BALLS Page 14

  More importantly, thanks to her handiwork, I could now take my shirt off at the beach or pool just like any other guy. I’d had two more minor procedures, and my chest was looking pretty good. But did it look good enough to go shirtless in front of hundreds of coworkers? I debated while sitting at the poolside bar at Arnold’s annual summer outing. This year, in addition to having a flat chest, I was thirty pounds lighter with nearly two years of testosterone injections under my belt and a fresh back wax. I scanned the pool deck to see how all the other guys were handling the ninety-degree heat: fifty-fifty shirts and skins, so there was no pressure. Besides, my going shirtless could never trump the infamous Speedo incident of ’95. Still, I wasn’t ready.

  After a few more drinks and extensive cloud coverage, a group of us creatives decided to blow off the pool and enter the volleyball tournament where somehow, despite the pouring rain and alcohol impairment, we ended up advancing to the finals. Even with major downpours, a large crowd gathered to watch. Trash talk between the teams was out of control, and with bragging rights at stake, the game got serious. Guys began stripping off their rain-soaked t-shirts and the competitive side of me contemplated ditching mine too, as it was impeding my performance.

  We were down by two and it was my turn to serve. I looked around. Most of the guys without shirts were on the “full-figured” side. This was definitely not the beach volleyball scene from Top Gun. Not even close.

  Fuck it.

  I pulled my sopping wet t-shirt over my head and flung it aside. If nothing else, it would be a good distraction technique. Whether it was or it wasn’t, I don’t know, but when I was done serving we were up by two. And for me, more memorable than the championship win was the team photo in which I proudly posed shirtless as a man for the very first time.

  It was a keeper. A true representation of who I am; who I was meant to be. From that point on, I could no longer bear to look at any past photos of myself as a girl. They represented a person I felt no connection with anymore and reminded me of a painful, inauthentic time in my life when I just couldn’t bear to live as I was. It’s why you won’t find any such “before photos” in this book. Because for those of us who’ve transitioned, it’s not about the pain of who we were then. It’s about the joy of who we are now.

  PLEASE ALLOW ME TO REINTRODUCE MYSELF

  1996–1997

  I displayed that volleyball team photo proudly on my desk just below the college diploma bearing my new name and wondered what my sorority sisters would think if they saw it. Oh wait, did I not mention I was in a sorority? Yeah . . . so that happened. I had no intention of joining one when I arrived at Colgate, but I soon discovered that the Greek system was the epicenter of campus social life, mainly because back then there was nothing else to do in the two-and-a-half-square-mile village of Hamilton, New York. (The cultural highlight of my four years was the grand opening of the Grand Union supermarket.) If I wanted to be invited to all the major social events and party it up before D-Day like I’d planned, I had to suck it up. So I chose the sorority with the funnest, most down-to-earth members, and since I was rushing as a sophomore and two of my roommates were already in, I easily went from pledge to member. I can’t say I regret it. I got to know lots of great people I might never have met otherwise—like Marianne, a member of my pledge class.

  Marianne and I were peripheral friends at Colgate. We lost touch after graduation, but when I started at Arnold, she happened to be working in the PR department and was very kind to me during my transition.

  One day she called to tell me that our “sister” Brooke was in town and demanded my presence at dinner. Brooke was a riot. She came from Dallas and was the first person I’d ever heard say “y’all” as part of everyday speech. I’d lost touch with her after graduation too, so before committing to dinner, I asked Marianne if Brooke “knew.” She said yes and to meet them at the Blue Cat on Mass Ave.

  Brooke looked exactly the same as she did in college: cute with stick-straight dirty-blonde hair cut in a bob just above the shoulders. I, of course, did not look the same. And when I approached the table, she looked right at me, then turned away and kept talking to Marianne, who smiled at me knowingly.

  “Is this seat taken?” I asked pointing to the empty chair.

