the director of creative writing and the head of the English Department, and almost all of my colleagues in English. The last meeting I had was with a group of five younger professors. I met them in the conference room in the department; I felt as though I were being interviewed for a new job, which in a way I suppose I was.

On June 14, 2001, I composed an “e-mail bomb.” I had decided that coming out in the summertime was best, since it would give the news a chance to settle among the faculty first, before the students returned in fall. By then I hoped to be old news.

Dear Friends:

This letter is being sent to the people at Colby that I'm particularly fond of. Some of you may be surprised to find that you are on this list at all, since perhaps we have barely passed each other in the hallways, or been out of touch for a while. Others of you I count among the people I know, and love, best. In either case, I have been grateful for your presence in my professional life.

In the next week, you will be hearing some rather dramatic news about me. I'm going to attempt to be the one to break it to you myself. Thus, in the next day or two, you will receive a letter I've written, which will be delivered to your home address.

What I wish to share with you is
not
bad news, and I don't wish for this melodramatic e-mail to stir up anxiety at your end. Still, my news will take some getting used to, and I will be eager to discuss it with you.

This e-mail, then, is basically a “heads up” note to let you know that something important is incoming. I'm grateful for your care, and for our ongoing friendship.

Best,
Jim Boylan

I hit send.

Then I picked up 113 copies of my coming out letter—which contained equal measures of Joseph Campbell, John Barth, and Ann Landers—and drove over to the post office in my small Maine town. It was a white clapboard building with a flagpole out front. The flag flapped in the strong wind. The manager of the PO, a kind, efficient Yankee named Val, nodded at me as I slid the envelopes through the brass slot for outgoing mail. Then I got back in the car and waited for the world to explode or to begin.

On the way back from the post office, I stopped off at Nick and Shell's. My guess was, my days of playing piano in crummy bars were over.

“So,” said Shell. “Are you finally going to tell us what the fuck's wrong with you?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Well, I'm anxious to know what's going on. For the last year you've been looking like you're dying. You know everybody's worried about you.”

“I know,” I said. “Actually, I'm all right. But I think this means the end of my playing with the band.”

“What does?”

So I told her about the whole woman business.

At the end of which she said, “All right, you want to know what I think?”

I said yes.

She said, “I think
Fuck you
if you think you're going to leave the band.”

I laughed. Then she went on. “Listen, Jenny—I can start calling you that, right?—I saw some show about this on MSNBC. I think it's cool. You seem like a pretty brave person to me. Nick and me, we've always been crazy about you. We're just glad to know you're okay. As far as I'm concerned, you're you, no matter what.”

I told her I was surprised she was taking it so well.

Shell said, “Why? Because we're not college professors, because we're just like normal working people? Listen, you don't have to be a genius to know how to be loyal to the people you love. Your problem isn't going to be us. Your problem is going to be those prissy little office workers at Colby.”

Nick came in carrying a brown paper bag. “What's up?” he said.

I just shrugged and said, “I'm having a sex change.”

Nick reached into the paper bag and put a fifth of Jameson's Irish whiskey on the table. “Good for you,” he said.

“He's not kidding,” Shell said.

He reached into the bag again and got out a six-pack of Guinness. He opened two and handed me one. “I know,” he said.

“Listen,” Shell said. “Can you show me what you look like? As a woman? Or does it take, like, cranes and backhoes and shit?”

“I think I can give you a pretty good idea,” I said. “I'll be right back.”

I went into the bathroom and I took off my coat and my baggy overshirt and I let my hair loose and I put some earrings in my ears. I walked out of the bathroom and sat at the table again.

“Whoa,” Shell said.

Nick took a slug of the whiskey while Shell took a good hard look at me. Then she turned to her husband and said,“All right, Nick, let's have it. What do you think?”

“Of what?” Nick said.

Shell nodded at me. “Of the chick.”

He shrugged. “I don't know, what do you think?”

Shell smiled kindly. “Tell you the truth?” she said.
“I'd
fuck her.”

Part 3

September 1999 and September 2001: “Whatever it is,” Groucho sang, “I'm against it.”

“They Aren't Like Jellyfish at All”

June 2001

To my friends at Colby:

I would like to share some personal information with you. I am known, I suppose, for having a sense of humor, and admit that I once attempted to trick the entire Colby College faculty into calling the “1–800 Oscar Mayer Wiener-dog Hotline” (although Professor Brixton I believe was the only one who actually fell for this). As a result, some of you may think that the information I share with you herewith is a joke. It's not. And comprehending this, in fact, may take a large portion of patience, understanding, and compassion. You are likely, in fact, to need a long time to fully process it.

I am transgendered. Specifically, I am a male-to-female transsexual. I have had this condition for my entire life, since before kindergarten, since before language. It is certainly a condition I have had during all the years you have known me, and which has caused me an almost inexpressible degree of private grief.

I have been in therapy, off and on, for my condition, for many years. Since my return from Ireland in 1999, however, it's become clear to me that I cannot proceed with my life without finding union between my body and my spirit.

