Category: Parenting a transgender child

Do you know that parents of trans kids are advised to have a ‘safe folder’?  This is a file containing the documents that would be necessary to defend your family in court, should it ever be needed.  Included in the file, it is recommended that we have: 

– relevant doctor’s notes

– a letter from a therapist

– character references from teachers, pastors, or community leaders (or preferably all of the above)

– documentation of any medical or mental health treatments or concerns

– photos, artwork, report cards (showing a happy, well-adjusted kid)

– copies of legal documents (name change, passport, birth certificate, social security)

The purpose of this file is to prove your fitness as a parent should you ever be accused of neglect or abuse for supporting your child’s gender identity. 

The need for a file like this terrifies me.  

I like to think that I’m relatively safe here in liberal Massachusetts.  But there are families all over the country who get reported to CPS (child protective services) or DCF (department of children and families) for ‘brainwashing’ their children into ‘being transgender.’  There are families all over the country fighting in court for the right to support their children.  

I can’t even type that without seething.  

I think I need to back up a step.  

*************

I have some pretty well-intentioned people in my life who have referred me to articles reporting parents ‘forcing’ a gender transition on elementary-aged children.  These articles, if taken at face value, are upsetting.  They paint a picture of a parent pushing an agenda.  They talk about medical transitions occurring as young as 7 or 8 years old.  They talk about lax standards of care. They talk about kids who change their presentation in different circumstances.  

I read these articles and I cringe.  I cringe because they play on our tendency to believe the worst about each other.  They paint a partial picture intended to engage our fears.  

Incompetent medical professionals? Scary.  Irreversible medical transition for a 7 year old?  Frightening.  Adults manipulating children?  Terrifying. 

So, please.  Stay with me for a minute while I reframe this story for you.  While I don’t personally know the families referenced in these articles, I do know families whose stories parallel these.  This story could easily have been our own, had I been married to a less amazing man. 

Imagine: 

A young child, aged 4 or 5, self-harming.  Beating her head against the wall.  Saying things like, “I hate myself” and “I want to die” and “Something is WRONG with me.”

Parental searching. Therapists.  Counselors.  Maybe medication.  Maybe not. 

A child who seems sometimes happy and sometimes so, so incredibly sad.  The reason is never clear.  

Overreactions to small things that don’t make sense.  A ponytail. Tights.  Pink icing on a cake.  

Marital discord. Nobody can fix it.  Each parent blames the other.  She’s too lenient.  He’s too harsh.  

An epiphany. This child declares, “Actually, I’m a boy” or asks, “When will I grow a penis?” or proclaims, “I just don’t FEEL like a girl.”

One parent (let’s say it’s the mother, for argument’s sake) embraces it. She’s figured out what the problem is.  The search begins for a solution. 

The other parent (the father, again, simply for argument’s sake) rejects this idea.  

Mom researches.  She finds support groups.  She finds a doctor and a therapist familiar with the issues at hand.  She buys new clothes and starts using new pronouns.   

Dad turns to church. He’s told he can fix this.  He needs to teach his child how to behave. He needs to reinforce appropriate behavior and punish inappropriate behavior.  He needs to stop coddling.  

The child is aware. With dad, the child conforms to gender norms. With mom, the child experiments.  Both parents are convinced that they are right.  

Eventually, the differences become too much.  The parents can’t agree.  They separate, and then divorce.  The courts are involved.  A media circus ensues.  

What gets reported in the media depends on the source.  

The liberal news will tell you:

– the conservatives hate transgender people

– the father is rejecting his child

The conservative news will tell you:

– the liberals are providing medical transitions to 7 year old children

– the mother is brainwashing her child

Even as I acknowledge that there are two sides to this, you know where I stand.  I chose to support and affirm my child.  I made my decisions based on research and faith and grounded in love and I don’t regret them for a single second.  

But the truth is:

This is tough stuff. We’re in uncharted territory in a lot of ways.  We need to remember that we are not alone. There are transgender adults who have travelled this path.  We need to listen and learn from their stories and those of their families.  There are doctors and researchers and therapists who have been in this field for decades.  We have much to learn from them, too. 

None of us knows everything. If your first reaction is to reject something because you lack knowledge, please… pause.  Educate yourself.  Just because you don’t understand something, doesn’t mean it’s not real.  

If the answer to a complicated issue seems obvious, it’s probably oversimplified and designed to play on your emotions.  Consider the source of your information.  

Nobody is providing cross-gender hormones to a seven year old.  I promise.  If you’re really interested you can do some research about puberty blocking medication and gender affirming care and hormone therapy.  There are lots of options, but none of them involve irreversible physical changes before puberty.  

ALL parents are making tough decisions.  Every day. Grant each other a little grace. Instead of making accusations or assumptions, ask thoughtful questions.  

All of us are beloved children of God.  ALL. OF. US.  

********** 

In all of this, I think what scares me the most is how quick people are to judge.  

Given the stories I’ve heard and read, given my own experience as a parent, it would be naïve to say that we don’t need a safe folder.  Because you never know.  Sometimes people who appear to be supportive are not.  Sometimes, people’s fears overwhelm their grace and they attack what they do not understand.  Sometimes, parents disagree so fundamentally that their story becomes a cautionary tale. 

