A Trans, a Lesbian and an Old Catholic Lady Prepare Thanksgiving Dinner

And it was the best dinner ever.

I’m the Lesbian in this group. I really am not a fan of that word, “Lesbian.” It’s not a politically correct issue with me, I just think it’s a dumb word and way too close to the word “amphibian.” I do need to be around water to survive but I can’t breathe through my skin. Lesbian literally means “from the Island of Lesbos.” I am not from Lesbos nor have I been there. I would rather be called a lesbo than a Lesbian. I need to stop talking about this immediately as I have already said that word way too many times.

The seventy-nine-year-old Catholic Lady is Paula Pardini. First of all, “old” is only her numerical age. This woman has more energy than anyone I know. She is on the move more than a single mom that works full time and has four kids. Paula is so Italian that instead of blood, she has imported Italian extra virgin olive oil coursing through her veins. Her parents and my grandparents were best friends. My grandfather was also very Italian. They all spent a lot of time at the Italian American Club in San Francisco, and as a kid, I spent Thanksgiving at Paula’s parent’s house. Her mom, who everyone called “Finetti” (her maiden name) put on the most amazing authentic Italian spread. In addition to the American Thanksgiving fare, she made ravioli from scratch and I fondly remember plates of every kind of antipasto being passed around the table. Salami and cheese and olives for dinner as a ten-year-old? Sign me up. Being good Italians, being Catholic isn’t just their religion, but it’s part of their heritage. Paula even served as a nun for a short while. The full bar hidden in her closet at the convent made her quite popular with some of the nuns and unpopular with the other ones. She eventually realized she could do more good on this Earth outside of the Convent, so she left. I call Paula the great white Oprah. But instead of passing out cars for everyone, she passes out love, grace, and amazing family meals.

Maya is the trans. She has transitioned from male to female. I never knew her as a male, but Paula has known her for years and years and years. (I should say here how many years but I really don’t know, I just know it’s been for a long time) Maya is tall, has broad shoulders, long reddish-brown hair, and a lovely feminine voice. Maya is the daughter of friends who are very dear to Paula.

Maya arrived at Paula’s the night before Thanksgiving to help with Thanksgiving dinner preparation. As you can imagine, every year Paula puts on quite the spread. Maya spent the night and I arrived at 10:30 Thanksgiving morning to continue helping with dinner. Maya opened the front door and gave me a big hug. Both Paula and Maya wore aprons over their house clothes and I could see the pillow marks in their hair. Maya had beard and mustache stubble. I thought how hard life must be being in a body that doesn’t fit your soul. For these people, no matter how you dress or paint your nails, or grow your hair, there are still those details that pester you, reminding you of what your body isn’t. I felt deeply honored she allowed me to see.

Paula smiled and gave me a big hug—she has the warmest eyes on this planet that fill you with love. We exchanged other pleasantries and then it was time to get down to business. Paula shows me her detailed to-do list, written with impeccable penmanship on 5 x 7 lined yellow paper. “How about you set the table, she will do the hors d’oeuvres, she will and I will clean out the bar, she will…” I took note of the ease Paula called Maya “she”. We pulled out the fine china, crystal glassware and real silverware. Paula did one demonstration place setting. She left me to help Maya clean out/reorganize the bar.

As I was setting the table, I watched/listened to the bar reorganization project. Maya sat on the floor in front of the liquor cabinet and Paula sat in a chair. Maya pulled out bottles of booze from the back and Paula would decide if she wanted to keep it, move it, or toss it. Maya pulled out a bottle and Paula said as she reached for it, “OOhh what is that?” Maya replied, “It looks like some kinda of tequila.” Paula removed the cap and took a swig. “Oooh that’s good. Let’s keep that. It’s some sort of cucumber gin.” This exact transaction happened several more times. I heard Maya say, “Paula let’s try not to get too drunk before the guests arrive.” They both laughed. I continued to set the table, trying to exactly recreate Paula’s example. Then I heard Maya say, “Paula, this is your third bottle of peach schnapps.” So I piped in, “What are we still living our finest high school days?” Paula laughed and said, “Maya just said the same exact thing.”

This is not Paula’s table. In fact if you look closely the glasses are not exactly in the same place in relation to the corresponding plate.

They finished the bar and Paula came over to inspect my table. She had several corrections and said, “I want it done perfectly, to honor Finetti and recreate what she did as close as possible.” Fair enough. Maya went outside to do something and Paula called Maya “he” and quickly corrected herself. She said, “Oh sometimes I slip up. Maya is so patient with me as I learn and adjust.” I said, “It’s hard when you know someone as one way for so long - it’s wired in your brain like that.” Paula said, “It is hard. And it’s so important to me to honor who she is.” For me, I’ve never known her as anything other than Maya so I don’t even have to think about it.

At noon, Paula and Maya disappear upstairs to take showers and get dressed. Maya comes down wearing a super cute black velvet dress and some boot-inspired high heels that make her even taller. I also saw she shaved and applied some light makeup and lipstick. You’d never know she wasn’t born a woman.

Paula announced, “Let’s get those hors d’oeuvres going, my neighbors will be over soon. But do we even have anything they can eat, they’re vegans.” She quickly she made the sign of the cross. “I just don’t understand why someone would want to go through life like that. Finetti always said you certainly can’t be Italian and be a vegan.” I don’t say out loud that I secretly wish I had the strength and discipline to be vegan. Paula added, “I guess they can eat the pistachios.”

