The Girl I Had Not Yet Learned to Name
My journey through gender, creativity, anger, spirituality, and learning to become myself
Written by:
(Bretin Robert Thomas Vincent)
There are some stories that can be told in a few paragraphs.
Then there are the stories that take a lifetime to understand.
My story is one of those.
I was born on August 5, 1995, in Rhode Island, somewhere between Providence and Pawtucket, at a Women’s Hospital.
I grew up in a complicated family, surrounded by different parents, grandparents, siblings, and family relationships. My biological father was Dennis Barone. My grandfather, Robert “Bob” Vincent, became my adopted father. My biological mother was Monique Niles, my stepmother was Anita Vincent, and my grandmother, Wanda Deshaies, became my adopted mother.
I was the eldest of my siblings.
My childhood took me through Potter Burns Elementary School, Goff and Bradley, and eventually High Roads School of Providence.
There was also Camp Ruggles.
And it was there, during one particular summer, that something happened that I would not fully understand until many years later.
Before I Knew the Words
I made friends with just about everyone at Camp Ruggles.
Among them were several girls with whom I became particularly close.
They weren't completely unfamiliar with the idea that gender and personality don't always fit neatly into stereotypes.
They knew that some boys could be very feminine while still being boys. They knew that some girls could be tomboys. They knew about cross-dressing and drag. In fact, one or two of the girls I knew could probably have been described as both tomboys and girly girls depending on the day.
So they had a basic understanding that people could express themselves differently.
But what they saw in me seemed different.
They didn't think I was a boy who was simply feminine.
They didn't think I was a cross-dresser.
They didn't think I was doing drag.
They couldn't quite explain what I was.
They simply came to the conclusion that I was a girl.
And, perhaps most importantly, they decided that was okay.
Especially with them.
At that age, I didn't have the language to explain myself either.
I didn't understand gender identity in the way I do now. I wasn't ready to openly identify as transgender. I wasn't even completely ready to accept the possibility myself.
But when those girls treated me like one of them, something about it felt right.
So I quietly asked them to keep it between us.
I asked if they could continue treating me like one of the girls, just somewhat covertly so that it wouldn't attract attention.
They agreed.
For a little while, I got to experience something I couldn't explain.
I got to simply be myself.
It Wasn't Completely Secret
As the summer went on, the situation eventually became a little more complicated.
A few days before the end of the camp year, some of my other friends told me that one of the boys had noticed how two particular girls were treating me.
He apparently managed to get one of them to explain what was happening.
She told him some of it.
Not everything.
Eventually, the other children learned that there was something going on and asked me to tell them the rest.
So I did.
Their reactions weren't all exactly the same.
Some of them thought it was strange.
Some admitted that they didn't really understand it.
But they also told me that it was okay.
That mattered.
Not everyone needed to understand everything immediately in order to accept me.
One of the girls who had been involved felt terrible that she had told someone else. She apologized repeatedly and was genuinely upset with herself for having done it.
I was upset too.
I wasn't going to pretend that I wasn't.
But I accepted her apology.
She continued apologizing and saying that she was angry with herself for what she'd done, and eventually I reminded her that I had already accepted her apology—and that I still did.
That experience taught me something I wouldn't fully understand until much later:
Acceptance doesn't necessarily mean everything goes perfectly.
Sometimes people make mistakes.
Sometimes people don't understand.
Sometimes people hurt each other unintentionally.
What matters is what happens afterward.
A Different Kind of Acceptance
Something else happened during those conversations that I still find interesting.
Some of the boys asked me if they could continue treating me like a boy.
Not because they were rejecting me.
They simply asked if they could keep things somewhat familiar.
They wanted to know if some of them could still treat me like one of the boys while others treated me like one of the girls.
That way, they explained, it wouldn't feel like such a dramatic change for them.
I told them that was fine.
Actually, I preferred it that way too.
So there was no single rule for everyone.
The girls treated me like one of them.
Some of the boys treated me like a girl.
Other boys treated me as both a boy and a girl, but mostly as a boy.
It probably sounds complicated.
And it was.
But it was also remarkably human.
We were children trying to figure something out that none of us had the vocabulary or experience to fully explain.
And somehow, we made it work.
Then Summer Ended
Unfortunately, I didn't return to Camp Ruggles after that summer.
I lost touch with those friends.
And the little world where that part of me had quietly existed disappeared.
For years afterward, I stayed quiet.
