BALLS Page 7

  We picked a pub near the state house—close to the office, but not so close that we would run into anyone from work. It was chilly but we were prepared for the walk. Especially Beth, who was wearing the maroon winter coat Mandy and I dubbed “Old Faithful” because she wore it every day from November through March. We grabbed a table and the two of them sat across from me. Staring. Waiting.

  “Ah, I’m gonna need a drink for this so you’re gonna have to wait a bit longer.” They groaned, and as if on cue, the cocktail waitress showed up. I motioned for them to order (ladies first), then I ordered two vodka sodas. The waitress looked confused.

  “I’m thirsty,” I said.

  I downed the first drink and as soon as my empty glass hit the table, Mandy pounced.

  “Alright, spill it.”

  Beth was nodding at me with encouragement in her eyes, so I squeezed the lime into my second drink, took a deep breath, and told them how when I was five I told my grandmother I wasn’t a girl.

  “Yes!” they shouted. “We knew it!”

  I sat there dumbfounded while the two of them high-fived each other, congratulating themselves on their powers of deduction. Apparently they’d been having Nancy Drew sleuthing sessions for the past few months, and whatever clue I gave Mandy in my drunken stupor had led them down the right path.

  “At first we thought you were gay,” Beth said, “but that night when you said stuff like you wouldn’t wish it on your worst enemy, we knew it had to be more serious than that. We also wondered if you might have cancer. Thank God you’re okay.”

  They were so relieved everything was finally out in the open so they could be there for me. And so was I. I really wished I’d told them sooner. They ordered another round while I discussed moving away and my therapist’s suggestion that I stay in Boston and transition at Arnold. I assumed they’d be just as taken aback by that idea as I initially had been, and the frightened part of me hoped they’d try to talk me out of it.

  “Why wouldn’t you?” was their response. “Your family supports you, we support you, and so will everyone else. Everybody loves you, Kris. Why would you move away and deal with this all by yourself when you don’t have to?”

  It was like Bet was whispering in their ear. I half expected her to show up with their beers and a nice tall glass of “I told you so” for me, which I would’ve chugged down gladly. I had just received the confirmation I needed, and at that moment I made my decision: I was going to become a man in Boston, at Arnold. But not before I made it through my hit list, which, thanks to Bet’s guidance and a lot of practice, was getting shorter and shorter.

  ••

  “I told Mary and Sheila.”

  “What’d they say?” my parents asked eagerly in unison.

  Every Sunday I’d come home for dinner and list all the people I told that week, continually stunning my mom and dad with firsthand accounts of overwhelming acceptance and support.

  “Why are you so surprised?” Jill said to them. “Everyone loves Shtiny.”

  Jill appeared to be right. So far I had told over twenty of my “targets,” and while there were lots of blank faces, a few wide eyes, and one or two actual jaw drops, I had yet to receive any negative reactions. The key was scheduling the meetings a few days in advance and letting people know up front I had something serious to tell them. It gave them time to think about what it could possibly be and put them in the right frame of mind to hear this type of news. With each sit-down, I honed my technique, learning what worked and what didn’t so I could better set myself up for success. Each time was a little bit easier than the last. One-on-ones, group sessions, it didn’t matter where. I told my coworkers Mary and Sheila in my office with the door closed. I told my college friends and former rugby teammates in various locations: Hazel at her house, Diana in a booth at Friendly’s, Quigley at a Mexican restaurant, and Price and Fedin together at my North End apartment. I dropped the bomb on three of my closest high school friends over drinks at an outdoor bar in Faneuil Hall.

  Before I met with people, I had categorized them with a number from 1 to 3 (I’m not Type A; I’m Type A+). The number 1 meant “very likely to accept the news well,” and 3 was “not sure what they’ll do.” I was building up my confidence, knocking off the 1s first, then the 2s, and leaving the 3s for last. But while I was making major progress, I was also realizing that telling eighty-seven people personally was not only ambitious but also unrealistic (not to mention expensive when I was picking up the tab every time).

  So I started highlighting names that could be “second gens,” which meant it would be okay for them to hear the news from someone else I had told personally. This made what and how I told people even more important. If I wanted them to deliver my news to others in a knowledgeable, accurate, and sensitive manner, then I had to deliver it to them the same way. I encouraged friends and coworkers to ask questions, knowing I was probably the first person they’d ever met who was transgender and that the questions they had were likely the same questions others would have. I didn’t take it as an invasion of privacy, but rather an opportunity to educate and arm people with specific information I wanted them to know and share. I was open, honest, and ready with a joke to help make people more comfortable. When I asked a friend or coworker to tell someone else, I offered up my coaching services and had them practice on me—which was a very good idea!

