Assigned at Birth

Here I Am

My paternal grandfather, Emil, was a towering, serious, yet caring and wise man who wore the biggest shoes my child’s eyes ever saw. Even my adult eyes marveled at their length. His response to my announcement that I’m transgender was that God and I agreed to this seemingly absurd life path long before my soul entered this “wrong” body. I don’t remember having that celestial conversation.

That lack of recollection, however, doesn’t prove my grandfather’s ideology false. When I read or hear words coming from cruel, threatening voices who know nothing of what it’s like to be trans, I think about Emil’s take on the situation. If I allow his belief to be my truth, then I can live my life without fear knowing God is on my side. If only it were that easy.

I was a healthy, normal baby, with what every parent hopes for: ten fingers and ten toes. My first cry came on cue. There were no obvious imperfections.

I arrived a month early in the capital city of Iowa in the spring of 1962, between April Fool’s Day and Easter—the fourth daughter for Sue and Dick. I was named Caroline after my dad’s paternal, German-born grandmother, whom I never met or heard stories about.

As for the origins of what turned out to be a perfectly convenient middle name, Scott, my mother had a silvery photo of an ancestor displayed on a living room side table. Her name was Annabella Scott. My mother, Sue, never met her—Annabella lived in another state and died in 1933 when my mother was four years old—but was told she had “fire red hair and emerald green eyes,” the cliché Irish-Scottish lass who once lived in Blarney Castle, supposedly. My mother—who I once overheard described by one of her voguish female friends as a “handsome woman”—was so enamored with Annabella’s looks and alleged address, she chose Scott as my middle name. The name Annabella, Mother declared, “is too old-fashioned.” Good call, Mom. Other monikers for me were quick to come such as “Boo-Boo,” “Mad Turtle,” “Pickleleen,” “Blip” and my age during the years from five to eight.

“Boo-Boo” came first—from my dad’s mouth while pointing me out to his loyal, all swaggering friends from behind the nursery window. He told me the light blonde fuzz on the top of my head reminded him of Yogi Bear’s buddy. Or did boo-boo really mean “mistake?” I never thought about it like that until now. I’ll stick with my dad’s explanation.

Those thinly layered, short head fuzzies—that later started to curl and wave with no rhyme or reason—accentuated by a toddler’s rankled eyebrows and crinkled forehead, brought about “Mad Turtle.” The story goes, I would stand up as tall as I could in my playpen, grab the top rail with both hands, bite down on it and shake it so hard my clean-cut dad—who rarely perspired—had to keep tightening the screws. Tools were like chopsticks to him. He knew their purpose but didn’t want to use them if he didn’t have to. I wonder if he ever had dirty fingernails.

When my sisters, Christy and Leslie, would confiscate what they described as my annoying, squeaky pacifier and throw it across the room, I shook the playpen. When a toy in the big just-out-of-reach, circus-inspired red, yellow and white box caught my attention, I shook the playpen. When I wanted out, I shook the playpen. With every shake, I’m told, I got fussier and more desperate to have my wants met, giving me the face of a “mad turtle.”