Looking back, I think one of the reasons that summer stayed with me is because I had experienced something before I knew what to call it.
I had been accepted before I knew I was asking to be accepted.
I had been seen before I understood what anyone was seeing.
Learning the Words
As I grew older, I began encountering the language that I had been missing.
I learned what being transgender meant.
I encountered other people's stories.
I began recognizing pieces of myself in them.
The things that had once seemed like isolated experiences began connecting together.
That summer at Camp Ruggles suddenly made more sense.
So did other feelings and experiences from growing up.
I realized that those children hadn't somehow made me transgender.
They hadn't persuaded me to become someone else.
They had simply noticed something that was already there.
They saw me before I knew how to describe myself.
Over time, I became more accepting of myself.
Then more open.
Eventually, I stopped seeing being transgender as something I needed to hide.
I also came to understand that I am bisexual.
That was another part of learning who I am, although gender identity and sexual orientation are two different things.
The more I learned, the more pieces of myself began falling into place.
The First People I Told
Outside of Camp Ruggles, one of the first people I told was a friend I had known since first grade.
Our friendship lasted through elementary school, junior high, high school, and several years after graduation.
That friend became the first person outside of Camp Ruggles to learn that I was transgender.
They were also the first person outside of Camp Ruggles whom I told that I was bisexual.
Later, my sister Dezi and one of my cousins became among the next people to know.
Eventually, I began telling my parents.
That process wasn't identical with everyone.
People respond to personal news in their own ways.
Some people need time.
Some people have questions.
Some people understand quickly.
And sometimes acceptance is a process rather than a single moment.
Family and Time
One of the more difficult parts of coming out has been allowing people I love the space to process something that has taken me years to understand myself.
My father, Bob, is one example.
For a while, I believed that he already knew and was comfortable with it.
Eventually, however, I learned that he needed some time.
That doesn't mean he is angry with me.
It doesn't mean he intends to permanently distance himself from me.
Rather, he has chosen to take some temporary space because he doesn't want to unintentionally hurt my feelings by saying or doing something he doesn't yet understand could be hurtful.
For now, some communication goes through Anita while he takes that time.
I can respect that.
It isn't necessarily easy.
But one of the things I've learned through this entire journey is that acceptance can take different forms and different amounts of time.
I spent years learning how to understand myself.
I can't reasonably expect everyone else to understand me in an instant.
The First Instrument
My creative life actually began very early.
Before I had even started first grade, I was given a cheap little acoustic guitar.
I was hooked.
A few grades later, I received my first electric guitar.
A few years after that came my first bass guitar, along with another electric guitar.
Over the years, instruments came and went. Some broke. Some were replaced. Some were simply replaced with something different as my interests and circumstances changed.
There was even an old Japanese-made acoustic guitar with almost no identifying information beyond the word “JAPAN” stamped in capital letters on the back of its headstock.
It was a six-string nylon-string acoustic, although at some point it had metal strings on it.
Eventually, I sold it to someone who was willing to take on the work it needed.
Around that time, Bob gave me a Fender Malibu CE acoustic-electric guitar.
That guitar became another chapter in a long relationship with music.
Learning to Make Music
My equipment changed considerably over the years, but the important part wasn't the equipment.
It was learning.
I went through several amplifiers, beginning with a Rocktron combo amp, followed by a Line 6 Spider, a Fender Mustang, a small headphone amplifier, a Marshall MG15 CD, a Peavey Rage 158, and eventually a Roland MicroCube COSM N225 that Bob had owned.
The MicroCube became something of a “couch amp” in my world.
Bob had originally used it mainly for experimenting with ideas before returning to his other equipment.
I ended up being the one who got a lot of use out of it.
Later, after Bob moved away from music and concentrated more heavily on photography and eventually horror fiction, he gave me his Fender Stratocaster HH Blacktop.
That guitar remains a particularly meaningful part of the story because it wasn't just an instrument.
It came from my father.
And by then, music had become a part of who I was.
From a Laptop Microphone to a Studio
My first recordings were about as simple as they could possibly be.
I used a Windows laptop.
I used its built-in microphone.
I used Audacity.
That was it.
Eventually I experimented with a guitar-to-USB cable originally associated with a Rock Band-style video game setup, allowing me to connect instruments directly to the computer.
Then Bob gave me something that changed my recording possibilities considerably:
a Tascam PocketStudio 5.
It was practically an entire little studio in one device.
