---

I’ve been to a few conferences and meetings but, this is the first time, since I was sixteen, that I didn’t feel like an outsider. I have this feeling of a shared existence from everyone here and I want to thank all of you for accepting me. It has been a while since I- I must sound stupid and here I am, ready to cry…it’s just that I didn’t have support groups or people who watched my back or even looked at me until I was older. I was born six years ago, at least that was how my great aunt would have announced it to my family.

And in a snap, I went from being the youngest boy in the family to the only daughter. I took a suitcase, empty except for some notebooks and a rainbow top I had bought a few weeks before but never had the gumption to show my family. I kind of felt ashamed purchasing it. Like I was breaking a rule. I was what one could call--air quotes--awkward by my brothers and father. I was supposed to be athletic; could care less about sports. I was supposed to have a girlfriend…and I had girls who were my friends. I was once given some money to buy clothes for the coming school year, and I did: I heard that multi-colored blouse call out to me and I felt that I would regret it if I didn’t buy it.
My oldest brother was the first to say something by taking a picture with his cell phone. He had stormed into my room—which he did whenever he chose to—to see me wearing said rainbow shirt. Yes, it had the sparkle and pizzazz, like I should have had. He didn’t ask. He didn’t yell. He just snapped the picture and walked out of my room.

Then he screamed across the house, like I had slashed him with the cloth equivalent of a switchblade. His voice rang through the house: “Robbie’s wearing a gay shirt!”

If I was stronger, I would have chased after him, swatted his phone down like Misty Elizabeth May-Treanor, but instead I sat in the middle of my room and blanked out the world around me. Of course, one would think: so you’re wearing a multi-colored shirt, who cares? I also had on a necklace and two clip-on earrings that I had, well, borrowed, from my mother.
The crowd stood at my bedroom door. They were squawking and hollering at me so loudly It was like we were at the Henry Doorly Zoo, but who was the animal? Dad demanded that I take off the jewelry. I did and handed them to mom, who flinched as the necklace winded itself in her hands and the earrings fell with a heavy clank. I turned away from the mob but felt a hand grab my shirt. There was a sharp tug and then a yank as my arms flopped into the air and the garment was forcibly pulled off of my head. I covered my body in shame and refused to turn around. My brother laughed; my father shouted words I never heard before that day, but I could feel each burning syllable. The door closed as abruptly as it was opened mere minutes ago and all was quiet again. It was a deathly quiet and the death was what I wanted to do right there. Not because of what my brothers would say or what my parents thought but more on how I felt about myself. I turned to the window. My room was on the second floor but the worst thing that would happen was I’d break a leg or arm, forcing me to stay at home trying to “recover”.
I didn’t come to dinner and, surprisingly, no one came back up to my room that night. I sat up against the wall and contemplated on what to do. I wanted to tell my family how I didn’t feel like a Bobby, Rob or a Robert. Perhaps more of a “Roberta” or maybe “Bobbi” written in elegant calligraphy. I would buy a closet so full that Andrew Lloyd Webber’s “Dreamcoat” tour wardrobe department would hang their heads in shame.

At midnight, I stepped out of the house with nothing in my hands. Yeah, I didn’t think too far ahead. I only thought of the sadness in my heart and rage in my head. A part of my wishing for my family’s demise and the other wishing for my own. I trekked down a few blocks to where our neighborhood met the main road and stopped at this proverbial crossroads. We had lived there for two years but seldom had I ever walked or taken my bike across that street—and that was in the daylight. I took a small step after a car had passed by and then took larger steps—I was going to continue on away from home. They didn’t want “me”. No, they wanted Robert Roosevelt Anderson—a name that, if I had died that evening, I’d crawl out of my grave and deliberately smash up that marker with the terrible name. As I was halfway across the street, I heard the sound tires turning on gravel. I looked up the way and saw a car turning around. The car had a spotlight on the side. The spotlight was then accompanied by blue and red ones. I channeled my inner Caitlin Jenner and sprinted across the street and over a fence.
My marathons through the backyards set off countless alarms and barking dogs aplenty. This attracted more police activity and I, now thinking that the police were actually after me, personally, due to my violation of some family honor code:

‘It was only a shirt!’
‘But that one shirt. One colorful rainbow is a gateway to a world of sin and damnation.’
‘What kind of sin?’
‘Long hair, wearing dresses and women’s underwear.’
‘They are comfortable.’
‘Throw the book at “him”, your honor.’

