Masquerade of Acceptance: The Cost of a Deadname’s Shadow
a short story
The laughter and chatter of her family filled Jodie with warmth as she pulled up to their house for Sunday dinner. It had been months since she was able to make the long drive out to her childhood home. As hard as it was to save up for her gender-affirming surgery, family was still family.
Jodie smiled as her sister Sarah opened the door, pulling her into an excited hug.
“You’re finally here! We all missed you so much, sis!” Sarah said.
Behind her, Jodie could see her parents setting the table, and her eldest sister, Jane, finishing up in the kitchen. Seeing all their faces, smelling the familiar scents of dinner at home, and hearing the playful banter tossed back and forth ignited a deep warmth of nostalgia from within. Jodie smiled with her whole face.
Dinner passed cheerfully, her family asking about her new apartment and job. Jodie relaxed, soaking up the love she’d yearned for. This is why she stayed connected, this is what she worked so hard for, despite everything that was said and done over all these years.
As Sarah helped wash dishes, Jodie overheard chatter from the dining room where her eldest sister and parents lingered.
“It was nice having the whole family together again,” said Jane. “Mark looked so happy, don’t you think, Dad?”
“He does, I am so glad that things seem to be working out for Mark in his job.”
Jodie froze. Mark. Her dead name, from years and years of denial of her true self. Sarah and Jane never slipped up like that. But here, out of Jodie’s presence, her family’s conversation exposed the truth, lurking silently beneath the surface. Uncertain, and not wanting to assume the worst, Jodie turned to face Sarah and asked,
“Is this how it is when I am not around?”
Sarah gave a little wince. “Well, you know Dad says it hurts too much to use your chosen name, so we all use your old name when you aren’t around because we don’t want to hurt him.”
Jodie’s eyes watered, as her heart fractured anew. No matter how warmly they treated her to her face, no matter how much they professed their love, acceptance, and support, as soon as she left the room, she was suddenly Mark again. Her identity, her person-hood, erased.
She wanted to march in there and confront them, demand they show her the basic respect they show anyone else, to call her by her name — Jodie. That respect for a loved one should not be a matter of convenience or optional based on other’s sensibilities. But she knew from experience how quickly that turned into accusations of overreacting or trying to control speech. Her efforts to find compromises and to help them understand just how much this hurts just falls on deaf, defensive ears.
Instead, she made an excuse about traffic and slipped out the door early, with stinging eyes and a breaking heart, old wounds weeping again. She did not have the emotional stamina to engage in the labor required to broach this topic yet again. Driving home, Jodie replayed all the happy conversations, jokes, and warmth from the evening. Even her parents’ smiling faces and her sisters’ warm greetings now carried a shadow — one that whispered “Mark” when she wasn’t close enough to stop them. When she was not close enough to matter.
She wiped her eyes at a stop light. She would not keep returning, hoping that this time would be different, that this time they would finally accept her completely. Her identity was not an occasional costume, it was not invalid or illegitimate in some way — but her deepest truth, the core of who she is.
As painful as it was, she accepted that their love had sharp, cutting edges if even out of her presence, they denied who she is. Jodie touched her heart promising that one day, she would find a family who accepted and respected her for who and what she is, and called her nothing but that: Jodie, daughter and sister.
