For as long as I can remember, every summer my large extended family migrates upstate to north country New York to spend time with each other at my grandmother’s house on Lake Champlain. The house itself is falling apart, and every year the men of the family take it upon themselves to fix up a new part of the cabin in order to occupy themselves while the women spend time shopping and cooking enough for twenty five people, while the kids spend the day exploring the area and playing in the lake.

Growing up, aside from playing mermaids at the beach and following my older cousins around, I was expected to help sweep the sandy house every day, set up the grown ups and kids tables for dinner, and to clean up afterwards while the adults got themselves something to drink. While my parents tried to get the boys of the household to do the same, they tended to get away with doing less than the girls of the family, using the excuse that they had spent the day helping (or watching, as some of my cousins argued) their dads with that year’s construction project. Nonetheless, that’s how summers were organized for my family, and as I grew older, cut my hair shorter, and started wearing more masculine clothes, I got into the swing of helping inside the house while my brother helped outside of it.

[Image: Lake Champlain as seen from a cove, a sailboat and island are seen off the coast, with mountains on the other side of the lake seen off in the distance]

The summer I was 20 years old, my family once more made the trek upstate. This summer was particularly notable because I hadn’t been able to make it the past few years, meaning this was the first time I spent my summer in New York after socially and medically transitioning. I was expecting to spend my first day back following my cousins around and gossiping before heading back to the house to help my mom and aunts cook dinner. But before I could run off, one of my uncles handed me an armful of plywood and told me to haul it over to my grandmother’s porch. I ended up spending the day with my uncles and cousins disassembling the porch while my grandma sat in her adirondack chair and filled out her crossword puzzle with the help of my mom. I didn’t mind, despite not knowing the details regarding how to disassemble a porch, this was my family’s way of accepting me as a man, and therefore expecting me to fulfill certain duties as a man.  

However, as the sun started to set, and my aunts began making food for the family, I was called into the kitchen to help out with dinner. I am not a confrontational man, and didn’t want to make a fuss, so despite my achy and bruised body, I made my way into the kitchen to help, while my uncles sat in the living room to talk, and my cousins ran off to the beach. I found it interesting that despite my family’s acceptance of me as a man, I was still expected to fulfill the responsibilities that came with being raised and socialized as a girl. 

While this is one of the more notable times I recognized this happening, it was far from the only time in my life I’d been expected to be a man, after having been raised a girl.