BALLS Read online

  Then I was in the zone. I spoke about how I’d been going through something extremely difficult. That as far back as I could remember I’d always known I was different. Felt different. I recounted the conversation I’d had with my grandmother when I was five, and that’s when I noticed expressions start to change; pieces were being put together. Some of the men could no longer make eye contact with me and seemed to find their half-filled china coffee cups suddenly very interesting. The rest just appeared uncomfortable, probably wondering why I was sharing such personal details with them in the first place. But I kept going, knowing that Beth, Mandy, and a pitcher of margaritas were waiting for me. When I got to the part about wanting to kill myself after graduation, one of the men looked from me to my father with such heartbreak that I thought I saw his eyes well up, but I couldn’t be sure because his glasses were so thick.

  I explained I’d been diagnosed with gender dysphoria, which meant I had the thoughts, feelings, and emotions of a man but the body of a woman and gave them my patented looking-in-the-mirror anecdote. I told them there’s no definitive answer as to why this happens to people—that many doctors believe, as do I, that it’s biological and has to do with exposure to hormone levels in the womb that in turn affect brain chemistry. That diagnoses are conservatively estimated to be one in fifty thousand, but there’s no way to really know for sure.3 Finally, I told them that for many people, changing their gender via surgery is the only course of action that will bring happiness, and with the support of my family and friends that was the option I would be pursuing.

  I paused to let that sink in. After an awkward silence, I invited them to ask questions: “I understand that I’m probably the only person you’ve ever met who is going through this, let alone talking about it publicly, so I’m very open to answering any questions. And if you share my story with anyone else, please reiterate that offer as well. I’d rather people get accurate information from me directly than gossip and spread misinformation.”

  After an even longer awkward silence, Blue Blazer spoke up. “I have a question, Kris: What can we do to help make this process easier for you?”

  Wow. That was way more than I thought I was going to get. I smiled and allowed myself to breathe for the first time after my fifteen-minute monologue.

  Dad chimed in to help steer the conversation, “Kris, why don’t you tell them a bit about the next stage in the process and what steps you’re planning to take.”

  “Okay, sure. Well, surgery happens over a few years and not right away. The first thing I’ll be doing is what they call ‘transitioning,’ which means essentially living full-time as a man. I’ll still go by ‘Kris,’ but I’ll be spelling it with a C-h instead of a K, and asking people to use male pronouns. I’ll be starting to dress and look more decidedly masculine, begin taking hormones, and you know, using the men’s room.”

  And that’s when, as the expression goes, shit got real.

  Gasping, murmuring, eyes darting all around.

  I couldn’t believe it. After everything I’d said, my using the men’s room was the thing that freaked them all out? There were eight men’s rooms at the agency, one on every floor. Chances of any of these men bumping into me were slim to none since none of them worked on fourteen, which is where I’d be going most of the time.

  “We should send out a memo,” someone suggested.

  And with that, my dad officially snapped.

  “WE’RE NOT SENDING OUT A MEMO!”

  I put my hand on his arm and calmly addressed the group. “You won’t need to send out a memo. I have twelve of my closest Arnold friends waiting in the wings. They know once this meeting ends to begin spreading the word. Trust me, come this time tomorrow, the entire advertising community will know. Also, I don’t plan to use the men’s rooms or the ladies’ rooms at the agency for the next two weeks, just to give everyone enough time to let this sink in. I’ll be using the unisex bathroom around the corner at Rebecca’s Cafe. Believe me, I’ve thought this through.”

  Before anyone could say anything else, Dad stood up and announced that I would be leaving now and walked me to the door. I wasn’t expecting him to follow me out, but he did; and as soon as he closed the door behind us, I lost my composure and completely broke down. My father hugged me and told me how proud he was of me. I was so physically and emotionally drained, his embrace was the only thing holding me up. Marilyn joined in to form a hug teepee, and now all three of us were crying. As we parted ways, Dad asked me to call him later but I told him I would most likely be drunk, so I would talk to him tomorrow.

