Becoming Nicole Read online

  This is a work of nonfiction. Some names and identifying details have been changed.

  Copyright © 2015 by Amy Ellis Nutt

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint and division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  RANDOM HOUSE and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Grateful acknowledgment is made to Viking Books for Young Readers, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, for permission to reprint an excerpt from Cat, You Better Come Home by Garrison Keillor, copyright © 1995 by Garrison Keillor. Reprinted by permission of Viking Books for Young Readers, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Photo of the Maines family on the beach is © Kelly Campbell. All other photos are courtesy of the Maines family.

  ISBN 9780812995411

  eBook ISBN 9780812995428

  randomhousebooks.com

  Book design by Barbara M. Bachman, adapted for eBook

  Cover design: Gabrielle Bordwin

  Cover photograph: © Kelly Campbell

  v4.1

  ep

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Epigraph

  Prologue: Mirror Image

  Part I: Beginnings

  Chapter 1: Identical Twins

  Chapter 2: My Boys

  Chapter 3: Finally Ours

  Chapter 4: Gender Dysphoria

  Chapter 5: Down East

  Chapter 6: Things to Be Careful Of

  Chapter 7: The Pink Aisle

  Chapter 8: A Boy-Girl

  Chapter 9: Wild in the Dark

  Chapter 10: Girls with Magical Powers

  Chapter 11: A Son and a Daughter

  Chapter 12: Transitions

  Chapter 13: Getting the Anger Out

  Part II: The Sexual Brain

  Chapter 14: The Xs and Ys of Sex

  Chapter 15: Perpetrating Gender

  Chapter 16: Nature’s Anomalies

  Chapter 17: Being Different

  Chapter 18: Becoming Nicole

  Chapter 19: A New Adversary

  Chapter 20: Freak

  Chapter 21: The Christian Civic League of Maine

  Chapter 22: Defending Nicole

  Chapter 23: May I Have This Dance?

  Chapter 24: She’s All Girl

  Chapter 25: Eyes On

  Part III: Gender Matters

  Chapter 26: The Transgender Brain

  Chapter 27: Gender of the Heart

  Chapter 28: Separate and Unequal

  Chapter 29: Going Stealth

  Chapter 30: On the Outside Looking In

  Chapter 31: Puberty Begins

  Chapter 32: Born This Way

  Chapter 33: A Time for Change

  Chapter 34: We Can’t Lose

  Chapter 35: First Kiss

  Chapter 36: Small Victories

  Chapter 37: Someone Else’s Brother

  Chapter 38: One Step Back

  Chapter 39: Imagine

  Chapter Forty: Our Story

  Part IV: Breaking Barriers

  Chapter 41: Commencement

  Chapter 42: Transformation

  Epilogue: As Long as She’s Happy

  Photo Insert

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Sources

  Resources

  Glossary

  By Amy Ellis Nutt

  About the Author

  What we have not had to decipher, to elucidate by our own efforts, what was clear before we looked at it, is not ours. From ourselves comes only that which we drag forth from the obscurity which lies within us, that which to others is unknown.

  —Marcel Proust, Time Regained

  The stream of continuing creation flowed through his blood, and he could go on and on changing forever and ever.

  He became deer, he became fish, he became human and Serpent, cloud and bird. In each new shape he was whole, was a pair, held moon and sun, man and wife inside him. He flowed as a twin river through the lands, shone as a double star in the firmament.

  —Hermann Hesse, “Pictor’s Metamorphoses”

  Omnia mutantur

  (“All things are changed”)

  —Ovid, Metamorphoses

  PROLOGUE

  Mirror Image

  The child is mesmerized. Tapping his toes and shuffling his small sandaled feet in a kind of awkward dance, he swirls and twirls, not in front of the camera, but in front of the window in the shiny black oven door. It’s just the right height for a two-year-old. Wyatt is bare chested and wears a floppy hat on the back of his head. A string of colorful Mardi Gras beads swings around his neck. But what has really caught his attention, what has made this moment magical, are the shimmering sequins on his pink tutu. With every twist and turn, slivers of light briefly illuminate the face of the little boy entranced by his own image.

  “This is one of Wyatt’s favorite pastimes—dancing in front of the window of the stove,” says the disembodied voice behind the video camera. “He’s got his new skirt on and his bohemian chain and his hat and he’s going at it….Wave to the camera, Wy.”

  Maybe Wyatt doesn’t hear his father. Maybe he’s only half-listening, but for whatever reason he ignores him and instead sways back and forth, his eyes never leaving his own twinkling reflection. Finally, the little boy does what he’s asked—sort of. He twists his head around slightly and gazes shyly up at his father, then lets out a small squeal of delight. It is a child’s expression of intense happiness, but Wayne Maines wants something else.

  “Show me your muscles, Wy. Can I see your muscles?” he prompts the son.

