26
MASK
“Pardon, monsieur,” a man said to me after his five-or six-year-old child came barreling down the hill on a small blue scooter, coming close to hitting my dog, Mo.
The kid sped by during that first spring of the pandemic in New York City. Empty streets, space, silence minus the sirens and the occasional speaker pumping tunes from a passing bike. I was wearing a mask, I can’t remember if the man and his child were. There was a chill in the air, the wind from the river typically stung the face, but the mask proved helpful. I wore jeans and my flannel-lined black Carhartt jacket with my hooded sweatshirt poking out. A hat, always a hat, my beanie snug under the hood.
Mo and I were walking up from the path that runs along the Hudson River to the middle level of Riverside Park on the Upper West Side. The park is one of my favorite places in New York City. It has three levels and runs from 72nd Street to 158th Street. The path along the river has green areas, playgrounds, a tiny marina called the West 79th Street Boat Basin. A compact old forest-green boat floated quietly while I was playing “Which would be your boat?”—a highly complicated game in which you say which boat would be yours. I decided on that little guy. The promenade, the middle tier just above, has a design similar to parks in Paris, long, wide paths, tree branches above, curling to meet. Old streetlamps frame the cement, standing proud, while exuding romance. Stunning cliffs and stone walls, festooned with vines and moss, reach from the promenade to the top tier, which runs along Riverside Drive. Can parks be emotional? Feels that way, its beauty is haunting. I read Riverside Park inspired Edgar Allan Poe to write “The Raven.” Makes sense.
“That’s okay,” I responded, Mo caught off guard by the sudden tug. Stepping away, I could hear the father speaking to his child in French, not harsh but firm. Again I heard monsieur.
A smile formed under my mask. This had been occurring frequently.
“Yo, man.”
“Bro.”
“Sir.”
It was not until I spoke that they would clock me with embarrassment—
“Oh, sorry, miss.”
“Sorry, ma’am.”
I used to interrogate my shadow as I made my way about the city. It lived on the sidewalk, flat and underfoot, a quiet moment between me and the sun. I saw a boy, it was a boy, his body, his walk, the profile with the ball cap. The spot on the ground felt more real than me and dodged my attempts to squash it.
Storefront windows and I had forever been in a contentious relationship. Unlike the shadow, I could see my face, my torso in a T-shirt. The fall and winter were not as bad, but the summer led to cranks in the neck. Too hot for layers, I’d compulsively turn to look, checking and readjusting. Tugging down my oversize white T, I’d remind myself to get tighter sports bras. Maybe that would help.
During the beginning of the pandemic, my mask collaborated with my early spring wardrobe to alter my reflection in the window. Like my shadow, I saw the boy. Unlike the shadow, the boy looked back at me.
A thrilling vibration throughout my body I was not anticipating. It was jarring in a good way—a rush.
What the actual fuck?! My reflection never gives me “a rush.”
Peeking at the boy stomping parallel to me, matching my mannerisms, my pace. I was baffled and also totally not. It didn’t get old, every day when I walked Mo I’d find him, a reprieve. Hope?
The soles of my feet pressed firm, confident and grounded. Less of that floating, a more cohesive bond with gravity. It was gratifying seeing myself, which almost never happened. There was a spark, a seed, something getting stirred up. My body leaned in, knowing not to stop there, sensing it before my mind did. This flesh vessel, always vastly smarter than me, if only I’d managed to listen. A path had formed out of the blue, luring instinct. A few knocks on the back of the closet, a portal to a new world, a fresh reality in which I did not have to abandon myself.
I was not being recognized at all. Not even the subtle double-takes. I’m not R. Patz by any means, but this was like stepping into another dimension. And regardless of how much you are stopped or asked for a photo, people look. People “sneak” a picture on the train or at restaurants, not realizing I can usually tell—in some strange way it is quite endearing. I do not mind taking pictures with people at all. People are usually friendly and kind, not forceful. It is only if someone touches me without my consent or calls me by my old name that I become less warm. Boundaries are important, and learning to not feel guilty about setting them is crucial. It took me long enough to learn that.
I wandered around the city in my own newfangled universe. I could just be me, at ease, nothing projected by strangers. And for the first time since age ten, I was having people refer to me as a dude. I tried to not talk much, offering some barely audible grunts to prolong the moments. My voice at ten did not let the cat out of the bag, but at thirty-three it definitely did.
All I knew was something became unglued and now I could let the crack grow. There was no work to run off to, no girl that I had to play. Season three of The Umbrella Academy would not start filming until late fall, the earliest. This was my longest period of not working in … I don’t remember, and arguably my first proper break in years. My marriage was crumbling, we were living separately, and days were not as wrapped up in drama and distraction and suppression. There was time to sit, a moment to think. All that space initially amplified the discomfort. I had spent years and years figuring out all the tricks to avoid my feelings, to exit my body, numb it out. But now, something was simmering, preparing to bubble over, I could feel it. Outside in my layers and concealed face I was solid, taking in optimistic saunters. Inside was different. Taking off my mask, my jacket, I’d be snapped out of my reverie. Changing my clothes felt impossible, I was barely showering, the thought of removing and putting on my sports bra made me cringe. Those seeds of hope, the whispers of a better future, evaporated the moment I entered my apartment. The contrast between exterior and interior heightened my unease, a graph with a climbing linear line that soon was bound to plummet. I was nearing that edge again, and no matter how challenging, how destabilizing— I knew I needed to sink in, to not be afraid, to love myself.
In therapy, I continued opening up about my relationship to gender. I was slowly developing the skill to speak the words I needed to without an endless surge of sobs. Instead of being completely thrown off track, I was able to address the torment, to zoom out, to question why it had to be so agonizing. How come I could not just breathe and explore? Why did it need to come with a truckload of shame?
Not living with Emma did let some of my anxiety dissipate. A fixation and focus only for their feelings had been wearing me thin. I felt that Emma’s emotions always took precedence over mine. This, I am certain, was purposeful on my part. The avoidance, the running, the numbing, the disassociating—all of my nifty tactics at their best. Harmful for me and harmful for them. And ultimately, it had nothing to do with Emma.
As the summer rolled in, I was back to oversize Tshirts, the required tugging and looking. The shop windows did not put a pep in my step, no longer were people referring to me as my correct gender. I first started to properly contemplate top surgery during this time. Realistically it had been on my mind for years. Reaching out to surgeons was the first step. I made an appointment for a consultation, but I did not end up going. I couldn’t specifically say why—whether it was fear or circumstance.