For someone working without a traditional recording studio, that was huge.
Years later, after the PocketStudio 5 stopped working, Bob gave me a Tascam DP-004.
I eventually added an Alesis MultiMix8 FX USB mixer and recording interface.
Today, my setup is a mixture of those older tools and computer software, including the Tascam HI-RES Editor and Audacity.
It isn't the sort of studio someone would necessarily build today.
That's part of why I like it.
I've learned how to make music with what I have.
Sometimes limitations force creativity.
Instead of asking what the newest equipment can do, I ask:
What can I make with this?
That question has followed me through much more than music.
From MySpace to the Night Desk of Music
I originally shared my music on MySpace.
Eventually I moved to SoundCloud, then began using YouTube and SoundClick as well.
Today, my music primarily exists through SoundClick, YouTube, and my Cream Connection website.
I've also been involved with other musical projects.
I play bass for AmiBlue and help manage its official SoundCloud presence.
I've also managed the SoundClick presence for Let's Rocket.
One AmiBlue song even became part of one of my YouTube slideshow videos.
At some point, music stopped being merely something I did by myself.
It became part of how I connected with other people.
Photography and Videography
My relationship with cameras began almost as early as my relationship with guitars.
My first camera came when I was still in first grade.
It was a Kodak film camera.
Years later, I moved into digital photography with a Kodak digital camera.
Then came a little Flip camera, followed eventually by a Vivitar camcorder and then a Sony Handycam.
Today, I use a Nikon Coolpix L110.
The equipment changed.
The idea didn't.
I wanted to capture things.
Photography and videography became another language through which I could communicate.
Music allowed me to make something that could be heard.
Photography allowed me to preserve something that could be seen.
Videography allowed me to combine images, movement, sound, and time.
Learning to See
Photography taught me something important:
Seeing is not the same thing as looking.
You can look directly at something and never really see it.
That applies to people, too.
For years, I was looking at myself without really seeing myself.
Eventually, I started learning how.
I've always been drawn toward images with atmosphere.
Fog.
Night.
Old places.
Quiet moments.
People caught somewhere between posing and simply existing.
I don't always want a photograph to look perfect.
Sometimes the imperfections are what make it feel real.
In many ways, photography became another part of my transition.
Not because a camera changed who I was.
But because learning to see the world differently helped me learn to see myself differently.
Anger
There have also been parts of my journey that weren't gentle.
I've known anger.
I've had moments when frustration became overwhelming.
I've carried anger about things I couldn't change, things I didn't understand, and things I didn't know how to express.
For a long time, anger could feel easier than vulnerability.
Anger has a certain armor to it.
It can make you feel stronger when underneath it you may actually be hurt, confused, frightened, lonely, or simply exhausted.
But eventually I began to understand that anger is often information.
It can tell you that something matters.
It can tell you that something hurts.
It can tell you that a boundary has been crossed.
But anger doesn't necessarily have to determine what you do next.
Learning that distinction has been part of growing up.
I don't think personal growth means becoming someone who never gets angry.
I think it means becoming someone who understands their anger better.
And, ideally, learning how to turn some of that energy into something constructive.
For me, creativity became one of those places.
Music.
Photography.
Writing.
Spirituality.
Even simply talking about what I was experiencing.
Instead of allowing everything to remain trapped inside, I began finding ways to let it out.
The Difficult Years
Not every part of growing into myself was easy.
There were periods when I felt isolated.
There were times when I struggled to understand myself, struggled to understand other people, and struggled to figure out where I belonged.
There were times when it was easier to withdraw than to explain what was happening inside me.
And there were periods when simply getting through the day could feel like its own accomplishment.
I don't want to turn those experiences into a dramatic tragedy.
They were simply part of my life.
And difficult periods are still part of a life story even when they don't have a neat ending.
One thing I've learned is that healing and personal growth aren't always dramatic.
Sometimes growth looks like getting up tomorrow.
Sometimes it looks like creating something.
Sometimes it means talking to someone.
Sometimes it means admitting that something hurts.
Sometimes it means realizing that you are allowed to change.
And sometimes it simply means continuing.
Finding Spirituality
My spiritual journey became another important part of understanding myself.
Eventually, spirituality became something more personal than simply accepting someone else's definition of what faith was supposed to be.
My spiritual work eventually developed into what I now call the Celestian Path, and into my ministry through the House of Celestis.