  Suddenly Wyatt seems self-conscious. His eyes slide slowly from his father’s face and settle on something—or nothing—on the other side of the kitchen, just out of camera range. He hesitates, not sure what to do, then, ignoring his father again, turns back to the oven window and strikes a pose. It’s a halfhearted pose, really: With his two little fists propped under his chin, he flexes his nonexistent muscles. He knows he’s not giving his father what he wants, but he also can’t seem to break the spell of his reflection.

  “Show me your muscles. Over here. Show them to me.”

  Wayne is getting frustrated.

  “Show Daddy your muscles, like this. Over here. Wyatt. Show me your muscles.”

  At last, the appeals have their desired effect. Wyatt turns again toward his father, hands still under his chin, arms still against his sides, and looks up at him. But that’s it. That’s all Wayne Maines is going to get. With a look of part defiance, part apology, the little boy turns back to the oven window.

  “All right. That’s enough,” the disappointed father says and clicks the camera off.

  —

  BEFORE LOVE, BEFORE LOSS, before we ever yearn to be something we are not, we are bodies breathing in space—“turbulent, fleshy, sensual,” Walt Whitman once wrote. We are inescapably physical, drawn to the inescapably human. But if we are defined by our own bodies, we are entwined by the bodies of others. An upright, moving human being is endlessly more fascinating to an infant than any rattle or plaything. At six months, babies can barely babble, but they can tell the difference between a male and a female. When a feverish infant rests its head on its mother’s chest, her body cools to compensate and brings the child’s temperature down. Place the ear of a preemie against its mother’s heart and the baby’s irregular heartbeat finds its right rhythm.

  As we grow and mature and become self-conscious, we are taught that appearances—who we are on the outside—aren’t nearly as important as who we are on the inside. And yet beauty beguiles us. Human beings are unconsciously drawn to the symmetrical and t
he aesthetic. We are, in short, uncompromisingly physical, even self-absorbed. The philosopher and psychologist William James once wrote that man’s “most palpable selfishness” is “bodily selfishness; and his most palpable self is the body.” But man does not love his body because he identifies himself with it; rather, “He identifies himself with this body because he loves it.”

  And if he does not love his body, what then? How can you occupy a physical space, be a body in space, and yet be alienated from it at the same time?

  There are dozens of videos of Wyatt Maines and his identical twin brother, Jonas, in the first years of their lives, growing up in the Adirondacks of New York and then in rural Maine. Adopted at birth, they are the only children of Kelly and Wayne Maines, and they are lavished with love and attention, the video camera catching everything from the ordinary to the momentous. They splash at each other in the bathtub, plop in rain puddles together, and unwrap presents side by side on Christmas morning. Kelly never wanted the boys to fight over their presents. Anything one gets, the other gets, too, right down to the candles on their shared birthday cake. When they turn one year old there are two candles, one for each boy. When they turn two, four candles. Kelly also believed in exposing them to traditional playthings as well as atypical toys. So at birthdays and Christmases both receive big yellow dump trucks, roller-skating Barbie dolls, and motorized Dalmatian puppies.

  In the beginning, with their bowl-cut hairstyles, dungarees, and flannel shirts, it was virtually impossible to tell them apart, except that Wyatt’s face was ever so slightly rounder. But there were differences, and Kelly and Wayne noticed them soon enough. Wyatt was the one who every morning, in his diaper and with a pacifier in his mouth, stood next to his mother in front of the TV and imitated her Pilates moves. Usually he’d do the exercises while holding a Barbie doll, often giving it a shake so its long blond hair swished this way and that, sparkling in the morning sunlight. At other times, he’d unsnap his onesie, letting the sides hang down, as if it were a kind of skirt.

  Kelly and Wayne could tell Wyatt was moodier than Jonas; he would occasionally lash out at his brother as if frustrated just by his presence. There was something else, too. At night, when she bathed the boys, Kelly would catch Wyatt staring into the long mirror hanging on the inside of the bathroom door. As she pulled off Jonas’s clothes and plunked him into the tub, she’d notice Wyatt standing naked and transfixed in front of the mirror. What did the two-year-old see? Himself? His identical twin brother? It was impossible to know, and impossible to ask Wyatt, of course. But often it seemed as if the little boy was puzzled by his reflection, unsure of the image staring back. There was some inscrutable pain behind his eyes. He seemed tense and anxious, as if his heart was in knots and he didn’t know how to untie them.

  We are all born with traits, characteristics, and physical markers that allow others to identify us, to say, “He’s a boy” or “She’s a girl.” None of us, however, is born with a sense of self. By the age of two, children recognize themselves in a mirror, but so do chimpanzees and dolphins. Even the humble roundworm can distinguish its body from the rest of its environment via a single neuron. But of our “who-ness” or “what-ness”—our essence—there is no single place in the brain, no clump of gray matter, no nexus of electrical activity we can point to and say, Aha, here it is, here is my self, here is my soul.

