literature

Christmas TG

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Literature Text

Christmas TG

This year was the first year in a long time that John had sent a letter to Santa Claus.  He wrote it one night in his own hand-writing while he was unable to sleep, and it read:

Dear Mr. Claus,

All I want for Christmas this year is for the courage to tell my parents who I really am, and to keep their love and acceptance.

But since my parents would want to get me presents anyway, I'd want some things to show who I am inside: Joni, not John.  I'd want a skirt, make-up, perfume, and the Local Harvest body wash from the Body and Shower Depot.  

But, Mr. Claus, I know there are other things that I wish for that you can't give me.  You can't give me breasts, and you can't make my body look like the one I desire.  But that's okay, Santa.  All I want is to be able to act the way I want to act.  All I need is the chance to try to look how I would like to look.

Most of all, though, Santa, the one thing I really want is just a little courage.  

God bless you Mr. Claus,

John Trimble

In his late-night delirium, John went through all the motions of filing the letter.  He put it into an envelope, sealed it, and then tried to figure out the postage.  Since he assumed it would be returned anyway (he didn't put on a return address), he put only as much postage as though he were mailing it to his next door neighbor, Mr. Flames.

He then put it out for the mail, returned to bed, and promptly forgot about it until Christmas morning, a week and a half later..

John woke up late for a Christmas morning.  As a child, he would have wanted to get up as early as possible, and would sneak into his parents room, rubbing them awake.  "Come on, come on!" he'd say, and they'd roll over and go back to sleep for a while.

As a kid, he'd receive the best gifts.  A train set.  An action figure.  A Millennium Falcon figurine.

But as he grew older, he just didn't really have the same enthusiasm.  A big, big part of it was that he didn't want action figures any more.  And if he wanted clothes, for example, he didn't want the clothes he was getting.

John had an alter ego, you see: Joni.  And he wanted to share this alter ego with his parents, wanted them to accept her.  But he never would tell them.  Once, when he'd been with his mother in a restaurant, he noticed a somewhat unusually shaped woman at one table.  

John had said to his mother, "You know, that woman looks a bit funny, don't you think?"

And his mother said, "Didn't you hear her?  She's a man.  On the phone, she was saying she just had the operation."  And John would never forget the grimace on his mother's face: pure repulsion.

It was hard to remember what his dad thought, but he knew there were times when he'd referred to "fags" and he hadn't meant it in the British sense of 'cigarettes', or the internet sense of 'loser', but rather in the sense of 'those disgusting homosexuals.'

So come Christmas, John, lying in bed, tried to imagine how the morning would go.  He would be the last one up, savoring his sleep now more than going to the presents.  Around 10:30, his parents would knock.  Maybe his mom would make cocoa.  Then they would open stocking-stuffers: an apple for health, some pickled herring (so everyone got their own tub and no one hogged it all), and maybe a pair of socks.

These might be socks for baseball, the game that John hated, for the team of which he hated each member, for the person that John didn't want to be.  He remembered four years ago, John toward the end of the season, the team had been playing around on a jungle gym.  They were old for the set anyway, but as it happened they would take turns going across these high-up monkey bars.  One of the small, high-voiced kids was about to go across when the guy behind him kicked him and sent him tumbling to the ground below.  Then the guy quickly shot across, so fast that when the high-pitched kid on the ground got up, he turned and looked at John and started screaming at him for an hour for being the guy who kicked him.  Soon enough his 'friends,' including the guy who had kicked him in the first place, started all yelling at him.

Year after year since then, all the boys would just take turns yelling at him.  He'd never said anything to his dad, though.  He tried to say nothing to his dad.  So year after year, his dad would sign him up.  And come each practice, his dad would drive him there.  And John would simply go, do what he had to do, and come home each day, doing his best to ignore the endless string of insults.  Every game they lost would always be his fault, and no game they won would ever have anything to do with him.  

When they were done with stocking-stuffers, they would go to the presents under the tree.  It was almost certain that he wouldn't be getting any more action figures, this year.  Instead, it would mostly be clothes.  John knew because his mother had took him shopping for his Christmas gifts.  It would be an assortment of cheap-looking (but actually overpriced) T-shirts, scratched-looking (but actually expensive) blue jeans, whitie-tighties (that constantly rode up), and a baseball hat for his baseball team that he still hated.

The last item would be the special present from his dad.  Every year is was a DVD of an old movie.  Two years ago it was Ben-Hur.  Now, John didn't dislike the movie exactly.  And he loved his dad for trying to get something special and unexpected for him.  But in trying so hard, all his dad showed was how out of touch they were.  John would rather have a copy of Gone with the Wind or Some Like It Hot.  The next year it was The Terminator.  This one, John did somewhat like, but more because he liked looking at Michael Biehn than anything else.  

John wondered if maybe he could just lay here in bed forever.  Maybe they would knock, leave, and forget he was even here.  Maybe they could go ahead and have their Christmas without him.  Maybe he could just fade away, become dust and get swept up in the vacuum.