  The margaritas couldn’t come fast enough. Neither could the elevator. I was anxious to get the hell out of the building without seeing anybody and pressed the down button at least twenty times before it finally showed up, thankfully with no one else inside. I knew I was safe once those doors closed, because from my dad’s floor it was express to the lobby. What I didn’t know was that while I made my escape to Mandy’s apartment, Dad was back in front of the board laying out his expectations that they be supportive, be respectful, and not discuss this with the press under any circumstances. The press still found out—this was big news—and a few reporters did contact my dad directly. But they respected his request to keep it out of the papers and trade pubs. Mainly because they respected him and the way he treated them.

  Respect. That’s what made a difference for my father in that room and throughout his career. And it’s what made a difference for me before, during, and after my transition. I respected how it would feel to hear the news, not just tell it. It all comes back to what Bet taught me: that the way I acted would dictate how other people reacted. I now knew intuitively that making others feel comfortable and having the patience to help them understand was the best way for me to get through this transition successfully—even if that meant for the next two weeks I’d have to take an elevator down fourteen floors and walk a quarter mile to pee.

  3 For transgender estimates, see: https://ow.ly/10DKkz.

  THE MORNING AFTER

  June 28, 1995

  When I woke up the next morning, the only bad taste in my mouth was from the tequila. I was proud of the way I’d handled things and had I been given a do-over, I wouldn’t have changed a thing. Still, I was dreading going into work and facing everyone. I considered staying home, but knew if I did that, people would think I was ashamed. Nope. I was walking into the agency with my head held high . . . at 8:30 in the morning when no one on my floor would be in yet.

  I sat at my desk, staring at the computer but seeing nothing. A little after nine, I began to hear signs of life out in the halls. Here we go.

  At 9:25 my first visitor arrived: a flamboyantly gay PR director in his late thirties and a sexual harassment suit waiting to happen. His favorite pastimes were making straight guys squirm and straight girls question what they wore to work that day. Of all people. I wasn’t ready for his brand of sarcasm but braced myself for it as he entered my office. And then I noticed the tears in his eyes. “Stand up and give me a hug,” he demanded in his usual bossy tone. “You are so brave. I’m so proud of you.”

  No jokes, no insults. I was stunned.

  A few minutes later the art director I partnered with popped his head in my doorway. He was one of the people I confided in and was always quick with a joke to keep things light. Today was no exception.

  “Morning, Kris . . . or should I say Chris.”

  “Good one, Martin. How long you been sittin’ on that gem?”

  “I thought of it on the train this morning. How’d it go yesterday?”

  Before I could answer him, the head of print production showed up looking rushed, frazzled, and all business, per usual.

  “I just talked to Mary and Sheila,” she said cheerfully. “When you’re ready, let me know how you want your name on your new business cards.”

  Wow.

  It was like this all day. Account directors on pieces of business I worked on came by to offer their support and discus
s how I wanted to handle informing clients. Coworkers swung by to let me know, in their own way, they were cool with my decision, in awe of my guts, or to just wish me the best. I got lots of hugs and a few handwritten notes. One of my buddies in the art studio gave me a bar mitzvah card. It said, “Congratulations, today you are a man” and on the inside he customized it to include guy tips—like always look straight ahead at the urinal. What is it with the bathroom?

  Now I don’t mean to imply that everybody who heard the news made a point to acknowledge it with me. Most people simply continued to treat me as they had before. Which was really all I wanted.

  Word spread through the agency in all sorts of ways. The head of broadcast called her whole department together to put a stop to any gossip before it started. She set the tone by saying I’d come to a life-changing decision and that everyone in my family was behind me including my father, adding, “Ron and I are also behind Chris, so nobody better fuck with him.” When she asked if there were any questions, the first one out of the gate was, “Are we all going to be on Oprah, and if so, what should we wear?”

