From The Slow Fix, published by Arsenal Pulp Press in 2008.

I learned most of what I know about being a man from my Uncle Rob. Uncle Rob has never let the fact that I was de­clared female at birth get in the way of our male bonding, and I’ve always loved him best for it.

Uncle Rob taught me how to fish, drive a standard, light a match off of my front tooth, and open a beer with a Bic lighter. He taught me how to make a fist, turn into a skid, light a fire, and shoot a gun. He passed on to me everything he has ever managed to learn about women, and all the Zippo tricks he has ever been shown. He taught me how to tell a story, and how to hold my liquor. All the important stuff. Some of the family reckon I look more like my Uncle Rob than I do my own father, and everyone agrees I look just like my dad.

Uncle Rob and Aunt Cathy flew to Vancouver last week, because Rob had an appointment with a fancy eye doctor. Whitehorse General Hospital is equipped to handle your basic medical tests and common ailments, but anything in­volving a specialist or an expensive machine requires a trip to the big city. Rob called me from the hotel and told me to round up the stray cousins and bring the girlfriend; he was taking us all out for dinner. Cousin Darryl’s brand new baby had somehow turned into a seven-year-old girl, and I hadn’t seen my cousin Garth since Grandma Pat came to town for her knee replacement three years ago.

I rarely bring a date along to family functions, because more than two or three of us in one room can be hazardous, especially if you are shy, offend easily, clean and sober, or don’t eat meat. The way my family demonstrates our love and affection for each other has occasionally been mistak­en for verbal abuse by outsiders, so I usually don’t take the risk.

But I knew she could hold her own; she is smart and strong and can take a joke. She loves fishing and hates hippies. There was common ground, and she might just fit right in. Besides, I figured, how could she love me and not like my Uncle Rob? He was the man who taught me every­thing I knew, and I look just like him.

The appetizers arrived in the middle of a raucous de­bate about flatulence and love: was unabashed farting in front of the fairer sex an expression of intimacy, or the sign of the death of romance? Was pulling the covers over her head actually a form of foreplay? Was our whole family ac­tually lactose intolerant, or did we just not chew our food enough?

My sweetheart was unfazed, and retained her appetite. Maybe she really was the perfect girl for me.

By the time our entrées arrived, the talk had turned to embarrassing stories from when I was a kid, how I had panic attacks when forced into a dress for weddings, and how I finally gave in and wore a satin gown with dyed-to-match pumps to my high school graduation, just like the normal girls did.

“She looked so pretty,” said Aunt Cathy solemnly, like she was giving my eulogy.

“I looked like a drag queen.”

Darryl shook his head. “I can’t imagine cousin Ivan in a dress.”

“I can’t imagine calling her Ivan.” Cathy stabbed a bit of broccoli with her fork. “She’ll never be Ivan to me. That’s just, like, your writing name, right? Nobody actually calls you Ivan in person, do they?”