Fortunately, transsexuality can be treated, and most of those who embark upon the journey of “transition” do go on to live fulfilling and joyful lives. There is a well-established protocol for treating transsexuals that has been adopted by the American Psychiatric Association and other mental health care professionals. This protocol is known as the “Benjamin Standards of Care,” and it constitutes a rigorous set of procedures, ensuring that the patient is a proper and appropriate candidate for gender shift.

Carefully following the Benjamin Standards of Care, and under the care of a gender specialist, a clinical social worker, my family doctor, and an endocrinologist, I began taking the steps necessary to shift genders last year. This includes, among other things, a regimen of estrogen and antiandrogen therapy that has, over the last year, rendered my appearance and my body more feminine.

In June of 2001 I began a sabbatical. I will not be in the classroom for the next year, as my transition becomes complete. I am not scheduled to teach in the fall of 2002, but I do anticipate returning to Colby as Professor Jennifer Finney Boylan in the spring of 2003.

Some of you might not have a clear idea what “transgendered” means, and that's fine; this is not a subject most people are familiar with.
Transgendered
is the preferred term for the whole range of people with gender issues.
Transsexuals—
persons who feel that their body and spirit do not match—are a particular kind of transgendered person. At any rate, a transsexual is not a cross-dresser, for whom the issue is clothes. (“Transvestite” is now considered a pejorative term for “cross-dressers”; in any case, I am neither of these and would be grateful if you could appreciate this distinction.)

If you've read this far in this note, it's quite possible that you feel that the top of your head is about to blow off. Most of us have no personal experience with transsexuality, and lack even a basic language for talking about it. If you find this strange, or embarrassing, or even wonderful, you should know that your reaction is not atypical.

My wife, Grace, and my children, Luke and Patrick, have supported me throughout this process. Grace, in particular, has found in her heart a depth of love that is nothing short of heroic.

For what it's worth, most people's reaction to my news so far has been remarkable in its compassion and understanding. My sister-in-law, for instance, said, “I'm so glad it's only that you're a woman; I was afraid it was something serious.” My mother said, “Love will prevail,” and while considering the drama of the changes, also noted, “We will adjust.”

Colby's president, Bro Adams—as well as the dean of faculty and the dean of students—have all expressed their respect for the journey I am taking and have pledged that the college will support me in every way it can. I have also been moved by the support of our Affirmative Action/Equal Opportunity officer, Jean Fischman; the director of personnel services, Bob White; the director of creative writing, Debra Spark; and the chair of the English Department, Richard Redd. Given Colby's tradition of honoring diversity, I am confident that my transition at school will be relatively smooth, once the initial surprise dies out. I am eagerly looking forward to getting back to the classroom and to continue the business of being a good teacher, a good writer, and a good friend.

You might be wondering what you can or should do next. First, if you wish to learn more, you should know our library has an extensive collection of texts dealing with gender, culture, and transsexuality in particular. The best first book to read is
True Selves
by Chloe Rounsley and Mildred Brown; Eleanor Brubaker, at the reference desk, will be glad to suggest others to those interested in this subject.

Second, you should talk this over with those you love. I would like to assist you in any way I can, both in terms of helping you to understand gender shift as a whole, and also in order to reassure you that I am still me, and that the person you have known for all these years remains, and will remain, relatively unchanged.

Finally, speaking as an individual whose livelihood has come in part from her imagination, I want to say it's all right to have a sense of humor about this. While I would prefer not to be the object of cruel jokes, I do hope that we can all recognize that wit and humor are likely to be therapeutic tools for all of us in this time of transition.

In my classes on story structure and myth, I have often analyzed the journey of the classic heroine, as she moves through the stages in her adventure of “departure,” “initiation,” “return,” and “reign,” following the patterns described by Joseph Campbell and John Barth. The climax of these stories usually represents a kind of “moment of truth” for the heroine, when she must slay the dragon, conquer fear, and attain illumination.

To my students I have always noted that the journey of the mythic hero appeals to us because this paradigm tells our own stories as well. In the story of the mythic hero, we see the story of ourselves.

Which is to say that we all have dragons to slay in life. This one is mine. I hope that doing so will provide a model to others on how to find the bravery to be true to oneself, even if it means doing something that seems impossible.

My adventure in the coming months will require honesty and courage. I am hopeful that with your help and understanding, I will be able to complete it.

It has been a pleasure to work with, and for, you all over these last thirteen years. I look forward to continuing to serve as your colleague and your friend.

With best wishes,
Jenny Boylan

To: [email protected]
From: Jenny Boylan

Dear Russo,

I have been wondering if I was something of an idiot when I saw you last. Of course, I always wonder this the morning after drinking with you, and so I think perhaps that this is a sign that everything is normal.

Boylan

Dear Jenny,

Sarah M——, your former student, here saying hello from Portland, Maine.

I knew you as Jim, back in 1993, and boy did you rock my Colby world. I loved your style, your quirkiness, your gentleness, and your encouraging words to a young writer. I believe I had you for only one class but it imprinted on me. Thank you.

