Just to Live

CHAPTER 1

The Fall from Grace

The church leadership came for Pastor David R. Abernathy on a warm spring Sunday afternoon. They couldn’t allow him, a man who had given nearly three decades to the church, the quiet dignity of being removed from his post on a Saturday when he was in his office and the church was nearly empty. No, they had to do it at the end of the afternoon service, when the majority of the church members were around to see his humiliation and shame. He had no doubt that the timing was intentional. It wasn’t enough for his relationship with the church to end. His congregation, his flock, men and women that had come to him for guidance for years had to see it end, had to see his disgrace. Local churches had autonomy, they had said. Until David Abernathy had the gall to love his son.

The New York Baptists weren’t like the Southern Baptists. So they said. Abernathy’s church was upstate and, well, rural New York could look a lot like rural Kentucky sometimes. Abernathy was already a bit of an outcast, a black man leading a mostly white church. It had taken a bit for him to win the congregation over, but in due time they grew to love him. But they loved him because he had made it seem like he was one of them, not because they were comfortable taking spiritual advice from a black man. Still, it wasn’t their decision to see him go.

The cardinal sin had been his unequivocal, unwavering support of his transgender son. The church just couldn’t have that.

Miriam Abernathy hadn’t meant to come out to his father. Not then, and perhaps not ever. You weren’t gay in the church and you sure as hell weren’t trans.

He had played the wild child for a while, acting out, trying on hat after hat after hat in the hopes that some would fit. He started drinking when he was eleven, finding the stores of communion wine unlocked one day. The church switched to grape juice shortly thereafter out of respect for the congregation’s recovering alcoholics. Few knew the real reason.

Puberty hit and he bought baggy t-shirts to hide his breasts and men’s jeans to hide his hips. That felt a little better. He began wrapping his chest with bandages to make it flatter, and sometimes when he looked in a mirror that way he almost felt like he didn’t want to die. Almost.

He’d had the bottle of pills the one night. Cap off, cotton out, spilled over his desk almost like candy. But he couldn’t do it. His father would be the one to find him and every time he grasped a handful of the tiny white capsules, he saw the horrified look on the face of the man that had raised him and loved him for seventeen years.

It was fucking Facebook that forced the issue. A note that was supposed to be private had turned public for his father to see when a mutual friend had commented on it. He had come home from a trip to the park one day to find David R. Abernathy waiting for him in the living room of their expansive house.

Son, I saw your note, he said softly in that voice of his that he used right before he was building up to the climax of one of his sermons. Only this time there was no crescendo, at least not in volume.

A thousand excuses and protestations came to mind, but couldn’t quite pass through Miriam’s lips as he went into panic mode. It was only several long seconds later that he realized that his father, the formidable Reverend David Abernathy, had started their conversation by calling him son.

Then it was only tears that came as he rushed into his father’s arms and they held one another. It had been a long time since he’d given his father a hug, Miriam realized, his growing dysphoria having made him loathe physical contact more and more. How could he be near anyone else’s body when he so hated his own? He sunk against his father’s powerful arms, comforted by them, but also hoping that he might one day be in the opposite position, a father consoling his child in their time of need.

Why didn’t you tell me? His father asked, and that only produced a fresh wave of tears.

I didn’t think you’d understand.

Understand…I’m your father.

And The Reverend, the church had pastors, not reverends, but the nickname had stuck.

The message of the church is one of love, he said. "Jesus didn’t say anything about, what is it, transgenders, but he did preach love. And he especially preached it to the meek and the destitute."

Miriam had a fresh retort at the mislabeling, but The Reverend held up his hand. "Now before you get all macho on me, let me tell you this. The first thing I did when I saw your note was read all I could on transgender folks and, well, I don’t know what you’re going through. But I do know what some ugly people would like to put you through and I know that you and yours need love perhaps more than anyone."