  All those questions about who and what we are: They were still in the future when Kelly and Wayne first brought their boys home from the hospital. The parents looked on their identical twin sons as wholly unexpected gifts. Unable to have biological children, they felt they were living out their own version of the American dream, courtesy of two perfect little specimens of male Homo sapiens. Wayne, in particular, yearned for the day when he could buy his boys their first hunting rifles, their first fishing rods, their first baseball gloves. That was the way it had always been done in his family, and he would continue the tradition.

  Who we are is inseparable not only from who we think we are, but from who others think we are. We are touched and loved, we are appreciated or dismissed, praised or scorned, comforted or wounded. But before all else, we are seen. We are identified by others through the contours and colors and movements of our bodies. In his 1903 treatise The Souls of Black Folk, W.E.B. Du Bois, the African American author and intellectual, wrote about a double consciousness, a two-ness, of the “Negro” race, “this sense of always looking at one’s self through the eyes of others, of measuring one’s soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity.” He believed the history of African Americans in the United States was the history of a kind of “strife,—this longing to attain self-conscious manhood, to merge his double self into a better and truer self….He simply wishes to make it possible for a man to be both a Negro and an American, without being cursed and spit upon by his fellows.”

  Dignity, self-respect, the right to be treated as an equal, that’s what everyone wants. But Du Bois knew that those who are alienated from the community of man because of color (or, one might add, because of sexual orientation or gender) have a much harder path, because the alienated, the differentiated, the misfits of society must bear the burden of a single unspoken question on the lips of even the most polite members of society:

  “What does it feel like to be a problem?”

  I

  Beginnings

  But the Lord said to Samuel, “Do not consider his appearance or his height….The Lord does not look at the things people look at. People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”

  —1 SAMUEL 16:7

  CHAPTER 1

  Identical Twins

  At six months in utero, Wyatt and Jonas Maines are fully formed. In a sonogram performed in a medical office near Northville, New York, on the afternoon of July 7, 1997, one of them is hunched over, the individual vertebrae visible in the shadow of the fetus’s arched spine. The imaging technician uses an arrow to point out the head, then the trunk, then the legs. A tiny hand hovers in space, relaxed in the amniotic fluid, its minuscule fingers moving ever so slightly, as if practicing a piano piece. Forty-five seconds into the video, the technician points to the vaguely outlined shadow of one of the twin’s genitalia and types onto the screen “Still a boy!!!” It’s the tech being funny, of course. Both fetuses emerged from a single egg, they have the exact same DNA, and they’re identical male twins. How could one of them not still be a boy?

  By the time Wayne and Kelly finally held their newborn sons in their arms three months later, the couple had been married five years. For three of those years Kelly suffered through multiple miscarriages as well as months of tedious and painful fertility treatments. Everything changed in early 1997, though, when she got a phone call from her cousin Sarah, a sixteen-year-old she barely knew. The teenager said she was “in trouble” and didn’t want to have an abortion. But she was also too young to raise a child on her own. Would Wayne and Kelly consider a private adoption?

  Kelly’s own upbringing in the Midwest was anything but traditional. The roots of her family, as much as she knew them, began on the limestone bluffs on the north bank of the Ohio River in the town of Madison, Indiana. Founded in 1809, about halfway between Louisville, Kentucky, and Cincinnati, Ohio, Madison had its heyday as a river town in the mid-nineteenth century. It was also an important first stop on the Underground Railroad and as early as the 1820s was home to a thriving community of free blacks. In 1958 it was the fictional location for author James Jones’s quaint Midwestern hometown when Hollywood filmed his autobiographical novel, Some Came Running, there. According to legend, the star of the film, Frank Sinatra, was so worried about being stuck in a “hick” town during shooting he persuaded his buddy Dean Martin to take a supporting role.

  Kelly’s grandfather was a paddleboat captain in Madison at a time when steamboats still plied the waters, delivering goods to towns up and down the Ohio. He took his first wife there, but divorced her to marry Kelly’s gr
andmother, the oldest of nine and barely a teenager when her own father abandoned the family. A short time later she began working in a glove factory to help support her mother and siblings, and at age nineteen married Kelly’s grandfather, partly out of love, partly as an escape from the drudgery of caring for so many children. The couple soon moved to Indianapolis, where Kelly’s grandfather got a job with the Mayflower Moving Company, and Kelly’s grandmother raised three girls and a boy. Her grandparents were both of German descent and their values and mannerisms reflected their heritage. They were matter-of-fact, honest to a fault, and no-nonsense. Kelly grew up learning expressions such as “There are no pockets in a shroud,” meaning you can’t take your money with you, and “It beats hens pecking on a rock,” used when she saw something she could barely believe.

  None of the women in the family cottoned to the popular notion that men were superior, or that “ladies” should follow certain rules or behave in socially acceptable sorts of ways. Which may be why Kelly and others in her family could be so frank about their origins, saying they’d come into the world in what some people once called the “bastard way.” For Kelly and her relatives, it was just the way it was. Roxanne, her biological mother, told Kelly her father was likely a one-night-stand. Kelly was only two in 1963 when Roxanne asked her sister Donna to adopt her baby girl.