Zach's Game

My brother Zach is one of the bravest people I know. His is a unique and powerful story which I've asked him to share with us today. He willingly obliged, and so I present to you:

Zach's Game

March 2017

My name is Zach. My name wasn’t always that way, at least to the outside world. My older brother told me once that even as a kid playing pretend I called myself Zach.

  

I was born as Amanda, a name I did not ever fully recognize as my own; Lee, a name I do enjoy and it even crossed my mind at one point to go by this name, also I hear there is a story involving my dad- I kept Lee because I feel a connection with my dad through this name; Gowans I kept because, well I love that name.

I don’t remember much of my youngest years. I remember having something clipped under my tongue so I could have full mobility. I remember getting a rock stuck in my nose only because I had to see a doctor on a Sunday to get it removed. Mostly I remember when the lady from the multipurpose center coming to school to get the kiddos to sign up for tee ball and we all played a big game on the playground. I fell in love. I love baseball so much, I begged my parents to let me play. Finally in 4th grade they signed me up for machine pitch, a big old scary machine that rarely stayed within the strike zone. Still I loved playing. The next season I met Pete at Smiths on 600 N and 1200 W in SLC, UT, owner of West Pointe Youth Baseball. There I stayed until I graduated high school, as player, coach, umpire, and junior executive. I was the first girl to play in the league, a trend setter. I looked up to Pete, when my mom first asked if girls could play in his league, without hesitation he responded yes. Without Pete I wouldn’t be the man I am today. He taught me honesty, compassion, love, and above all he believed in me and gave me opportunity to lead and teach others in the game we both loved so dearly. I miss Pete and think about him often.

 

In fourth grade I was swinging on a rope swing. We’d had it for several days and it was well used. This swing when swinging on it was half over grass and half over our driveway. As I was swinging on it, on a lovely fall November day, I heard a snap and the loudest crack I’ve ever heard in my life and everything went black. I remember screaming and crying and my friend and older sister outside, my dad (who was sick that day) saying I was ok, my sister holding me inside, then being downstairs watching a movie with my friend and finally falling asleep. I remember throwing up that night and going to see the doctor the next day. I remember the CT machine. I don’t remember how I got to those places, except part of the drive to the doctor. As I type this I’m writhing inside and in pain, it’s hard to describe and I’ve done a poor job of doing so. I fractured my skull and suffered a concussion. To this day a day without a headache is rare and very far between. Despite this incident I went on to set a Guinness world record by swinging for 30 hours when I was in the tenth grade. I love swinging, however, I won’t go near a rope swing and can’t watch people swinging on a rope swing, brings up those same feelings I couldn’t describe. I "broke" the driveway became the joke. When I reflect on this incident I think that I was lucky my injury didn’t have more severe effects on me and my brain.

 

Again in fourth grade, Jason moved into our class, he spoke very little English and I was assigned to be his mentor. He disappeared from school one day, he was sick. Our teacher Ms. Peterson home schooled Jason until we were in sixth grade. Thanksgiving time 2000, Jason had a birthday party to which I was invited, one of three. Ms. Peterson took us over to his apartment and we shared cake and rather than opening his gifts he had them placed under the Christmas tree. 26 December 2000 I went with my mom and younger siblings to my uncle’s house for a fun day of snowmobiling. When we returned home that night my dad called me to the kitchen and I sat on his lap. He told me that Ms. Peterson had called, me being me I made a joke of a school teacher calling the house. My dad then told me why she called. Jason had passed away on 24 December 2000. I remember being in shock. Much else from that day I don’t recall. My dad and I attended Jason’s viewing. I’ll never forget the agony I saw from his mom as she was holding his hand, sobbing. A week or so after my sister asked me how he was doing, I said he had died and left the room. No one ever saw me cry for Jason. No one knew how much I didn’t understand. I never talked about him other than with Ms. Peterson briefly. How could I go about my Christmas jocularity when here was my friend suffering and passing away and his mom heartbroken, a family missing a brother and a son? Many times I wish I could’ve switched places with him, he was a much kinder person than I. This is when I began to truly close myself out from the world, starting with the emotions. Several years later, I was maybe 23 or 24. I was watching a movie "My Sisters Keeper". One of the sisters has cancer; there was a scene near the end where they showed this sister just before she passed away. That’s how Jason looked at his birthday party. I didn’t know that’s what the late stages of cancer looked like. Again no one saw me cry, my mom came close, I went outside and did my crying. I finally told my sister why I don’t like Christmas (Christmas 2014), or any holiday really. She suggested we buy a tree for Jason and then plant said tree after Christmas in his honor. Jason’s tree is one of my favorite spots to go. I have a weekly off shift lunch date with him at his tree.

