"Your ex-wife's a terrific teacher," he said to me, wagging a finger, before he had even introduced himself.
"I think so, too," I said. He was a little younger than me, and he was wearing a tan trench coat over a bulky ski sweater. His loafers were stained with white road salt, and the frames of his eyeglasses were a metallic yellowish green. He had a lamb's-wool and leather aviator cap on his head--the kind with the flaps that flip down over the ears--as if he thought he was Charles Lindbergh.
He seemed harmless enough, but it was clear he was slightly eccentric. "I gather you have a child in her class?" I said.
"Sure do," he said, and he volunteered the information that he was a graphic designer. "But I have to tell you," he added, "my wife and I both think your plan is a little kooky."
I tried to smile. "What plan is that?"
And so he told me, and for the first time I realized that there were actually people in town who knew bits and pieces about my life and Allie's, and who therefore presumed that I was using the radio station that March to try and mastermind a reconciliation with my ex-wife. This particular fellow had heard through the grapevine that Patricia had moved out on me, and so he reasoned that I was now trying to move in on Dana.
In his opinion, the sole purpose of the transgender feature on VPR was to show Allie the error of her ways.
That was never the case, and I suppose that's become pretty obvious now. If I'd known then how our story would end, I imagine I would have done all that I could to prevent any radio programming at all about transsexuality and gender.
The truth is, I have never seriously believed there was anything I could do that would bring Allie back into my life as anything more than a friend. If as a result of some unaccountable twist of fate we actually wound up together, well, fine. But I would never--at least not consciously--have tried to sabotage her relationship with another person.
Nevertheless, I was concerned about her: I have never, ever stopped caring about Allie. We were a couple for almost fifteen years, including college, and most of my memories of that decade and a half are pretty darn good.
Obviously I never made any secret of the fact that I disapproved of Dana's lifestyle before the operation, and I wasn't happy with the idea that he had moved in with my ex-wife. That's clear to everybody who knows me. But the reason I didn't support Allie's choices is pretty basic: Say what you will about Dana and transsexuality, it's not normal. And she's a teacher. That's not a promising combination.
Here's an indisputable fact: Dana Stevens had to be diagnosed with a demonstrable mental disorder before he could have his surgery. And just as I would have been concerned if Allie had gotten involved with a man who--for example--had some form of schizophrenia or depression that couldn't be treated with medication or therapy, at that point in my life it was inevitable that I would worry about her interest in Dana.
I worried about what her friends would think, and what the school board would say. I worried about what the parents of the kids in her classroom would do.
I worried, in essence, about what sort of effect he might have on her life.
Still, my concern was never the catalyst for the programming.
Nor, I should add, were the NPR stories that aired the following autumn a part of some Machiavellian scheme to boost my daughter's profile in Washington (as if I even had that kind of clout).
Certainly Carly was growing more and more interested in broadcast, and because I am her father, it was inevitable I would take notice. She followed up her part-time job at the Bennington-area radio station with a summer internship at NPR. (I can take some credit for getting her the interview in April.) Early on, the ATC folks took a liking to her, and some very terrific--and powerful--people took her under their wings.
And why not? She's a wonderful kid.
She spent the Fourth of July that summer with Linda Wertheimer and her husband, Fred. Cokie Roberts introduced her to the Vermont congressional delegation--two Senators and a Congressman. And Elizabeth Arnold and Nicole Wells became like big sisters to her. They still are.
But did I suggest that my nineteen-year-old daughter be the point person for a series on NPR? No way. They asked Carly about how best to approach Dana, and how her mother and I might feel about their doing something more with the story. After all, they knew me. They knew what was going on.
Carly herself took it from there. Carly, I am proud to say, was the one who went to Linda Wertheimer and said, essentially, "Look, Coach, I'm your go-to girl. If you really want to do this story, give me the ball."
And that's exactly what NPR did. They gave her the ball. And she ran.
NATIONAL PUBLIC RADIO TRANSCRIPT
All Things Considered
Monday, September 24
DANA STEVENS: ... and I think that's why most people at the university tolerated me in dresses that fall. They rarely had to see me. And so there weren't all those uncomfortable issues about which bathroom I should use, or whether my students would be able to deal with the fact that Professor Stevens had shown up for class Monday morning in a burgundy broomstick skirt.
I mean there were some dirty looks, especially the first few times I appeared on campus. But I like to believe by, I guess, a week or two after Thanksgiving, I was passing. Passing completely. You know, I was invisible. I didn't ever want to be one of those pre-ops who wears his wanna-be gender on his sleeve.
CARLY BANKS: For some transsexuals, and for Dana Stevens, that moment when they first "pass" in public is almost an epiphany.
