The Narrative Arc | Memoir

Growing up with a desire to connect with my paternal family, my life took a pivotal turn when my 18-year-old half-brother from my father's previous marriage appeared.

A chance meeting at Egberts, a beloved coffee shop in Los Angeles, ignited feelings that lingered for years. At the age of seven, I was the sole child of my parents, with no typical family structure to speak of. A sibling would have balanced the challenges of living with my mother’s strictness.

Dad's two older children responded to my arrival in vastly different ways. My half-brother, the younger of the two, welcomed me with enthusiasm. According to my mother, he would often bike over to our house to spend time with me as a baby, while my half-sister shunned me, viewing my birth as a threat to her special status as Daddy's girl.

To her, I was the unwanted intruder into her cherished position. As the years rolled on, Dad proved to be an absent figure in all our lives. By the time I entered the world, my sister's fond memories of him had faded into distant recollections from her early years.

In the end, she became the one responsible for caring for him in a nursing home for a decade before his passing. I chose to skip his funeral, preferring not to remember him in a casket. Later, my sister offered me a flag from his brief military service as a keepsake, which felt surreal.

Saturday Mornings at Egberts

Mom had little interest in cooking, barely managing dinner through the workweek. As a student at a Catholic school, the Friday fish tradition made things easier; Van de Kamp’s fish sticks with tartar sauce became our routine on that day.

Our weekends were a highlight, especially Saturday mornings at Egberts, where we indulged in fluffy pancakes, crispy hash browns, and my favorite bacon, while Mom relished her Denver omelet.

The atmosphere was lively, and we were greeted warmly by the waitress as we entered the pristine restaurant. We settled into our usual seats at the long blue Formica counter, enjoying the view of a sunlit day filled with swaying palm trees and bustling pedestrians.

Our moment of peace was disrupted when a familiar voice shouted my mother’s name. The manager quickly intervened, attempting to calm the commotion.

A confrontation ensued, and the manager urged everyone to ignore the disruption.

“You can’t stop me from talking to my family!” shouted a young man, pushing past the manager to approach us. Dressed sharply in black skinny jeans and a fitted sheer shirt, he was strikingly handsome, with a pompadour hairstyle that framed his perfect complexion.

“Meet my baaaaby sister,” he exclaimed, his voice high-pitched and enthusiastic. For the first time, I felt recognized as part of a family. Until then, my exposure to my father's side had been limited.

My mother's family resided in Philadelphia, and I spent much of my youth with my grandparents, while she navigated single parenthood after a serious accident.

They embraced warmly, and he complimented my beauty, leaving me grinning ear to ear at the unexpected recognition.

“Where have you been?” my mother asked.

“Just around. Share your number so we can reconnect.” As she jotted it down on a napkin, the manager approached again, threatening to call the authorities.

“I’ll visit soon,” he said, kissing me on the cheek before vanishing into the street. We exchanged looks of disbelief, and my curiosity bubbled over.

“Mommy, was that my brother, Rock?”

“Yes.”

“Why was he wearing lipstick?”

“Because he likes it,” she replied, casual as ever.

Fast Forward to the 1970s

On a school night at 10:00 p.m., I was winding down after finishing my homework and discussing outfits with my best friend over the phone. I had just styled my hair in pink sponge rollers for the curls that were trendy at the time when my mother burst into my room, beaming.

“Guess who just called and is on the way?”

“Who?” I asked, intrigued but not fully engaged.

“Your sister.”

“Marie?”

“No, Mya.”

“Mya?”

“Yes, don’t you remember, Rock?”

“Wait, my brother is now Mya?” Confusion washed over me, as I hadn’t seen or heard from him since the 60s.

“Forget that! Get dressed and take those rollers out,” she instructed.

“Seriously?” I groaned, feeling a wave of frustration wash over me for having to disrupt my preparations.

Despite my reluctance, I followed her commands and barely finished getting ready when the doorbell rang.

Nervously, I stepped back as my mother opened the door, her excitement palpable. Mya stepped inside, adorned in a vibrant yellow skirt and a colorful top, her transformation striking and stunning.

“Hey Livy girl,” Mya greeted me warmly.

“Hi! You look amazing!” my mother exclaimed, embracing her.

I was left speechless, watching as Mya, once a boy I had known, had blossomed into a beautiful woman, reminiscent of a famous female impersonator from the late sixties.

“Hi Sweetie,” she said, smiling at me as my mother offered her a drink and a seat.

“Wow, you’re gorgeous,” she complimented, leaving me blushing and unsure of how to respond.

“How old are you now?”

“Fifteen.”

My mom introduced her to my stepdad and his friend, who was already captivated by Mya. The atmosphere shifted as adults began to relax and enjoy themselves, while I felt out of place. Eventually, my mother called me over.

“It’s time for Toya to say goodnight—school tomorrow.”

“I’ll come pick you up soon for a day out before I head to Hawaii,” Mya promised.

“Okay, goodnight.” I looked forward to seeing her again, hoping we wouldn’t lose touch for another decade. My mother had never spoken poorly of Mya, allowing us to reconnect without prejudice.

Mya had endured significant struggles to be true to herself, facing rejection and hardship at a young age. She had been expelled from her home at 14 and faced challenges that tested her resilience for years.

Love and Acceptance

I embraced Mya not only as my sister but as a person deserving of love and acceptance. Over the years, our relationship flourished through the ups and downs of life, including high school, college, marriage, and motherhood.

Mya opened up about her painful childhood experiences that brought us both to tears, sharing that she always felt trapped in the wrong body. Growing up in the 50s and 60s, societal norms made it difficult for those like her to find acceptance.

In her midlife, she expressed the unexpected challenges that came with living as a woman—pressures and expectations that weighed heavily on her.

She often questioned whether her journey through gender reassignment and hormone therapy was worth the struggle against a world filled with preconceived notions about femininity. It felt like a daily performance, yet she embodied her role beautifully.

While her appearance transformed, her internal conflict remained, and her vibrant personality sometimes clashed with less accepting environments. Mya became a mother and faced loss, carrying a few regrets along the way.

Thanks to her, I discovered my father's family and learned about our shared history dating back to the mid-1800s. She introduced me to relatives I would have never known otherwise, filling my life with love and connection.

We both stood at crucial crossroads when we reunited, each on our respective journeys.

“Being free is being able to accept people for what they are, and not try to understand all they are or be what they are.” ~ Maya Angelou