Chances Are... Stories of Hope Alicia's Tale by Andrea Lena DiMaggio

Newton, New Jersey...

Alicia walked the thirteen blocks from school to home; one more running the gauntlet. Kenny Narcise and Jackie Pietrowski walked alongside the girl, coming up with new and hurtful epithets not worth repeating here. The girl hadn’t had a tear-free day since school started.

“Hey, loser!” The kindest insult of the past sixty-eight days, it still hurt because up until that moment, things looked anything but dim and getting darker for the girl.

“If you’re a fag, say, ‘what,” Kenny whispered and the girl sadly fell into the trap,

“What?” She leaned closer and Jackie knocked her books from her arms, sending them splashing into a deep puddle that had formed around a very clogged storm drain. She went to pick them up and Kenny tripped her and she ended up falling onto the sidewalk next to the storm drain. A loud thud was followed by a scream that was quickly followed by hysterical laughter as the two boys pointed to her and laughed before running down the block.

She rolled over and sat up, rubbing her wrist and sobbing. She felt so bad; sixteen and awkward still after months of counseling, as if she had let someone down by not being brave. She went to stand up slowly, struggling to gain some balance and she fell back into the big puddle. It was almost too sadly silly; as if someone would come along and ask, ‘what’s wrong, little girl?’ Except for the fact that her name wasn’t Alicia; at least as far as Newton High School was concerned. And she wasn’t little relatively speaking and she wasn’t even a she, at least as far as her driver’s permit was concerned.

Alan shook his head furiously; the tears flying off his face like water off a wet dog’s back. He bit his lip, not out of frustration or anger, but because he actually accidentally bit it as he slipped back once again into the puddle; this time with a splash as leaves and mud spattered him even more. It was more than humiliating, since the very thing that hurt him was that someone finally was realizing that he was different.

“Alan, why do you do that? If you wear that kind of clothing you’ll only draw attention to yourself." He recalled his mother saying on more than one occasion.

He looked at his reflection in the puddle as the water calmed itself. Hair that was black, long and uneven. The streaks of makeup on his face were purely unintentional, a by-product of the tears he had just shed, causing his mascara to run. The long blue hooded sweater acted almost like a sponge, and when he finally gained enough purchase to stand, it nearly weighed twice as much. His jeans were black as well, but they appeared more grayish-brown from the leafy debris of the puddle. The fingerless gloves did nothing to protect his hands, which now were caked with a mixture of mud and blood from the scrapes against the sidewalk. The hood had fallen back and his hair was soaked with muddy water. In short, he was a mess.

“Excuse me, can I help?” He heard a soft voice from behind. He turned around and saw a nice looking face smiling down on him. He righted himself finally as a hand reached out to steady him.

“I think you hit your head.” The girl said softly. “Here, let me help you,” she continued as she walked him up a sidewalk and onto a porch.

“I don’t think anyone will mind.” She patted him softly on the arm before walking back to the puddle to retrieve his books. A moment later she returned with a sad but understanding look on her face.

“They’re ruined. I’m sorry.” She said it as if it had been her fault for not helping or being there or something. Alan looked up at her and realized that he must be dreaming. The girl wore clothes similar to his except that instead of jeans, she wore a black denim mini over black tights. It felt like they had planned together what to wear even though he had never met her. She smiled once again and held her hand out.

“I don’t think I can stand,” Alan said and the girl laughed; her voice soothing and warm.

“Oh…no…I was…My name is Dana…Dana Martino.” She noticed her palm was dirty from the mud of the puddle, and she quickly wiped it off before offering it again.

“That’s my house over there,” she pointed to the Cape Cod cottage across the street.

“We just moved here from Italy.” She smiled at the thought before continuing. “I’m not Italian…well, yes, I am sort of, but…my Dad just retired from the Air Force…my Mom…was from Italy…he’s from here originally.”

“Oh,” was all Alan could think to say. He shook her hand and she tilted her head and smiled while squinting a bit. He took the hint.

“I’m Alan…Alan Capulano. I live…right here. This actually is my house.” Alan smiled at the thought

“Well, I’m glad to meet you, Alan. I guess we’ll get to know each other.” She held out her hand once again and he shook it until she looked at him crosswise.

“Oh, yeah,” he said as he accepted her help in standing.

“I’ve got to run. I’m late for my piano lesson. Nice to meet you, Alan.” What might have seemed forward in almost any other situation felt completely normal and even expected as the girl leaned closed and kissed him quickly on the cheek before walking off. He put his hand to his face and felt the growing warmth and a big chunk of mud on his cheek where she had kissed him, and he sighed.

Saturday...