Miriam couldn’t contain himself anymore and embraced his father again, sobbing into his navy t-shirt and soaking it through to the muscled chest that had softened with age. So had his father’s stance towards the LGBT community, he later learned, transitioning itself from opposition, to confusion, now to acceptance.

Have you decided on a name yet? Miriam’s note had made mention of the difficulty. How do you name yourself?

Miriam thought for several long moments. I was thinking ‘Marshall,’ after Marsha P. Johnson, he said after several moments. Or Martin.

Well Martin is a name that has served black men well, his father answered with a smile. Who is Marsha P. Johnson?

She was one of the leaders of the Stonewall Riots and the push for gay and trans rights that followed, Miriam explained.

Was she black? Miriam nodded.

His father frowned. I should have known that. Who she was, I mean. We can’t afford to let our heroes be forgotten. He turned his attention back to his son. How about…Marshall Martin Abernathy? Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

I’d like to keep my middle name, Miriam said.

David beamed. Miriam, despite being assigned female at birth, had the same middle name as his grandfather’s first name, William. So then keep it. Four names are better than three don’t you think?

Marshall nodded. That was the day he left Miriam behind and became Marshall Martin William Abernathy.

CHAPTER 2

Hardship

I’m sorry Bette, David said. I just can’t afford to keep any house staff. The congregation wasn’t the only thing Abernathy had lost. His flock might have been fairly small compared to the great worship houses of the south, but his notoriety wasn’t. Everyone had wanted to know more about the black man spreading the message of Jesus’s love in a white man’s world. But the congregation was gone now and with it had disappeared the book deals and media appearances that many a religious conservative could count on. His regular column in the paper was discontinued, his publishers and editors gone. He owned the house, thankfully, but he wasn’t sure how much longer he could continue paying taxes on it. And he certainly couldn’t afford the landscapers or the maid, Bette.

Bette always said she was fifty, looked thirty, and acted anywhere between fifteen and eighty. Abernathy didn’t know about the last one, but the first two were certainly true, at least until you caught a glimpse of her greying hair Bette had the powerful legs of an accomplished dancer and the almost unlined face of someone who’d spent decades indoors trying to make a career of it. Abernathy had no doubt that that was because she was black, an oddity in the world of ballet. She was a reserved woman face to face, but David and Marshall had caught her on more than one occasion spinning about the halls of the Abernathy house, humming while she cleaned.

The house probably didn’t really need a maid, truth be told. It was a mansion by rural upstate New York standards with five bedrooms, but simply a large house by anyone else’s. Marshall and David could make do well enough cleaning it on their own. Bette’s hiring had been as much a favor to her as it had been done out of the Abernathys’ need.

I don’t have anywhere to go, Bette said softly. I…what if I lived here? I would pay rent. And I’m sure I can find other clients to make a living cleaning houses. And let’s be honest, you and Marshall might think you’re doing a good job with the housekeeping, but an expert knows better. She smirked.

On one condition, David answered.

Of course…

You stop thinking of yourself as my housekeeper. I am inviting you to stay here as a friend. Bette put up a fake scowl. It had been a war of sorts between the two of them, from ‘Mister Abernathy’ insisting he call her David when he hired her to her holding out for several years before he finally pried his first name out of her. Even then Bette maintained a certain formality and professionalism that, no matter how hard he tried, David just couldn’t get her to shake.

Yes Mister Abernathy, she said with a smirk.

The landscapers were a different story. Abernathy had nothing for them, and they had plenty of other clients anyway. They’d be fine. By the end of the day what was once a house often bustling with people was left with merely objects. Furniture and the dust it collected.

✽✽✽

I heard you were moving in, Marshall found Bette twisting a spoon through a steaming cup of coffee. Even the motions of her hands were hypnotic, a miniature ballet in a tiny venue. Marshall stopped to watch for a few moments.