******

It took me a couple of days to get around to writing this post. The catalyst was an old friend’s comment on an online article.  It wasn’t addressed to me.  But I reacted.  I vaguely responded to this friend online, but then decided I didn’t really have the energy to engage.  Deep down, I was afraid.  This person once meant a lot to me.  Even all these years later, I can’t shake the desire to maintain that relationship. I wanted to prepare what I would say, and I needed to brace myself for the loss of a friendship if it didn’t go well.  

And as I sat with all of that, as I mentally rehearsed a conversation and composed a hypothetical response, I had a chance to chat with my son.  

He opened up a little. He’s 13, so that’s becoming more the exception than the norm.  He talked about the peers who constantly ask if he’s a boy or a girl, and then ‘correct’ him when he answers.  He shared a story about the kid who wouldn’t park his bike ‘next to a tranny’s bike.’ He vaguely mentioned the kids who won’t let him join the boy’s table at lunch and those who snidely ask, “Who invited YOU?” when he rides downtown after school.  

For the most part, this kid doesn’t complain.  He knows that some people just don’t understand; he sees that some people are judgmental.  And sadly, he accepts that there will always be people who see him as ‘less-than’ simply because he is trans.  

On one hand, I’m proud of his strength.  I love that he doesn’t rely on others to establish his self-worth.  I want him to be resilient and aware and confident.  

But then he broke my heart. He said, “Mom, I’m just afraid that it’s never going to get better.  There’s always going to be transphobic people.  In high school.  In college. When I get a job.”

He talks about wanting to go ‘stealth.’  He could just start over in a place where nobody knows he’s trans.  But there’s fear involved there, too.  Because secrets can’t be contained forever, and there’s danger inherent in hiding your truth.  

I listen to him and I marvel.  I am amazed by this child.  He is thoughtful and kind and creative and strong. 

The guilt comes in waves. I had been feeling afraid and overwhelmed.  Afraid of what?  Losing a friend I haven’t talked to in decades?  Overwhelmed by what?  The possibility of someone arguing with me?  

And I realize that… EVERY DAY…. my amazing son laces up his high tops and slips into his hoodie and enters a reality so much more intimidating than the conversations I avoid. He doesn’t have the luxury of choosing when to engage.

So I’m trying to learn from him.  I’m trying to be braver.  I’m holding on to hope for a future for him that is so much brighter than the one he imagines.  I hope you will help us create it.  Until then, I just have to keep sharing our story and loving my children and protecting my family.  

Excuse me while I add the doctor’s note to our ‘safe folder…’

I’m working on some longer pieces of writing.  I’m trying to tell the story of our family, but I’m struggling.  How do I tell our whole story without messing up Lee’s pronouns? These stories go back in time, to moments when I experienced this child as a girl.  

Have you seen him lately? He’s not a girl.  I was wrong.  So how can I look back and use the wrong pronouns?  Wasn’t it Maya Angelou who said, ‘When you know better, do better?” Well, I know better now.  

Early on in his transition, my husband and I fell into this habit of switching pronouns.  We were okay in the present… but how do you talk about the past?  There was a point where it felt like two different kids; the girl-child and the boy-child.  So we spoke about them differently.  

In the first few months, there were also times when we did a cost/benefit analysis.  I’m a little ashamed to say that there were times when I used the wrong pronouns because it was just easier.   A customer or a former neighbor or an old acquaintance from high school would ask, “How’s your daughter?”  I would mentally calculate.  Should I explain?  Is it worth it?  In the grocery store aisle or at the gas station or in passing at a party?  “She’s fine,” I sometimes replied, to save myself the time or the aggravation or the emotional investment of an explanation.  

But over time, that little white lie, that dismissal of my child, that choice of convenience over honesty became more than I could handle.  The little white lie felt bigger and bigger. It wasn’t okay to negate my child’s identity for my own comfort and convenience.  And that’s what you do when you knowingly use the wrong pronouns.  I couldn’t do it anymore.  It felt wrong.  

I got to the point where I could quickly correct people.  “Actually, it’s Lee now.  HE’s transgender.”  It happened at the bank and at PTO meetings and at backyard barbecues.  The more comfortable I became with my child’s transition, the easier it was for me to smile, state the facts, and move on.  

You know what else? The more I learned, the more I researched and talked to other parents and doctors and therapists, the more confident I became.  I knew better, so I could do better.  I worried less and less about how people would respond, because, quite frankly, I didn’t care. 

My job… my first priority… is to love my kid.  Misgendering him for convenience or comfort?  That’s not love.  That’s betrayal.  My son will get enough betrayal out there in the world.  He’s going to deal with a lot of tough stuff.  There will be a lot of people making weak excuses for their poor behavior and treating him like his existence is an inconvenience.  

I’m not going to be one of them. 

There’s something else that has changed since those early days of struggling with pronouns.  It’s a little hard to explain if you haven’t been through it, but I liken it to learning a new language.  At first, when you learn new vocabulary, you think the word in your native language first.  Mentally, you translate.  There is a brief pause between the thought and the speech as it passes through a mental filter.  When Lee first changed his pronouns, my speech slowed.  Every time I was about to say the words ‘she’ or ‘her,’ there was a tiny pause.  Is this the right word?  Nope. Adjust.  

During those early months, I messed up pronouns everywhere.  My brain was adjusting to this new filter.  I misgendered my dogs and sisters and my students, because my brain was SO hesitant to use female pronouns. I couldn’t trust myself to automatically use the right word, so I overcorrected.  

