Three weeks after I came out to my mom, I looked in the mirror, and saw the same thing I always saw. A stranger. Tight jeans hugged hips that I hated, a low cut v-neck that exposed a chest that didn’t belong, hair too long, too wavy, too thick. I hated her. She was a lie. Nobody was home, so I raided my brother’s closet. I reverently found a pair of slacks, a cleanly starched dress shirt, a jacket, a tie, a belt. Heart racing, hands shaking, I stripped. I pulled the shirt on, buttoned it, tucked it into the slacks, put my hair in a ponytail. I watched an instructional video and tied the tie, put on the jacket. I looked like a child trying on daddy’s business suit, but when I looked in the mirror I felt just a little more real, and I cried.
The low grumbling of the garage door opening cut through my longing, and I ran to my room. Chest tight, tears drying, I shoved the clothing (ironically) in the back of my closet, put on my costume, and went on with my day. Afterwards, every time I got dressed I felt like a farce, so I asked my mom for mens clothing. Each time she had a new way to shut me down. Elise, why do you want to look like a boy? You’re beautiful, she said. Those clothes aren’t for you, she said. You’re autistic, you don’t understand the social implications, she said. I disagreed. I wasn’t beautiful, I was a lie, and I understood the implications far too well. But living the rest of my life as some cheap imitation of a woman scared me, and that was more powerful than anything she could say, so I started stealing dads jeans and wearing them to school. They were ugly and baggy, my mom threatened to burn them, so I kept stealing them.
She took me shopping, we argued, ended up buying nothing. We argued again and again, went shopping for nothing countless times. She dragged me to the women’s section, told me that mens clothing would make me look “boxy” (I already was), that I was a woman, with a woman’s body. I would look silly. I felt silly. We argued some more. This continued for months and I grew tired, started contemplating giving up, waiting till college, when we had a breakthrough. It was at Old Navy’s and I had finally convinced my mom to let me try on some jeans from the mens section. My mom asked for a store clerk to, as she claimed, help us decide which jeans wouldn’t make me look “boxy”. It was obvious she was looking for someone to talk her her out of it, and I’ll never forget the expression of pure horror as a butch lesbian strolled up to us, took on look at me, and changed the game. She was living proof of every claim I had made to counter my moms arguments, and so my mom stepped aside. The butch clapped me on my shoulder, and my heart swelled. We walked out with three pairs of skinny jeans. Two weeks later we bought a flannel, and three weeks after that more jeans and a blazer. Each item of clothing came with a scuffle, but the emotional toll was worth it because when I got dressed I felt authentic.
When homecoming drew near around it started all over again, only this time I was prepared. I had a plan. I went through the motions, argued had three solid arguments with crying and yelling and lies. I pretended to give in, acted as if she was going to have her way, as if I was going to wear a dress. Meanwhile I stole a dress shirt from my brother, took a pair of slacks and a suit jacket from my debate tournaments, bought a bow tie and vest online through my friend, and stored them at the house we were going to take pictures at. I knew she would find out. I had three siblings, and my parents worked at the school. I knew there would be a consequence. I never hesitated. On the day of homecoming I executed my plan, threw my shoulders back, and looked in the mirror. I was so proud of myself.
When I came home my mom looked as if somebody had told her she had lost her daughter, and in a way she did. She had lost the hopes of the daughter she imagined.. A beautiful woman with a white picket fence, a handsome man on her arm, and 3.14 kids. For once we didn’t fight, just skipped to the crying part. As expected, she grounded me for a month. Beyond my wildest expectations, she broke down. She told me she loved me, told me she was worried, told me people like me get mugged and beaten in alleyways, told me she feared for my future. I did too. I straightened my bow tie, dusted of my suit jacket like it was armour, and I told her I loved her. I told her I didn’t care what she or anybody thought about myself expression, that if the price of being myself was judgement or even death, I would gladly pay it. I told the truth.
Here is a lazy picture of me trying on my planned homecoming outfit in the dark shadows of my room like a creep. Your welcome. In my defense all three of my light bulbs burned out during football season and since my whole family is involved in football (literally the whole family) we couldn’t get a new one for 3 dark months.
As compensation for this incredibly sad story, here is photographic evidence that I’m doing ok in the formal menswear department:
(taken by my phone)
My relationship with my mom is still troublesome but I got a job and was able to bolster my wardrobe. I think my mom is slowly and painfully learning that she cannot protect me and that her attempts to do so are doing more harm than good, so things are slowly getting better!
Overall this story is a weird dynamic that requires a little bit of background. My mom is a trained counsellor who works in the Special Education Department at my school, and she is Hispanic. She was raised on strong hispanic values which in general include family, catholicism, and gender roles. I am an autistic butch lesbian, and my mom has spent her entire life helping me conform to neurotypical and gender conforming standards so that I can function in everyday society. Thus, her perception of her job parenting me is skewed because throughout my life she has taken the role of making me conform to protect me. My mom doesn’t have an issue with me being gay, she has an issue with me being butch, because in her time being butch meant danger (and to some degree it still does). I’ve gotten my fair share of threats and glares in the short 3 years I’ve been out of the closet, and I live in a very privileged liberal area, so I understand her concerns are valid. But I physically cannot live any other way. I’ve lied my whole life to myself, to my family, to my friends, and to the world about who I am, and everyday living that lie stripped just a little bit more of my dignity. To go back would while actually conscious of my identity would mean slowly and cruelly killing what I stand for, would mean living a lie that makes it impossible for me to love.
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