I guess the next big thing would be high school. Needless to say I didn’t really fit in anywhere except with my oldest and dearest friend Amber and her friend group. It was a strange time. I knew I was different, I didn’t know how. Often you hear of the “lesbian phase”, I knew that wasn’t it because it never felt right. As an adult I’ve realized that I have no sexual attraction to either gender or anywhere in between the polar of male and female. I would use the restroom primarily during class hours rather than the in between times-less people, less awkward, less fear. Once, I believe I was a senior, I was using the restroom and someone screamed at me asking why I was there; to be fair she did later apologize.

 

Speaking of bathrooms, when I was little, I don’t remember my age, I was using the restroom at church when a girl in my class came in and entered my stall as I walking out of it, pinned me to wall and dug her nails into my arms. For years after that incident she’d remind me of that time and then apologize. She was a strange human and I consider her a friend despite what happened. However, I haven’t trusted public restrooms since.

Bathrooms are a scary place because you are vulnerable there. Hearing stories of transgender women being beaten in restrooms is terrifying to me. Easily I could be the person being beaten. I have a handful of public restrooms I’ll use and I always make sure I have to poop first. It’s a good excuse to use a stall.

 

When I was in eleventh grade I had a life changing moment that I wouldn’t realize until much later. I read Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card for the first time. Every time I read Ender’s Game I learn something different about myself or how I see the world around me. Let me give some examples:

"So the whole war is because we can’t talk to each other" - I often get hung up getting my thoughts into words and out of my mouth, another quote: "If you try and lose then it isn’t your fault. But if you don’t try and we lose, then it’s all your fault." Communication is key. So much could be solved if we, humans, communicated assertively with each other. Admittedly throughout this story of my life I’ve used passive communication. Being assertive is hard and it takes work. The work in my experience is worth the effort.

 

"You want to beat Peter?" she asked

"No" he answered

“Beat the buggers. Then come home and see who notices Peter Wiggin anymore. Look him in the eye when all the world loves and reveres you. That’ll be defeat in his eyes, Ender, that’s how you win."

"You don’t understand" he said

"Yes I do"

"No you don’t. I don’t want to beat Peter"

"Then what do you want?" "I want him to love me" - This here I resonate with, I wish my family and extended relatives to love me, as me, my true self, Zach, as their son, brother, nephew, and grandson. That wish is even stronger when it comes to my Dad. I loved spending time with my Dad. First time in a raft was with my Dad, first time being up close and personal with a moose was with my Dad  (in his truck at East Fork of the Bear), first time driving a vehicle was with my Dad, same camp as the moose. Not camp related still worth mentioning, I did all my driver’s Ed hours with my Dad listening to the Oak Ridge Boys; needless to say I drive just like my Dad. My Dad spent the 30 hours with me as I was swinging and was one of my biggest supporters. My Dad and used to race giving blood, my best was either just under or just over three minutes. I credit my Dad for my love and appreciation of the outdoors, wilderness, and nature. I spent just about all if not all of my younger year summers at scout camp with my Dad.

"In the moment when I truly understand my enemy, understand him well enough to defeat him, then in that very moment I also love him. I think it’s impossible to really understand somebody, what they want, what they believe, and not love them the way they love themselves." - This is what changed my life. I realized that I didn’t love myself because I didn’t understand who I was. I identify myself as an angry person, much of this anger stems from not understanding or loving myself which lead me to not being true to myself.  Once I admitted to myself who I truly was and allowed myself to be OK with that-the understanding-I was able to begin to love myself fully for the first time. This was a process. The first time I gave myself a Mohawk I looked in the mirror and saw me, me me, the first time I told my sister I identified as male in 2012, when I "came out" to my friends in Washington, formally beginning the physical aspect of the transition process. All these things allowed me to understand leading to loving myself, and a drop in my pretty consistent anger and rage.

