(Miriam is back trying to understand and help her 10 year old son in the small West Virginia town where she lives in 1955. Follow Miri as she tries to cope with Jack and with her conflicting emotions of fear, anguish and love.)

Choices

Chapter 8

My failed attempt to find consolation from my friend literally depressed me. In hindsight, I now wonder if I really expected some understanding, or if it was just wishful thinking. Coupled with the stark and so negative description of what I read at the library about what my son was doing, cross dressing, and Libby’s immediate and only advice to get treatment, I was a basket case. I was grouchy with the kids and I snapped at Don when he didn’t bring milk home after I had called and asked.

In any case I tried to go about my daily routine, meeting the needs of my family; cooking, cleaning and doing laundry as best I could. I attended a Women’s club meeting, talking to other mothers but never about boys and such strange behavior. I felt I had nowhere to turn so I just went straight ahead; worrying but not acting. As the days wore on I felt I was failing Jack, and my whole family, except Jack didn’t seem any different than he had ever been, at least not to me. To me he was a normal boy. Normal but for that one huge difference; he was doing things that boys, normal ones, don’t do.

As always something happened again testing both my faith and my parenting skills.

November 1, 1955 – Tuesday - Halloween was different this year with Brenda in boarding school and Tim, well, Tim just wasn’t interested in Trick or Treating. I worried he was out last night tricking without even asking for treats and getting in trouble. But he came home early and without a problem, at least none that I knew of.

Jack’s about to turn eleven but he still wanted to go out. I was heartbroken because he had no one to go with and he didn’t want to go with his friends. i.e. boys. He called Joanie but she was going to a Halloween party with some of her friends, i.e. girls and naturally didn’t ask Jack. I gave him a couple of options for a costume and he went up to get dressed. I almost don’t want to write this in my journal but he came down in a dress and I just about flipped out. I guess he got it from the third floor. He asked me to do some makeup. Don was out in the garage and Tim had already gone out so they didn’t see it. I yelled at him to go change before his father came in. Yes, I outright yelled at Jack who really was just being a kid. I really hurt his feelings because I reacted so badly. He ended up staying home and he and I watched some TV and he went to bed early. He was so sad last night and I’m so sad, and guilty, today.

I tried to rationalize my reaction to my son in a dress.

I wondered if my leniency (allowing him to go to the third floor and do what I knew was wrong, or if not out and out wrong, was dangerous) sent the wrong message and emboldened him. In those days I had already convinced myself I was contributing to the delinquency of a minor, my own son. I couldn’t keep those insidious words ‘cross-dressing’, ‘deviant’, and even ‘homosexual’ out of my head.

What I actually did was congratulate myself for being firm. I was sure that Jack was using the day when kids can dress up to test my limits and take his fixation another step. But kids dress up as ghosts and goblins, or characters from movies. Boys don’t dress up as girls. It wasn’t done and no one would understand. I just couldn’t face what people would say if I had let him go out that way. ‘Oh, Miriam, Jack made such a cute girl on Halloween’, I could hear my friends say, and then they would give me that look that said ‘How could you allow it’? I was so glad I had put my foot down.

The other side was that I knew I hurt Jack so much. He pouted for days and barely talked to me. I was afraid I had damaged the trust I had built up with him. I decided to give it some time and hope he would come around with me.

November 11, 1955 – Friday – Today is Jack’s eleventh birthday and on this day I always take a few moments to think of Jack Staub, who died on the day Jack was born. I am sitting alone in the sunroom with my morning coffee thinking of both my little Jack and the wonderful man I still love. Don must never read this; he would not understand that my love for his cousin does not diminish how deeply I am in love with him.

But today is my eleven year old son’s special day. I’m hopeful that he can now start to see all the good that is ahead of him. Eleven is surely Jack’s lucky number and right now I’m hoping eleven comes through and helps him find all the great things he has to look forward to, as a boy. We are going to celebrate with dinner at the Elks Club followed by cake and ice cream at home, just the five of us.

We gave Jack a new bike for his birthday. He was excited but I sensed he was hoping for something else. Did he really think he would get a dress for his eleventh birthday? He didn’t say anything and he didn’t have to. I could see it in his face. I wasn’t receiving any good signs from either Jack Staub, or from God. I hated this thing that hung over my family. I was the only one who knew (other than Libby who was no help) and I hoped that I could ride it out at least until he started changing as long as Jack seemed content with our arrangement. Then he would stop this on his own, I reasoned.

Of course I was wrong.

November 15, 1955 - Tuesday– I am up again unable to sleep. I have to do something. I have to get help, real help and I’m going have to have a talk with Don.

Jack came home from school today and hurriedly went to the third floor. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I waited and went to the third floor stairs and listened. It was quiet. I took off my shoes and crept up a few of the stairs. Still quiet. Then I heard movement and then a drawer close. So I called to him and we talked without seeing each other. But then I pushed the door open and I saw him, my son, in a dress. I can’t explain how I feel about this now. I have a new perspective that even as a mother I cannot understand and I know I can’t ignore this.

“Jack, are you up there?” There was no noise for a moment then it was like he ran to the front room.

“Don’t come up mom! Leave me alone.” He yelled. I debated what to do. I wanted to talk to him and let him know I loved him. I really didn’t want to see my son in a dress again (I had really just glanced at him on Halloween before I yelled at him and he vanished back upstairs crying). My intentions in going up were to of put this to an end, one way or another. I told myself to first try to regain his trust.

