Family Memories

My father died a year ago. I’ve been thinking of him a lot lately, missing him. So I thought I would share some memories of him and my family, a bit more detail than I shared here in the past in my “About” page.

My father was a very loving and devoted father. He had very high aspirations and expectations for all of us. He spent many hours encouraging us in school matters and tutoring us in various STEM and business topics. My siblings and I were all expected to do well in life and all of us did. I became a high tech executive and entrepreneur. the older of my two brothers became an engineer, then next became a doctor, our sister, the youngest, became a business woman. She inherited our father’s last business and continues to run it today.

My parents separated and divorced when I was in high school, around the same time I began to socially transition and was officially diagnosed as transsexual and accepted into the Stanford Gender Dysphoria Clinic’s program in 1975. Each remarried later. But my mother remarried just as I was leaving home at 18, as “requested”. Though I was already living full time as a girl, my mother insisted that I wear a men’s suit and tie to her wedding to her new husband so as not to “embarrass” her.

As teens, our families freaked out when they learned that the older of my two brothers best friend, Don, and I were lovers. Don had been a frequent and welcome guest at my mother’s house until that discovery. He was devastated when that was no longer the case. Under pressure from his father, he broke off our relationship.

Some years later, the younger two of my three siblings had gotten married with the collusion of ALL of my family, to keep it secret so that I wouldn’t show up uninvited. I have literally never met their spouses. The older of my two brothers told me it was because they were afraid I would dance with a man at the receptions, further embarrassing them.

Candice with her adopted daughter Liz in 1997

I met Jeff the summer of 1997. We’ve been an “item” ever since. In early ’98 he proposed. I made a point of introducing him to both of my parents, on separate occasions, before then, as I felt we were headed in that direction. My mother pulled me aside to ask me “Does he know?”

When visiting my father’s house in southern Oregon with Jeff, my father surprised me by refusing to let Jeff and I stay together in his guest room. We had to find a motel room for the night. Since I knew for a fact that my father would have had no qualms about me sleeping with a woman, as he was often trying to get to do so since I was a teen, falsely believing that it would “cure” me, it was clear that it was homophobia. At that point, he still hadn’t gotten to the point of admitting that one of his two brothers was gay.

Jeff and I had a long engagement, a bit over a year, during which I planned a small and very elegant garden wedding at a nearby, Wine Country, Bed & Breakfast. I rented the entire B&B, ordered flowers, cake, catering, and bought airline tickets for my Matron of Honor and another friend. I invited all my siblings; the younger two didn’t even bother to respond. My Uncle, a Methodist minister, and his wife planned to drive out to attend and to officiate. The older of my brothers agreed to let his son to be the ring bearer. Liz was to be one of the flower girls. My father said he would come, perhaps even walk me down the isle, while his wife guaranteed it. Turned out that her mother lived nearby so they would be staying at her place.

My mother offered to help me find my wedding dress. On the day she drove up to Jeff’s house to meet up to start shopping, I described my dream dress in detail, nothing else would do. She sighed, believing that I was going to be a bridezilla. But I was optimistic. We went to the local mall, to the main department store with a bridal department. I walked in, headed for the ‘sale’ rack, pulled open the dresses in my size… and there it was, exactly as I had described. The dress had some minor flaws and tears given that it had been on the show room, so my mother negotiated on the price, which I knew she would, being the reason I agreed to go shopping with her. Later, I repaired all the issues by hand sewing to near perfection.

So, onto the wedding. But instead of my writing about it, please allow me share what, Magdalena, my Matron of Honor, wrote about it. But let me add, that because of events that surrounding the wedding, I haven’t had any contact with my mother or my two younger siblings since, that’s 25 years now. While Jeff and I are still happily married and love each other very much.

Matron of Honor…

by Magdalena

I wish that I could say that from the first moment I heard about Jeff and Candice’s relationship that I was supportive. That wasn’t the case. While I trust Candice’s judgment, there was a part of me that wondered, “Is this guy a user, a loser, a freak, or all of the above in some sort of David Lynch inspired combination?”

I get ahead of myself. Let me start by saying that one of my favorite “pop” songs is Winter, by Tori Amos specifically because of this lyric:

“When you gonna love you as much as I do
When you gonna make up your mind
Cause things are gonna change so fast
All the white horses are still in bed
I tell you that I’ll always want you near
You say that things change my dear”

This song reminds me of Candice, because while she has an incredible capacity to love, at times that capacity does not extend to herself. In addition, I am a woman who has experienced abuse. Unfortunately, this is something Candice and I have in common. Understanding that a history of abuse makes it more likely that you will end up in another abusive relationship makes me evaluate my own relationships and those of my friends with a careful eye.