  Of course, there were reactions that were not exactly positive—mostly from people who didn’t work with me directly or know me that well. But there were really only a handful of incidents I knew about and thankfully none were to my face. An account director known for his excessive brownnosing stopped by my dad’s office to say he was “sorry to hear the news” about me and felt “even sorrier” for my dad. Dad told him there was nothing to be sorry about and asked him to leave. One of the group heads on a major account I didn’t even work on called an “emergency” team meeting to discuss the “situation.” Luckily, one of my evangelists was also a leader on the account and set him straight in front of everyone in the room.

  My marketing strategy was working; my “brand” was being promoted and defended from all sides.

  But not everyone could be converted. One of my most passionate evangelists told a group of female creatives who were gossiping about me how difficult my life had been and how brave she thought I was for doing this. One of the women brushed it off with, “Well, it’s a lot easier when your father owns the company.”

  Really? You try it.

  In light of all I’d been through and what was still to come, the comment really bothered me. Honestly, though, if that was the worst of it, that was pretty damned good. I’m sure there was more talk I didn’t know about, but what I didn’t know couldn’t hurt me, so I refused to think about it. I made it through my first day at Arnold as Chris and walked out with my head held higher than when I walked in—and this time made sure it was at a time when there were plenty of people around to see me do it.

  Was I fortunate to work at a progressive ad agency in liberal Boston, capital of one of the bluest blue states, and not for a more conservative corporation like, say, Procter & Gamble in Ohio? Absolutely. And did it help that my father was the CEO? You bet your ass. As much as that creative’s dismissive response bothered me, she did have a point: Ninety percent of transgender employees are harassed, mistreated, or discriminated against at work, and more than a quarter said they were fired because of their transition.4 Having job protection definitely helped, but did not make it “easy.” My coworkers had the same negative frame of reference my family and friends had with those shocking movie and talk-show depictions of transgender people. I still had to change perceptions, and as anyone who works in advertising will tell you, that is the furthest thing from easy.

  My strategy was to be myself through it all. Show everyone that while my gender might be changing, the essence of me wasn’t: I was still “Me,” just “Me 2.0.” And one thing everyone loved about me was my sense of humor. Remembering Bet’s advice about how I had the power to control the way people reacted, I took every opportunity where appropriate to make light of my situation and put people at ease. It was my way of letting them know my transition was a topic open for discussion, and that they didn’t have to avoid me for fear of saying the wrong thing.

  The first time I joked about my gender change was like an involuntary reaction. I was walking down the hall past the agency’s editing suite just as the head of AV held up an adapter cord and said to her intern, “This is a female to male.” The timing was too perfect. I popped my head inside the doorway and said, “Hey, stop talking about me!” Then there was my joke about bringing a whole new meaning to the term “summer outing.” Lay-up. And when coworkers asked if I would talk to Big Ed about extending the open bar at the summer outing, I said, “Look guys, I’ve got more important things to worry about—like which bathroom I’m gonna use.”

  I was only half kidding, actually.

  Peeing had become extremely inconvenient. I had promised the executive board I would wait two weeks before using the men’s room to give people time to adjust to the idea of me being in there, but I couldn’t use the ladies’ room either. So every time I had to go, I took the fourteenth-floor elevator down to the lobby, headed out the back entrance, and walked two blocks to Rebecca’s Café, where there was a one-person unisex bathroom. Initially I felt obligated to buy something each time, but seeing that my bladder was the size of a grape, I realized I’d go broke. So I limited my fluid intake, which cut my bathroom trips down to three a day.

  After the two weeks were up, I headed to the men’s room on my floor and . . . walked right past it after seeing two guys already on their way in. I guess the board had a point: If I wasn’t ready to be in there with my male coworkers, why should they be ready for me?