For me, spirituality is deeply connected to light, remembrance, compassion, creation, and the idea that people can find meaning without all having to walk exactly the same religious road.
My faith has also been influenced by many different traditions and stories.
I've found inspiration in Christianity, older religious traditions, science fiction, fantasy, mythology, and the idea of a universe much larger than any one human life.
That mixture might seem unusual to some people.
To me, it makes sense.
My spirituality has never been about pretending that every question has an easy answer.
Sometimes faith means being willing to ask the question.
Becoming a Minister
Eventually, spirituality wasn't simply something I thought about privately.
It became something I wanted to share through service.
I became an ordained minister through Universal Life Church Monastery Ministries and began developing my own ministry work.
That brought together several parts of my life that might otherwise seem unrelated.
Weddings.
Funerals.
Baptisms.
Mass.
Moments of remembrance.
Moments of celebration.
Moments when people need someone to stand beside them.
That matters to me.
Because I know what it feels like to wonder whether there is a place where you belong.
I want my ministry to be a place where people can find that sense of welcome.
Creativity and Identity
When I look at my music, photography, writing, and spiritual work together, I notice something.
They all involve expression.
They all involve seeing something that might otherwise remain hidden.
And they all involve taking something inside yourself and bringing it into the world.
That's also what my transition has been.
Not becoming someone completely different.
Becoming more visible as the person I already was.
There is a misconception that transition means creating a new person.
For me, it feels more like uncovering an old one.
The child at Camp Ruggles didn't disappear.
She grew up.
She learned words.
She learned about herself.
She learned that there were other people like her.
She learned that she didn't have to remain silent forever.
And eventually, she learned to say:
This is me.
Looking Back at Camp Ruggles
Sometimes I think about those girls from Camp Ruggles.
I wonder what they would think if they could see me now.
Would they remember that summer?
Would they remember the quiet request I made?
Would they remember treating me like one of the girls?
I have no idea.
They may have completely forgotten.
But I haven't.
Because sometimes a small moment can have a very long shadow.
They didn't know they were giving me anything extraordinary.
They were just being accepting.
They didn't know they were seeing a transgender girl before she knew how to see herself.
They didn't need the vocabulary.
They didn't need to understand every detail.
They simply knew that I wasn't what they thought a boy was supposed to be—and that I was something else.
To them, I was simply a girl.
And they decided that was okay.
That may have been one of the earliest moments when someone else accepted a part of me that I had not yet learned to accept myself.
I Am Still Becoming
I don't consider my journey finished.
I don't think anyone's really is.
There are still things I am learning about myself.
There are still songs I want to make.
Photographs I want to take.
Videos I want to create.
Stories I want to tell.
People I want to help.
Places I want to go.
Questions I want to ask.
And there are still parts of myself I am discovering.
That's okay.
I've stopped believing that I need to have everything figured out before I am allowed to be myself.
Maybe that's one of the biggest lessons of growing up.
You don't have to understand your entire life before you can live it.
Sometimes you discover yourself by living.
The Girl I Had Not Yet Learned to Name
When I look back at my childhood, I don't see a broken child.
I see a child who didn't have the vocabulary yet.
I see someone trying to understand a world that seemed to have already decided who she was supposed to be.
I see the girl who found acceptance at a summer camp.
I see the child whose friends didn't have all the answers, but who nevertheless tried to make room for her.
I see the teenager and young adult trying to understand identity.
I see the little girl with her first acoustic guitar.
I see the kid discovering electric guitars and bass.
I see the musician recording through a laptop microphone and eventually building a little home studio.
I see the photographer picking up her first Kodak camera.
I see the videographer discovering that photographs can move and stories can have sound.
I see the artist learning to create with whatever tools were available.
I see someone wrestling with anger and difficult periods, slowly learning that neither has to define her.
I see a person searching for meaning and eventually building a spiritual path of her own.
I see a minister who wants to help other people feel less alone.
I see someone learning that family members may need their own time to understand.
I see a transgender woman who spent years learning how to say something that, in some ways, other children had already understood.
And I see myself.
All of those people are me.
The child.
The confused kid.
The angry person.
The artist.
The musician.
The photographer.
The videographer.
The writer.
The spiritual seeker.
The minister.
The transgender woman.
None of them cancel the others out.
They are all chapters of the same story.
And perhaps that's what I was missing all those years ago.
I wasn't waiting to become someone else.
I was learning how to become myself.
The girl was already there.
She just hadn't learned her name yet.
And now she has.
