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I gazed into the mirror covering the medicine cabinet and whispered, “I’m that chick,” even though I didn’t believe that.
After I was in the shower, I thought about what Hannah had said about nothing being normal but there only being each individual’s sense of normalcy. That was so true because all I had ever known was madness in my life. I was quite sure that most other children didn’t have to endure my pain. Then again, I was also sure that some had likely endured much worse. Some were no longer alive, taken away from here by one sick maniac after another.
Since arriving in New York, I had definitely seen and witnessed my share of “questionable things.” I hadn’t seen all the murders, rapes, arsons, and assaults that Hannah had referred to, but I had seen the hookers lining the corners beside the drug dealers, selling sex and crack or a combination if it was the order of the day. Some of the girls selling pussy looked even younger than me, and that truly made me sad. I understood them, though. They felt like what they were doing was better than the alternative—at least the ones who were not being forced into doing it. I couldn’t do anything to save them. Hell, I couldn’t do anything to sav
e myself.
The Bronx had gone through a “white flight” phase where most of the white people in the area moved out once things turned ugly. That happened in a lot of cities. But Hannah was white and still there and her family was still somewhere around. I smirked as the water cascaded down my back and into the crack of my ass. Hannah wanted me to contact my grandmother but she refused to contact her own mother. I planned to challenge her: if she would contact her mother, I would contact my grandmother. Fair was fair.
By the time I got finished bathing, Hannah was knocked out over her bed—likely from a combination of wine, laboring in the kitchen, and being emotionally drained by her friends and me. I was exhausted as well so I made my little pallet on the sofa and entered my dream state of the same nightmares that I had endured since I was very young.
Thursday, December 24, 1987
Christmas Eve
7:13 PM
Manhattan, New York City
So much had changed since Thanksgiving Day, less than a month earlier. Now I understood what they meant about life moving faster up north, because mine had become a whirlwind of activity. I was working in Manhattan with Shayne. She owned a day spa and was employing me under the table since I was underage and nowhere near my legal guardian. She had come by the week after that violent after-dinner event and I had come clean with her. Hannah was out boosting at the time, but something about Shayne made me feel comfortable enough to sing like a canary. I even told her about what happened after homecoming. She broke down in tears and admitted that she had been molested by her older male cousin from age five to thirteen, when her family moved away to another state. She said that a lot of her family members believed that was what made her want to trans from William to Shayne. She disagreed and said the same that thing that Hannah always said: she had always known that she was a woman born into a man’s body.
Shayne dated other women, while Hannah dated men. It was kind of confusing to me at times, but I was clear about one thing: they were entitled to live their lives in any way that made them happy about living at all. They were doing better than me because I couldn’t stand the thought of being touched by a man or a woman. I was also clear on that. Maybe one day that would change, but I somehow doubted it. I found guys attractive but didn’t believe that any would find me attractive and, even on the off chance that one did, sex to me was associated with violence.
I was Shayne’s shampoo girl at her spa and loved it. A few women had been insensitive enough to ask about my scar, but I wouldn’t discuss it. Some found it rude and refused to tip me, but most actually felt sorry for me and gave me bigger tips than normal.
Hannah had agreed to my deal about contacting her mother and my grandmother. We both decided upon letters without a return address on the envelopes. That way we could say what needed to be said and did not have to be stressed out over their responses. It was more like: “Hello, I’m alive, love you, don’t worry, and good-bye.” There were some fluff words in between, but that was the gist of both three-page letters mailed a week before Christmas inside sentimental holiday cards. Hannah’s had a Hanukkah theme on the front and I found one with a black angel decoration.
I felt good about letting Grandma know that I was still breathing. After truly considering it, I found it immature to let her worry. She was not in the best of health and not knowing my fate was probably weighing heavily on her. Hopefully, she would understand why I had to leave. I did not tell her about being raped. That would have been inconsiderate, not to mention pointless. She couldn’t have done anything to prevent it from happening any more than I could have. Nor could she do anything to make things right anymore than I could.
I still wasn’t feeling Sebastian, and Nigel had cut off his friendship with Hannah over the “incident.” I felt bad about that, but Hannah was cool with it. Her exact words: “I’m not about that druggie life anyway. And I damn sure don’t want you around it.”
I wanted to point out that as soon as we walked out our front door, we were surrounded by drugs, but I got what she was saying about it being in our home. I was just appreciative of the fact that Hannah had even brought me back with her—she could’ve left me right in that hospital room to fend for myself, or even in the bus station. She had not said a word about Shawn, so I figured that she was truly done with him. I wasn’t quite sure who she was dating but I knew she was dating men exclusively. She would skim over discussing this guy or that guy but did not bring them around me. She had stayed out overnight four or five times since my arrival, cautioning me not to open the door or go outside late at night by myself. She was very protective of me and I could tell she had a sisterly or motherly kind of affection for me; two things I had never had, since I was an only child and my mother, along with being insane, hated the fact that I was ever born.
