When Dad told us the new name, we were in the kitchen of our house on Norfolk Road. I sat on a high stool with my legs swinging. Already, Dad had slipped into the part easily in a long skirt borrowed from Mom and flat shoes, hair pushed back in a headband.
When she first said the name, Joe-dee, I sat quiet, taking it in. First name: Jody. Middle name: Luisa. Last name: Clark. I didn’t like the name. It sounded formal and strange. The first name sounded different, neither he nor she. I’d never heard it before. The last name wasn’t the same as mine, as if all of a sudden, we were from a different family. Where did this name come from? It landed from another planet.
The two syllables felt clunky in my mouth. I sprung out of the high stool and followed Dad, now Jody, into the next room.
“What if I just shout out Dad on accident when we’re at the bookstore and I say it across the way—what’ll we do?”
“We’ll see,” Jody said, smiling, though her face was slightly pale, her smile tight at the corners.
I never did make that mistake, though when we went out together, I watched myself and the world.
Sometimes, when I tried to say her name out loud, I got stuck on syllables. It was her name. It didn’t belong to me the way “Dad” did. Other people said it, too. The name belonged to everyone.
Our “dad” went away. Now, she was our “aunt.” Another word that got stuck. Should I say “ant” or “awnt”? We told people Jody was Dad’s sister. This story would not have worked back in New York. In this new place, though, we could make up any story we wanted.
My father had left us, we said, going back to London, and his sister, Jody, came to stay.
Heather Bryant is the author of My Trans Parent. Her work has appeared in The Massachusetts Review, Southeast Review, CURA, Anchor Magazine, and multiple anthologies. She has taught writing at Pace University, Randolph College, and Shakespeare & Co bookstore. In 2024, she was a resident fellow at Le Moulin à Nef in France. She advocates for LGBTQ+ families with COLAGE and other groups, and travels the world with her Havanese pup, Winston. You can find her at heatherbryantauthor.com.
Image Credit: Flickr Creative Commons/Staffan Cederborg
This was a story? I was expecting a lot more. A lot.
You’ve said so much, with so few words. Beautiful.
What an amazing writer. Capturing the confusion of a child and the wisdom of the grief stricken. “The name belonged to everyone.” So alone and so sad. Thank you.
Very powerful, convincing, moving.
This is a moving piece told in a very straight forward way. Thank you.