I know, disjointed thinking.
The police didn’t find me as I fell asleep inside a tool shed that smelled of oil and grease—that I had gotten on my shoes and tracked as I ran away from my hiding place. It was early in the morning and I had to wonder if my parents actually had called the police by then. One part of me wanted them to apologize and talk to me about what I was feeling. They could have me talk to a doctor…but then I’d have to spill everything about how I felt…and then then it would start all over again.

There was no second part…no part of me wanted to go home. If I had to live off the street, so be it. A school bus drove by…it wasn’t my bus, but in a few hours, the school would call the house and announce I was not at school.
Good.
My father would get mad.
Yippie!
Mom would shake her head because she didn’t know what to say.
What else was new?
My brothers would argue about who was going to get my room.
I imagined that would be a discussion that would come up every Thanksgiving and Christmas.
Obviously, I hadn’t given much thought about what to do after leaving home. While it was a great idea at the time, I had to admit that I was at a loss as to what to do at that moment. I was too young to get a job and everyone would say I was too old to pretend that I was scared and all alone but, I was. I walked a few more feet but then stopped just like I had the night before, at a car sitting across the street: my parents, accompanied by two police cars.

“What the hell were you thinking, Bill?”
I sat in the corner of the living room as three cops and my parents stood aback from another visitor in our home. The only person left alive that could give my father any grief: my great aunt Donna.
“You need to ask him that, Donna.”
“I’m asking you!”
Great Aunt Donna usually came to visit around the holidays and she usually called a few weeks before taking her trip from Alabama to Nebraska. She had a late 70’s convertible and it was the only thing that could rival her tone of voice. Her hair was long and silvery, in direct contrast to her temper and glasses, which she looked over as she dressed down my parents.
“Did you even know Robbie was missing?”
“Donna,” Dad said with a dismissive wave.
“Answer the question, Billy!”
As much as I wanted to cheer my aunt on, I feared that anything I said or did would be held against me in a court of parental law.
The policemen looked like they really wanted to get out of there.
Aunt Donna walked over and sat on the couch that was the closest to the corner where I sat with my knees clenched behind my arms. “What happened, dear?”
I looked to my parents and then to the police.
“Don’t look at them, please look at me and tell me what happened.”
“I wore a shirt. They took it off and threw it away.”
“Was it the one you told me about?”
I nodded and for a moment I thought I saw my father roll his eyes. Mom’s eyes were hidden as she looked down and shook her head.
“Where’s the blouse, Bill?”
“What?”
“The shirt, William.”
“I threw it away.”
She scoffed and looked back to the cops. “See what I had to put up with?”
The officers looked extremely uncomfortable. They watched a small woman take even smaller steps from me over to my parents. “That was something that belonged to Robbie, you just don’t take--.”
“Rose,” I said aloud. It was another of those “didn’t really think about it until it was too late” kind of things.
Everyone turned to me, even mom, but she still shook her head. I could now see the disgusted look on her face.
“We’ll go with that, dear. We’ll go with that.”
“He’s just confused, Donna.”
“Not the only one it seems, Billy. Everyone out. I want to talk to Rose.” She swung her hands around in a motion to hint everyone to leave. The four quickly went out the front door.
I just sat in the corner with what could be considered a thousand-yard stare. I could feel those therapy sessions and maybe a lobotomy in my future. Aunt Donna took a step from the front door and sat down on the loveseat. She removed a rose-colored clip from her hair and her locks cascaded down her back like a waterfall.
“Been wondering when this day would come,” she said as she held the clip in her hand.
I didn’t say anything—as much as I wanted to hear her out—I was afraid of the answer.
“They used to let your hair grow long. Did you know that?”
I shook my head.
“Those were pretty pictures. I guess you’ve had short hair all this time?”
I nodded.
“You’re named after your other great aunt, you know that?”
I shook my head.
“Her name was Meridia Rose. Strong woman. Great woman. Died too young, want to think. It was my idea to honor her through you. Of course, your parents were oblivious to that. They were thinking, ‘hey, like the president’ and Roosevelt was your middle name. It's a great name for a tombstone.”
I scowled at her.
“Don’t like that, huh? Nothing wrong with that,” she replied as she stood up, walked over to me, and then bent down a little.
“Have you told them anything else?”
“No,” I whispered.
“Afraid they won’t listen?”
“I know they won’t.”
“You’re right, Rose. I’m afraid you’re right. And when parents don’t listen to their kids, then their elders have to step in and set things right. First things first though. Take this.”
She held the hairpin out to me, moved it toward my head and clipped it to the small amount of hair I had.