“Jack, its ok. I just want to talk. I won’t come all the way up.” Silence. “Jack, I love you. Remember we talk to each other.”

“But not now mom. I’ll be down in a minute.” He protested.

“Just let me come up and we’ll talk. You can stay hidden, if you want.” I offered.

There was no answer. “Jack I’m coming to the top of the stairs.”

“Ok but no further.” He sounded so scared. I almost turned and went back downstairs. I went to the top of the stairs but couldn’t see into the front room where Jack was.

“Jack, are you dressing up in Brenda’s things?” I asked trying to sound cheerful.

“You said I could.” Came the response.

“Not exactly. I said I wouldn’t say yes or no. But I get your point. Jack, I’m not mad at you. I just want you to be safe. You should be out playing with your friends. I don’t know what to do about this. Jack, we have to do something.” Then I pushed. “We're going to have to go see a doctor.”

I wasn't planning on trying to force his hand, but the reality of the moment took over.

I waited for a response. I heard Jack come closer to the door of the front room. Then he appeared. Actually he only half appeared, peering around the door jam. I could see half of his face and saw he was wearing one of Brenda’s dresses, a summer sun dress. He had brushed his longish hair to the front and had tried to tease it. I did not get a full view and really didn’t want to.

“I don’t want to see a doctor. I don’t want to talk about it anymore.” He said emphatically, very emphatically.

“All right. What do you want? What are we going to do?” I was hoping he would give some ground and work with me.

“Nothing.” He said. I could hear the pout in his voice.

"Nothing won’t work, Jack.” I waited but no other response came. “It's either see a doctor or you have to stop doing this." There I did it. I did what any mother would, any good mother. It was the right thing to do and it was in his best interest, I was certain.

The door slammed shut and I heard nothing. I waited several moments and called to him. Again nothing! I tiptoed to the door and whispered.

"Jack, we have to talk." More silence. I turned the door knob and gently pushed the door open just a crack.

My heart sank at what I saw. The figure was lying on the bed with his back to the door, to me, with his legs tucked under the skirt of the dress he was wearing. The figure looked nothing like a boy. I hesitated but finally went over and sat on the bed next to him and rubbed his back. He was crying.

“Jack, look at me.” As much as it bothered me I knew I had to somehow regain his trust. That meant I had to face my son wearing a dress and look into his eyes. He had to see that I cared and that I loved him. He turned his head and I saw his face. I pulled him up to a sitting position and I put my arms around him and hugged him. It took only a moment until I felt him returning the hug as he buried his face against my chest, sobbing. My heart sank and I stroked his hair.

“I love you.” I said intentionally not using his name. “You are special to me and you have to believe that I want to make things easier for you, not harder.” I felt him nod yes.

I pulled his face up and looked at him, kissing him on the forehead. He looked into my eyes and as a mother I could not love a child more than I did this precious boy at that moment. I no longer wanted to put an end to this, not if it meant that I would be the one to hurt him so. Yes, I wanted it to stop and I wanted my son to be a normal boy. I wanted both. But that moment holding my eleven year old son wearing a dress and feeling his deep pain changed me, changed everything. I somehow knew my job was not to make this go away, or to just hope for some divine intervention. My purpose now was to get help for Jack, and for myself.

In the moments that we sat holding each other I made a resolution. I resolved that any help had to first ensure Jack’s safety both physically and emotionally. This girl issue had to be addressed but I would not allow anyone or anything to hurt my very fragile child. I knew that was a tall order and doubted that it was possible to find anyone, especially a professional, who would care the way I did.

“I’m sorry I said you would have to stop this or see a doctor.” I finally said to him.

“That’s all right mommy.” He answered. He had not called me ‘mommy’ for years.

“And I’m sorry I yelled at you on Halloween.” I added.

“I know mommy.” He said tightening his hug. “I know you love me and just worry.” He certainly showed he knew how conflicted he made me feel.

“Sweetie.” I said to get his attention. “I won’t make you go see a doctor. At least not now.” Then I added really talking to myself. “But I know I need one, that or a miracle.” I had not planned on bringing religion into our private moment.

“Mommy, God doesn’t grant miracles just ‘cause you ask.” He surprised me with his insight.

“You’re right.” I affirmed. He continued.

“It has to be something really important and He only helps somebody who really deserves it.” By then I knew where he was going with this. I let him talk. He was smiling now and he brushed his hair away from his eyes looking happy and cute.

“I asked God to make me become a girl, but when Isaac got sick with polio but now he can walk with a brace, I knew God was really busy.” I couldn’t say anything. Isaac was in his class and he developed polio when they both were in the first grade. Now Isaac was back in school after two or three years of treatment and I thanked God and modern medicine, as well as Dr. Salk for protecting all children with the vaccine that was readily available by 1955. Jack continued. “God will help me when he gets some time.” I almost laughed, for joy of course. My precious child had been given such a burden, one that doctors probably couldn’t help, and one that seemed insurmountable to me, but he had faith, faith in God, the Benevolent Controller. I didn’t share the same faith in God the Controller so I carefully did not affirm his premise.

I kissed him again and stood up. He also stood and faced me almost posing. He swayed from side to side letting the skirt of the dress he was wearing swirl around his legs like any girl would do. I knew he wanted my approval. I smiled but did not say anything about the dress or how adorable he almost looked.

I told him to change and come down and help me with setting the table for dinner. As I retreated from the third floor private world of my eleven year old, I knew I was the only one who help my child but that I would need help. I just had no idea where, besides with God, to start.