Wyatt Lee Mullis, b. 13 November 2011
Wyatt Lee Mullis, b. 13 November 2011
Her "conversation" was largely unexpected. She issued recriminations for everything from my not finishing college my first time in to the breakup of my marriage. She had a list of people, in regard to whom she asked "Does this one know? And this one? How about this one?", to which I answered "affirmative, affirmative, affirmative"; hell, the whole world knows about me. She told me all about how I was doing this "for the attention"; funny, how that's what she said to me after I had had cranial surgery in 1976 (strangely enough, I had all but forgotten about that incident until now). She also instructed me to not show up as I am. Fine, I guess I know what I have to do with regard to funerals. But I can live with that, if I have to. What I cannot live with is what came next.
From across the kitchen came my father's voice, uttering the words "You humiliate us." Of course, he couldn't speak those words into my ear, he had to wait until I couldn't issue a reply. That is so much like him. And that is what this is all about, isn't it? What I've done to you. As I couldn't answer my father's indictment directly, I issued my reply to my mother:
"Don't you ever take that position. I humiliate nobody. Even were I to be convicted of mass murder, it would in no way reflect upon you. What I am and what I do reflect upon me, alone."
And that's the way it is, isn't it? Me, alone. I was about to write "I gambled it all and lost", but that isn't strictly true. Given the history, I had never had it in the first place. I suppose that I had known that, but had, for reasons I cannot name, refused to believe it.
I believe it now. I am alone.
At the outset of this post, may I state that I am nothing if not a thoroughgoing coward. For the last 29 months and some odd days, I have been living as Diana Clarion. I have not yet petitioned the court for a change of name, nor have I obtained the desired surgeries; that is mostly a matter of finding the not insubstantial amount of cash needed for these things. Nevertheless, the world sees Diana and only Diana; the only trace of the "other me" is my driver's license and a few credit cards, that by legal necessity. For 14 months and some odd days of the aforementioned period, I have been receiving hormone therapy to assist in my transition; the effects of said therapy have been mild (although that seems to be changing; more on that in a later post), but not insignificant. Almost my entire family, or at least those with whom I have contact that approaches some semblance of regular, has known about me.
Almost, but not quite.
There exist two people to whom I had not said Word One about any of this. Those two people are those who raised me, my mother and my father. The reason that I have said nothing is simple: refer, please, to the first sentence of this post. The main reason that I have been able to get away with this for two and a half years is also simple: there is a separation of approximately 100 nautical miles between us. Another reason is that practically none of the family like my parents all that much; those who do, tend, unlike most Hunkies, to keep their mouths shut.
About two weeks ago, I made the usual phone call to my parents. Upon happily telling my mother of a lunch date earlier that day, she began her usual round of prying. Partly because of the direction the prying was leading (somebody may have said something, after all), and partly because I simply had had enough, I laid the Big One on her. Be careful what you wish for, Mom.
The reaction was what one might expect from someone who had no idea how much pain her kid had endured for the previous fifty-some years. Shock, horror, accusations. The discussion with my father fared no better. I suppose that one could not expect much different from a couple of Hunkie octogenarians, but a "What do you mean by this pain you describe?" would have been nice. During my next call, about a week later, it was quite obvious that my father did not wish to speak to me, while all my mother could do was complain about the money I'd spent on clothing.
I may be closing the door with this, but I've drafted a letter to my folks, with copies to be sent to a cousin and a cousin-in-law. The carbons are to attempt to ensure that somebody sees the message, in case my folks destroy their copy unopened. I also plan on sending a photo of myself, and a DVD copy of the Barbara Walters special on transgendered kids.
Here will be found the photograph.
My Secret Self, Part 1
My Secret Self, Part 2
My Secret Self, Part 3
So, here goes. I have nothing more to lose, have I?