Page 85 - North Star Magazine 2022

Papa, I asked timidly as we hung them up on the front door, do we have any extra stockings?
Somewhere in the shed, probably. Why? I want to replace mine.
Is it ripped or something?
No, it doesn’t have my name on it.
He was quiet for a long time and we hung the rest of the stockings in silence. You know, he said finally, if you do that your grandmother will throw a hissy fit.
Would you help me if she did?
You know I can’t do that, honey. She’d have my head too. I love you dearly, and I want you to know that even though I think it’s ridiculous it’s still your choice to make, but you’re on your own here.
I didn’t replace my stocking. It was no use. Until the day she dies, she said, and she meant it, with every ounce of vitriol a woman of her size could muster.
I’ve got it easy, I think. I’m still welcomed home, I’m still loved, I’m still the sibling and cousin and grandkid that I was before I left home. No one excludes me from conversation, no one pretends I don’t exist.
I could be homeless. Or dead. Or disowned. Or any number of unpleasant things that have happened to people like me. I’m lucky.
But sitting there, enduring wave after wave of pronouns that aren’t mine and a name that hasn’t fit since I was two, some part of me wished that I didn’t have to be so grateful.
The paper I got in the mail is sitting on the table, all the magic that
it held drained away to reveal a yawning black hole of anxiety and sadness. What’s the point? Why should I bother going through such a long, expensive process if the people I love will never accept it? It’s not like I’d spend $400 on a whim, after all.
What do you want for Christmas? Something with my name on it.
Like what? A cup, a towel, a necklace?
I don’t care, anything with my name. I have nothing with my real name on it and it makes me sad. That’s all I want.