WE HARDLY SAW Dad during the week, except very early in the morning and late at the end of the day, when he’d walk in the door, still nattily dressed in a dark suit and tie after a long day of school or school board meetings.
His weekend clothes in those years were work wear, suited to a construction site, not any office or golf course. The scent of campfire, fermented grapes, and freshly cut lumber emanated from my father’s ubiquitous green sweater; an olfactory roadmap of weekends and summers past. I don’t remember my mother ever washing it, but it never smelled of sweat or anything foul—just Dad, his projects, and maybe a hint of Old Spice. On Sunday afternoons, to help him morph back into his Clark Kent persona as a school principal, I polished his dress shoes—several black pairs and one brown—for which I was rewarded twenty-five cents a pair. The feeling of the small silver toggle between my index finger and thumb remains with me, juggling the circular metal cap bearing the kiwi logo to just the right position for snapping the can closed, preserving the moisture for the next week. Shoe polish and that sweater; the building blocks of my dad. Hard work intertwined with and fueled by a love of detail, whether it be building a home, teaching high school calculus, or making wine.
As a youngster, I followed him around on weekends and during summers to auctions, lumber yards, his out-of-town garden plot, paint stores—whatever grand project he undertook beckoned my preteen self along to simply bask in his seemingly boundless knowledge and patience. At lunch, I would marvel at his hand, where there would have appeared a fresh cut that had been absent at breakfast. His hands mesmerized me: large, strong, and callused, but with the delicate fingers of a surgeon. Sometimes I would ask him how he got injured. He’d glance at the wound, noticing it for the first time.
“Oh, look at that. I must’ve caught it on something,” he’d say, putting the cut to his mouth to clean the blood before returning to his sandwich. Whenever the wounds were mine, he’d have a look, find me a Band-Aid if necessary, then ruffle my hair or chuck me on the chin, telling me, “It’ll be all gone by the time you get married.” In early years, I’d laugh along with him at the absurdity of a kid my age ever getting hitched. As I grew older, he’d say the same thing when we’d roof together and I’d wince from the blisters on my shoulders, made by carrying loads of shingles up the ladder. His words about recovering before my wedding—intended to comfort me—would burden me with a sadness I couldn’t understand the source of, a sense that I wouldn’t be worthy of marrying, despite Dad speaking as though I was the most eligible girl in the world. In his eyes, why wouldn’t I be? In his eyes, all of my injuries could be fixed by a kiss and a Band-Aid.
He’d begun studying at the University of Saskatchewan after high school with the goal of becoming a doctor. It wasn’t until his funeral, many decades later, that I would learn that his father and mother disagreed about him continuing his studies; Grandpa Shenher wanted him to remain on the family farm, but my grandmother put her foot down and insisted Dad be permitted to pursue an education. Dad had three older brothers and Grandma Shenher argued they were more than capable—well, two of them were, and the eldest, a dedicated drinker and layabout, could be whipped into shape—and so it was that my dad became the only one in his family to obtain a university degree.
He’d hoped, after completing his undergraduate studies, to work for a few years as a teacher and save the money necessary to return to medical school, but he never did. While he did become a fine math teacher and school administrator, his talented hands never graced the medical profession, though he did put them to good use in woodworking and carpentry projects. I have no memory of him expressing regret about this or anything else in his life.
In Dad’s world, you did what you needed to do without complaint and without thinking of yourself. A man did what was necessary to make a living, to feed his family, to support his kids, to serve his God. The idea of Dad having a midlife crisis or leaving us to pursue a life unlived seemed as ludicrous as him becoming an exotic dancer. He was quietly dutiful, never resentful, always generous, and happiest among family, students, and friends.
I’d watch his hands grip a metal razor and twist the handle, until—like magic—the top would open like a flower blooming, exposing the flat, double-edged blade inside. Deftly, he’d reach in and remove the old blade, replacing it with a new one without ever cutting his fingers. His face was another story, however.
Before the days when shaving cream came in aerosol cans, he would add some hot water to a little bowl, then whisk his shaving brush around it until a thick lather formed. Dunking the brush in, he’d reach over and dab it liberally on both of my cheeks. I knew what to do next. With three fingers together, I’d rub it around my face and neck, upper lip, and chin, sneaking peeks at him beside me doing the same, making sure I was getting it right. He would always take the last bit on the end of his brush and dab it onto the tip of my nose.
I’d try my best to mimic the upside-down U shape his mouth would make as he shaved his upper lip under his nose. I would use a wooden Popsicle stick as my razor, so I never had to dampen little scraps of toilet paper and dab them onto nicks the way he would when he cut himself, which was frequently. Even so, I’d imitate that, too, wanting to mirror the entire ritual as closely as possible. I’d scrape down on my face and up on my neck, just as he did, then take a washcloth and wet it thoroughly with warm water, rubbing it all over my face to remove the excess cream. My favorite step came last: clapping a splash of Hai Karate aftershave together in my hands before slapping both cheeks gently with it and emitting a satisfied “Ah,” just as Dad did when he finished.
As I grew, I tried to copy everything he did—subtle mannerisms, how he held a hammer, the way he bit his lip when measuring a piece of wood—careful not to appear obvious. He possessed one habit I couldn’t bear: smoking. His smoking was the one thing we could complain about that would get a rise out of him, as though it represented the only harmless indulgence he allowed himself that wouldn’t interfere with being a good husband and father.
I can’t think of anything else he did that we complained about, except his bad jokes. But on summer vacations, bombing down the highway in our ’65 Valiant, his cigarette ashes blowing into the back seat from the driver’s window, I found the one trait of his I never wanted to emulate. As a kid with allergies likely caused by the “cancer sticks,” I hated it.
I imagined myself as a man who would not smoke.
3
RENÉE
(1975–1979)
THE HEADLINE SCREAMED: “WOMEN’S WINNER WAS A MAN!”
I huddled over the evening sports section as I read, afraid someone in my family would notice my keen interest. Devouring the sports section wasn’t unusual for any athletics-minded twelve-year-old and no one in my family batted an eye, but I was so scared of being discovered that I grabbed the paper and ran with it into the bathroom, locking the door. Eyes wide, I absorbed the details of the story: A successful middle-aged New York doctor had voluntarily gone through sex reassignment surgery from male to female and then competed in the 1976 La Jolla Tennis Tournament Championships as a woman. There are other people like me.
My breath came in short gasps. I needed to know everything about what Renée Richards had done. That night and the next, I did not sleep. Determined to learn more, I decided