This is my first blog entry; hell, it's my first entry of any sort other than a comment or two on other people's writing. Let me know what you think...

An Unexpected Conversation

A little after New Year’s I had an opportunity to head down to the Cape and spend a few days with my folks. Since I have a number of brothers, any chance that I have to just hang out with my parents, to talk to them in peace without competing for their time and attention, is greatly appreciated.

Got up early on Saturday morning and drove down the New England coast. I’d have gone down the night before, but I'd been fighting a bug and it’d been a long, exhausting week; plus it’d been snowing and I knew my reflexes wouldn’t have been so good, especially if I had do deal with Boston drivers. There’s a reason for the term “Massholes”.

Although I got in by 7:30 or so, Mom had already headed out for her support group. Dad was up; he’s becoming more of an early bird as he gets older. I let myself in and after a hug and some greetings I grabbed a mug and joined him for some coffee at the table by the window overlooking the cove.

We talked about this and that, but mostly just took in the view. As time has gone by I’ve learned to be very cautious about what I talk about with my parents, especially my Dad. In their hearts I know that they are really caring, good people - they’re the ones, after all, who taught me to judge people as individuals, not as members of a group - but these days they tend to move in small, habitual circles, rarely running into people or opinions who challenge their very Catholic, politically and socially conservative world views. Many topics, while not quite taboo, if discussed led to bad ends and feelings. Better to not stir the nest - if it could be helped.

As we sat watching the deep blue waters roll in and out in wind topped waves, I thought about how different the winter sea was from the summer; it was such a dark shade of blue, rimmed with brilliant white ice reflecting the sun in the clear azure sky. It smelled cold, not quite sterile, but sharp and not near as heavy and briny as the green summer sea. I missed the soaring ospreys and patient King Fishers hunting along the shore in the warmer months. I especially missed the aerial combat of the ruby throated humming birds as they fought over prime territory, also known as a bird feeder. The shore in winter is beautiful in its own way, though, quiet, uncluttered by yachts and otherwise unfettered by humanity. It’s a nice peaceful place to think.

Mom returned from her group a little after 8:00; I rose to give her a hug and after she and Dad exchanged pecks on the cheek, she joined us by the window. She’d grabbed a delicious coffee cake on the way back from a local bakery, so we sat, joyfully rotting our teeth and getting caught up some more.

After a while we fell into a comfortable silence, sipping our second cups of coffee and taking in the view. Something made me look over at Mom; I was surprised by the look of concern and worry that were battling for control of her face. Her eyes met mine and she began to speak.

“I think I might have committed a faux pas this morning in group….” she hesitantly began. This was unexpected. The fact that she was talking about anything that happened in her group was highly unusual, to say the least. I thought they were sworn to secrecy.
Finishing my sip of coffee I nodded her my encouragement and simply asked what happened.
She watched her hands squeeze and twist her coffee mug a bit, then after a moment continued. “There’s one member of the group, a man, who started wearing make up to our meetings at the beginning of summer. He only wore a little at first, but he started styling his hair, too. A few months ago he started wearing women’s clothes, jeans and stuff. Today he wore a dress. The men in the group are having some difficulties with it”, she nervously concluded.

“Are you having difficulties with it?” I asked, before my Dad could jump in.

“No, not really. It’s just… different. He seems much happier…”,she admitted. “I’m just not sure how to refer to him.”

“He’s a guy. He’s a ‘he’.” my Dad contributed, shaking his head slightly as he raise his mug.

“Not necessarily”, I said, looking at Mom. “How does this person refer to themself?”

“Well, he asked us to start calling him ‘Marlene’.”

“Okay. She identifies as female, so she’s a ‘she’.” I informed her. Mom smiled a little at this.

Luckily my Dad was not sipping his coffee at that moment when I said this or, from his facial expression, he would have choked. Then again, that could’ve been rather funny… “Wha’daya mean, ‘he’ ‘s a ‘he’,” Dad maintained. “That’s how we’re born, male or female. It’s quite simple,” he added, condescension seeping into his tone, “I don’t know why you insist on making it so complicated.” I sighed inwardly, trying to think of a way to remind him of a conversation he and I had had a year or so before when we’d discussed this topic, of how a significant percentage of babies were born physically intersexed, but this, like many of the other topics I’d broached with him that shook his paradigm, had apparently been conveniently forgotten. Help suddenly appeared from an unexpected source.

“That’s not true,” Mom broke in. Usually when Dad began to take this tone Mom would clam up, but not today. “When I used to work in the pediatric ICU at Floating, we’d often get babies in who had multiple birth defects. Their hearts or lungs would be what we were focused on, the life-threatening conditions, but if wasn’t uncommon for them to have other defects, often in the genitals. Sometimes you couldn’t tell if they were boys or girls.” This had shut my Dad down. He sat and listened.

“What happened to them after they stabilized?” I asked. “Did the doctors just decide if they were boy of girls and ‘fix’ them, or were the parents involved?”

“I dunno,” she replied. “Since that correction wasn’t considered life threatening, that wasn’t dealt with until after they were stable. By that time they were taken out of the ICU and we never saw them again.” She was looking out the window again. “I did sometimes wonder how many babies had genital defects never made it into our ward….”

We sat for a minute. “So, was that your faux pas? Did you refer to Marlene using a masculine pronoun in her presence?”

“No,” Mom blushed, her eyes going back to her coffee. “When she came in today I told her how nice I thought her dress was. She got a funny look on her face, so I wasn’t sure if I’d said the right thing.” Mom was really red now.

“When you said that, did you mean it?” I asked after a second or two.

“Oh, yes. She has really good taste.” Mom added quickly. “That’s what I would have said to another woman wearing that dress, so I said it to her.” My Mom couldn’t lie to save her life — maybe someone else’s life, but not her own. I hoped Marlene had taken the comment how it was meant, but that was up to Marlene.

I smiled. “Well, I think Marlene was surprised; she’d probably not expected that reaction. Did anyone else compliment her on her dress?”

Mom just shook her head in response. “No, no one else said a thing about it.”

My smile had blossomed into a grin. “Mom, I think what happened is that you made Marlene’s day. She identifies as a woman and that’s how you’re treating her, just like you would any other women. Just keep doing that and don’t worry about it. If the other people in the group have a problem with it, that’s their problem, not yours or Marlene’s.

Mom got that contemplative look back on her face. After a minute or two she stood, and went to bring her empty mug to the kitchen. Dad, who’d been following our conversation like a tennis match, continued to sip his coffee. He turned back to the window with a contemplative look as well.

I took another sip from my coffee. I wondered how much of this conversation he’d recall in a few months.