The vegans and some other friends arrived. Someone offered the vegans the salami plate and I offered them a cocktail. The husband said, “Well my wife is pregnant but I’ll have a cocktail.” We were batting .250 so far. Paula piled like a cup full of pistachios on a plate for them and for the husband, I poured an Old Fashioned I was making by the pitcherful. The vegans seemed to enjoy themselves just as much as the carnivores.

More guests began to arrive. The doorbell would ring, people would walk in, and the procedure of hugging and handing over coats and offering cocktails happened several times. After cooking all day and the short respite for hors d’oeuvres, the flurry of getting dinner on the table commenced. Paula’s house is VERY small. I worked away in the kitchen and with each kind person that asked if they could help I said, “Nope, I got it! You go ahead and relax.” What I was really saying was, “Get the fuck out of the kitchen and out of my way.” Of course, Maya helped as she was an official member of the dinner production.

The salads were all plated and the bread and cheese and wine were on the table. After a short and intense group discussion on who was sitting where eleven of us sat down. Two people arrived individually right after we sat down. We were so grateful they made it that with each person, we spontaneously gave a heartfelt round of applause. I made a mental note that next year I should totally come in the nick of time. Who couldn’t use a round of applause and “hooray” upon their arrival? Before we dug into our food Paula said grace. And since everyone else around that table is Catholic, they meant it.

I would have been thrilled to sit next to anyone as I adored everyone around that table. But I have to admit I was a little extra thrilled to sit next to Enid (I know I am spelling her name wrong) who is from Ukraine. She is wicked smart and beautiful and has the best sense of humor. Whenever we see each other we banter something fierce and give each other so much shit. This entire evening was no different. I have to say I love her thick accent, it makes the bantering even more fun. Maya sat across from me and at some point mentioned her dog. “I must see a picture,” I said. She handed me her phone and said to swipe left. I awwwed and fussed and then handed her my phone with pictures of Harriet. We talked dog food, dog walking, dogs on the beach, dogs on the bed, dogs on the couch, dogs living with a cat, dog weight, dog treats, dog toys, dog collars and harnesses, dog rescue vs pure breeds, dogs dogs dogs and more dog stuff.

Five people were of Hispanic descent. A few of them began a discussion about speaking Spanish. The fluent Spanish speakers had a meaningful conversation in Spanish and I asked if anyone knew where the library was. Maya who is not Hispanic, spoke fluent Spanish and joined in. Again, I wished I had the strength and discipline to learn Spanish. Just after this flurry of Spanish, Maya came in from the living room and said to seven-year-old JuJu’s mom, “Juju has my lipstick and won’t give it back.” Juju’s mom says in Spanish that she should give Maya back her lipstick. Juju said (in English), “But why, Auntie Maya doesn’t need lipstick to look pretty.” Maya replied, “Sometimes I just need lipstick to feel pretty.” I heard another woman say, “Amen to that.”

So much amazing food was eaten and so many bottles of wine were consumed. Paula being a teacher her entire life and really the most extroverted person on the face of this planet, is always looking to play a group game. Every Thanksgiving after dinner we play a couple of dice games that all thirteen of us can play at once. For the first game we play, everyone throws in a dollar and whoever wins, gets the pot. This game involves zero skill and is based 100% on luck, but somehow, Paula wins all the time. When people began to joke about what they would do “with all that money,” five-year-old Gabriel shot his arms up in the air and exclaimed, “If I win I’m going to buy clothes and fruit!!” Once he threw that out, the rest of us threw up our hands and said in some form, “Well I can’t come up with anything better than that.” Sadly Gabriel (neither did Paula for a change) won the pot of $13.

As our evening together wrapped up, people gathered their coats and said their goodbyes. Maya and I were the last ones and since Maya had a long drive home, I told her to go home and I will stay and finish cleaning up.

Being a lesbo, I feel like I should easily navigate the gender-fluid world we live in. But I struggle. For fifty-plus years my brain automatically wants to put everyone in either a girl or boy category. It’s almost like how our brain’s natural thing to do (I saw this on a science show) is to find a face in everything - it just happens automatically. Learning all these new terms can be daunting for someone who can’t remember why they walked into a room.

Just the other day I was at the doctor’s office waiting room and a little girl was drawing pictures for the receptionist. She handed her a picture and said, “It’s a ghost!” (I could have sworn she said it was a goat. Thankfully I only said inside my head and not out loud that’s one weird-looking goat.) The receptionist, engaging with the kid, asked, “Is it a boy ghost or a girl ghost?” She wasn’t trying to pigeonhole the ghost into a gender role, she was just making conversation with a four-year-old in a way her brain has been wired for (I’m guessing) the past forty-five-ish years. So what is the point of all this? Grace — giving others and yourself some freakin’ grace. I remember how long it took me to accept and come to terms with the fact that I am gay. And that was during a time when it wasn’t too acceptable to be gay. So expecting others to know the lingo and say all the right things perfectly right away isn’t fair. Being trans or gender fluid is kinda what it was like to be gay back when I came out. It’s absolutely nothing new, but talking about it and living in it authentically is. It takes time to get used to new terms and think differently.

BUT you know what takes absolutely zero time or effort? Respecting and loving someone different from what you are or what you are used to. If you struggle with this, please, at least start with tolerance. No matter how perfectly you fit in with your tribe, I promise you there are people or groups out there who think you are a barbaric weirdo. We are so much more than our labels or what group we belong to. Personally, I would much prefer to be in the group labeled Barbaric Weirdo than the group that is just like everyone else.