By Paula Gaikowski (paula.gaikowski@gmail.com)Genealogy is supposed to be about tracing neat, orderly lines on a pedigree chart—tidy little boxes connected by clean black ink. But once you start digging, you realize that family trees are less like botanical diagrams and more like overgrown thickets filled with strange fruit, hidden roots and things that crawled out from under the porch when nobody was looking.
Take my office, for instance. A cold Maine winter provides the optimum environment for genealogical excavation. There is nothing quite like being tucked away upstairs, perfectly content and often fully dressed as my alter ego, complete with high heels clicking against the floorboards like a very industrious secretary. Happy as can be, I stare at census records and ship manifests, pondering the great mystery of how we all ended up the way we are.
The golden rule of genealogy is to begin by researching yourself. Having spent the Covid years and several Maine winters doing just that—and writing extensively about what I found—I have managed to uncover some absolute blockbusters.
I discovered family members who disappeared entirely, relatives who were arrested and sent to prison, courageous souls who served in underground resistance movements during World War II and others who tragically perished in concentration camps. They are the kinds of stories that could make a magnificent book or a gripping television documentary, and I am usually more than happy—often far too eager—to discuss them with practically anyone who wanders into my crosshairs.
But then there is that other subject: being transgender. That is something I can discuss only with you, my Femulate sisters, and perhaps the quiet ghosts of my lineage.
My brother died of cancer a few years ago. He was the quintessential rugged, tough bachelor construction worker—the kind of guy you could picture building a bridge with one hand while effortlessly hoisting a steel beam with the other.
After he died, I became executor of his estate and had the rather revealing responsibility of going through his computer files. And there it was among his apps: “Cosmopolitan Makeover.” He had uploaded photographs of himself and experimented with makeup and hairstyles, exploring a side of himself that the world never saw.
I was not entirely surprised. Years earlier, I had spotted a hint of it on his computer and simply kept the observation to myself. He never came out to the family, but his browsing history revealed a map of digital destinations that we sisters would recognize.
The apple, as they say, does not fall far from the tree. It just puts on pantyhose and heels.
Naturally, this makes my mind wander backward along the paternal branch as I try to decode the men who came before us. I can rely only on supposition and lingering feelings, but when I look in the mirror, the resemblance to my father is not merely physical. It seems behavioral, emotional—almost cellular.
My father never really dated. His marriage resulted from a traditional matchmaking arrangement, much like my own. My wife is the only woman I have ever dated and the only woman I have ever been with. My father’s experience was much the same.
His father divorced, never remarried and lived entirely alone until the day he died, without another partner or girlfriend. Going back another generation, my great-grandfather did not marry until he was 32, through a traditional village matchmaking arrangement in Poland in 1880.
So there I am, sitting at my desk while the New England winter rages outside, dressed as a 1980s secretary in support pantyhose, a pencil skirt that renegotiates its terms every time I sit down and heels clicking against the floorboards with the urgent tempo of someone about to page middle management regarding the copier.
And I wonder.
Was my father transgender and hiding it? What about his father, living out his solitary years? What about my great-grandfather? Can something like this pass quietly through a bloodline—an invisible inheritance tucked away in the DNA?
Deep down, something tells me there is a common thread, a shared secret rippling through the generations. Then my rational side pipes up and says that I am merely seeing what I want to see and feeling what I want to feel.
Perhaps every sixty-something man in a pair of pumps looks at a photograph of a stoic ancestor and thinks, “Ah, yes, Grandpa. Beneath that scratchy 1940s wool three-piece suit and patriotic war-bond lapel pin, you were clearly pining for a rayon slip, Victory Red lipstick and a smart pair of Allied-rationed seamed nylon stockings.”
Yet, as I sit at my desk adjusting my Spanx, I cannot shake the feeling that family history is about more than names and dates on certificates. Sometimes it brings the sobering realization that you may not be the first person in your bloodline to master the art of looking entirely conventional while secretly wishing you were somewhere else—wearing something infinitely better.
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| Wearing Boston Proper |
%20with%20Kandi.png "Blogger Kandi Robbins (left) of Kandi's Land fame appears in Key To The Mint’s music video for “Vodka In July.”") |
Blogger Kandi Robbins (left) of Kandi's Land fame appears in Key To The Mint’s music video for “Vodka In July.”
Click here to view this video on YouTube. |
%20with%20Kandi.png "Blogger Kandi Robbins (left) of Kandi's Land fame appears in Key To The Mint’s music video for “Vodka In July.”")