I have a Dad.

This was an emotional weekend. I was all over the map. Up. Down. Up. Down. All over the place. It got better, it got worse, it got better, it got worse. One of THOSE weekends. Locked in my brain, allowing the hamster in its little wheel to have free reign. Listening to the committee argue and following the suggestions of whichever voice was the loudest. Never ever a good thing. It was a cryball kind of weekend. Women who are criers probably won’t understand that reference, but for some of us, crying is a challenge. It simply won’t come. I equate it to a hairball. It sits in my throat and makes swallowing hard and keeps me constantly on the verge of panic or depression. It also makes my rational thinking go caput and the impulses of my defects start to seem like a good idea. I even tried pulling out the big guns. The Trapeze Swinger. On repeat. I almost hacked that cryball up but, alas, no luck.

I had spent the weekend with the Yoho’s. You know that thing where your best friend’s family adopts you and treats you like one of their own? They love you and accept you and feed you and parent you and are kind and gentle and generous? That thing. I spent the weekend there. I spent the whole weekend with a family who didn’t even bat an eyelid at meeting Jackson for the first time. They loved Jennifer. Now they love Jackson. It was like I never even was Jennifer. Just Jackson. It filled me up and my heart soared. Since my emotional landscape makes not even a cursory amount of sense, this made me very overwhelmed and kind of sad. I have talked to three out of four of my family members and two out of three have accepted Jackson. So yes, to get unquestioning acceptance and support made me feel some things that may or may not have matched the situation.

I am a masochist at heart apparently because I decided that this day, cryball day, was the day to talk to Dad. We talked about his vacation, the problems with his rental car, his work, his family, his life. I listened and inserted the appropriate “wow!” or “that’s terrible” or “fantastic!” in all the right places, while my stomach got more and more knotted and my hands started to tremble. Finally, the pause happened. He had run out of things to say.

“Uh, Dad, I need to talk to you about something and I’m not sure you’ll understand. But we can talk about it and you can ask me whatever you’d like.”

(gulp)

“I’ve never felt comfortable with the name Jennifer. It’s never seemed to fit right. I’ve felt for a while that I wanted to change it to something that better suited my personality.”

(deep inhale)

(deep exhale)

“I’ve changed my name to Jackson.”

There. I’ve done it. I’ve said it. And now, we wait.

….

…

…

And then my Dad, my father, my daddy, the man who protected me from the boogeyman when I was a little girl and terrified in my bed, began to speak.

“Even though I haven’t had a lot of exposure, I’ve never had a problem with gay people. They’re just PEOPLE. I think that if that is who someone is, then that is who they are. I remember when Ellen DeGeneres came out on that sitcom, it ruined her career. I’ve always thought that was just criminal. It’s just who she is. And as far as gay marriage is concerned, why shouldn’t two people who love each other be able to get married? Now that the Supreme Court has ruled that it’s legal, there’s still stupid little court clerks trying to gum up the works. You’re my daughter. I love you. I think the name suits you.”

I couldn’t talk. The cryball was blocking my entire throat.

He continued. “Do I start now? Do I start calling you Jackson now?”

Yes, Dad. Thank you. My full name is Jackson Alexander Clark.

“And how are you spelling Alexander?”

A L E X A N D E R

“It’s you. It sounds like you. It fits you.”

Thank you, Dad. Thank you so much.

“Do you look different? Have you changed your look? You know, I don’t have any pictures of you since you visited us in Naples (about 14 years ago). It might help me to seal it into my brain if I could see how you look now.”

Pictures. My Dad is asking me for pictures. The same Dad who 20 years ago mailed my brother and me boxes of all of our childhood pictures and papers. He asked me for pictures. He wants to see what his daughter Jackson looks like today. 

There aren’t words.

We said our goodbyes. I said “I love you, Dad. Thank you so much.” He said “I love you, too Jen… Dammit! I did it anyway!”

It’s okay, Dad. It really is okay. We’ll talk soon. Thank you.

I got off the phone and I texted him pictures. I got my first ever text from my Dad.

“Like your hair in this one. You do look quite different now. We can definitely associate your new name with the new images of you. You look great. Love, Dad”

And to my Dad, I am Jackson. Just like that.

I sat and read his text and the tears came. Not enough. Not enough by half. Just a couple. Crying is really hard when you’re not a crier. But the cryball is shrinking. I can breathe. I can swallow. I can talk.

My Dad accepts me exactly as I am.

Before I picked up the phone, I imagined all different ways that the call could have gone. I was way off. I wasn’t even close.

I have a Dad. My Dad.