  All my efforts were paying off. For the first time in years I dared to envision a future for myself. There were no more thoughts of suicide. Some days I even woke up happy! And what made me even happier, the more positive outcomes I relayed to my parents, the more I noticed a shift in their attitudes about my decision to undergo gender reassignment. Their biggest fear was that I’d lose all my friends, become a social outcast, and end up worse off than I already was. With exactly the opposite happening, they were feeling much better about the idea of me transitioning. Instead of simply accepting my decision, they began to embrace it. Especially my mom who, bolstered by courage, confidence, and a cordless phone, went on a full-blown “telling spree.” In one week after turning herself loose, she had told almost our entire extended family and by the week after that, Dad’s and her close friends. She’d call me every now and then asking for tips, like “Shtine, how did you start?” or “What term should I use instead of sex change?”

  On one of those calls I reminded her to refer to the article on gender dysphoria I’d given her.

  “Oh right,” she said. “Can you make me another copy of it? I sent mine to Gram.”

  “Gram knows?!”

  I was picturing my seventy-six-year-old grandmother in her pink St. John knit pantsuit with the black trim, jaw resting on the bows of her black patent leather Ferragamos.

  “Yes, I told her in Florida. She’s writing you a letter.”

  I thought back to the conversation Gram and I had when I was five and wondered if she remembered it. Since then we’d remained extremely close. She showed me how to swing a golf club, keep score at bowling, and play backgammon and card games like canasta and her favorite, Head & Foot. She babysat my sisters and me right up through high school, taught me how to drive, and even got me drunk for the first time. Granted I was twelve and it was from eating too much of her Peach Melba, but I passed out, so it still counts. She was on my hit list for sure, but I wasn’t ready to tell her yet (she was a 3). I just didn’t think someone from her generation would understand. Part of me was relieved Mom took care of it for me, but the bigger part of me was worried how Gram would treat me now that she knew.

  “Well?” I asked my mom. “What did she say when you told her?”

  “That it all made sense.”

  Gram’s letter arrived the following week. It was handwritten on off-white unlined paper—two pages front and back—and began, “My Darling Kris.” She wrote how sad she felt that I had been suffering inside all these years. She remembered that day I told her I was a boy and said that it all made sense to her now; the way I dressed, the toys I wan
ted for Christmas. I had always been “boyish” and she suspected I might be a “mannish lesbian.” She went on to express her worries about whether or not I would be able to pass as a man. She never actually used the term “pass” but described her concern by telling me about a hairdresser that worked at the beauty shop she went to. She said this woman was a lesbian who “dressed like a man in pants and blazers” but her body and features still made her look like a woman. She wondered if the hormones or even surgery would be able to make my body look masculine enough for people to see me as a man. “Will you still have smooth skin and a round butt like females do? This is what worries me, darling,” she wrote. “Will you be happy with the way you look? Will people accept you?” She ended by telling me that more than anything she wanted me to be happy.

  She signed it “All my love, Gram.”

  Gram’s fears were not unfounded. Mainstream society has a very binary view when it comes to how a man or woman should look. If people who are transgender can’t conform to that narrow view and “pass” as the gender they affirm, they are much more likely to experience discrimination and violence. This is where privilege plays a big role; having access to quality medical care and the money to pay for surgeries that help feminize or masculinize appearance is a big advantage. One I was very lucky to have.

  I stayed up late writing back to her, belaboring every word. I answered her concerns with assurances that I would be able to pass as a man, adding that just the other day a carful of girls honked and whistled at me while I was crossing the street. (I had on a baseball cap and bulky jacket.) I told her that the hormones would alter my facial features and redistribute my body fat and that surgery would hopefully take care of the rest, but that no matter how I looked I would be happier than I am now, because it couldn’t get any worse. I wrote how accepting my friends had been so far and how truly lucky I felt to have such a loving and supportive family. I ended by telling her how much I loved her and that I hoped the closeness of our relationship wouldn’t change, even if I did.

  When Gram came home from Florida at the end of April, I was nervous to see her. But when I walked into my parents’ kitchen for Sunday dinner there she was, the same smile and outstretched arms embracing me with the same love as before.

  Gram’s acceptance gave me the courage to knock another “3” off my list—my roommate, Jim. Because of our history, I wasn’t sure how he would take the news. Would he be disgusted at having had romantic feelings for me? Would he be embarrassed when word got out to mutual friends who’d known how he’d felt about me years ago? He was recently engaged and planning to move in with his fiancée in a few months anyway. I figured if he was repulsed by me, he could always move out sooner. So I told him I had something important I needed to talk to him about, and we set up a night to both be home at the apartment. Jim sat there on the couch waiting patiently for me to come out with it, and after I did, he couldn’t understand why I was so afraid to tell him.

  “What did you think I was going to say?” he asked gently.

  “I wasn’t sure. You used to have feelings for me and I didn’t know how this would affect you . . . I was nervous you wouldn’t want to be friends anymore.”

  Jim gave me a hug. “You’re still the same person.”

  That might be, but as I’d later discover, it didn’t get me an invitation to his wedding.

  “I’m really sorry,” he confessed during a game of eight-ball. “I wanted to invite you, but then I was thinking how you knew my whole family and most of my friends and they knew how I’d felt about you and I . . . I just chickened out.”

  That stung.

  “Jim, I totally understand, but I gotta tell you that hurts. We’ve been close friends for five years, roommates for two. I never expected I wouldn’t get an invitation.”

