My Friend Camille

So I have this friend named Camille. That’s not her real name. At least part of this is because Camille is one of those women who didn’t quite start out that way, if you follow me.

I knew Camille back when she was named Bob, and used a whole ‘nother set of pronouns. We weren’t best buddies or chums or anything, but we knew each other. Acquaintances. I was a big admirer of Bob’s work, was all, and was in a position to say so. Talent, humanity, and humor. High drama, but surprisingly subtle! Good stuff! Not enough out there like it!

Eventually, we became Facebook friends, which doesn’t say much, as I am also FB friends with people like Sarah Silverman, Bob Dole, and the Ghost of Elvis; I don’t know ‘em personally, and they wouldn’t know me if I bled to death on their front lawn.

But I knew Camille a little better than that, which is why I was one of the people in on it when she decided to become Camille. Bit of a jolt, that, and it got me to thinking at the time. What the hell? I mean, I knew this sort of thing HAPPENED, but I’d never had much personal experience with it. I’d known a few trans folks out of Austin, Weirdness Capital of Texas, but I was about as well acquainted with them as I am with the Ghost of Elvis.

So Bob is weary and done with bein’ Bob, and wants to be Camille. How did I feel about this? I sat down and thought about it.

First of all, was this the right thing to be done for Bob’s sake? She said that it was. That it was a thing that had been inside for a long time, itching and needing to be free, and that Camille was no longer a thing to be denied. I’ll get back to this.

Secondly, would it affect the work that had drawn my attention in the first place, and which I admired so much? Didn’t seem likely. Hands, talent, and inclination seemed unlikely to change all that much.

Thirdly, how was this going to affect the rest of the world? How were the relatives in question going to react? Parents? Siblings? Family? This is a BIG thing; I once was involved in a situation where a gay guy came out to his family and damn near got lynched over it. Yeah, that’s hyperbole, but not by much. I was one of the couches on Frank’s support network when he needed places to stay after his parents explained to him that he needed to choose between goin’ back to bein’ straight, or killing himself immediately, because God hates fags but He might forgive a suicide, you know?

Frank’s situation at the time gave me tremendous pause for thought. Frank’s a great guy, loads of fun, and when I found out he was gay, I did not particularly care. He was pretty much the same person after I found out he was gay that he had been BEFORE I found out. He was just sick of HIDING it, and having to PRETEND.

I sorta sympathized. A few years after Frank’s dilemma, my grandmother sat me down and gave an awkward speech that boiled down to “if you aren’t married by age 25, people start thinkin’ you’re queer and why aren’t you married?” My answer, boiled down, was “Because I ain’t found the right woman, yet.”

Her response, boiled down, was “Bein’ married to the wrong woman is still better than people thinkin’ you’re queer.”

It gives you a hint into the world I grew up in... and the world around us.

A great many people seem to have endless need to poke their noses into everyone else’s business. I took a TREMENDOUS amount of flak in my youth for BEING WHO I AM, for not bein’ more like a “regular guy,” and what was all this writing and reading and stuff? What’s with all the books and art and stuff? Why don’t you talk like a normal person? Why didn’t I follow football, like a regular guy? Why aren’t you more like ME, more like US? WHY ARE YOU SO WEIRD?

Truth is, I’m nowhere near as strange as I was led to believe I was. And I developed the attitude that as long as I’m not in jail, earning a living, harming no one, paying my taxes, and not running for public office, I owe you no explanations. You can take me as I am or go to hell, as it suits you. And equally importantly, you have the right to that same attitude.

Frank was a good guy, and a chum, and it never occurred to me that he might sneak off the couch and slither upstairs and tie me up and molest me or anything. He knew I wasn’t gay. He was just a guy having a very tough, bitter, UGLY time who needed his friends about then, and what kind of friend won’t let you couch surf a couple of days in an emergency?

Then again, to me at least, gay guys made SENSE. Gay people, as far as my experience has taught me, are just like any other people, aside from sexual preference. They see members of their OWN gender the way I tend to see WOMEN, is all. And the fact is? I don’t want to screw all women. I don’t even want to see them all naked. Even in my tender and callow youth, when I was sure I wanted to screw every woman ever born, and was sure I had the stamina to do so, there was actually a very small fraction of the feminine gender that I wanted to get to know in a Biblical sense. The rest of them were just... people.

This all seemed self evident to me, but it seems to be a real Unified Field Theory to a lot of other folks, complicated and inexplicable and probably wrong. Not to mention arguable, regardless of proof. Judgment is just way more damn fun than acceptance, much less ignoring someone and minding your own life.

This brings us back to Camille. What did I think? How did I feel about all this? What was I gonna do or say? Was this RIGHT for her? What about her work? And how was this gonna affect the people around her, what were THEY gonna do or say... and how would this affect Camille? Why was she DOIN’ this?