It happened slowly, so I can’t pinpoint the moment… but I no longer do that.  My THOUGHTS are happening in the new language.  Mentally, I’ve categorized Lee as ‘male.’  I THINK of him as male, so the pronouns come automatically.  

Lee has been living as a boy for more than four years now.  He LOOKS like a boy.  He ACTS like a boy.  His friends are boys.  If you met him in town, you’d never know.  

Yet, he still gets misgendered.  

Of course, he gets misgendered by peers; the ones who mock him or harass him or intentionally exclude him. That’s a separate issue, and one that we (unfortunately) have to deal with.  

He also gets misgendered by family.  That is accidental.  Nobody does it on purpose.  But the family members who make mistakes are the ones who don’t see him that often. They probably have more memories and associations with a female version of this kid… and so they slip.  I know it’s not intentional.  I know they’re trying.  They just haven’t yet gotten to the point where they actually think of him as male.  They’re still translating. 

He sometimes gets misgendered by teachers.  There’s this one teacher who sometimes slips and uses the wrong pronouns.  He’s not malicious toward my kid.  He corrects himself.  But what’s fascinating about this is that this teacher NEVER KNEW a female version of my kid.  So why the mistakes?  It makes me wonder what he really thinks about trans people.  In his mind, is Lee a girl pretending to be a boy?  Is he still mentally translating, because he actually, deeply believes that Lee is female?  

I hate that I have to wonder about these things.  

And, so, back to the original question.  What do I do about the pronouns?  The ones that tell the stories of our past?  I guess I’ve known the answer all along.  I’m not sure why I’m asking all of YOU.  What I need to do is simply ask Lee.  Because after all, it’s HIS story.  

So, if you follow my blog, you probably know that Lee started testosterone back in April.  It was a big step for him (and for us), and was accompanied by much celebration and good-natured ribbing. 

“Is that a moustache I see?” asked his dad on day two.

“Yeah, but I’m still the only one with a penis,” remarked a smartass brother. 

“Wait.  Is that an actual muscle?” teased an older sister. 

The testosterone we chose was administered in patches.  They basically looked like big round band-aids, with a bubble in the middle that slowly released medication into his bloodstream throughout the day. 

Shortly after he began, we noticed changes.  A slight broadening of the shoulders, a squaring of the jaw line, a lowering of the voice.  Increased agitation and moodiness.  Some of this was clearly the testosterone.  Some of it was typical teenage behavior… maybe enhanced (or maybe not) by the newly administered hormones. 

But after a few months, we were a little disillusioned.  The patches frequently fell off.  They caused skin irritation and were easily forgotten in the hustle and bustle of a typical day.  They couldn’t be applied before or after a shower.  They often stuck to the sheets at night.  

To me, all this simply seemed like the price we had to pay for an easy, painless administration of a necessary medication.  

But my son thought differently.  At camp this summer, he spoke with some of his transgender friends.  These kids insisted that injections were more effective and worked more quickly (this rumor was debunked by our doctor).  But these kids also managed to convince my needle-phobic, fainting-prone son that a shot was actually quite simple and pain-free. 

At our next appointment, he asked the doctor about trying weekly injections instead of daily patches. To say I was hesitant would be an understatement.  I had watched this child faint after a blood draw.  He would have a full-blown panic attack when he had to get a shot at a well-visit.  I once caught his clammy head before it hit the floor in a doctor’s waiting room; he had just had an injection.  That was right before he threw up. 

So when we talked to the doctor, my doubt was apparent.  But she encouraged us to try it anyway.  “Sometimes they surprise you,” she whispered to me, knowingly. 

We agreed to order injectable testosterone, continuing with the patches until the new medication arrived. The doctor gave us the name of a mail-order pharmacy in Oregon, where we could get a full year’s worth of medication without insurance for about $80.  A local hospital pharmacy could bill over $1200, with our co-pay nearing $150 per MONTH.  

We were lucky to be working with experienced medical professionals who were able to point us in the right direction.  If you’re navigating this for the first time, I STRONGLY suggest you explore several different options for your medication, as the cost can vary significantly between sources.  

We ordered the medicine, and it arrived at our doorstep within a week, complete with needles and syringes and alcohol wipes; everything we would need to do at-home injections. A few days later, we packed up all of this paraphernalia and brought it to the gender doctor, so the nurse could teach us (read: ME) how to inject testosterone safely and efficiently.  

The steps seemed easy enough; the nurse demonstrated each part of the process, and Lee was a champ. He was super anxious and near tears until the nurse said, “All done!”  His eyes widened and a smile broke out and he proclaimed, “I didn’t even FEEL that!” 

 Once the nurse had completed the actual injection, then I had a chance to practice with a silicone bubble and an empty syringe.  I felt like I might be capable of this, after all.  

Before we left, the team offered to have us come back in a week, so I could complete my first actual injection with support and supervision.  I really liked that idea, but it seemed a little extreme to drive two hours to have a nurse WATCH me do the injection.  When I got home, I called our primary care doctor, hoping for a more convenient solution. 

Our pediatrician has been incredibly supportive throughout Lee’s transition, and my hope was that a nurse in her office might be willing to provide this service for us.  It would save me a few hours of driving and provide tremendous peace of mind.  After a bit of initial confusion and a few voicemail messages, I got to speak to a nurse who assured me she’d be happy to help us out.  