  He looked down at the pool table.

  “Just so you know, had I gotten one, my plan was to gracefully decline for all the reasons you just said. I would never want to make you feel uncomfortable at your own wedding—I would’ve been uncomfortable too. I appreciate your honesty. I just wish it had come sooner so we could’ve talked it through together.”

  “You’re right,” he said, “I’m really sorry.”

  I could tell Jim felt horrible about it and I couldn’t hold it against him; he was a good guy. There was no protocol for a situation like this. I could’ve brought it up first and told him not to invite me. It wasn’t fair to put it all on him. So I accepted his apology and made my forgiveness contingent on him buying the next round of beers.

  We left on great terms that night, but we never really hung out again. I sometimes wonder if we’d still be friends had I not changed my gender. Maybe we would’ve naturally grown apart; he was getting married, moving to the suburbs, and starting a family. Still, when people ask me if I lost any friends because of my transition, my response is “Yes, just one.”

  OPERATION: EVANGELISTS

  May 1995

  “Wow, Kris, you’re really making progress,” Bet said, looking over my hit list, now half-covered in cross-outs and color-coded highlighting. “Who are the people you have left here?”

  “Ah, those are mostly people I work with. Coworkers, bosses.”

  “Hmmm . . .”

  Oh no, here it comes.

  “I think it’s time we start talking about your plan for coming out at the agency.”

  I knew it.

  “So,” I asked, “have you ever had a patient transition like this, you know, publicly at a large company?” (With the Volkswagen win, Arnold’s Boston office was now up to five hundred employees.)

  “No.”

  Great.

  “But, with the right strategy,” she added, “you’ll get through this successfully. You’ve already demonstrated you can handle it.”

  “Uh-huh. So how does one go about this process? Who do I tell first to make it official? The head of HR?”

  “You could. That’s probably what some people do. But you’re in a unique position. Your father is the head of the company. Let’s use that to your advantage.”

  Okay, now I was confused. When it came to going public, I never saw that as an advantage—more as a humiliation for my dad and an additional reason for people to talk. I wasn’t just some random female employee about to become a man. I was the owner/CEO’s daughter. Advantage? That’s a good one.

  “How can this be an advantage?”

  “Well,” Bet said, “there must be an executive board, right?”

  I nodded slowly, not liking where this was going.

  “And your father could get you into one of those meetings.”

  Yup, this woman has lost her mind.

  “You want me to make an announcement to the executive board?!” I laughed, shaking my head in disbelief. Hello, twelve conservative men I’ve said no more than two words to in the hallway. Let me share my most intimate feelings with you and tell you all about my how my body parts don’t match my gender . . .

  “Just hear me out here. You know people are going to talk, and it will reflect better on you and your dad if the board hears about this directly from you and not the gossip mill. Better it come from the top and trickle down.”

  Again, I shook my head. This ordeal was going to be hard enough without the added stress of a boardroom coming-out party. That being said, she did have a point. Shit.

  “Okay, so I tell the board. And assuming none of them croaks at the conference table, then what? They call an agency meeting?”

  “Well, maybe they send out a memo.”

  “A MEMO? I don’t think so.”

  “Well, you could tell them what you’d like them to do. How would you have them handle it?”

  As I mulled this over on my way back to work, it hit me: I wouldn’t have them handle it at all.

  At the time, the latest trend in advertising was evangelism marketing (today it’s called word-of-mouth marketing, or WOMM). The idea at its core is basically getting people who love your brand to actively recommend
it to others. Our goal at Arnold was to turn consumers into brand evangelists for our clients. So I figured, why not turn my coworkers into brand evangelists for me? I had already done this on a targeted scale when I enlisted friends to tell the “second gens” on my hit list. So I knew it could work. I would tell a core group of coworkers my story personally, coach them on how to pass it on, and then immediately after the executive board meeting, give them the green light to start spreading the word throughout the agency.

  I ran my idea by Beth and Mandy. They thought it was brilliant and were honored to be my first two evangelists. They gave me feedback on what had struck a chord with them and what they found confusing to better help me fine-tune my story. I jotted down some notes and made a list of ten more coworkers I considered part of my Arnold inner circle (some of whom, like Mary and Sheila, were on my hit list and had been told already). With my strategy now mapped out, I decided to pay Dad a visit at home for an impromptu Wednesday-night dinner. This couldn’t wait until Sunday.

  He stared at me with sympathy—sympathy mixed with the pride a father feels when his child is about to undertake something dauntingly noble.

  “You want to tell the executive board?”

  He sounded somewhat pained. I told him my plan, adding that it had been endorsed by Bet to give it some psychiatric cred. He listened intently and then nodded his agreement. “I’ll tell them.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll tell the board. You have enough on your plate already.”

  “Are you sure, Dad?

  “Yes. Let me do this for you.”

  I could tell he really needed to. It was an opportunity for him to take some of the weight off my shoulders—something any parent would want to do for their child—and frankly, I was happy to have the out. It was a win-win.