---

I left with my great aunt that very day. Surprisingly, my parents didn’t put up much of a fight and, as much as I wanted to be free of being looked upon as some sort of disease, the fact there were only parting waves didn’t make me feel better. It was like getting a new job across town and then learning that everyone despaired you anyway.
It was not a Kodak moment. I wouldn’t have even had taken a Polaroid, but the memory of their “see ya, wouldn’t want to be ya” glances haunted me during the drive to Alabama.
“You don’t have to worry about them, kiddo,” Aunt Donna yelled over the sound of the wind and the engine.
“I know, but--”
“No buts. We can excommunicate them from our family.”
“Can we at least send a card?”
“Like at Christmas?”
“Yeah.”
“I guess they’re worth forty-two cents,” she replied. “We shouldn’t want to cut them off completely. Not yet.”
“So, I can go to the school in fall as Rose?”
“You bet’cha.”

I smiled at that, but I knew that it couldn’t be as easy as I wanted it to be. I knew that people would assume this or that but I people talking about me at home—perhaps more so after what had happened the day before, so it was just something the world would have to adjust to.
We stopped at a gas station in Missouri and Aunt Donna sent me in to pay for the gas and to grab two sodas for us. I walked to the cooler, picked out two bottles and then walked them to the counter. The clerk was barely visible as he was surrounded by cigarettes, trinkets and “Lotto” signs.
“That all for you, little miss?”
I looked at him blankly for a second. Not enough to make either of us feel awkward but enough for me to remember the clip in my hair. “Thirty-five dollars on pump two, please.”
I handed over the money before he even gave the total.
He gave me back the change and motioned a small wave as I took the drinks and walked away.
I have to admit, that felt good.
She must have noticed my expression when I got back to the car.
“Someone compliment you?”
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Remember, don’t be looking for flattery, lest you find yourself under a wagon wheel.”
I nodded. Granted he was probably just being friendly as part of his job, and I’d never see him again, but it still felt good.
“We’re going to re-do a room for you, Rose. We’re going to have to work a bit on it, but I think it’ll turn out great. It’s a spacious room with a large window overlooking a field and, in the morning, the sun wakes you up.”
I was too young to remember ever going to at Aunt Donna’s house, but I knew the upstairs had multiple staircases and a dumb waiter—or what my brothers called an elevator. We stopped going to her house one year and from that moment on, she just came to visit the family and would leave as quickly as she arrived. This time, faster than usual.