Hannah was the only reason that I stopped plotting to step off a train track and stopped waiting for someone to attack me and slit my throat in an alley. It was obvious that she would be hurt by that, and I didn’t want to hurt her. I had grown to love her as, well, like the mother I had never had. We were two people with similar yet different traits that we allowed to hinder us, and that was what made our bond so strong.
My love and appreciation for Hannah is what landed me out in Times Square on Christmas Eve, doing something I never thought I would do in this life. I was walking to the train from the spa, upset that in spite of working my ass off, Shayne could only afford to pay me minimum wage. Back in 1987, the minimum wage in New York was $3.35. So even working under the table, for forty hours a week, I was barely making $135 each payday. My tips added in another $50 or so a week. I would give Hannah most of my money to go toward bills, or purchase groceries for us to share when I could. I had only been working a few weeks, so I had only about twenty dollars saved up. I wanted to purchase Hannah a nice gift, even though she stole most of what she desired. I wanted something to come from me.
I had seen this necklace in Macy’s for about thirty-five dollars, so I was short. I didn’t have the nerve to try to steal it. With my luck, I would’ve gotten caught my first time shoplifting and landed in “baby booking” for Christmas. That could’ve spiraled into a butterfly effect of the police figuring out who I was and forcing me to go back home or into foster care. I wanted to stay with Hannah. I also wanted that necklace.
I had not ventured to sing anything since Thanksgiving when everyone praised my voice. I still thought they were full of shit, but what if they weren’t? Every day, on my way to and from work, I had seen people out in Times Square in costumes, or singing, or playing an instrument—even pans—while people tossed money into their buckets, bags, hats, or cups. I was on the way to the train to head home that evening when I decided to go for it. If I could get fifteen people to give me a dollar each, thirty people to give me fifty cents each, or sixty people to give me a quarter each, and a little extra for tax, I could get her that gift. I did the numbers in my head and, of course, Times Square was crammed with people doing last-minute shopping.
I stood there for a moment, trying to figure out what to sing. I needed to keep in the holiday spirit, but we never celebrated Christmas much in my house growing up. Everyone was in their own various states of depression. However, Hannah had been playing some holiday music around the apartment. I tried to think of one or two that I comfortably felt like I knew the beats and music to in order to pull it off.
So there I was in my brown Members Only jacket, a plaid skirt and leggings singing “Someday at Christmas” by Stevie Wonder. I started to give up less than a minute in; I felt foolish. Then a miracle happened. People started tossing money into my right boot, which I had removed and placed in front of me, since I had nothing else to collect coins in. By the time I finished that song, I had lost count of what people were tossing and quickly came up with a follow-up song. Some people stood there like it was a concert, so I couldn’t sing the same song again.
I cleared my throat while I thought of something else and several people praised my voice. Maybe Hannah and her friends were right about my talent?
I started belting out “Santa Baby” by Eartha Kitt and, to my surprise, people actually started dancing with each other in front of me, between tossing more coins and even some dollar bills into my boot.
I started truly getting into it then, and some of the other street performers started throwing daggers in my direction. That kind of motivated me more. Even though I was going to have to ad-lib some of the lyrics, I broke out into “Give Love on Christmas Day” by The Jackson 5. I was singing and dancing my ass off. I was executing moves that I didn’t even know I had, and realized something important right that minute. When I was performing, it was the only time that Caprice Tatum actually felt free. All my fears, all my pains, all my shame, and all my insecurities faded away. It was such a natural feeling for me; a natural space. I decided right then that in spite of my flaws, I had found my “calling.”
Through the crowd, I could see a chauffeur-driven Rolls-Royce pull up to the curb and the back window roll down. All I saw were eyes at first; piercing eyes. Then the driver got out, walked around to the rear passenger door, and opened it. A tall white man with dark brown eyes got out in a tailored three-piece suit, and a mountain of a man climbed out the front passenger seat. He was not as tall as the first man, but he outweighed him by at least a hundred pounds. His complexion was redder and he looked mean as a snake and glanced around the crowd with caution. I made him out to be a bodyguard. As the taller man walked toward me, presumably to get a closer look and to hear me better, the crowd parted for him like he was the president of the United States. But I knew he was definitely not Ronald Reagan.
He was, however, creating a stir. People started pointing at him and whispering. Several women straightened up their clothes and struck seductive poses. I was completely confused, but one thing was clear:
he was an important, recognizable man and a lot of women wanted to have sex with him.
I stopped singing after that last song and retrieved my boot. I pulled the money out and did a quick count. I had more than enough to purchase the necklace but needed to get to Macy’s before they closed. They were not opening on Christmas Day!