  I made a lap around the floor and killed a few minutes. When I approached the men’s room door again, the coast was clear and thankfully, once inside, I had the place to myself. Looking around, I couldn’t figure out what all the fuss was about. It was a lot smaller than the ladies’ room, and because of the urinals there was space for only two stalls. I chose one of them and closed the door behind me. As soon as I flushed the toilet, I heard the bathroom door open and two male voices in mid-conversation. Then came the sound of unzipping and inevitably, peeing.

  I froze. Do I stay in the stall and wait them out? They probably heard the flush, so that might be weird—weirder than seeing me emerge from the stall, anyway. Nope, I’ll just go out there and act like it’s no big deal. That’s what a guy would do. I opened the door and took a step out toward the sinks.

  I could tell who the guys were just by looking at their backs; I knew them but wasn’t really friends with them. Remembering that bar mitzvah card about urinal etiquette, I didn’t expect either of them to take their eyes off the wall they were facing, but one of them turned his head to see who the surprise guest was and, upon discovering it was me, immediately fell silent. This caused the other guy to look in my direction and then suddenly they both stopped talking and followed urinal etiquette to the letter. Now the only sound in the men’s room was the running water from the sink I was using. I literally scared the piss out of them—or into them; they held the rest of their pee until I left. Whatever. I had christened the fourteenth-floor men’s room and was brimming with confidence—until the next time I went in that day.

  It was just before noon, and I hadn’t yet learned that was the worst time to go to the men’s room if you’re looking for some privacy. I had just gotten out of a meeting and had been holding my pee for the better part of an hour. I burst through the door about to burst myself and, as it swung closed behind me, stopped dead in my tracks: Both urinals were taken with one guy waiting for his turn; both sinks were being used; and a big pair of feet, pants draped around the ankles, was visible beneath the first stall. Luckily, the door to the other stall was ajar, signaling it was free. I was flustered but refused to let it show. I wanted to prove to everyone that I was as comfortable in this room as they were. So I strode confidently over to the vacant stall and yanked the door open with purpose, only to find Ron, King of the Creative Department, sitting on the throne with a surprised look on his face.

  Mortified, I closed the door as quickly as I
’d opened it. Also being the master of the one-liner, Ron summed up the situation perfectly with, “What are the odds?” But all I could hear was the laughter as I fled, leaving both my confidence and dignity behind.

  After my next meeting, I booked it over to Hank’s, a dive bar and secret lunch place where Mary, Sheila, and I met when Mary needed a Scotch & Coke to help get her through the day. I slid a broken wooden chair up to the lopsided table while my coworkers took the first sips of their drinks. I didn’t have to say a word. They could tell something was up by the look on my face.

  “What’s wrong, dee-ah?” Mary asked in her Scottish brogue.

  “Oh, nothing much. I just walked in on Ron on the toilet.”

  “We know.” Sheila laughed.

  “What?!”

  “Brett told us! He was in the men’s room when it happened.”

  Brett! I should’ve known when I saw him in there. Word of this incident had surely spread through both the fourteenth and thirteenth floors by now and that was just . . . fine. I had to laugh. My second time in the men’s room and I walk in on the chief creative officer taking care of business. As Ron so eloquently put it, what were the odds?

  When I returned to the agency I got some good-natured ribbing and a slap on the back from Ron. It was as though I’d passed some kind of initiation. Over the next few days, I was in and out of the men’s room like I owned the place, knowing if I had a sense of humor about it, so would everyone else. Just like Bet said.

  4 Source for work statistics: https://www.americanprogress.org/issues/lgbt/news/2011/06/02/9872/gay-and-transgender-people-face-high-rates-of-workplace-discrimination-and-harassment.

  LET THE TRANSITION BEGIN

  Summer 1995

  I walked into the Newbury Street salon with a Nautica ad in my pocket and the usual knot in my stomach. The reason for the ad was the male model had a haircut I liked. The reason for the knot was I was about to ask my stylist, Kate, to give me that haircut.