Nate Cannon - Dying to Hang with the Boys

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Dying to Hang with the Boys: A Memoir

Published by SoulBalance Press, Minneapolis

Copyright 2019 by Nate Cannon

All rights reserved. Aside from brief passages in a published review, no part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including all technologies known or later developed, without written permission from the publisher. For reprint permission, write to .

To arrange for an interview or invite Nate to speak, email
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Paperback ISBN 978-0-578-43711-8

E-book ISBN 978-0-578-43715-6

Cover design by Brad Norr

Author photo by Wendy Zins

Page design by Beth Wright, Wright for Writers LLC

Ebook Conversion by Erica Smith

for my mom

Contents

PROLOGUE

Wake-Up Call

The night of my first slumber party, when I was six, I wore my boys karate pajamas proudly. The girls greeted me with a mix of chuckles and sneers, compliments and questions. My mom had warned me: other kids were increasingly noticing my differences. Some seemed uncomfortable. Others curious.

I didnt care.

At the party I had to pretend to watch and enjoy Dirty Dancing before we finally got into our sleeping bags. I struggled to get comfortable and join in the whispering conversations. Eventually I fell asleep.

In the heart of the night, I awoke, jarred straight into sitting upright. I unzipped my sleeping bag, slid my feet to the carpeted floor, and tiptoed silently past the girls sleeping on the floor to the window. There I stood and stared out, mesmerized by the winds shrieking ferocity as it bent the trees sideways, as if they were flexible toothpicks.

Something was wrong. I could sense it.

Everything okay?

I spun around to see Staci, another slumber party guest, standing behind me.

Yeah, I said. Its fine. Just cant sleep.

In the morning, the girls left one by one as parents and cars came and went. My mom had four kids to chauffeur around, so sometimes she ran late, but an hour went by, and she still hadnt arrived. I went outside with Lindsay, the host and my best girl friend, to kick a soccer ball as the last of the other guests pulled away. Soon after, her dad came out of the house and called me over.

I just talked to your mom, he said. She cant make it, so Ill give you a ride.

I went inside and gathered my bags, loading them into his waiting car. Lindsay joined us for the ride. We pulled up the winding road that led to a small cul-de-sac where an A-frame house stood on a rolling Iowa hill. After one final curve, the only place Id known as home came into full view.

It looked far different from the day before.

A blue tarp covered the roof. Shingles and debris, from paper to nails to insulation, littered the yard. The sturdy brick chimney had completely toppled over. A large, splintered tree branch pierced the neighbors fence.

We crept up the driveway and around the small turn to park facing the garage. After getting out of the car in a frenzy, I stood frozen in the driveway, gazing at the destruction. The roof of my bedroom, peeled like bark from a tree, lay atop my stepdads crushed car. I picked up a loose roof shingle and traced the jagged edges with my fingertips.

The hum of the garage door opening interrupted my dazed disbelief. My mom walked out to greet us. She calmly exchanged a few words with Lindsays dad while Lindsay and I walked through the garage, sidestepping glass shard remains of the blown-out windows scattered over the cement floor. Time vanished as I walked into the house and headed towards my bedroom.

The room had bright yellow shag carpet, pale yellow furniture, and equally yellow walls. Not exactly appealing, but it was better than pink, which was the only other option my mom had given me. Id embraced that room and the fact I could call it my own. My room was my escape.

My tennis shoes slowed to a stop as I neared the bedroom doorway. Beams of sunlight pierced the shattered ceiling, casting an eerie shadow on my safe space. With a few more steps forward, I could see that my bed was caked in dust and nail-studded shingles. If I hadnt been at that slumber party, I wouldve been in that bed.

I wanted to curl up under the covers and hide from the wreckage, but that was impossible. Speechless, I stared at the sky directly above me, the strips of pink insulation dangling from loose wood beams, the bed I could no longer see as my safe space. The comforting layers of security beneath those blankets had soothed the ache brewing within me. I didnt know if Id ever find that security, or even feel at home, again.

1

Lost Boy

Im supposed to be a boy, Id tell my mom each night as she pulled up the blankets to tuck me into bed. Im supposed to have boy parts. I meant this with confidence and conviction. But how does a five-year-old child know that? I certainly didnt pick it up at school or read it in any book.

I just knew. I always knew.

In my earliest memories, I was torn by the disconnect between the boy I knew I was and the girl Id been assigned to be at birth. My mom once told me that while still in the crib, I played catch with my two older brothers. When my sister, the oldest of us four kids, tried to offer me dolls, I showed no interest. It wasnt that I couldnt accept myself. Instead I was being told society wouldnt accept me . In the 80s, in the heartland of Iowa, discussion of gender reassignment was almost taboo. Crying with my mom at bedtime was my main outlet.

It didnt stop my imagination, though. Up until puberty, Id finish my shower and put on jeans, blast music, and stand in front of the mirror with my shirt off. Id slick my brown hair back, stare at my flat chest, and sing, pretending to be the male singer of whatever band I was into that week.

As a social worker, my mom knew my gender differences would be a recipe for bullying. She thought she was protecting me from playground problems by asking me to be the girl she wanted me to be, but I despised every second of living as a girl. I had no choice but to let my sister brush and braid my hair because mom told me I had to. I wore the dresses mom gave me to wear to recitals. I conformed when forced, but my identity couldnt be suppressed.

Much as the toy stores suggested being a girl meant I should like certain toys, the teachers on the playground told me the pink bikes were for the girls and the black ones for the boys. I wondered who made up such a stupid rule. I didnt like the pink ones, so wearing my blue OshKosh Bgosh overalls, I walked over to the black Big Wheels and parked myself on one of those instead.

When my mom brought home clothes for me to try on, shed ask me to wear the feminine ensembles just a few minutes longer. But I invariably felt a panicked embarrassment while wearing them and took them off as soon as I could, settling instead for the few androgynous pieces shed allow me to have.

Early on, before the consequences began to mount, my decisions posed more concern for teachers, parents, and coaches than for me. School was still a playground. After piano lessons, it was off to soccer or basketball practice with the girls or hockey or baseball with the boys. I sometimes wondered why I was the only girl who chose the sports the boys were playing.

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