And now I just want to welcome Jenny. A friend of mine gave me the heads-up on your webpage and I found myself deeply touched. I cannot really explain why the emotions came out. Maybe something about witnessing that sort of courage and unabashed integrity. The trueness to yourself. Maybe, too,

remembering Jim the professor and knowing that you must have walked around carrying this heavy secret for so long . . . I feel that.

I am so glad that you have chosen to shed that secret, burst out of that chrysalis. Thank you, too, for being a role model, as Jim and now as Jenny. I am sure you will inspire many folks to dig deep and be true to themselves.

Many blessings to you.
Much love, peace, and grace,

Sarah

From: “Russo” To: “Jenny Boylan”

Dear Boylan,

No, you weren't an idiot when you were here last. In many respects it was a more difficult visit than most, in part due to Grace's absence. I'm slowly coming to terms with the way our relationship is changing, and I'm very aware of being less natural with you now, as Jenny, than I was before, as Jim. I miss our former ease and hope that one day we may find some variation on that former theme.

I dislike choosing my words carefully around my best friends, and one of the things I liked best about our old male friendship was that I could be more wide open with you than just about anyone. I hate to think of that ease being lost forever, but the loss seems inevitable for the short term. You're in a very raw and vulnerable place, and you seem to require more sympathy and support than honesty at present, which was why I offered a small portion of the latter very tentatively and then felt horrible about doing so afterward.

But I'm settling in for the long haul, because this period of transition involves not just what you're going through, but also Grace's transition into something different, and none of it's going to happen overnight or as the result of any one thing (including surgery, right?). And, as I think I mentioned to you early on, while the most important people in my life are all women, I have no “easy” friendships with women, which suggests that the biggest challenge to redefining our friendship is probably me.

But then my biggest problem has always been me.

Russo

From: Jenny Boylan To: Russo

Dear Russo:

That's funny,
my
biggest problem has always been you, too.

Boylan

Dear Boylan:

I think you'll be pleased to know that the general consensus is that you are still “the best damn teacher on campus.” Keep up the good work.

Noah Charney '02

Prof!

Don't take this the wrong way, but it takes a lot of balls to do what you're doing. Wow. Without knowing much about your life or life in general (at the tender age of 24), it sounds like it's going to be a bumpy road ahead for a while. But I have a feeling you'll get through it. If you wrote a book about this, it could be one way to educate people about what you and what must be many others are going through.

Anyway, stay out of trouble. And keep in touch.

John Bishop '99

From: “Russo”

To: “Jenny Boylan”

Boylan—

Jesus, I hate to be the bearer of bad tidings all the while, but I'm
not
your worst problem.

Russo

Jenny, You may or may not remember me, but you were my English professor during my first semester at Colby, in the fall of 1989. I just wanted to let you know that a classmate of mine recently forwarded me the link to your official website, that I read about your gender transition, and that I fully support you and the choices you have made.

You are one of the best teachers with whom I have had the good fortune to study, and I mark the beginning of my transition from an adolescent to an adult, intellectually speaking, with your class, in which I learned to read, write, and think at a new, higher level.

When I think about Colby College, I think about the positive experiences I had in your class, and I think warmly about you.

Best Regards,
Matt K——, Program Manager
Upper Chattahoochee Riverkeeper

Professor Boylan,

You are, by far, the most courageous person I have ever met. And I support your decision 100%, not that you were asking for anyone's approval anyhow. I visited your new webpage, and damn, girl, you look good! I hope you are enjoying a somewhat relaxing summer. Mine has been boring (only left San Francisco once to deliver the eulogy at my grandfather's memorial service), but I've been making lots of cash working as a nanny for a wonderful family that lives in my apartment building. I'm ready to return to Colby, though. I have to say I kind of miss Waterville in a very bizarre way.

My very best wishes,
Marley Orr, '04

P. S. What is your feeling on double majoring in English and psychology? My advisor hasn't been much of a help to me, and I welcome any input you might have.

From: Jenny Boylan To: Russo

Dear Russo:

Okay. Well, listen, Rick, I don't know if I'm any less natural with you now—but I know what you mean. Of course I would like to encourage you to continue to relate to me just as you always have, but maybe this is like encouraging you
not
to see me as a woman.

I think it is hard for me to be with people that I love for whom my transition is something other than a cause for unbridled celebration. I feel great these days, like somebody who just got out of prison after 40 years for something she didn't do, like I got pardoned by the governor. When dear friends deal with me with mixed emotions, it is a little like being told, “Well, Jenny, we're glad you got sprung, really, but quite honestly we did kind of like you better when you were in jail.”

And yet, nobody knows better than I do that the consequences of my dealing with being transgendered are not a cause for celebration, at least not for those who love me the most. This is just something I have to figure out how to live with. For me it means being patient, accepting a fair amount of ambivalence where there used to be none. And that's hard.

But I think it's part of the deal if I want to move forward. I'm sorry it's so hard. In a way my friends are the ones who are in transition now.