The next morning Alan got up and picked out his ‘outfit,’ which was usually a bit more subdued on the weekend. It was almost as if his clothing was chosen to provoke. His therapist had told him to consider why he felt the need; not because she was critical, but because they had discussed his reasons for seeking attention.

“Mom, have you seen my black miniskirt?” He called out to his mother, who was making breakfast.

“Oh, Alan, I wish you wouldn’t wear that. You know it just invites trouble.” She complained. He walked into the kitchen and sat down.

“Not for now…I just wanted to know.” He frowned; he always felt as if he had to explain himself. Therapy was helping him sort out things, and the clothing was one part of his puzzle.

“It’s just that you’re a boy, and boys just don’t wear miniskirts…they don’t wear skirts.” Julia Capulano loved her child but she didn’t understand him.

“Mom…I’ve got to get ready… I just wish you could see that.” He put his head down; another morning of passive-aggressiveness promised to disappoint as his mother answered.

“Look at you…I don’t know why you insist on making trouble for yourself. I told you that you could dress up all you like at home. Why do you have to do this?” She pointed to him. His makeup was much more subdued, but still said anything but boy. His top was almost a neon green, covered by a long gray cardigan. His jeans were pink and his shoes were sensible in function, but nearly matched the green of his top.

“You look like that boy singer we saw on that program the other night.”

“I wasn’t going for boy singer, Mom.” He shook his head.

“And I suppose you’re going to go to that meeting again?” She almost huffed as she sat down with her coffee.

“You mean that meeting for “THEM?” He joked, but she didn’t laugh.

“You’re a boy, and that’s the truth of the matter, Alan.”

“I’m a girl, Mom. And you were there; we both talked with Melissa about all of the things she and I discussed. She wants me to see another doctor. That guy in Sparta is a hack; he doesn’t have any experience in this and all he wants to do is to give me an anti-d!” It was almost remarkable how things would turn in an instant. The boy-girl was almost placid and timid, even, until confronted about her gender. The courage to be came up in odd ways at odd times.

Sure, she cried a lot; who wouldn’t cry when confronted daily about being a fag or a sissy. To use an old saw, her best friend Akemi was a 'fag', and she didn't even know what a sissy was. She wasn’t gay, as far as she knew, and the only reason they used those names was to hurt and to be cruel in their own ignorance. She was trying to find her way in a world that included only one parent and no support.

“Melissa said that you should try to call me Alicia as much as possible when we’re at home…to get used to it.

“But your name is Alan. After your father.”

“You mean the father who left you and me when I was seven months old? That father?” She stopped trying to hide the bitterness in her voice a long time ago. But even at that, the hurt still hit her whenever she heard her ‘own’ name.

“I’m not Alan. Even if I wasn’t a girl, mom, I would have changed that a long time ago if I could. But I’m Alicia…Alicia Capulano, Mom!” The frustration had already inserted itself into the conversation, and she began to cry. There’s only so much strength and courage you can muster when there’s no one guarding your back.

“I just don’t know.” Julia began to cry as well. She had raised her child the best she could under the worst of circumstances and she felt hurt and disappointed that Alan didn’t appreciate what she had done. With some creativity and very little support from her own family, she had managed to go back to school part time and had earned a graduate degree in accounting, and had provided a comfortable life for her and her son.

“Well, that’s an improvement,” Alicia said sarcastically, but felt guilty at the hurt look on her mother’s face.

“Mom…I’m who I am…If you don’t know, then can you at least try to trust that I do?” Julia looked at her child and while she wasn’t convinced that she no longer had a son, she was getting to the place of trusting that her child knew who he was…who she was. She even mouthed ‘Alicia’ as her face showed less confusion.

“Yeah, Mom…Alicia,” the girl said aloud and squeezed her mother’s hand, happy at least for the glacier-like movement toward acceptance. Julia smiled through her own tears and lifted the girl’s hands to her lips and kissed it.

“I just love you…that’s all,” she said almost as an explanation. Alicia forced a smile and bit her lip, wincing at the sore that had started to form. It would have to do.

“I love you, too, Mom.”

The next morning...

“Hello, can I help you?” The man at the door seemed put out, but he smiled and the girl stepped back slightly.

“Yes. Thanks. My name is Al...Alicia Capulano...we live across the street?” She pointed and the man glanced over at the house; a near identical match to his own.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering if your daughter is home?” The man looked at Alicia in puzzlement.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have a daughter.” He said it softly, with an odd tone that Alicia couldn’t identify.

“Oh, gosh…I must have the wrong house. She just pointed. I didn’t notice you move in either. You folks must be new too, huh? My mother and I live across the street. She’s Julia, by the way," she repeated.

“Well, hello; Nice to meet you. I’m Cap…I’m David…David Martino. I live with my son, Danny.”

Next: Alicia's Chance