While I was grateful for her agreement, I was also a bit skeptical about her motivation.  In my experience, most medical providers haven’t had a chance to work with actual transgender people.  And while they are well-intentioned and interested in learning, I often feel like my child is being used as a guinea pig; for educational or research purposes.  They seem more intrigued and enthralled than capable and professional.  

So when we walked into our pediatrician’s office, I felt a combination of relief and wariness.  The nurse called us into a room in the back, and I clutched my bag of syringes and needles, trying not to let my child notice the nervousness that I felt.  The nurse was encouraging and friendly and obliging.  She brought in a second nurse to help and my radar went up.  There’s no way we need two nurses to WATCH me do a shot. Why were they both here?  To see something they’d never seen?  Just to lay eyes on the trans kid?  I was skeptical.

Ultimately, my fears were unfounded.  Regardless of why they were both there, they walked us through the process with encouragement and professionalism and a few helpful hints.  They were kind and enthusiastic and helped the experience go smoothly.  

In the months since, Lee and I have become an impressive injection team.  He’s no longer nervous and he handles it like a pro.  I’m still learning, but each time gets a little better. Lee gives me feedback.  “That time it stung.  I think we needed to let the alcohol dry longer.”  “Today it hurts a little.  I think maybe the angle was too deep.”  “Mom, that was the best one yet!  It didn’t hurt at all!”  

And much to my surprise, the injections ARE easier than the patch.  There’s less to remember and less chance for something to go wrong. There’s less reminding and less worrying and less chance that he’s forgotten or lost his medication.  

But there’s something else, too.  Although the administration is easier than I thought, there is something that’s harder. Maybe harder is the wrong word.  More intense, perhaps?

When my kid was wearing a patch, it was easy to forget (or ignore) the fact that we are administering a drug that will change him.  While the effects were not reversible, the patch itself somehow felt reversible.  It was a sticker.  A band-aid.  We could take it off or stop it at any time. 

And of course, we still can. But with these injections, this choice feels more intentional.  Every time I fill a syringe, I need to be confident in our decision to manipulate his hormones. 

I look at this young person, growing up, and figuring out who he is… and my emotions go haywire. He’s going through so much.  He’s so strong.  What will his life be like?  Will he ever regret this decision?  Will he ever resent me for the choices I made on his behalf?  Of course I question myself.  I think that’s the hallmark of a good parent.  We all want to do what’s right for our kids.  And most of the time, we can’t be one hundred percent sure of what that is.  

I don’t really know the answers.  I can only have faith.  I am diligent and observant and prayerful.  I trust in God and I trust my child, and I know that I am making the absolute best choices that I can with the information that I have.  

And at night, when he crawls into bed and sleepily confesses, “Mom, I don’t know what I’d do without you,” my heart swells.  He tells me he didn’t really know how lucky he was until he talked to friends whose parents were unsupportive.  He tells stories of kids stealing or trading or sourcing illegal testosterone.  He tells me that this medicine is saving his life. 

I choose to believe him. 

Lee starts camp on Sunday.  It’s a sleep-away camp for transgender kids, and it was a godsend when we first found it.  Lee spent his first week there when he was just barely 10 years old, and I was afraid that he was too young to be away from home for that long.  He had been living as a boy for a little less than a year.  Looking back now, that seems so long ago.  This year, he’s going for two weeks.  He’s got lots of friends there, and he’s no longer one of the little kids.  It’s still a godsend, but in a ‘this-place-is-part-of-who-you-are’ sort of way.  

And that shift? That change in perception? It’s just one tiny piece of our puzzle.  It’s just one small example of how things that were so scary and so unfamiliar have become part of our beautiful, new ‘normal.’  

When Lee first came out, my understanding of what it meant to be transgender was limited and biased and riddled with stereotypes.  I was confused and scared and afraid that I was going to do this all wrong.  I reached out to a friend; the only person I knew who I thought might be able to help me understand.  She did even better.  Much to my surprise, she put me in touch with another mom who was going through the same thing.  That night, I cried to this stranger on the phone.  She listened and encouraged me and affirmed my feelings and she made me feel less crazy.  She gave me advice and assured me that, in fact, I was totally capable of supporting my child and adapting to this new parenting twist.  

I had gone from feeling totally alone and ill-equipped to having a new friend and confidant and purpose… in only a few hours.  I was shocked and relieved to find that there were other parents like me and that there were ways to find and connect with them.  I attended PFLAG meetings.  I did a ton of research.  I joined Serendipitydodah for moms on social media.  I discovered Facebook groups for parents like me.  I researched GLSEN and GLAAD and began attending conferences like First Event. I found a great therapist, who was as much a resource for me as she was for Lee.  I read books. So many books.  

And along the way, we shared our story.  Some of these disclosures were planned and thoughtful, like our ‘coming out’ Facebook post or the early blogs on this site.  Some were nervously anticipated conversations with family and friends.  Some were public speaking events at our church or conferences.  All were sanctioned and supported by Lee, because it has never been my story to tell. But then there were the awkward ones. The parent I ran into at the grocery store who confused my children and asked about my ‘daughter’ while HE was standing right there.  The visiting neighbor who asked my boys what happened to their sister.  The family members who wondered if it was because ‘she’ wanted to be ‘just like her older brothers.’ 

