Copeland - Jazz: natures improvisation

Copyright Quattro Books Inc. and Elizabeth Copeland 2014

The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or otherwise stored in an electronic retrieval system without the prior consent (as applicable) of the individual author, artist or the designer, is an infringement of the copyright law.

The publication of Jazz has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council.

Author photo: B. Glenn-Copeland
Cover design: Sarah Beaudin
Typography: Diane Mascherin
Editor: Luciano Iacobelli

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Copeland, Elizabeth, author
Jazz : natures improvisation / Elizabeth Copeland.

ISBN 978-1-927443-65-1 (pbk.)

1. Transgender peopleFiction. I. Title.

PS8605.O6794J39 2014C813.6C2014-905787-3

Published by Quattro Books Inc.
Toronto
www.quattrobooks.ca

Printed in Canada

DEDICATION

Mr. Cartmail was one of those rare teachers who not only made me want to think, but earned my trust and love as well. When halfway into the academic year, he was dismissed, the rumours started flying, and within a few weeks the word was out. Mr. Cartmail had been fired because he was gay. I never saw Mr. Cartmail again, and dont know anything about how the rest of his life played out. But I do know that losing him in this way woke me up to the unspeakable costs we pay as individuals and as a society to justify and perpetuate our prejudices.

TRANS:from the Latin meaning to cross, go beyond

GENDER:(French from the Latin genus: a kind), the behavioural, cultural or psychological traits associated with one sex

TRANSGENDER:of, relating to, or being a person who identifies with or expresses a gender identity that differs from the one which corresponds to the persons sex at birth

There is a shadow of a girl floating around me. Gossamer. Guileless. I pretend I do not see her. She embarrasses me. Though I have tried, I cannot unlearn or forget what her life in me has given. And taken. Mostly taken.

There is a shadow of a boy walking within me. Ferocious. Fine. Though his heart breaks and mends, breaks and mends, and breaks again, he will not be shackled. His spirit is lightning fire.

At birth, I was labeled a girl. I was named Jaswinder.

My chosen name is Jazz. Like the music, I am natures improvisation.

TRANSFORM:(French from Latin), to change the form of

I told my mother I was a boy when I was four years old. She was standing at the counter, grinding the spices for the evening meal. Curry. Cumin. Garamasala. She stopped. Sighed. Turned and smiled at me, her mouth tense.

Dont be foolish, Jaswinder. Now, run along and wash your hands before dinner.

I told her again when I was twelve. We were in her sewing room. Bolts of brilliantly hued fabric were stacked against one wall. Straight pins and needles stood gaily on a green satin pincushion. Thimbles, scissors, pinking sheers. All neatly in their place. A chest full of tiny drawers, each containing threads of different colour, stood beside the picture window that overlooked our backyard. I could see the branches of the willow tree, waving at me as they danced in the wind.

Close the door, Jaswinder. She began slowly. Her voice soft. Choosing her words carefully. Wanting to say just the right thing. To convince me of the sacred wonder of it all. Of womanhood.

I didnt want to interrupt her at first, to take this moment away from her. After all, I was her only daughter. Clearly she had put a lot of effort into this speech, considered deeply how much or how little to tell me about the changes my body was going through. But in the midst of her detailed explanation, I stopped her.

Mother, I would rather die than to grow up to be a woman.

Her back stiffened.

What foolishness is this? As if you have any choice in the matter.

I told her again today. At my seventeenth birthday party.

In front of my whole family the aunties and uncles, the cousins, my friend, Jennie from high school, and my big brother, Sugith.

After they brought out the presents and sang Happy Birthday.

Just as my mother was about to cut the homemade carrot cake with cream cheese icing. My favourite.

The smile falls from her face. She drops the knife on the floor. Nobody moves. My brother looks away. Disgusted.

I always knew you were a freak.

Enough, Sugith. My father struggles to keep his voice under control. Jaswinder. Look how you have upset your mother. This is not something we joke about.

Its not a joke.

Freeze frame. No one knows where to look. At my brothers twisted face? At my mother, her eyes wide in an attempt to stop the tears that threaten? Or at my father, standing still and hard as granite?

On some unspoken cue, my aunties begin to fuss around my mother. A gaggle of hens, scratching and clucking. Picking up the knife from the floor. Cleaning the icing off the carpet. Straightening up the already tidy table.

Come with me. Auntie Nazneen hisses in my ear. NOW! She pulls me from the room. Through the French doors and onto the deck. Go to your mother. Apologize at once!

No.

What did you say?

No.

We wait until everyone leaves. Which doesnt take long. Amazing how fast you can clear a room with a simple announcement.

The door is shut and bolted. The window shades drawn. Auntie Nazneen and my mother scuttle from the room. I am left alone with my father. He is standing by the window with his hands clasped behind his back. Looking out. Seeing nothing. A storm is coming. But there is no escaping it. It is time. Deep breath in. Just relax. I can do this.

Jaswinder, what is the meaning of this behaviour?

Father, I

My mother peeks out from the kitchen. Quietly shakes her head. Mouths the word no.

I stop. The air around me crackles. A warning light goes on in my brain. A flashing sign. No more pretending. No more pretending.

I swallow hard. Remember the words! Words I have learned from books. From thousands of hours of research on the Internet. Words that have helped me sew myself together. Like Peter Pan and his shadow, except I do not have a Wendy to help me.

No going back after this. My hand on the lever, I pause. Check my anger. Remember. A reasonable approach will elicit a reasonable response. I open my throat to say aloud the words I have been practicing for years. Open the gates of the dam. The words flood out.

Father. Mother. Today is a reason to both mourn and celebrate. To mourn the loss of a daughter. And to celebrate that you have another son.

It sounded so good in rehearsal. In my bedroom. In front of the mirror. Now it sounds forced.

The blood drains from my mothers face. Her jaw hangs open. She looks older by years than she did just an hour ago.

My father turns his head. Regards me from the corner of his eye. No longer is there kindness, infinite patience, the dry humour that could send me into paroxysms of laughter.

So let me understand this. You are gay. A lesbian.

No father, I am The words. The words. Where are the words