  “Ah, yeah,” Brooke said, and then I saw the glint of recognition in her eyes. “Oh my god, CHRIS!” She jumped up and hugged me. “You look great! I love your tie.”

  “Thanks, I just came from a client meeting.”

  “Well, you have some catching up to do.”

  “I know! I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “No, I meant with the drinking. I’m already on my second martini.”

  Brooke and I filled each other in on the last few years while Marianne listened patiently. Dinner ended up being appetizers and drinks and more drinks. And then came the ambush.

  “So Chris, Marianne says there’s a Colgate Alumni event at a bar right near here . . .”

  “The Last Drop,” Marianne clarified.

  I narrowed my eyes at both of them.

  “We thought we’d go check it out,” Brooke said.

  “Well, have fun!” I said.

  Then the tag-team began, each of them taking turns telling me how great I looked, that I should totally go, who cares what other people think, and blah blah blah. I explained this had nothing to do with my transition or my confidence. The reason I refused to go to these local alumni events was because of the group of people who organized and attended them. I had gone to one with Hazel the year after we graduated, and we were both turned off by the same pretentious, judgmental snobs we avoided in college.

  “We don’t have to stay long. I just wanna see who’s there,” Brooke begged.

  “I just told you who’s there.”

  I don’t know if it was the alcohol or Brooke’s “Pleeeeeeease, I came all the way from Texas” that finally got me, but I reluctantly agreed and the three of us headed off to the Last Drop—one of my favorite spots, thanks to its jukebox and dartboards. It was located on the bottom floor of a brownstone, so the space was extremely narrow. The bar was on the left and on the right was a long ledge just wide enough to rest a drink on. On an average night, people lined both sides, leaving just barely enough room to squeeze through to the restrooms, dartboards, and tables in the back. This particular night was no different, except that almost every person lining the walls was a former classmate, each of whom stopped talking and stared directly at me as I made my way to the bar. The only thing missing was the record skip sound effect. I’m talking blatant, up-and-down, full-on staring. No hello, no nothing.

  I wasn’t the least bit surprised, but Marianne and Brooke were appalled. “What assholes,” Brooke said when we finally made it up to the bar. While Marianne quietly apologized for talking me into coming, Brooke addressed the jerks closest to us.

  “What’re y’all lookin’ at?”

  “Let’s go,” Marianne said. “We don’t have to stay.”

  “Oh, we’re stayin’,” I said, “and you two are buyin’.” I was not about to give this group the satisfaction of driving me out. The Last Drop was my turf. I told Marianne and Brooke the only thing that bothered me was that by showing up, I’d given them all something to talk about.

  “I’ll give them something to talk about,” Brooke said, and then kissed me.

  Full on the lips.

  I don’t know who was more stunned: Marianne, our former classmates, or me. What I did know is I suddenly felt very comfortable at that bar. Brooke’s kiss, while clearly a joke between us, gave me street cred; I was just as much a guy as any of the biological males there. While I’ll admit the whole experience rattled me a bit, I was now one hundred percent confident I could walk into any event and face people from my past, whether they accepted me or not. Okay, maybe eighty percent.

  ••

  My newfound confidence would soon be tested at the wedding of one of my former college rugby teammates. Despite what y
ou might picture, the Colgate women’s rugby team was not a bunch of big, burly lesbians. The women came in all different shapes, sizes, and degrees of hotness. Some were gay, some were straight, and come to find out, one of us was even a guy! But we all shared in camaraderie and tradition—mainly around drinking. Rugby was a club sport, which meant practices were held only three times a week. Friday’s practice was “Pub Practice,” which consisted of jogging to the off-campus apartment where a keg was waiting (usually having been picked up and delivered by me in order to get out of the jogging). There we’d practice singing and chugging in preparation for the next morning’s game. Our team philosophy was that winning the game was less important than winning the after-party, and our reputation for out-singing and out-chugging our opponents was widely known throughout the Upstate NY/Western MA rugby circuit.