In most of these situations, I was able to use what I had learned to clear up a misconception or educate someone I loved.  

I’ve never been an advocate or an activist in the way that some other parents are.  I know amazing moms who have entered public debates and sat with public officials.  There are parents who are meeting with senators and representatives, petitioning for equal access and rights, who are out there really FIGHTING for our kids. Sometimes I feel guilty that I’m not more actively involved in advocacy.  Sure, I volunteer for an occasional phone bank or shift petitioning in a park, but I’ve always been a little afraid of putting my kid in a bigger spotlight.  

Early on, I questioned the decision to publicly ‘out’ our child.  While he had transitioned in school, and lots of classmates were aware, he could also ‘pass’ as a boy in unfamiliar public spaces.  I know plenty of families who ‘go stealth’ and keep that private information private.  Telling his story was certainly a risk.  But so was keeping it secret.  Ultimately, we let Lee lead the way on this one.  He was proud of his transition.  He’s proud of who he is… and so are we.  As a family, we’re out and proud.  And it was a good decision for us.  We received a ton of support and mostly, people who disagree have kept their opinions to themselves. 

At first, I was glad we told our story because I saw how it impacted Lee.  I saw how he was able to be himself and own his story.  Which is not to say he hasn’t endured hate or bigotry. He’s in middle school.  He knows kids talk about him.  He sometimes feels judged.  He sometimes feels angry or sad or confused because of it.  But what he doesn’t feel is shame.  This kid is not ashamed of who he is.  He’s not hiding.  

And isn’t that what we want for all of our kids?  We can’t protect them from everything.  We want them to have ALL of the emotions, even the negative ones, so they learn how to deal with them before adulthood.  We want them to be comfortable knowing that not everyone will like them.  Not everyone wants to be their friend.  But your people?  They’re out there.  And you will find them.  

Recently, I’ve begun to understand another benefit of Lee’s pride.  You see, what happens when you share your story, is that people listen. People connect.  It happened slowly at first.  Our pastor at church advised a woman to come and talk to me when she found out that her grandchild was transitioning.  A friend suggested to another friend that he read my blog.  A parent asked if she could pass along my contact information to a cousin/sister/friend.  

And before I knew it, I had become a resource. I was now the first phone call for a confused mother, trying to process that her son was really her daughter.  I became the colleague that people approached for clarity on question 3.  I was the writer whose description of parenting trans kids got shared over 2,000 times… because people going through it could really CONNECT.  I began to feel as though I had come through to the other side. 

Which of course, isn’t true. There is no OTHER SIDE of parenting.  There’s just a new phase.  And then another.  And another. 

But this phase became comfortable.  Maybe I didn’t need to do more advocacy.  I was obviously making some impact.  Telling our story was helping people.  I saw the effects.  

And just when I thought I was fine with that, some more amazing things happened.  

I found out that my aunt had printed out a blog post and anonymously left it in the teacher’s room where she worked.  She wanted to clear up some misconceptions she had heard.  And it worked.  There were thoughtful, respectful conversations at the lunch table that day. 

A close friend began working with her company to create more inclusive policies.  She explained to me that Lee was her inspiration when she talked to her colleagues.  

The school changed their policy about segregating kids by sex. 

A friend had a conversation with her fifth grade class, who wanted to understand what it meant to be transgender.  Thanks to Lee, she was able to explain. 

A gentleman at church proudly donned a transgender flag sticker in support of pride month. “Thanks to you, I know what this one means,” he said.

A friend contacted me recently with a link to a podcast that she thought Lee and I should hear.  We hadn’t talked in a long time.  It was nice to connect, and she sent me a long text. In it, she explained a little about her job.  She, too, was working on improving inclusive practices, especially around gender-related concerns in a healthcare environment.  She wrote this: “I want you to know, and tell Lee, that every time we are working through something that could be problematic, I think to myself, ‘How would that make Lee feel?’ or ‘How would that make Amy feel?’ If it’s anything less than terrific, it least me to my next question, ‘What would make Lee feel affirmed and supported in this situation?’”

Guys, I cry every time I read that.  Do you see what’s happening here?  Do you see how our stories have the power to make things better for all those who come after us?  This friend has met my amazing child only a handful of times.  The last time she saw Lee, he was probably 9 years old and just beginning this journey.  But she has held this kid in her heart and kept him on her mind as she makes decisions that impact SO MANY PEOPLE.  

Sometimes it’s scary to tell our stories.  Nobody likes to feel vulnerable.  But it is exactly that vulnerability that allows others to connect with us.  

That vulnerability and the bravery to share it?  That is what changes the world.  

I know there are other parents out there, just at the beginning of this journey.  Please know, that no matter how you choose to navigate this, there will be ripples. If you start with “I love my child” and let love be your motivation (not fear… never fear), those beautiful, rainbow ripples will reach farther than you can imagine.  

We’re really lucky to live near one of the longest-running, most prestigious gender programs in the country.  When Lee first came out as trans, I called them right away.  Sadly, I wasn’t impressed with what they had to offer.  At that point, Lee was still young.  Too young for any medical intervention, but as a parent, I still felt I needed a medical professional to guide us through this process.  They gave me a referral to a counselor and told me to call back when he started puberty. I felt totally dismissed.  