So when Candice called to share with me that she was a: getting married and b: asking me to be her Matron of Honor, I was happy for her, genuinely happy, but cautiously so. I remember thinking, Dear gods, what will I do if I have to, out of love, say, “Candice. I love you. No. By all that is holy, no.”

Luckily, within moments of meeting Jeff, I saw that she had found, not just a good man, but a wonderful, responsible, intelligent, loving man. A man that would love her as she deserved to be loved. I watched not only an unaffected and completely genuine love for, and cherishing of, my dearest friend, but I saw that for Jeff, giving that patience and love was a way of life. From the cats that shared his home, to his immediate gentle concern for my young daughter, Jeff is the kind of man that showers all around him with gentle good humor, kindness, and compassion.

At that point, I turned my sights to the next hurdle.

Candice’s mother, the wire monkey woman.

Please understand, Candice’s mother is a lovely woman. If you ever meet her, she will be polite to your face. Excruciatingly, terrifyingly, absolutely polite. She will carefully assess your family and social class, (while refraining from checking your teeth… she is a lady, after-all!) and then she will graciously engage you in a perfectly correct, yet entertaining conversation eminently appropriate to all of the above and the occasion. Miss Post and Martha Stewart have nothing on Candice’s mother.

I should have been able to get along with the mother of the bride. In fact, we didn’t have an out and out confrontation. I think it would be more accurate to say that she and I treated one another like dignitaries from sovereign nations – both of which had thermonuclear weaponry. I’m sure at first, she was even comfortable with me; I was raised in a “good” family (outwardly anyway). I know when to nod and smile, I know the difference between a shrimp fork and a salad fork. I understand that proper Methodist etiquette for any disaster is to bring a casserole along with just the right amount of sympathy, nothing outlandish, mind you, a simple, “Ah, now that is too bad” will suffice.

However, I did make one immediate tactical error. I admitted that I absolutely love and accept Candice. We are more than friends. This is a woman I consider the sister of my heart, one of my dearest friends, and the person I have chosen to care for my children should I ever be unable to. While I’m sure it was expected that I, as the Matron of Honor, would be gracious in respect to the nuptials, I’m also quite sure that my unqualified support was considered a bit unseemly.

My second tactical error came when I found a charming group of women who enthusiastically offered to care for my six month old while I attended to last minute details. Any new mother can attest that when a group of obviously intelligent, clearly compassionate caregivers offer to watch your child for you – for free, no less, you jump at the opportunity. Clarity had spent less than ten minutes with her adoring new friends when I was approached by MoB. She took me aside, (What, did you think she would cause a SCENE? Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. We do not do such things.) Honestly, when she came up to me I thought a small Wedding Disaster™ had occurred, perhaps the flower girl had socked the ringbearer to kingdom come, or maybe someone had picked up the wrong cake and we were now faced with a “Happy Bar Mitzvah, Bart” cake instead. As an experienced Matron of Honor, I was well prepared for those types of Mother of the Bride disasters. However, I was dumbfounded when she kindly said to me, sotto voice, “You really don’t want to leave the baby with THOSE people do you?”

…

I will admit. I was distracted. I was not quick on the uptake. My first thought was, “With a pianist? With women in hats? What kind of people is this woman talking about?” Her lip curled. Yet, remember, MoB is a lady. Ladies do not openly call other ladies “Stupid idiots” in public. She gestured again towards where my daughter was being lovingly cradled and entertained with classical piano.

I was stunned as it hit me like a slap to the face. Those people? The ones she did not feel were fit to even hold my daughter… were trannies. In that moment, I have to admit, I began to hate this woman. I hated the fact that she could not, no, she flat out refused to see any of this group of women for what they were – talented, kind, loving individuals. I hated the reality that she considered “them” a class so poisonous that she felt my baby was somehow in danger — From what? A lipstick kiss? Being spoiled? Having a cultural experience?

Was she afraid that someone would say the T word in front of Clarity? Was she concerned that somehow Clarity would “get the gay” ? Whatever her fear was, whatever anger she had, I could not, nor would I ever participate in it. My exact words to her are lost in my memory at present, but I will assure you that I did not say what I wanted to, “Who the FUCK are you, you pompous BITCH to presume that I would ever leave my child with someone I thought was inappropriate.” If my daughter is being cared for by another person you may presume that I feel that person is perfectly safe, sane, and appropriate as a caregiver for that situation. Unlike some, I do not consider transsexualism a deadly contagion.