Moving on now, I attempted college studying engineering-I wanted to build space ships like battle school or X-wings. And then I basically failed out of the engineering program and served a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. What I really wanted to do though was join the air force, for two main reasons- flying jets and aerospace engineering. That was not an option however due to a heart condition I have called Ebstein’s Anomaly. 

I did not like my mission. I knew I could do better if I wasn’t confined to a dress and people in the mission telling me I had to wear makeup, shave my legs, and wear cuter clothes. I was also supposed to learn Spanish. I had a companion once say "ok you’re doing all the talking". I didn’t know what the hell the person was saying to me all the while my companion sat playing on the phone texting the elders. After that lesson she asked me if I knew what the person was saying to me and I said no and she chewed me out for it. Later when I did understand a bit better and was able to speak a bit better I shared a thought at the end of a lesson and again was chewed out for going over time because my Spanish was slow. In general it typically takes me a second or two longer than most to get my thoughts from my head to out of my mouth; that process was even longer in Spanish. When I say "I was just about to say that" I mean it literally. I resent Spanish and I resent that companion. My part in that is that I never advocated for myself and for what I needed.

 

Here's another great mission story. I was in an English speaking ward (local congregation) with two companions (I had two companions most of my mission, typically one only has one companion).  Now keep in mind as a missionary you’re with your companion 24 hours a day 7 days a week for 18-24 months depending on your perceived gender by the church, except for using the restroom and one on one interviews with the mission president or his wife. Me being me I like to clean my teeth with the door shut and I did this on my mission as well. Again me being me I passively took an extra long time with this companion set. One of them decided to bang on the door yelling at me to open the door if I wasn’t actively peeing, pooping, or showering because, “mission rules”. One more incident with these two companions. I don’t recall what happened leading up to this other than we were getting ready to go see our last appointment for the night. They pinned me to a bed and forced make up on me. One was holding my head down in a sort of headlock while applying the damn stuff and the other kneeled on my chest. After the makeup they attempted to pluck my eyebrows like I was a chicken getting my feathers plucked for the kill. Somehow I was able to force them off me at this point. I went into the bathroom to wash the damn stuff off while they laughed. We went to our appointment and the lady asked if I was wearing makeup. I was so embarrassed and angry that when we got back to our apartment I scrubbed my face until it was red and raw. I hate them, I hate them so much. One of them came to my parent’s house where I was living after the mission and told the story, still laughing. I hate them, I hate how I felt, and I hate that I never told anyone what happened. Not that anyone would’ve done anything except tell me it’s ok for you to be feminine and wear makeup, it’s what God wants that’s why the mission packet says to wear modest make up. Things I’ve been told all growing up. So much hypocrisy-wear makeup, look a certain way, dress a certain way, it’s what God wants for His for His servants while they preach that God loves you just the way are. Reminds me of a line from an Alanis Morissette song Perfect- “We’ll love you just the way you are If you’re perfect”. I finished my mission with less faith in church, the doctrine, and God than when I started. I continued to do the church thing for a few years after I returned home.

I returned home and quickly started a job working in the world of therapy at a residential treatment boarding school in southern Utah. Again I fell in love, with the work. I’ve worked in this field in some capacity since, going on six years this May, aside from 5 months at a bakery. I owe a big thanks to a woman named Karen who was the case manager at the time and recommend the job to me. While at the place in southern Utah I meet a friend named Rachel who helped give me the courage to be who I truly was.

 

I parted ways from Utah permanently May 2013 with my older sister Sara, I’ve only been back twice since then. We went to Washington State and lived with my oldest and dearest friend Amber and her family. There I began work working in a group home for autistic youth. I loved that job clear up until I was told I didn’t get the supervisor position because they wanted someone male.  At this point all around work knew I was Zach, a male worker. Then all went downhill, I was told I have bad behavior by the city director who was ok with clients bashing their heads into walls 19 times (head through sheet rock bashing) and then feeding them salad instead of going to see a doctor.