I called that counselor, and wasn’t impressed with her, either.  She was condescending and rude and seemed to fundamentally doubt most of what I said. Also, she didn’t take our insurance. So I kept looking.  

We finally found a therapist who ‘got it.’  She is a trans person herself, and also a minister.  We love our therapist.  She pointed us toward a lot of great resources, and helped us work through a lot of our questions and concerns.  But truth be told, she was also still pretty new at this.  She hadn’t worked with a child as young as Lee before.  Even so, she helped us find support groups and an endocrinologist nearby who was beginning to expand her practice to include transgender children.  

So we made an appointment with this endocrinologist.  And it was okay.  The first time we went, I had a whisper conversation with the receptionist telling her to make sure they used the right name.  They did.  The doctor was timid, but professional.  I was feeling overwhelmed but I didn’t want my child to see that, so I held back my tears. The doctor noticed and asked me if I was okay.  I forced a smile and told her I was fine.  I wished I had had a moment in private to express all of my concerns.  

Any time we had a question, she assured us that she had read a lot of literature and attended a lot of conferences, and if she didn’t know the answer, she found out for us quickly. From then on, their office (mostly) got the name right, although the same could not be said when we had to go down the hallway for blood work or a bone scan.  

We had one battle over insurance.  They billed the procedure incorrectly, and it took me weeks to get it changed and covered. We also had a billing problem with the pharmacy, because they ordered his medication as a prescription instead of part of a procedure.  It took months to get that corrected. But the really upsetting conflict had to do with getting his name changed.  

We did all the work of going through the courts, petitioning for a legal change.  It was granted.  Then we had to change it with Social Security.  Then with the insurance company.  And finally, we could change it with the hospital.  I was told that I just needed to bring in the new insurance card with the correct name on it.  So I did. This worked everywhere else; at our pediatrician and our dentist and our therapist and our psychologist.  But here, at the GENDER clinic, I presented the card and requested the change, and I was told that I needed to bring in all of the supporting documents.  The old birth certificate.  The court order.  The old insurance card.  

And after months of fighting with these people over stupid things, I wanted to curl up and cry.  Why was it so hard to get this right?  They called a supervisor, who repeated the request for documentation.  They told me I needed to come back with all the paperwork.  When I expressed my frustration, I was treated as if I were overreacting.  When I explained that I had been told that I just needed the insurance card, they insisted that no one in their office would have told me that.    

At that same appointment, the doctor proposed that we begin administering testosterone in the near future. She mentioned exploring the options for preserving fertility.  According to my research, there were no fertility options for us, because Lee had never progressed through a natal puberty.  If we wanted to preserve fertility, we would have to stop our current treatment and allow him to enter a female puberty, which feels akin to abuse, knowing what we know now.  I asked a few questions in this vein, and the doctor’s lack of knowledge was appalling. It had only taken me a few Google searches to learn more than she seemed to know about the issue. 

I pushed, and I asked a lot of questions.  Eventually, I learned that this particular doctor had never taken a child from puberty-blocking medication to gender-affirming hormones.  I returned home, feeling frustrated and defeated.  A few hours later, I got a message from the doctor saying that Lee’s name had been changed in their system and that they didn’t need all of the documentation after all.  I wanted to scream.  I felt as if my child were being used as a guinea pig, and I began again to search for knowledgeable, experienced care.  

I called that first place back. After all, they were the experts.  It took nearly a week for them to return my call, and while the director was helpful and informative on the phone, the next available appointment was nearly six months away.  

So, on a friend’s recommendation, I made another call.  I contacted a lesser-known gender clinic.  They’ve only been officially running for a little over a year now, but they’ve been doing transgender care for much longer than that.  They could get us in right away.  So we made the appointment, and yesterday was the big day. 

We parked in a garage nearby, and had to walk about two blocks to get to the hospital where the clinic was.  I’ve never been particularly nervous to walk down a city street in broad daylight. But this time, I had my three kids with me, and the erratic behavior around me had me wishing that I had three arms to hold their hands and usher them safely along the sidewalks.  There was shouting and swearing and lewd gestures.  People were confrontational, not just around us but toward us. 

I later found out that the area has a huge drug problem and a local methadone clinic.  That explained the erratic, unpredictable behavior. 

But we powered through. We made it into the hospital and up the elevator and into a space that was relatively quiet and friendly, if a little run-down.  

I sat with the three kids in that hospital waiting room, and already, I was thinking, “I don’t think this is going to work.”  I was making a mental list of the things I didn’t like, starting with the neighborhood and ending with the cracked drywall and the sad-looking pamphlets in the waiting room.  I thought, “It’s too far to drive,” and “Our current care isn’t THAT bad,” and “Maybe we CAN wait the six months to get into that other program.”  

The nurse stepped into the waiting room.  She wore hospital scrubs over a Run DMC tee shirt and she called our last namewith a smile on her face.   What a simple way to avoid misgendering or using the wrong name!  I handed over some books and snacks to the other two kids and told them where I’d be in case they needed me.  They assured me that they would be fine, and Lee and I walked through a set of double doors into a wide hallway.  The nurse asked if it was our first time to the clinic and made small talk with Lee as she checked his height and weight.  We were ushered into a small exam room, and told that the doctor would be with us shortly.  