I tried to stay awake to talk but found myself falling asleep for a long duration of the trip. I woke up with the feeling of disorientation from sleeping with my neck craned back against the door mixed with really having to go to the bathroom and feeling hungry. The car turned down an onto a long road with a large house at the end of the drive.
We walked into the front room of the house and it had that smell of country in the fall: that potpourri mixed with the aroma of a PSL. We walked upstairs to a grand landing area and then to a room on the far side. Aunt Donna opened the door to reveal what looked like a shrine to an earlier time and everything had a shade of red: from the curtains, the bedspread, to the wainscoting. The only thing that was of a different color was a picture frame on the nightstand: it was gold.
I stared at the picture: it was of two young women holding hands and looking intently at each other. The blond-haired one bore a striking resemblance to my aunt. I didn’t know the other woman, who had a rose-gold colored clip in her in her short, black hair. I reached up to my head and felt the same clip.
“That was your great aunt Rose.”
“She’s beautiful.”
“Yes, she was,” Aunt Donna said as she picked the frame up and held it close to her chest. ‘Not a day goes by that I don’t miss her.”
“What happened to her?”
“That’s a story for another day,” she said as she looked at the picture once again and then at me. “It’s like she’s with me in spirit.”
She was on the verge of crying, but instead she placed the picture back on the nightstand, clapped her hands, and then removed a set of decorative pillows that covered the bed.
“In the morning, it will be a new day for you, Rose What’s mine is yours.”
“Thank you, Aunt Donna.”
“You’re welcome, dear. Get ready for bed now.”
“I will,” I replied and then gave her a hug that could have lasted for years.
Ten minutes later, I was lying in bed, looking once again at the picture and the hair clip next to it. I wondered when the picture was taken and when she had died. At least I assumed she had died, or maybe they had a fight and she left so my aunt was left with just this picture. But that didn’t make any sense, because if they left on bad terms then why name me after someone that would depress you forever. I thought that maybe I could go to the library and look her up on the internet, without telling my aunt, of course.
I woke up to the sun shining on my face. It was a warm feeling, and the light was not blinding for a few moments. It was a new day and the start of a new life, as Aunt Donna has said.
I got dressed and ran down the stairs.
“Aunt Donna!”
There wasn’t a sound.
I looked out front; her car was still parked in the driveway.

“Aunt Donna!” I shouted again. She was probably tired, so instead of going to wake her I went into the kitchen. She said what was hers was mine, so I assumed that meant that I could make breakfast. The only problem was that I really didn’t know how to make anything except waffles and cold cereal, and I wasn’t sure if she had either. There were some bananas on the counter, so I had one of those instead.
The floor was made of wood and gave a little creak in some places, but it was wonderful to hear those sounds as I walked into the sitting room.
This room had rows and rows of bookshelves and a large portrait of Rose. She had a smile on her face that made me smile back at her.
“Nice to meet you, Aunt Rose. My name is Rose too.”
How I wanted her image to reply to me, or maybe wink or give a head nod, but she didn’t.
I walked out of the sitting room and looked upstairs. I decided I didn’t want to get the information from newspapers or articles, I wanted it from my aunt.

I climbed the stairs and steadied myself to knock on her door and poignantly ask what had happened to my namesake.
“Aunt Donna?” I asked as I knocked on her door. Maybe she had gone out for a morning walk? I opened the door and poked my head inside. She was still asleep in bed, at least she looked like she was, but something seemed off. I stepped further into the room and stood at the foot of her bed. A large binder was resting on her chest, opened to a page that showed her, again, with Rose, but Rose was lying in a hospital bed. She looked gaunt and her hair was gone but she still had the same smile on her face. My great aunt’s hand lay still on the picture.
I looked at her mouth and chest and I didn’t see any movement.
“What’s mine is yours,” I whispered.
I called 911 and a rush of people came over. Including a woman named Maureen who said she was my Great Aunt’s—and now my—lawyer. She said that the house and everything in it was mine and I would be taken care of. No family reunions unless I wanted them, and it’s taken a few years and I still don’t want to see that part of my family.
Does that sound heartless?
I admit, I’d do anything to have my Aunt Donna back. I wish she was here with us now.