Another surreal moment for me as we prepared for the wedding happened as I was making small talk with MoB. As mothers often do, we began sharing stories from our children’s childhood. I found myself aghast as Candice’s mother said, sadly, “You know, (deadname) was such a good boy until he was seventeen.”

How was I supposed to answer this? What do you say to someone who is so self righteous that she believed that she was entitled to sympathy. Sympathy for what? Not accepting her daughter? For torturing her child with rejection? There are many things I would dearly love to give to Candice’s mother. Sympathy is not one of those things.

I do not want to leave anyone with the impression that I regretted meeting Candice’s mother. I appreciated the chance to have had a taste of the civil ugliness that Candice lived with every day of her childhood and adolescence. I had the opportunity to see just how much hatred Candice experienced in her own home and just how much strength of character it took to leave that hatred behind.

I did, however, decide that I would place myself squarely between Candice and her mother to deflect any possible nastiness. Frankly, as a person who grew up Irish Catholic, married a Methodist, and then became Wiccan, I am more than capable of handling a prissy, uptight, bigoted bitch. With the help of another friend, and using Candice’s nephew, Matt, as an unwitting accomplice, we occupied Dianne quite effectively with many small, “Oh, dear… do you really think Matt should be doing that?” episodes, thus making sure that she had little time to dig at the bride.

One of my most treasured memories of that afternoon was helping Candice dress for her wedding. It may sound trite, but she was radiant, beautiful bride. The sun streamed into the bridal suite at the Gravenstein Inn making the beads on her dress shimmer and sparkle. The flowers I pinned into her hair smelled sweet and old fashioned, and I remember having to brush tears away as I fastened a blue band around her wrist, my old ring dangling from it. Brides wear something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue for luck, but that day it was clear to me that Candice and Jeff didn’t need luck, they had each other and that would be more than enough.

As Candice made the final adjustments, I went downstairs to assure myself that Candice’s father was going to walk her down the aisle as agreed. I steeled myself ahead of time, prepared for anything after having met Dianne.

Candice’s father is the kind of man that could easily explain to you the inner workings of a nuclear power plant, how to best secure the resources of a venture capitalist, or how to make an industrial strength solvent from ingredients found in your kitchen. More importantly, whatever he’s sharing with you is made interesting by the fact that this brilliant man can actually communicate. Perhaps he wasn’t the perfect father when Candice was younger. There were probably many things he could have and should have done differently. Yet on that May afternoon, he was warm, he was kind, and he was there to support his daughter. For that, I loved and respected him.

One might think that once the wedding was over, the bride and groom off to enjoy a romantic dinner, and guests dispersed, that any opportunity for drama would have evaporated. One would be wrong. In the evening, after a long and tiring day, I sat down with Candice’s (adopted foster) daughter, Elizabeth, to chat. It was then that I discovered that Gilroy’s answer to a Stepford wife wasn’t done spreading poison.

I listened with growing fury and disgust as Elizabeth shared her experience with her grandmother, Dianne. Apparently, she asked Elizabeth something along the lines of, “So now that Jeff is in your family, which one are you going to call Daddy? Jeff or Candice?”

I was absolutely stunned. Truly, I knew the woman was a sick, vile, twisted bitch. I honestly didn’t think that she would go so far as to use her granddaughter to strike at her daughter. To this day, it makes me sick to my stomach when I think about the bitterness and the ugliness that would twist a person’s heart to the point where they would say something so utterly cruel, confusing, and inappropriate to a child.

There are no words.

Candice and Jeff making their wedding vows

As I look back on that time, I realize one important thing. People like Candice’s mother do not like being proven wrong. In fact, fundamental to their lives is a smug insistence on just how “right” they are. Once, years prior, this judgmental wire monkey of a woman had told Candice, “No man will ever love you.” On that day, it was abundantly clear in more ways than one, that she was wrong. Rereading this piece, I do not want to leave anyone with the impression that a bitter self righteous woman dominated my best friend’s wedding. She didn’t. Thankfully, Janeen and I were able to insulate Candice from the attitudes of hatred and prejudice that she grew up with if only for that one day. If we had no other role, I am glad that we were able to fulfill that one. The lesson that I wish Dianne had learned was that the wedding wasn’t about her. In fact, nothing about Candice’s life was, or ever has been, about this woman. Perhaps if she could see that she’d be a little more accepting and a little less judgmental. Regardless, it was a beautiful day and everything a wedding is supposed to be – a commitment between two people who truly love, honor, and accept one another and I feel very honored to have been a small part of it.