Lee could tell by my expression that I was still unsure. I was beginning to think that maybe my standards were just too high. After all, this kid whom I was trying to protect often felt that I was overreacting.  I had never shouted or lost my temper with the staff at our doctor’s office, but I was frequently frustrated, and I let it be known.  He would often say things like, “Mom.  It’s not that big of a deal,” or “I’m fine, mom.  It’s okay.  It was just a mistake.”  Maybe my efforts to protect him were unnecessary.  Was I embarrassing him?  Doing more harm than good?  

And then the doctor walked in.  She was accompanied by a social worker, and they both introduced themselves with their names AND their pronouns, and Lee lit up.  That small gesture let him know right away that they GOT IT, and that they were on his side.  The two of them sat with us, and addressed Lee as much as they addressed me.  They asked so many questions.  They asked if we had enough food and if Lee felt safe at home. They asked all the typical questions about medications and prior treatment and family history.  And then they kept going.   They asked what Lee liked to do for fun, and when he mentioned all of his pets, they didn’t just jot it down and keep going.  They asked what kind of pets he had and what type of environments they lived in.  They asked what else he liked to do, and when he said he likes to ride his bike with his guinea pig, the doctor followed up the typical, “Do you wear a helmet?” with an additional, “Does the guinea pig wear a helmet?”  Her lightness and her humor won us both over in that moment.  

They asked thoughtful questions; questions I hadn’t even thought to ask.  They asked about bullying and bathroom use and whether he stands or sits to pee.  They asked him about his body and what parts he’s comfortable with and what parts he’s not comfortable with.  They asked him about his legal documents and his name change and his gender marker.  They asked, “Who is your biggest supporter?” and “Do you have a best friend?” They asked him about his goals and when we finally got to talking about testosterone, I already knew that they were going to be able to help us.  

When I asked a question about fertility, the answer was accurate and comprehensive and corresponded to what I had already read.  The doctor did, in fact, share that we don’t have a lot of options.  But then she talked about current research and some potential future advances and she was knowledgeable and honest and she was able to speak from actual experience with actual patients.  

She asked questions about our current care; talked with us about the bone scans we had been receiving and really explained their purpose.  She asked Lee how often he had been taking his calcium and vitamin D, and when he timdily responded, “Not EVERY day,” she pressed him further. “So, how often do you think you’re actually taking it?”  He responded, “Like, once or twice a week?”  

I think Lee and I both braced ourselves for the lecture on the importance of taking these vitamins. Instead, she looked at him wide-eyed, tilted her head just a bit, and proclaimed, “That’s LAME, dude.”  It was perfect.  She made her point.  She connected with him and also let him know that he needed to step it up.  She didn’t blame or lecture.  And then she told us about a concentrated pill that he could take once a week.  Within minutes, she had placed the order with our pharmacy at home. Problem solved.   

As we talked, the doctor and the social worker both curled their feet up under their bodies and leaned in, as if we were chatting in my living room.  They never rushed us, and they took the time to wait for our answers. When Lee wasn’t sure how to respond to a question, they gave him options.  They were patient, and kind, and obviously aware of the myriad emotions that we were facing.  

Lee expressed concern about his height, and about how his pets might react to the body changes that testosterone would produce.  Instead of glossing over his concerns, the team probed further, showed him graphs and charts and made reasonable predictions about his future stature. Then they listened as he shared his own research about animal’s reactions to testosterone.  When the doctor thoughtfully replied, “You probably know more about this than I do,” Lee beamed and I felt the relief that accompanies the belief that a person is willing to admit what they don’t know. 

At one point, they proposed talking to just Lee, and asked if he wanted me to step out for a minute. He looked at me and smiled. “I don’t think that’s necessary,” Lee responded.  They asked the same of me. It was powerful to have medical professionals acknowledge that I, as a parent, might have emotions and concerns and fears that I did not want to express in front of my child.  What I would have given to have that chance three years ago! 

And initially, I said, “Sure.  If Lee wants to go sit in the waiting room with his siblings, we can just finish up.” I thought I was giving him a pass; a chance to leave a few minutes early.  He wasn’t going to argue with me; he started to gather his coat.  But I saw a flicker of concern in his eyes- What did I want to say to them that I couldn’t say in front of him?  And so I stopped him.  I looked into his eyes, and I said, “You don’t have to leave.  No secrets.  I don’t have anything to say that you can’t hear.  Would you rather stay?”  Relief flooded his face and he nodded and sat back down.  

We talked through the next steps and options.  I asked logistical questions and insurance questions and expressed my thanks.  Lee did the same.  His whole demeanor was different here, in this context where he felt supported and understood.

Over dinner that night, we talked as a family. And we decided that we’re ready to make a switch. Lee is eager to begin his medical transition, and we’ve finally found the support we need to support him through it. 

When we told Lee that we were going to change providers and that he was going to start on testosterone, I swear he stopped breathing for a moment.  His face lit up and his eyes filled with tears and he choked out a joyful, “Thank you.”  Until that moment, I hadn’t realized how much we both needed this.  

This kid still sometimes lets me tuck him in at night.  In the darkness, we have some of our most powerful conversations.  And that night, he said something strange.  “Mom, you’re like a hipporoceros.”  At first, it sounded like a jab at my weight, but I know my kid, so I asked more.  “What do you mean?”