  Most players were called either by their last name (e.g., Price, Fedin) or a nickname given to them by an elder member. There were some classics—Shiner, Hippie, Pinko, Crash, Thud, Skippy—and last but not least, Swede, who was the one getting married and reuniting the gang, most of whom would be seeing me for the first time as a guy. And having gone through a mastectomy and almost two years of testosterone injections, the change in my appearance at this wedding, unlike my cousin’s, would be a lot more dramatic. It might be awkward at first, but they would accept me. I was sure of it . . . kind of.

  I made the two-hour drive alone that Sunday but had planned to meet up with Price and Fedin beforehand to avoid having to walk into the church by myself. Instead, I got lost and missed my window of opportunity. Luckily the testosterone had yet to override the female part of my brain that has no qualms about asking for directions so I made it to the church just in time to see Swede make her grand entrance. As she headed down the aisle, I quietly slipped into the back and scanned the pews for any of my former teammates. No luck. The place was packed and everyone was facing front. The only way I’d be able to ID any of them now would be by the familiar maroon jacket that said “Colgate Rugby” on the back, and I highly doubted any of them would be wearing one of those. Well, maybe Keeler.

  I sat in the back row by myself, which made me feel all the more self-conscious until I looked across the aisle and saw a pretty girl smiling at me. It was Thud—or was it Crash? I could never remember who was who, and having not seen either of them in four years only made it more challenging. I smiled back and mouthed, “I got lost.” She mouthed back, “We did too.” Then Crash (or was it Thud?) leaned in and waved.

  Well, the good news was they recognized me. The better news was when we met up at the bar at the reception it was as though we were all back at The Jug, minus the crappy beer and all the pushing and shoving. The fact that I was now a different gender didn’t seem to matter to anyone. Some even considered it an advantage to have a dance partner at the ready. According to Siedsma, who in her “ho-bag heels” had at least eight inches on me, our performance to “Dancing Queen” was “epic.” Not sure what everyone else thought of it, but it did catch the eye of one particular girl at the wedding. She was just my type: short, cute, and blonde with glasses that screamed, “I’m smart but I also know how to have fun.” We danced into the night and I’m truly convinced we could’ve had a future together, had she not been five years old.

  ••

  Swede’s wedding was a success, but I had an even bigger test coming: my ten-year high school reunion. Most reasons people are insecure about attending such an event involve weight gain, hair loss, or lack of impressive career stats—not a gender change. Still, I had a common dilemma: What to wear? Standing in front of my closet, I cursed myself for letting my four best friends talk me into going. They were all girls and the only Waylandites I still hung out with. Back in 1987 we were known as the “Fab Five”—well, at least that’s what we called ourselves. “Mare” (Most Class Spirit) and “Schu” (Kindest Heart) were class president and vice president, so it was their responsibility to plan the reunion and make sure the other three-fifths of us attended. “Meek” (Cutest) and “Mel” (Best Looking) were in from the beginning. Getting me (Most Likely to Get an Ulcer), to go took a lot more convincing. I held out right up until the week before the event when Schu said something during her final plea: “Everybody knows, P-Head. They’re going to ask me how you are and probably where you are. What do you want me to tell them?”

  It was then that I realized no matter how Schu answered that question, everyone was just going to assume I didn’t show up because I didn’t have the balls. And while that might have literally been true (that surgery was still a few years away), figuratively I had developed quite a set of cojones. I was not about to let people think I was ashamed or embarrassed about myself. I was going.

  But I was going to get really drunk first.

  After settling on gray flannel pants and a black cashmere sweater, I walked over to Schu’s North End apartment, where the Fab Five plus one husband and one boyfriend were gathering for pre-party beverages. I entered to cheers, hugs, and a shot glass filled with tequila—the latter of which only made my stomach feel worse.

  Meek put her arm around my shoulder. “Are you ready for this, P-Head?”

  “I will be after a few more drinks.”

