How a Christmas Gift with a Secret Meaning Saved My Life
There’s no place like the joy of being seen — and loved.
It was the year we murdered a tree for Christmas.
Daddy made me hold the Douglas fir while he attacked at its base. The tree’s perfume made me fall in love. As it broke at the bottom, its woody tendrils shrieked as it let go. I let go, too, and Daddy yelled at me. We dragged the tree out of the forest, leaving a trail of needles as if the poor thing hoped it might find its way back.
I was thirteen, and I’m sure Dad thought I was gay. He saw my horror as he made me do manly things. He no doubt thought it was his duty.
When I was little, he’d come home unexpectedly, find me dressed as a girl or playing with dolls, and fly into a rage. I thought he was going to hurt me or my mom, but he’d just punch a hole in the wall. He’d look at me disgustfully, hoping shame would fix me.
It didn’t.
Being transgender in the '60s and '70s was close to impossible. Mama knew. She and I would fight over my insistence that I was a girl. It just became our secret.
All these years later, I understand that Daddy simply wanted a son who would do guy things with him. I was grateful when my little brother was born and hoped he’d fulfill the need Dad seemed to have for a mini-me. Still, Daddy would make me stab desperately squirming worms with a hook when we went fishing and help him pick up the doves he’d killed when we hunted. Being made to hurt things wounded my soul.
When I was five, two men at my church-run kindergarten began molesting me. I obeyed their warnings about telling anyone, but it just added to my fear of and disdain for men in general. I sure didn’t want to be one.
Also, when I was five, my mother was raped by a man that hid in her car and held her at knifepoint. I could see her fear of men every day, and it brought us closer. It was a trauma bond that I continued to seek out in all my future relationships.
I survived by largely disassociating from my real life. My real identity was found in books, mostly with female characters like Nancy Drew and Dorothy and Alice. When I realized in the third book of the series that Ozma was a boy who magically transformed into a beautiful princess, I became obsessed with the Wizard of Oz.
My bedroom had posters from the movie, character dolls, and all fourteen of the original Oz books written by L. Frank Baum. (Dozens more books are considered canon in the Oz series, with the most recent one published in 2014.)
I was thirteen at the Christmas when we got a tree out of the forest. Puberty was hell on me. I had endured my childhood with the magical thinking that at some point, God would fix me and make me a girl. Having a male puberty felt like a big fuck you from the one I thought was my savior.
By then, I was reading books by Judy Blume, which covered beginning to menstruate and growing breasts. No matter how many times I stood in front of the bathroom mirror and quietly said, “I must, I must, I must increase my bust,” it didn't happen.
I was in despair.
A few months earlier, I spent over a week in the hospital from a severe ulcer caused by the stress of it all. Mama suspected I was suicidal.
That year, mama made our primary Christmas gifts. For my little sister, she made a beautiful cloth doll and clothes. My little brother was obsessed with money, so she filled a briefcase with dollar bills banded with fifty-dollar designations, even though the bills underneath the ones were fake. The look on his face when he opened the attache was priceless. It looked like thousands.
For me, Mama got a thrift-store pair of heels and covered them with red sequins and a bow just like Dorothy’s. When I opened the box, I cried hysterically. Everybody else in the room assumed that it was due to my strange obsession with Oz, but the gift spoke volumes to me.
It was Mama saying, “I see you. I love you no matter what, and I’ve got your back.” Those shoes somehow gave me hope. They restored joy.
My ruby slippers reminded me that I always had the power to return home to the real me.
Fifteen years after I received the heels, my new wife threw them away. She didn’t know the back story, but she was sure they were contrary to her intentions to make me into who she needed me to be. I didn’t allow my dad to change me, and I didn’t allow her to do so, either.
I’m sixty-one now and living full-time as a woman. I’m going to make a pair of ruby slippers to put under my tree.
I’m a former pastor and attorney who is also a trans woman. I’ve had an amazing life and look forward to telling you many more poignant and amazing stories. Please follow me and consider buying me a beverage by clicking here.
Pink Hair & Pronouns
Pink Hair & Pronouns is space for parents and caregivers of gender nonconforming kids. We honor the experiences of childhood gender expression and also welcome parents to share questions, thoughts, and feelings as they support their kids through it all. Come join us!
