The meeting had begun with a welcome from Mrs. G., sunburned from her recent truncated vacation in Tulum and sitting behind a long table flanked by Emma, the school psychologist, and a pale, balding man in a three-piece suit. Mrs. G. droned on for a good twenty minutes about courage and respectfulness and dignity and honesty, pointing to the words painted on banners that hung over the bleachers and addressing the roomful of agitated parents as if they were half-witted seven-year-olds.
Next, the man in the three-piece suit, who turned out to be the school district’s lawyer, reeled off statements about employee discrimination and hostile work environments. He said that Mrs. Lowell was now a member of a protected class and that parents and the school staff had to honor her right to change genders. Parents were asked to instruct their children to refrain from making jokes, comments, slurs, or aspersions of any kind about Mrs. Lowell, in person or on social media. When he was done, he slid the microphone across the table to Emma, who perkily announced plans for biweekly discussion groups for parents and interested students and encouraged anyone who needed additional resources to e-mail her night or day. By the time the floor was open for public discussion and a microphone on a stand positioned down front by a heavyset middle-schooler, the grinding wheels of public school bureaucracy had just about sucked the life out of the one thing every last person in town had been talking about for days.
A rangy brunette wearing dark brown cords and a fluttery white top came up to the microphone. She adjusted the mic so she wouldn’t have to slouch, tossed her lank brown hair to one side, and slowly surveyed the crowd.
“Wow. Wow. Okay. Hi! For those who don’t know me…my name is Susan Howard.” Was it just Lucy, or had Susan paused for a murmur of acknowledgment that hadn’t come? “First, let me just say, it is an honor to be addressing you tonight. My husband, Rowan, and I feel so, so grateful for the hard work you, the people of Beekman, have done to build this community.
“A tiny bit about me. I’m a poet, a deacon at St. Andrews right across the street, and a stay-at-home mother to three utterly amazing kids. And I’m afraid I plead guilty to being one of the progressive parents Karl was just talking about. Hi, Karl!” Susan waved at Karl, a jowly fourth-generation Beekmanite who had opened the public-comments portion of the meeting by reading a stinging indictment of the newcomers who were trying to impose socialist values on this all-American town.
Lucy nudged Claire and whispered, “Since when is Susan a poet?” Claire just rolled her eyes.
“I completely understand why Mrs. Lowell’s brave personal journey has been so controversial. I get it. I do. But the truth is, some people are born inside the wrong bodies and they know it from a very young age. And when their cries aren’t heard, when society makes it impossible for them to be who they really are, the result is depression, anxiety, and suicide. Statistically, ten percent of the children of the people in this room are transgender but are too frightened to say anything about it.”
Ten percent? Lucy thought. That’s not possible.
“Every child in this school has had a wonderful kindergarten experience in Mrs. Lowell’s class. And now they have an opportunity to watch her as she becomes who she truly is. Which is, really, all we want for our children anyway, isn’t it? To become who they really are, whether straight or gay or bisexual or transgender or gender-neutral.”
Lucy heard someone in the back of the auditorium say, “What the hell is gender-neutral?”
“And who better than Mrs. Lowell to normalize something that is completely normal? Next it might be your child. It might be my child. But this is not going away. And I think that the bravery Mrs. Lowell has shown should be applauded and recognized. She is our Rosa Parks, and kudos to her for refusing to sit in the back of the bus.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Howard,” said Mrs. G.
There was a smattering of applause—Lucy noticed that Susan was in no hurry to return to her seat—and then whispers as a tall, thin man in a cashmere sweater, pressed blue jeans, and Gucci loafers approached the microphone.
“Who is that?” Lucy asked Claire.
“Gordon Allen. The billionaire. He’s got a kid in Mr. Lowell’s class.”
“Are you serious? Which kid?”
“Rocco.”
“Rocco’s father is Gordon Allen?”
“I can’t believe you’re just finding this out now,” Claire whispered.
“I’ve been a little distracted lately.”
“I’ll say,” said Claire.
“This is not acceptable,” said Gordon. “He needs to go.”
The school district’s lawyer leaned forward and spoke. “I respectfully remind you that in the context of this public forum, we are using Mrs. Lowell’s preferred form of address. The pronoun should be she.”
“Forgive me.” Gordon folded his arms across his chest and said, “It needs to go.”
The room erupted. It wasn’t altogether clear to Lucy who was on what side of things at this point. Most, she hoped, objected to Gordon’s use of the word it. Some were clearly thrilled.
Mrs. G. pounded her gavel and shouted, “Order! Order!”
“You can’t control what I say. I know you’d like to. But I can use the pronoun of my choice, the pronoun that members of this community have been using to address Mr. Lowell for fifteen years.”
The lawyer leaned into the microphone. “I would like it on the record that the Beekman school district does not support this position, but according to our bylaws, the gentleman is entitled to have his voice heard. You may continue.”
“This is not San Francisco,” Gordon said. “It’s not New York City. It isn’t Brooklyn, no matter how many of you hippies wish it were. Beekman is a small town. We came here for a reason. And part of it was not to force our children to witness men changing into women before their very eyes.”
A few Woo-hoos, along with scattered hisses. Lucy craned her neck to see who was doing what and her eyes fell on Sunny Bang, who was standing in the back of the room with her hands on her hips, hissing for all she was worth.
“This is a civil rights issue,” the school psychologist said. “We’re here to help the members of the community adjust to this new reality.”
“I want to know when traumatizing a roomful of kindergarteners became a civil right.”
“Transgenderism may be difficult for some people to understand,” Emma said, “but it is a fact of life.”
“It’s not a fact of my life,” said Gordon. “It’s not a fact of anyone I know’s life.”
A voice called out, “Well, you know one now, Gordon. And so does your son.”
“I want it out of the classroom.”
The room went crazy. The lines were becoming plain. Most of the old-time Beekmanites whooped whenever Gordon said it, while the former city folk either hissed or shouted “Shame!” at him. Gordon didn’t appear to care.
“The law is clear on this point,” the school district’s lawyer said. “This is not a reason for termination.”
“You’re wrong. The law is not at all clear on this point. And do you know how I know that? This is my lawyer. His name is Hugh Willix. You might want to get to know him because you’re going to be spending a lot of time with him, time I’ll be paying him six hundred dollars an hour for. Hugh likes to rack up those six-hundred-dollar hours, don’t you, Hugh?”