STEVENS: It was a Friday afternoon, and I emerged from a grocery store in Burlington with a big brown bag in each arm. Out of the blue, this very distinguished older man--a retired banker, I imagined--raced over to me and insisted on carrying both of my bags to my car. He even opened the front door for me, once I'd placed my groceries in the back! You could have knocked me down with a feather. No, I take that back: You wouldn't have needed a feather. You could have knocked me down with a puff ball: a dandelion puff ball. Poof! And I would have been on my knees.
LINDA WERTHEIMER: When our series continues tomorrow, Dana Stevens leaves Vermont for Colorado, and prepares for sexual reassignment surgery.
Chapter 9.
carly
IT WOULD HAVE BEEN SIMPLE TO GET ON A BUS any Friday in autumn and go home for the weekend. It takes a mere two hours and forty-five minutes for even a slow-moving motor coach to slog between Bennington and Middlebury. But I didn't. I didn't want to get into the habit of going back to Bartlett anytime I got homesick or depressed, or fell into a panic because it just seemed like there was more work than I could handle.
Besides, I would have felt a moral obligation to invite my roommate to join me if I went home, and there was always that off chance she might say yes. Not likely. But it was possible. And the idea alone of having to entertain June Ramsey for a weekend in Bartlett was torture. June and I were simply not meant to live together, even in the context of college. She was very smart and--when she wasn't hopelessly unhappy--she may have been very nice. I'll never know about the second part, because I don't think I ever saw her in the mood to smile.
The problem was that she was all wrong for a place like Bennington. It was obvious she came from gobs of money--which, actually, is pretty normal for the place--but she didn't belong at a school in which a third of the students do really scary things to their hair and most of the faculty don't know the meaning of the word requirement. She was from a ritzy suburb of Boston, and she would have been much better off at a college that had lots of mandatory freshman courses, embarrassing hazing rituals, and parties with guys in blazers who served everyone gin and tonics.
The only reason she'd wound up at Bennington was that she fancied herself a poet, and there had been two high-profile poets in the English Department there when she'd been choosing a college in high school. Unfortunately, one of them had left by the time June arrived, and the other was taking the year off.
And so she was miserable. A couple of ti
mes I tried taking her with me to the battery factory not far from the college gates. As part of a film course I was taking, I was making a documentary on the closest thing Vermont had to proletarian factory degradation, and I thought June and I might become friends if we left the environment of our dorm room. Nope. She was every bit as angry and irritable off-campus as she was on it, even when I let her do whatever she wanted with the college camcorder I was using.
By Columbus Day, it seemed, the only thing we talked about was whether she should try and endure a second semester at Bennington or transfer to another school.
In any case, I didn't go home until Thanksgiving break. The school shut down the Friday before the holiday and didn't reopen for ten days.
I wasn't sure what to expect from either of my parents that week. I knew that both of their lives were in chaos, but they'd both been so secretive and coy on the phone that I didn't know exactly what was going on.
Certainly I had inklings: I knew, for example, that my dad and Patricia had begun to see a couples counselor, but my dad hadn't said who had initiated the sessions. And while I figured he would have told me if he or Patricia were about to move out, on the bus home I began to fear that they'd begun sleeping in separate bedrooms, and they would both be unbearable to be around.
Likewise, I knew that my mom and Dana had split up at some point in September, but it didn't sound like their breakup had lasted very long. I had the impression that once more they were an item. Yet my mom had also said she had some news to share with me about Dana, but whenever I'd tried to press her for details, she had vehemently refused to tell me a thing on the phone.
My suspicions? At first I'd surmised they were going to get married, but my mom had denied it. Then I'd asked if he was sick--cancer or MS or some weird hair thing that gave him rainbow-shaped eyebrows--and she'd said that wasn't it either. But she had paused, and so I'd wondered if I was getting close.
And when I'd finally asked her to tell me simply if it was good or bad news, she'd become downright incoherent, babbling about how it wasn't for her to say whether it was good or bad, it just ... was.
Still, it was clear to me that it wasn't great news in her opinion, and I was confident that it had something to do with whatever had occurred between them in those first few weeks after I'd left for college.
Sometimes on the bus home I would doze, and sometimes I would just watch the snowflakes floating to the ground outside the bus window. It would be dark by the time we got to Middlebury, and a lot colder than when I'd left Bennington after lunch. I realized at some point north of Rutland that I'd gone from being uneasy to being nervous: The difference, it seemed to me, was one of degree. The closer we got to Middlebury, the more uncomfortable--and awake--I became.
My mom met me at the bus, and all the way home and for much of the night we talked about college. She made me my favorite dinner (French toast that she actually bakes in this honey-pecan sauce), and she asked me all the right questions: My roommate, my classes, my movie. My friends.
