Call me Jackson

 I’ve been called a lot of things. Jenny. JC. Jen. Jenn. Bratlax (thanks, bro) (#yearsoftherapy), Jennifer, ma’am, Miss Jennifer, Mr Clark. And once, when an ex was REALLY mad at me, Jackoff. We won’t go into that one. People often ask me what I prefer to be called. My answer is always the same.” I introduce myself as Jennifer, most people call me Jen, you can call me whatever. I don’t like Jenny.”

It feels like a lot of time has passed since I discovered and accepted that I have the right to be handsome. I’ve made so many changes and grown so much. “It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.” More courage than I would have thought I possessed. But, afterall, I am braver than I believe. It says so right there on my arm. And Christopher Robin wouldn't lie. 

In the last several months, I’ve learned some new terms. Boi. Genderqueer. Masculine of center. I’ve had to use a lot of google. I don’t know if my lack of exposure to people like me caused my ignorance of these things, or if my ignorance caused my lack of exposure. Either way, I’m learning now. Forty one years of trying to figure out who I am and all of a sudden, boom. I’m here. I liken it to being in high school, discovering lesbianism, and running out and buying Birkenstocks (check), rainbow stickers (check), and an Indigo Girls cassette (check). Yes a cassette. Forty one years. Keep up, people.

When I googled the term genderqueer, it felt like putting on a pair of shoes that fit for the first time ever. I’ve spent my entire life trying to force my identity and my gender into a predefined societal box and it simply did not fit. Square peg, round hole. You can get a hammer and beat that damn peg through the hole, and you will get it in there, but it will splinter and rupture and fracture and break.

I choose wholeness today.

So, my name. Jennifer Anne. Girliest, most effeminate name ever. There is no wiggle room there. It’s all girl. I was almost a Kimberly. That wouldn’t have been much better. I’ve never felt comfortable with my name. (No offense Mom, it’s a lovely name. For a girl) But I’m not so much a girl. I’m not so much a Jennifer. I’ve been told that most of my adult life. “You don’t seem like a Jennifer.” No one could put their finger on it anymore than I could. It just didn’t fit. Now, it is beginning to make sense.

I realized that I have the freedom to decide how I would like to be identified. It’s exciting and exhilarating and terrifying. Yes. I’m terrified. I hope to never get so evolved that I no longer care what you people, my people, think of me. It no longer has to dictate my behavior, but it still matters to me. I stayed stuck for so long out of fear of being judged and fear of being abandoned and fear that the love you feel for me will be taken away if you don’t like what you see.

How little faith I have in you…

The reality is that I know that the people who love me are here to stay. And the people who could be driven away by me becoming who I really am, never really loved me to begin with.

So I wanted an androgynous name. Something that could go either way.

My heart had other plans. From the moment I started getting the urge to change my name, Jackson has been stuck in my head. I know, I know. Not so much with the androgyny. (you keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means) I know it’s a man’s name. I kept trying to find something different, the right one, the name that would fit. Jackson. I couldn’t see past Jackson. I have no idea why. It could be because my best friend is in love with Jackson Avery on Grey’s Anatomy. But more so, I think of Steel Magnolias and Julia Robert’s character Shelby. In that movie, she is the epitome of woman. Everything about her is what I envision a lady to be. I can hear her voice, see her mannerisms, think about the way she moves, and THAT is woman. And then there’s Jackson, her beau. Her man. Dylan McDermott was as much man as she was woman. They complement each other like oreos and milk, like yin and yang, like Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock.

Jackson.

The longer I couldn’t shake Jackson out of my mind, the more time I spent turning it over again and again in my mind. Kudos for mom when she gave it to me anyway. Jennifer Anne Clark. J.A.C.

Jackson. 

It’s a name that fits who I am.

The people closest to me know that I’ve been going through a ton of changes over the last year. Long overdue changes. I believe that the people who have known and loved me over the years have seen my struggles with my identity and been powerless to help me. I needed to help me. I needed to work it out. I needed to get there.

I’m getting there.

Hi. I’m Jackson. It’s very nice to meet you. (tail wagging)