Fortunately, Camille was pretty forthcoming about her reasons. She WANTED her friends to understand. And she had quite a bit to say about it. She frankly answered a lot of awkward questions.

And I still didn’t get it. How can you be a different gender inside than you are on the outside? I mean, GAY folks, at least their processes are like MINE, if only directed toward a different GENDER, sure, but at least THAT I can understand. Yeah, I know, every culture has HAD transgender folks, I’m not sayin’ it’s deviant or insane or anything, I’m just sayin’ I don’t GET it, is all...

And so I sat down and I thought about it. Hard.

I WANTED to understand, but this wasn’t something simple or self evident, and it was going to take some work. My mind is a dark and twisty place, and it’s BIG in there, and twittering bats soar through the vast and darky places, but you can find all sorts of things, experiences, remembrances, and emotions floating through it, and I went looking in the deep... tryin’ to understand.

Transgender folks ain’t gay folks. There are a few parallels, but it’s a very different thing. Bein’ gay ain’t a choice. There are gay folks in Mississippi, which tells me that if it WAS a choice, they’d choose otherwise. Transgender folks take as much shit or more for bein’ transgender... which told me they NEED to do this, that it ain’t really a choice, either. Furthermore, gay folks can stay in the closet, and often do, for survival’s sake. Ain’t that simple for transgender folks; their “choice” involves a shift in identity.

But why?

I kept drifting back to the idea of all the SHIT you must have to put up with as a result of this. Relatives bugging out on you, friends getting all bent out of shape, trouble with employers, insurance, plain old documentation and government bureaucracy, all this nonsense about bathrooms... hell, that alone would be like when a woman gets married and changes her name, but worse. A whole world of shit.

Why?

And I thought back hard, to a time when I got a buncha shit for bein’ who I am... for being not like the others. Different. Weird. Not all THAT weird, but where I grew up, reading books, watching Star Trek, and not attending high school football every Friday night marked you as a goddamn strange duck indeed...

And I abruptly heard my fifteen year old self spouting off, across many, many years, after finally getting sick and goddamn tired of being prodded by empty headed chumps: “Because this is who I AM, ya goddamn chucklehead! Because I LIKE what I do, and I LIKE reading books, and I LIKE painting stuff and writing shit down, and I LIKE all this shit, REGARDLESS OF WHAT YOU THINK, YOU VAPOR BRAINED YAHOO! AND I’M GODDAMNED IF I’M GONNA PRETEND OTHERWISE, AND IF YOU DON’T LIKE IT, YOU CAN GO TAKE A FLYIN’ FUCK AT A ROLLIN’ DOUGHNUT!!!”

I blinked. The anger and stridency I’d felt at the time was somethin’ I hadn’t felt in a long time. It’s been a LONG time since anyone attacked me for just bein’ me. I hadn’t felt those feelings in a long time...

...and just like that, I got it. I didn’t NEED to understand Camille’s need to be Camille, as opposed to Bob, or anyone else. I didn’t feel what she was feeling? I didn’t get it? It didn’t MATTER, any more than why I preferred Robert Heinlein to Zane Grey when I was fifteen, or why I couldn’t give a rat about watching high school football, much less playing it, or why I wasn’t married at 25, or a million other things my friends and relatives and complete strangers couldn’t wrap their heads around.

As long as she’s not in jail, earning a living, harming no one, paying her taxes, and not running for public office, she owes you no explanations. You can take her as she is, or go to hell, as it suits you.

This wasn’t ABOUT me. This wasn’t mine to understand... or decide... or judge. I reoriented and thought in a different direction, one that WAS mine to ponder:

Is Camille a friend, or not? And what kind of asshole doesn’t have a couch for a friend who needs to surf a day or two when the shit comes down? And even if she wasn’t, what kind of asshole serves up the shit buffet just because you aren’t what they think you should be?

Plenty of people are like that. Am I one of them?

***************************************************************************

The rest was easy, and I formed my views on the topic from there. Camille’s still a friend, and I continue to marvel at her work. And this was all several years ago.

I never published this note, then. I was kind of afraid I’d give offense, afraid my white male privilege was showin’. I didn’t want to look stupid for not immediately grasping the whole complicated issue and, you know, having to think about things.

And then someone else came out. Again, not a bestest buddy, but someone I knew, someone who knew me. An acquaintance. Someone who needed to be what she WAS. Someone who had decided to face up and challenge the enormous shit salad that goes with transitioning into who you are inside.

And if she has the courage to stand up and do THAT, well, dammit, the least I can do is to have the pathetic little scrap of bravery it takes to stand up and say, “You’re okay with me. Be who you are, stand up, and don’t be afraid. Yeah, I know it’s rough. But you’re okay in my book. I support you. And I’m not alone in that.”

“Live, love, grow. Do no harm. And be who you are.”

1/29/2017