But although she was pretty candid about what she knew about Dad and Patricia's problems, she was vague about Dana. Moreover, she never once brought him up. Always it was me who would initiate any conversation about the man who, it was evident by the time we had finished with dinner and wandered into the den, was still a very big part of her life.
Finally, when we were settled on opposite ends of the couch, both of us in our nightgowns, I asked, "Will I get to see Dana this week?"
"Do you want to?" she asked.
"Sure. Why not?"
She was sipping a mug of hot tea, and she placed it on the table beside her. I thought she was about to touch me--she started reaching her hands toward me, as if she was going to pat my curled knees or rub one of my ankles--but then she let her hands fall into her lap.
"Just how much has your father told you?" she asked.
"About Dana? Why would Dad be talking about Dana?"
"He hasn't told you?" She sounded almost incredulous.
"No. I don't think Dad's mentioned him."
She shook her head, surprised. "Well. I guess he really is focused on his own troubles."
"Patricia?"
"Uh-huh."
"So: What's going on? I'm a big girl, Mom, I can deal."
She smiled. "You think so?"
"That awful?" I asked, and for the first time I got a little scared. Her smile was anything but reassuring.
"Oh, I think that depends on your perspective. Dana's actually very happy."
"Good. I like Dana."
"I do, too. Very much."
"Are you in love?"
She hesitated. "With the man we both know? Absolutely. And it's clear he loves me."
"But there's a problem ..."
"If you're okay with this," she went on, as if I'd never interrupted her, "I'd like him to move in with us."
"Is that what the big deal is?" I asked, almost laughing out loud. "Is that why you've been so freaky about him on the phone? God, Mom, I don't care. It's your house! You can live with anyone you want to. Besides, I'm away at college nine or ten months of the year, I'm--"
"That's not what the big deal is."
"Oh."
"He won't move in until after Thanksgiving--if it's okay with you. He won't move in until after you've gone back to school. And he might only be here for a couple of months. He'll be in Colorado for at least the first part of January, and I don't know quite what will happen when he returns."
"This all sounds fine," I said.
"His living here will be an experiment."
" 'Cause you haven't lived with a man since Dad?"
She sipped her tea, and then did something I'd never before seen her do: She slipped her pinkie into her mouth and gnawed off a piece of her nail. I noticed for the first time since I'd been home that she'd begun biting her nails.
"Because I haven't lived with a woman since college," she said.
I nodded. For a moment, it seemed, that explained everything: The fact that Dana's face was as smooth as mine, the way he'd fixed my barrette the night we had met. The smell of his shampoo. Dana, I concluded, was actually a woman who for some reason was trying to pose as a man. Maybe she had something to hide. Maybe she had someone to hide from. Maybe, pure and simple, she was a lesbian who was still figuring out what it meant to be butch. I had already met a girl like that at Bennington.
But then my mom added the relevant details, and what for a few brief seconds had started to make sense grew confusing.
"Maybe I don't understand," I said. "Dana's a man?"
She puffed out her cheeks and sighed. "Most people would say so."
"But he doesn't think so?"
"No," she said. "That's what I meant when I said he's a transsexual."
"Woman inside. Man outside."
"In this case, yes. But it can work the other way, too."
In my mind I saw a penis--flaccid, a pretty generic unit at first, but then I saw it dangling below Dana's torso. And then I saw it in women's panties underneath a dress. A bright dress with flowers. Maybe the sort of flowers I'd cut at the nursery that summer.
And then I saw it gone.
"He's been living that way for well over a month now," my mom was saying.
"In women's clothes ..."
"Yes."
"Have you seen him?"
"In women's clothes? Yes, of course. Any number of times. We're still dating."
"So when the two of you go to movies, you're both wearing dresses?"
"No, not necessarily. Wednesday night he was in stirrup pants. And I was wearing a tunic top over a nice pair of jeans."
I wanted to ask what people were saying, but I was disappointed in myself for caring. And so I tried to phrase my question a little differently. "Do people think you're a lesbian?" I asked. I had tried to sound grown-up and progressive and open-minded, but I know the word lesbian had caught in my throat.
"I don't think that matters."
"I guess not." br />
"What matters is whether I think I'm a lesbian."
I expected her to say something more: Which, of course, I'm not. Or: And, obviously, I'm not. But she didn't. Instead she took a long sip of her tea, her eyes focused on nothing but the tea bag on the surface of the amber-dyed water.
"Do you still want to see Dana?" she asked finally.
I wasn't at all sure that I did, but I also didn't think I had a choice. Although Mom had made it clear that this was my call completely, it seemed to me that I would be letting her down if I passed. Moreover, it would be like I was, somehow, less hip than my middle-aged mother. And so I shrugged nonchalantly. "Sure," I said. "Why not?"