My name is Michelle, but my Grandma calls me Steven

Today I went out to eat with my Grandma to the same deli we were at when I told her I was transgender, the Agoura Deli. I remember being so anxious that day. I remember sitting and waiting for the right moment to tell her. It felt like there either was no right moment or that any moment was the right one — either way, just tell her.

My Grandma is very open-minded, yet she also is very opinionated. I really had no idea what she was going to think or say. Was I prepared to have a debate about gender with her? Was I prepared to talk about my sexual orientation with her and tell her I was dating boys now? It didn’t matter: I was at the top of the roller coaster, wearing nothing but girls’ clothes, strapped in, wearing my new name, Michelle. I love my Grandma and she loves me, no matter what. The clicking noises stop and the ride starts to dive towards the ground… I tell her I’m transgender.

Her response was rather anti-climactic — maybe the best response anyone could hope for. “So what? That’s none of my business” she basically replied, in a tone that could only come from growing up Jewish in New York. She went on to tell me that she “grew up in Greenwich Village, where people were transgender before that was even a word”. Here I was thinking I was going to have to explain so many things to her and I was the one getting schooled.

She didn’t care if my hair was long; her three boys all had long hair at some point… hippies (I owe it to my uncles for teaching me music and introducing me to the Grateful Dead, which my Grandma went to several of their shows… ) I digress. My Grandma didn’t care if I wore girls’ clothes, earrings, or had a purse. I’m not sure that she understood it, but she didn’t care. Maybe not caring is what “understanding it” actually means. Am I still being schooled by her?

“That doesn’t work for me”

This had all felt like a huge relief. Everything felt normal, too normal actually. Something was supposed to change right? I mean, this wasn’t the first time I came out to someone. I had already told my friends, my parents, my doctor, my therapist… It was a big deal when I told all of them. With everyone else there were so many questions, so much explaining, so many emotions. I don’t think my Grandma even put her hamburger down.

“Grandma,” I said, “Things are going to be different moving forward. For starters,” as if it is so complicated, “my new name is Michelle.” This got a bigger reaction out of her, a concerned one. “Why are you doing that? You don’t have to do that.” I’m trying to picture what was going through her head. I wear girls’ clothes now, so the government is forcing me to change my name? The gender police? “Grandma, I know I don’t have to change my name, I want to.” “Oh” she said. She’s a big fan of being able to do whatever you want, especially for her grandson granddaughter. My Grandma lives in an Atlas Shrugged dream. “That’s fine then,” she says, “but that doesn’t work for me.”

What? Was this the tension I was preparing myself for? It didn’t feel too much like tension, I was ready to laugh. At this point I had already been keen to people’s intensions regarding my new gender identity. I know all too well what it feels like for someone to attempt to deny who I am. This didn’t feel like that.

“I’m old” she said. “I’ve known you my whole life as Steven, my best buddy. I’m not too good at making changes these days.” This was fine… this is fine. My Grandma accepted me that day and she also accepted herself, I should accept who she is too, right? This is what coming out is all about, isn’t it? The most I could ever want is to be able to be myself and for my Grandma to still love me. And I mean to love me as who I am, not love me for who she wants me to be — big difference. If I am loved and accepted, do I really need to bother an old woman with my name and pronouns? I don’t have it in me.

The Gift

Just a few weeks later, my Grandma took me to see the play Kinky Boots, a play about a cross-dresser, at the Pantages Theater in Los Angeles. We waited in line together for the women’s restroom, both wearing dresses, and talked about our time in New York where we had seen a play on Broadway. A few weeks after that, my Grandma gave me her old jewelry box with a ballerina that twirls and chimes when you open it up. It was full of all of her earrings and necklaces from when she was a girl my age or younger — a time when she was walking her dog with Charlie Parker and sneaking in to clubs to listen to Thelonious Monk. A time when she was living her best life as a spunky young woman, ready to take on life… and she was giving that to me.

I’m going to go cry now.

Thank you, Grandma, I love you.