Before & After: The Friendships We Risk Losing

Recently, I saw a huge stack of “Spiced” Coke and Diet Coke at the local Hannaford’s. Since I kicked my 5 can-a-day Diet Coke habit several years ago, I wasn’t even slightly tempted. But I did laugh, thinking of an old friend who would be delighted by Coke’s latest marketing ploy. (There’s been “Twisted Mango,” “Blood Orange” and “Blueberry Acai,” to name just a few.) Just for the heck of it, I sent her a pic of the display.

It’s been years since Eliza and I have talked. Having been raised in the 80’s, we both love to converse over the phone for hours on end. We used to take vacations to Vermont together when JJ was much younger: two middle-aged single white ladies who loved to shop for attractive yet sensible footwear.

Eliza always had a knack for finding the most perfect presents for JJ: once, a bag and matching wallet made from a material patterned with smiling otters; another time, a box of shark teeth she picked up at the Tampa airport which JJ, only four, promptly took to our bathroom to brush with toothbrush and toothpaste. A friend who loves your kid, speaks to them with humor and respect, is priceless. A friend you can travel with is even better.

One thing Eliza and I shared was scathing, hilarious commentary on the people in our shared academic and social circles we found pretentious, inept, and/or absurd. One of Eliza’s favorite stories recalled a female colleague who brought her three children to Eliza’s home and grew furious when one of the children got her head stuck between a pair of staircase bannisters. She directed her anger at Eliza, expecting, I guess, that she be the one to prevent this mishap. We could never figure out how the kid got their head between the bannisters in the first place.

Another individual Eliza liked to poke fun at was a female writer who complained at great length about every detail of her life on Facebook. Nancy suffered from a mysterious autoimmune affliction which made it hard for her to keep weight on, all the while her ex-husband’s lack of child support forced her to move frequently to pick up employment; she was extremely self-righteous about all things “political,” and if she so much as sniffed you having a thought that was in any sense less than radical, she’d hand you your ass on a platter.

For example, once in a conversation with Nancy I used the word “straddle,” with regard to taking on two, disparate matters, and she visibly winced, muttering that she couldn’t believe I’d used the word. I never understood why. Was it gendered? Another time when I complained about some music played by free-form radio station being distinctly unpleasant, she told me with barely concealed diusgust, “That’s exactly why my husband and I donate money to them.”

Eliza loved nothing more than roasting people like Nancy.

Then Nancy’s child came out as transgender. By this point, I was no longer Nancy’s Facebook friend (she’d unfriended me, who knows why), so I didn’t get to read the posts. But Eliza frequently regaled me with their foolishness. Nancy’s child had changed their name to Salvatore. She cackled.  Her take was that Nancy, in her far left frenzy, was thrilled to have a trans child because it made her look like she was a super hip radical feminist mom. Now, to be fair, Nancy did (always) tend to sound smug.

This was before I had any inkling I had a trans kid. I laughed along with Eliza. I laughed at Nancy.

I think one of the hardest things I‘ve had to face this past decade is that so much of what I once found humorous was pretty fucked up. I spent a lot of time laughing at the expense of others, in a manner I can only now identify as pitiless. I am not proud of myself.

I’ve been trying to rid myself of my snark.

I came by it honestly, having grown up in a truly cruel upper-middle class (rich) suburb where words drew blood, having survived (and been formed by) the 80’s. We traded in snark. I would’ve sunk without it.

Eliza is all about the snark, and I used to love her for it.

When JJ came out as trans nonbinary, I did not tell Eliza. In fact, I stopped talking to her. I didn’t ghost her. I just made excuses. I still love her.

But, all of a sudden, I felt all of the knives of her jokes directed me at.

I could hear myself laughing along.

I felt the knives of Eliza’s ridicule pointing at my child.

And it hurt.

I have not yet talked with Eliza on the phone. But I’m going to this week. I need to tell her how I feel.

Eliza is the not the first friend I’ve had to ask, directly, to take my situation more seriously. Another one of my dearest friends kept using the phrase “trans issues.”

“This isn’t an issue,” I told her. “It’s my life.”

I’m not angry with Eliza. I used to find the whole notion of trans identities ludicrous, unnecessary, and self-indulgent. I had no generosity of spirit. I was locked, as I had been my whole life, inside a gender construct. I thought it was random, a toss of the dice, that I ended up female, and I believed there was nothing I could do about it.

I’ve never felt feminine, and I’ve always resented the stupidity women have had to put up with. But perhaps the primary thing that has shaped me as a cis het woman is my hatred for the patriarchy.

It’s all so goddamn reductive.

Eliza gets it.

What I haven’t told you is that Eliza is fat. And, once, when I showed her an email I’d written to a boyfriend, she started crying. Apparently, I’d mentioned in this missive  I shared with her that I “hated fat kids.” I felt so bad. I forgot I’d even written that.

Eliza was once raped and when she told friends they didn’t believe her; they thought no one would rape her because she was fat.

I realize now that I haven’t talked to Eliza since JJ came out.

JJ can barely remember her, it’s been that long.

It’s been too long.

I will call Eliza tomorrow.

You will you call?