  On the way to the event I reminded everyone of the four rules:

  1. No one was to leave me alone with anyone for the first hour.

  2. After that, if I was ever spotted talking to a class member by myself for more than ten minutes, someone had to come in for the save.

  3. To avoid any awkward men’s room situations, a Fab Five husband or boyfriend was to accompany me whenever I needed to go.

  4. I was to have a full vodka soda in my hand at all times.

  The reunion took place in the lounge area of Michael’s Restaurant and Bar on Commercial Street. It was a big open space that had a pool table in the back and a huge, well-staffed, and well-stocked bar. To get to this section, you had to pass through the restaurant and go up a few steps, which we were all about to do when I heard a voice from a nearby table call my name. I turned to find an Arnold employee getting up from her chair and heading toward me. I turned back and my drunk-ass friends had all moved on to the party without me.

  Shit! We’d been there thirty seconds and all of them had already broken rule #1.

  After about two minutes of small talk, I informed my coworker that my high school reunion was going on in the next room and I needed to go make an appearance. She looked at me with sympathy, commented on my bravery, and wished me luck. I took a deep breath and headed up the short flight of three stairs. There at the top stood a tall, slim, good-looking guy with a receding hairline and a warm smile.

  “Chris?”

  “Yessss,” I said slowly, buying myself time to determine which former classmate this was.

  “Mike,” he helped.

  “Oh my god, Mike Ball!” I shouted, proud of myself for remembering his last name. He was one of the nicest guys in our class.

  “Yes!” he said, and in lieu of the hug he would’ve given me as “Kris,” he appropriately stuck his hand out. I shook it, and relied on my sense of humor to break the ice.

  “If anything, I thought people would have trouble recognizing me.”

  Mike laughed and said he’d heard the news a while ago, adding that he was proud of me for both doing what I needed to do to be happy and having the guts to come to the reunion. I asked him for an update on his life, and mid-synopsis, Meek showed up with my vodka soda and joined in the conversation. Rules #1 and #4: check.

  I don’t think I left that spot for a good hour. Once people got wind I was there they sought me out, girls giving me hugs and saying how great I looked, guys shaking hands and for the most part treating me no differently than they would’ve before. Throughout the night, I chatted with dozens of classmates I hadn’t seen in years. And while my prom date was a no-show, I did run into the guy I had my first kiss with at the eighth-grade dance. He came right up and said hello and how great it was to
see me. I wondered if he had mistaken me for somebody else until he used my name when introducing me to his wife.

  Honestly, I could not believe how mature everyone was. When mentally preparing myself for this event, I’d made the mistake of thinking my classmates would react to me like high school kids, not twenty-eight-year-old adults with jobs, spouses, and families. This thought was quickly interrupted by, “Hey Chris, I forgot how short you were!”

  And I forgot how obnoxious you were.

  That said, with the initial meet-and-greets done and the alcohol fully kicked in, I was having a grand old time. I have a hazy recollection of talking the Stanton twins’ ears off and shooing Meek away when she innocently tried to enact the save rule. “I’m not going anywhere,” I slurred, “I’m talking to Cheryl and Daryl.” Little did I know Meek was trying to save them, not me.

  In the end, my fellow Fab Fivers had to drag me out of there.

  The next day, at Sunday dinner, my family was dying to hear how it went.

  “It was really fun,” I said washing down two Advil with a glass of ice water. “Everybody was really cool about it.”

  Mom cut to the chase, “Well, what did you say when you walked in?”

  “I said, ‘You should’ve voted me Most Likely to Get a Sex Change.’”

  BUSINESS OR PLEASURE?

  Spring 1996

  In the middle of all my social “debuts,” I also made my first official dating debut. I was more comfortable in my body than I had ever been and decided it was time to put myself out there. Truth be told, I had some extra motivation: Jess. She was calling a lot more now that her boyfriend and the hardest years of law school were both behind her. She might have lived hundreds of miles away in Chicago, but it felt like we were getting closer. I saw my opening and I took it.