He imagined being bagged and trashed, and then being taken to the dump.  His bag would break on something, maybe an old broken television.  And then he'd be there, spread out over that broken television, and not be a burden on anyone.  Never a disappointment.  Hopefully, not even a memory.

A knock came from his door.  "Come on, Honey!"  It was his mother.  Time for presents.

He rolled over and thought about going back to sleep.  The bed was warm, and quiet and safe.  And private.  He didn't have to pretend he was happier than he really was.  He could just lie alone and think of what Joni would do.

Finally, though, he got up, slipped on his slipper, wrapped his blanket around his body, and slowly trudged out to the living room where his stocking rested against the brick around the firepit.  His father sat there with his coffee, and his mother was as well.  "Finally, sleepyhead!" his mother said, smiling.

As the child, even at his age, it was still his job to bring them their stockings.  Then he would get his own.  Of course, most of their stockings were made by each other.  They weren't altogether unlike his; apple, some pickled herring, and then his mom usually got a new pair of pantyhose, and his dad got a new pair of black dress socks.  John went through the stocking slower than he had any reason to, taking out the apple, and pondering it.  Like the apple in the Garden of Eden?  Or the apple that fell on Isaac Newton?  Or was it rather a genetically engineered apple?  Wax-covered, cancer-causing?

Then the herring.  The poor fish died for this, to be put into a can, and then to be put into a stocking, for a consumer who didn't want them.  

And then finally, he reached into the bag once more to search for the baseball socks, no doubt sewn by a poor Chinese child in a factory where he would be underpaid.  When he reached in, however, he pulled out something that did not feel like socks.

First, there was a new razor.  Hey, that was cool.  Also shaving cream.  Wow, his parents mixed it up and got something practical that actually was practical.

There was something else in the bag, though.  As he pulled them out, he looked at them.  They were white socks, but they were definitely not sports socks.  They looked smooth.  

"They're liner socks," the dad said.  "Great for when we go hiking next summer."

John had seen liner socks before; usually they were longer than this.  But he could believe it, maybe they were just a different style?

"Do you like them?" the mom asked.  She pulled out a bottle of beer from her stocking; the dad pulled out a bottle opener.  They kissed each other and then popped it open, not really looking at him directly.  

He did, actually.  He didn't know how he could wear them; if he went to school with them on, someone would look at them and say, "Why you wearing socks like that?"  And how would he say he was wearing them as liners then?

After that it was on to the tree.  Oh, the gaudy bubble lights.  The other lights.  The decorations of snowmen and sleds.  He gave the mom the first present: a bottle of red wine.  The dad: a bottle of champagne.  

He opened his own.  It was a long, mostly-black piece of cloth, pleated with layers of pink, and purple stars and shapes.  It looked beautiful, but as he looked on, he noticed that it connected in the back.  It wasn't just a piece of cloth.  It was a skirt.

As he looked down at it, he felt the Joni inside him explode with joy.  They knew!  They accepted!  

But as he looked over, he saw his parents had already opened their bottles of wine and were pouring.  

"Am I turning you two into alcoholics?" he asked.

"What are you talking about!" his father said, laughing.  "We just want to be extra merry!"

John looked back down at the fabric.  Maybe they thought it was a towel?  He tried to imagine that: it seemed possible, sometimes his parents weren't too observant.  But they wouldn't mess with him like this would they?

He passed the mom her next present.  It was from him; perfume she'd asked for.  And his present to the dad.  A tie decorated like Starry Night.

John picked up his next present.  A bag, and inside he found a black shirt.  But it was smooth, like the other items, and had a low cut in the front.  "Thanks for the nice shirt," he said to his parents.  It was clearly a feminine cut.  "Should I try it on?"

"Please!" the mother said.  "Try on the whole outfit darling."

"You mean..." John said, holding up the skirt.

The mother and the father tipped beer to wine.  "Of course," the father said.  

Was it a joke?  Well if it was, then he would play along.  John slipped to his room, putting back his blanket, and slipped on the tight black shirt.  It felt soft and fuzzy.  Next, he slipped off his pajamas, and slipped on the long skirt.  It went down to his shins, but the colors were bright and the black of the main part of the skirt matched his shirt.

Slowly, feeling the fabric against his stomach and leg, he walked back out.  His mother and father toasted each other as he came back out.  

"How did you know?" he asked.  

"The postman gave me your Dear Santa letter," his mother said.  

"So you know?  You read it?" he asked.  "What does this mean?"

"Well," the father said.  "You better know you're never owning a skirt shorter than that while you're in this house, Joni!"

Joni.  He called me Joni.

"Merry Christmas," Joni said, her first words.

"Merry Christmas," the parents said, and took another drink.
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Gwenny-Eve's avatar
Uh, Damn... didn't expect that turn around... I guess they took some time with that letter