Bette smiled as she continued to stir. I guess we’re housemates now, she said. Bette had been the first person to learn about Marshall, finding one of his binders while straightening up his room one day. Unlike David, Bette was no stranger to the LGBTQ community having danced for over two decades. She’d said many of the men she’d danced with were gender non-conforming or queer, if not trans themselves.

Unlike his father, who’d had to walk a long path to acceptance, Bette’s response had been all love. The sort that only a mother can provide even though she wasn’t, and never could be that. You’re looking trim today, she said as she finally looked up from her cup.

Once the topic had been broached with his father, Marshall had stopped selecting his clothes so carefully. He’d had to walk a fine line, not too boyish that it would draw attention, but not so girlish that it would make him miserable. Now, finally, he could be all man.

In his case, that meant that his wardrobe was now selected with almost no thought. He merely grabbed the shirt and shorts that happened to be on top in the drawer, or on the floor. Today it was a black and burgundy Colgate t-shirt and a pair of red gym shorts. None of it went together, not that Marshall cared. He still looked like a woman in men’s clothing though, too soft, his breasts too large to hide even with a binder. Hopefully that was about to change.

You ready? David always brought a commanding presence into a room, even when he was merely ducking his head in. He spoke like he was announcing himself, not making conversation.

Marshall nodded, some trepidation seeping back into him. They were on their way to the Marshsville Medical Center, so Marshall could have surgery.

Thank god for Costco, David said. He’d been able to get a job as a stocker for the warehouse retailer. They had no shortage of need for large powerful men to help move bulk items and David certainly fit that bill. It wasn’t as lucrative as being a well-known Pastor, but it paid the bills, and more importantly, it came with health insurance.

It had taken some difficulty to figure out the timing of everything. They’d been lucky, so long as you looked at it a certain light. Marshall had started taking testosterone towards the end of what was supposed to be his junior year, which the school, under the duress of the hellfire of an angry David, allowed Marshall to finish. The insurance required Marshall to be on testosterone for a year before being eligible for top surgery. That hadn’t sit well with either of them as it would put the date for the surgery a little over two months before Marshall would head off to college. David wanted Marshall to have more time to be himself, wanted more time to get to know his son, before he flitted off to wherever he continued his education.

But, much to David’s surprise, and then later anger, the curriculum of the private school had proved to be somewhat inadequate for college entry. Marshall wasn’t prepared enough to even begin his senior year at public school. He wasn’t quite behind enough to repeat his junior year either though, and so he’d spent a year working with a private tutor to catch up. With more free time, he’d been able to also take care of some of the things around the house that neither David nor Bette could keep up with. It had, in the end, worked out for everyone.

The medical center was an uninteresting series of brownish gray buildings with little else around them. They were strangely imposing, standing in silent judgment as Marshall and his father closed the car doors in unison and started towards the main entrance.

David walked a step behind, studying his son as he carried a small bag into the center. It was Marshall’s path to walk, he’d made that very clear. He would be there to provide guidance, support, but there was little beyond that he could offer. I’ll try to understand what you’re going through son, he’d said. But it’s possible I never will. So, this time, you’re going to lead and I’m going to follow.

He watched his son as they traversed the parking lot. And there was no doubt about it, Marshall was very much his son. He was surprised he’d never seen it before. He was tall and broad, far more like David than his mother Jerrianne, a short curvy woman. He pulled the one of the glass doors open with a calm quiet grace then looked behind him to hold it for his father. David smiled.

They sat in the waiting room in silence before Marshall was called in, and then David was alone. He thumbed through his phone for a little while, then grew bored and stood up to walk around the waiting room. There was a pamphlet on gender dysphoria tucked in among some others so he read that, but it didn’t tell him much he hadn’t already read elsewhere.

There was just a gap he would never be able to bridge between what he and what his son saw in life. He didn’t want to accept it, but it kept staring him in the face. He sighed and sat back down and waited.

CHAPTER 3

Hormones and Public School

Marshall studied himself nude in the mirror. It had become a daily ritual