 

Wait I’ve gotten a head of myself. Backup a bit. I got to the point in Washington where I had to change something, I was trying to be true to myself and still be a good Mormon person. I couldn’t do both. Church was killing me being forced to attend the women’s meetings. I had to decide between being happy or being dead. I chose to be happy and haven’t been back to church since. Sometimes I miss church. Mostly I’m at odds with God as Mormons perceive Him. If He makes no mistakes then what the hell am I? Also His one true church has ripped my family apart. So much for "family first" and "family, isn’t about time?”. Still I respect the request made of the church in the temple not to discuss what happens in the temple outside of the celestial room.

 

While working at the group home I began to see a clinical sexologist. When she first asked me how I identify and I responded right away with male she told me that when a person is that certain they’re male, they’re likely much more male than they know. I’m sure the same is true for a person who identifies as female. After four, 90 minute sessions with her, she sent me over to an MD who proscribed my testosterone, aka T within the Trans community. I’ve been on T since 23 June 2015. Once on T and my brain settled down and the fog lifted I was able to differentiate between what was my brain not receiving the right fuel and what was possibly other disorders such as bipolar and ADHD. Over all since starting T I’ve never felt better. 14 July of 2016 I underwent top surgery aka bye bye boobs, they were never mine to begin with, just some baggage I had to carry around for years. 14 July is also my favoritest baby brother’s birthday; I love that little tall guy! He’s my baseball, star craft, workout buddy.

Ok back to that job where I wasn’t male enough to be supervisor. I fought back and they made my life hell, so I left. I began work at the job I wanted since day one moving out of Utah-field instructor for a wilderness therapy program called Evoke Cascades. My job there, which combines two of my biggest passions-helping others and outdoorness-is as close as I figured I could get to following in my dad’s footsteps without actually working for The Boy Scouts of America. Evoke is the first place where I entered fully as Zach. I was met with openness, care, understanding, and love. That felt amazing. 

If I could I would never leave Evoke, other than for opening my own program-a long term therapeutic boarding school with an emphasis on outdoor healing. I plan on naming my program after a kiddo I worked with at the group home who I feel I failed because for the help he needed we were both in the wrong program. This kiddo is never far from my mind both literally and figuratively, I’ve got a nice bite scar from him on my bicep.

My Ebstein’s anomaly condition is threatening to force my hand into leaving working as a field instructor and possibly for Evoke as a whole. I don’t know which is more heart breaking the physical condition or thought of having to part ways with such an important part of my life.

While living in Washington I’ve met some of the most incredible people I could’ve ever hoped to meet. Aiden Cynna, this human is an amazing individual who has been with me every step of my transition journey and has stuck with me through thick and thin, hot and cold, long ways and short ways, my sibling I never knew I needed or wanted and now can’t picture life without. Kim, my platonic soul mate, need more be said. Kayla: who’s true to herself. Christina, who taught me all she knew at the group home. Lexi: a supervisor who put her trust in me and also had faith in me to lead when things began to crash at the group home. And of course the Huseby’s. Always the Huseby’s. They are my family; my littlest buddy calls me his brother. Who knew working a night shift with Michelle would change everything.

 

Why am I writing this you may wonder? In the past I’ve been hesitant to even mention that I’m a transgender individual. Working at Evoke has taught me to share, to be vulnerable, and that it’s ok if others don’t approve. I’ve shared my story, this story, give or take, with a few of the groups and have been met with openness. Most recently someone shared in my life story group that they wished they lived in a society where more people got along and were ok with other people. I echo that wish and desire. That is why I am sharing my story. By remaining silent I may as well be on the opposing team. Now with the way this country (USA) appears to be headed it seems more important than ever to take that risk of being open and vulnerable to turn the tide. Share this story if you like, pass it around. Remember, “The enemy’s gate is down”.

This is who I am. I am Zach and I always have been.