Daddy Boy by Emerson Whitney

Author:Emerson Whitney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: McSweeney's Publishing

Not long ago, I spent time with one of my closest friends, Clay, in a green sulphur spring that was kept in a barn. We were nowhere. We stood in a field surrounded by short brush and farm equipment, the barn was a few frigid yards away. We stood in a stiff wind that raked at us over this massive, thin lake. We hadn’t seen each other in too long, a year or more. We stood there for a few moments before stomping toward the barn.

I’ve always been impressed by the strength in Clay’s body. Their hair lands on their shoulders now that they’ve let it go long. I envy how they hold themselves out like a point, bright green. I yelled into the wind to ask them if they feel like I do—like unclear about growing up into trans adulthood. They said, yes, absolutely, but they’d surrendered to the idea that they were constantly fighting how others saw them. Now, I guess, they said, I’m okay with letting everyone see me as they do. I don’t care anymore and I still do. There’s nowhere to go, they said, it seems. We swam around in the green water that was intensified by the reflection of gray walls. There were chicken wire windows, and a blue carving of a wave that was painted with a request: respect these healing waters. The words lilted up. The temperature of the pool was 98.9 degrees. It wasn’t warm, there was no door that shut completely. The hunk of barn slammed around in the wind, the metal roof thudding. A group of people ran through the door in heavy snow boots and emerged from the stalls holding tropical towels, shivering. Clay had kept their shirt on. I was topless. There was something missing. The water was too lukewarm, too much like being in our own bodies.

Clay backed up to the hot water spigot and stood under it, the warmest place in the pool. Becoming part of the two-spirit community made them feel much more sane, they’d said, they’d rather focus on that. They said they’d spent most of their life worried about gender on individual terms, but not enough about community. Now, there’s community and culture for me. This is growing up, I guess, they said.

Clay was talking about our coming out. We’d been children together—were babies when we met, with haircuts that Clay would give us all and tattoos. We called each other buddy endlessly and wore little ties and idolized leather Daddies and we were very angry but also laughing a lot of the time and falling into piles of arms and legs and wrestling and sleeping and just having bodies for the first time.

Clay and I didn’t stay long in the spring, just towel-dried over what looked like a cow cistern. We smiled at each other and shook.

I didn’t want to leave them. I drove myself back alone, wondering what it would be like to actually feel grown. Everyone in my family

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