Connecticut, and boat shoes, chinos, and polo shirts were all the rage for anyone who was anyone.
Formans Menswear occupied a busy corner in our local mall. Tasteful lighting and dark wood paneling gave the store a piano-bar vibe. Navy-suited and black-tuxedoed mannequins posed in the window displays, classy and Bond-like. Breathless, I drew myself up to my full height whenever I stepped inside that magical world of menswear, glancing shyly at the dapper salesmen gliding through the tasteful displays with confidence and efficiency.
I desperately wanted a Lacoste shirt, one of those pretentious little French alligator-emblem golf shirts that all the cool kids in school wore, but I feared a dark or neutral color would play up my masculinity and spotlight me as a gender outlaw. I chose a pink version, loose and unassuming, killing two birds with one crocodile—vaulting me into the realm of the cool and cloaking me in faux femininity. I wore that shirt two or three times a week for the next two years, convinced it was my protective cape.
The fact that today I can sit back and remember several schoolmates who I later learned were gay, lesbian, or bisexual and say, “Duh, of course they are,” only reminds me that I never considered any of us as “other” during my school years. So earnest were my own efforts—conscious and predominantly unconscious—to cloak my transgender self and adhere to mainstream behaviors, that I failed to consider that others might possibly fall outside the mainstream, too. Many of the queer kids I knew came from very affluent Calgary families whose fathers owned or held executive positions in large oil companies or law firms. While wealth and social standing brought these kids popularity at school, I can only imagine that the pressure to remain closeted as children of prominent people in a conservative city was a burden. The refusal to believe that anyone in the ranks of this elite Catholic high school could be anything other than straight and cisgender (the term for those whose sense of self and birth-assigned sex align, according to society’s norms) was so deep that bullying as we now know it did not exist, as far as I was aware.
One of my school friends was Attila Richard Lukacs, known then as Rick Lukacs. Today, Lukacs is a world-renowned painter and visual artist. He’s also an out gay man whose early career featured bold, homoerotic depictions of gay skinheads with a militaristic theme. While he wasn’t openly gay in high school, he was the only LGBTQ person I knew at that time who I suspect knew exactly who and what he was in those days. He didn’t seem to try very hard to hide it and had the confidence, carriage, and physical size to discourage any potential bullies.
Bishop Carroll High wasn’t a typical high school. It followed a unique independent study model, which drew many elite athletes. My initial plan was to continue my downhill ski racing training that first winter of high school, but the sad fact was, I wasn’t all that elite myself. Some of my friends went on to Olympic and World Cup success, but I remained a steadfast middle-of-the-pack finisher through my last racing season in the International Ski Federation system. Skiing six times a week throughout the winter—shivering in spandex racing suits awaiting my turn to launch myself down Rocky Mountain courses—plus rigorous dry land training spring and fall left me burned out.
That fall, I discovered the gym at school was frequently open during the day, and I soon joined regular coed pickup games of basketball. Basketball had called to me even back in junior high. It has a creative, spontaneous quality unique in competitive team sports; you can potentially make something amazing out of every touch of the ball, every defensive stop, every shot. If ski racing—beating the clock in the fastest run down the mountain—represents pure science, basketball displays athletic performance art. But I’d always been cut from the school teams, told by coaches that if they could carry fourteen players on a squad I would be one of them, but there was only room for twelve.
On a rare afternoon off from dry land ski training, I found myself taking an old orange rubber basketball to the schoolyard across the street, where I shot basket after basket and worked on my fledgling game. The only coaching I’d received was in junior high gym class, but the game came to me intuitively. I couldn’t jump very high, wasn’t particularly fast, and still hadn’t reached my full height, but I possessed good hand-eye coordination and quick reflexes. I love this game. After an hour and a half, I walked back across the street in the fading light and informed my parents I was quitting ski racing. Not even the iconic blue and black leather Skimeisters team ski jacket was enough to keep me racing.
“Are you sure?” Dad asked. “You love skiing.”
“We can certainly find other things to do with that money,” Mom chimed in.
“I think we should make sure it’s really what you want,” Dad said to me, eyebrows raised.
“I like the dry land training the most, but it’s so much time skiing every night and weekend,” I said. “I kind of want to try some other stuff.”
“Like what?” Mom demanded.
“Basketball,” I blurted. “I want to try out for the basketball team.” Dad tugged his moustache, as he always did when deep in thought.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “How long have you been thinking this way?”
“Since school started. I’m tired of being cold all the time. Plus, I’m never gonna make the national team,” I reasoned.
“True,” Mom agreed. I wasn’t sure if it was the being cold part or my lack of talent she concurred with. I drooped as I stood before them, suspecting it was the latter.
“Well, if you’re sure, it’s fine with us,” Dad said. “I’ll miss watching you race.”
“You can come to my games,” I smiled at him.
“There you go—I will do that,” he replied.
“If you make the team,” Mom interjected.
“I’m gonna make the team.”
Six weeks later, I made the junior varsity team.
The morning of my first early practice, I walked into the kitchen to find Dad making oatmeal. He made it for Jake and me every weekday morning before six, but I was usually asleep.
“What time do you want to leave?” he asked me.
“For practice?” I replied, surprised. “I was going to take the bus.”
“You don’t need to. I’ll drive you.”
“Great. Thanks.” We sat down and ate our oatmeal in silence, each reading the paper. From that day forward, he drove me to every morning practice for three seasons. Sometimes we spent our time together in easy silence, other times we talked about all kinds of things, from his job to the performance of the Calgary Flames to chemistry basics to the Farmers’ Almanac.
After a few short weeks of practice, the regular season began. Our first game was against Henry Wisewood High. I came off the bench late in the first half and took a position on the foul lane as one of my teammates shot free throws. The first shot swished through the net, but the second rolled around, hit the backboard softly and fell off the left side of the rim. I jumped into the lane and grabbed the rebound. One pump fake, then I gently laid the ball up toward the glass with my left hand. I watched, wide-eyed, as it kissed the backboard and fell perfectly into the basket. I pumped my fist in the air and shouted, “Yeah!” as I ran back on defense. I hollered joyfully, my fist still raised, all the way to the opposing team’s key. The coach nodded to me to start the second half, and I played the rest of the game.
Later, in the locker room, my friend Talia, a friendly eleventh-grader I’d played with in open gym throughout the fall and who’d warmed the bench the entire game, congratulated me.
“You did really great,” she said. “But I’m a little sad you played so much.”
“Really? How come?” I felt guilty, expecting that she’d lament her own lack of playing time.
“Because you would have been so fun on the bench with us. We gave each other hairdos.”
“Did you really?” I couldn’t imagine not watching the game, prepared in case the coach