I was, it seemed to me, uniformly disliked by them. Resented by them. They spoke to me with arrogance, with condescension, self-righteously. They were activists, all of them, and they spoke like the other activists of that era spoke, like proselytizing campus Christians speak to sinners. They spoke to me that way about who I was, according to them, about where my place in society was, where it should be, who I was supposed to be. They’d suggest that I was lying to myself about who I was, hiding who I was from myself, had always lied to and been hiding from myself—those were the charitable ones. The less charitable accused me of simplemindedness: of being simpleminded for so uncomplicatedly considering myself a woman. Me. Can speak four languages, can read in nine, fully scholarshipped at Berkeley from the age of fifteen. Simpleminded. How could they think that? It was because I was attractive, I believe. Because I knew I was attractive, felt attractive. Because I, despite or because of my ambiguous genitalia, was considered an attractive person, behaved like an attractive person, was treated like an attractive person, and was comfortable with that. They wanted me, it seemed, to apologize for looking like I did, talking like I did, attracting as much sexual attention as I did. Or if not to apologize for it, to be angry about it, ashamed of myself…
They wanted me to feel bad.
So we didn’t get along. And soon enough, I was actively avoiding them. I can’t imagine they minded much.
* * *
—
Anyway, it wasn’t til I got to New York that I made any transgender friends. It happened very suddenly, just three, four days after I’d moved into my apartment. I saw two beautiful trans women—two stunningly beautiful trans women—enter the diner where I’d gone to do some reading, and they saw me right back. We shared this look. That sounds so filmic and magical but—well…it was. We shared this look of, “Really? Okay, yes, really, at last, you’re who I’ve been hoping to run into forever,” and they approached my booth, came straight over, and what followed was possibly the most charged, and yet most natural-feeling first interaction I’d ever had with anyone—and there were two.
The redhead sat next to me, the brunette opposite. They just sat down. Just like that. And the redhead told me—I swear it—without saying anything else first, she told me, “You’re new here. We like you. You’re the newest thing and you’re going to be our friend.”
And I said, “I hope so.”
She said, “I’m Janie Sezz.”
“I’m Maggie Mae,” the brunette said.
“Lola Henry,” I said. I didn’t know why I’d said that. I’d never been Lola. In a way, of course, I’d always been Lola, but I’d never introduced myself as Lola—nearly always as Dolores, maybe once or twice Del. I don’t think I’d ever said “Lola Henry” out loud before then, but that’s what I said. “Lola Henry,” I said.
“Do better,” Janie Sezz said. “That’s just…no.”
“It’s my name,” I said.
“It’s not,” Janie Sezz said, which was mostly true, but not in the way that Janie Sezz meant it. Or not just in that way.
“If it’s yours, you can change it,” Maggie Mae added.
“We’re not fond of it, dear,” Janie Sezz said.
“And what if I’m not fond of your names?” I said.
“Aren’t you, though?”
“Yes,” I said. And I was. It was true. I was fond of their names. “My parents are dead,” I said.
“Ours, too,” Janie Sezz said.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I don’t want you to be,” Janie Sezz said. “That isn’t what I was getting at, at all.”
“Still,” I said.
“Maybe,” offered Maggie Mae, “maybe you should keep part of your name.” She reached across the table to pat me on the hand. “I miss my parents, too,” she said. “They were good people. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but that didn’t mean that they weren’t good people.”
“No, no,” Janie Sezz said. “We’re not doing this right now. This isn’t what we do when we meet new people. This isn’t how we go about making new friends.”
“You’re right,” Maggie Mae said. “It isn’t. It isn’t.”
“We’re talking about your name,” Janie Sezz said. “No one here’s fond of it. I don’t think you’re fond of it.”
“It’s the name my parents gave me, though,” I said. “That’s what I was trying to tell you.”
“We know what you were trying to tell us,” Janie Sezz said.
“Well then you understand,” I said.
“It’s not a question of understanding,” Janie Sezz said. “It’s a question of aesthetics. We simply aren’t fond of your name. We aren’t fond of how it sounds. Are you fond of your name? Are you fond of how it sounds?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“That means no,” Janie Sezz said. “Might as well, at least.”
“How well did they know you?” asked Maggie Mae. “Your parents,” she said. “How well did they know you?”
“They loved me,” I said.
“How hard could it have possibly been for them to love you?” Maggie Mae said. “That could not have been hard. Just look at you, won’t you? I mean, look at her, Janie.”
“It wouldn’t, I imagine, have been hard,” Janie Sezz said. “I was fond of her before we even sat down.”
“Who wouldn’t have loved you?” Maggie Mae went on. “How couldn’t they have? What I’m asking is: Did they know you?”
“They wanted to,” I said. “And, yes,” I said. “I think they did. Mostly.” Was I really getting this personal with these beautiful strangers? within minutes of meeting them? Yes, I was. I was. I was. “They knew what I let them know,” I said. “I mean, they lived in a different kind of world than me.”
“Than any of us, I bet,” Maggie Mae said.
“Of course,” said Janie Sezz. “They were parents, after all.”
“They were my parents,” I said.