“Well, obviously, it’s like a cross between a hippo and a rhinoceros.  It’s the fiercest animal.  And it protects its young.”  I fought back tears as he continued.  “Mom, I know I sometimes tell you to stop, but I’m glad you protect me fiercely.  If it wasn’t for you, we wouldn’t have found these great new doctors.  Thanks. You’re aggressive like a hipporoceros. And that’s a good thing.”  

And for the first time in ages, he let me rub his back until he fell asleep.  

Lee celebrated his thirteenth birthday this week.  He’s officially a teenager, and we were prepared to make it a great day.  We woke him up (as is our tradition) with the whole family at 6am, before the preparations began for work and school. Bea presented the balloon, and Cal carried the blueberry muffin (Lee’s favorite) with a carefully placed candle in it. Mom and Dad had the gift and the card, and we all sang (some of us off-key) at the top of our lungs.  

His smile lit up his basement room.  This kid. This kid is my heart.  

And we sent him off to school.  

At the end of a long day, we gathered back together at the dining room table over a taco dinner (birthday boy’s request, of course).  Sometimes, it’s like pulling teeth to get these kids to talk about their day.  Some days, we have to ask a million questions to get any info.  But today was not that kind of day.  There was a lot of talking and laughing and joking, and eventually, Lee told a story. 

If you know this kid, you know that he tries not to take anything too seriously.  So even if something is tough, or emotional, or upsetting, he’ll probably make a joke out of it.  

And when he told us what happened, he tried to share it lightly.  Like it was no big deal.  He smiled through the retelling.  But when you really love someone, you can tell when the smile doesn’t reach their eyes. His eyes held a question mark. His eyes showed the sadness and the fear that he wasn’t ready to show on his face, and it was almost as if he were asking permission to be upset.  

At his school, they announce birthdays over the loudspeaker in the morning.  You know where this is headed.  The school that has supported him and created a loving, affirming, safe environment…. They dead-named him over the loudspeaker.  

In the transgender community, the names that people no longer use are referred to as ‘dead names.’ It’s powerful language.  Shocking, even.  Most of us mama bears hate the term.  We hate to associate the word ‘dead’ with our children.  Especially since we know the statistics about suicide rates for kids like ours.  We have friends whose children are no longer with us, and we know that the unbearable grief of a dead child is not to be referenced lightly. 

But the term was not coined by mama bears.  It was coined by transgender people who have borne the burden of bigotry and hate. And the term is intentionally harsh. Because the reality is harsh.    ‘Dead-naming’ someone is one of the most pervasive ways that anti-trans groups demean and dehumanize transgender people. Dead-naming disregards the experience and denies the existence of trans people. Dead-naming triggers dysphoria and publicly exposes a person’s transgender status without their consent.  

Now I’m not talking about mistakes early in transition.  I’m not talking about using the wrong name and the wrong pronouns by accident. Those are mistakes.  You apologize and move on.  But once a person has been living as their authentic self for a period of time, it becomes apparent that using the wrong name is an intentional choice.

A name change is a big deal. You petition the court.  You sit in the waiting room at the Social Security office. You present the supporting documents to anyone who has ever had record of your child’s name.   Doctors.  Dentists. Insurance companies. Clubs. Activities.  Camps.   And obviously, the school. 

The staff at Lee’s school assured me, early in his transition (even before the legal name change), that any documents containing his birth name were in a locked file cabinet in the principal’s office.  They had updated the computer system and the state testing database and the rosters. That name shouldn’t be anywhere.  

Early in his transition, there was a mistake.  It happened once, with a substitute teacher.  The substitute called the wrong name.  It was frustrating and upsetting, but it didn’t out him because most kids already knew.  The teacher was working off an old list that had been printed and not updated.  These things happen.  

But three years later, in a new school, with a database that was supposedly updated, I can’t imagine the scenario where his dead-name appeared on a list of birthdays. Somebody needs to explain it to me. 

The thing is, this kid is OUT and PROUD.  He has spoken to conferences and youth groups and his entire church congregation about his experience.  His favorite tee shirt reads, “Nobody Knows I’m Trans.”  He recently shared with his English class, as part of a presentation about a book he read.  This kid is incredibly brave.  But every time he chooses to share, he does so on his own terms.  Each time, he carefully considers the audience.  He gauges the risk, mentally tallying the supporters, the unknowns, and the likely critics in the crowd.  Each time he chooses to come out to a new group of people, our bedtime conversations are fraught with anxiety and what-ifs.   Each time, when he choses to share, it is an act of courage.  

The choice to share is his, and his alone.  It is his burden.  

So perhaps it seems like I’m overreacting.  I’m sure it was just a mistake.  But that mistake robbed my child of his sense of control.  It took away his agency and violated his trust in the adults around him. 

There were no dire consequences.  He got a lot of questions about his name and his transition.  The kids who knew were explaining things to the kids who didn’t. Lee was the subject of a lot of conversations, but that is all.  Middle school is tough.  In reality, I’m glad this happened to MY kid.  This happened to my open, proud, confident kid.  And it shook him.  

Imagine if it had happened to a kid who was less confident?  Who wasn’t out?  Who was simply trying to live his life as his true self and didn’t want to share his story with the world?  Imagine if it had happened to a child who was on the brink of becoming another suicide statistic?  

So this mama bear has a meeting coming up. I’ll start calmly.  Unless and until it’s dismissed as a minor transgression.  It’s easy to see things as minor when you have the luxury of feeling safe in your own skin.  But so many of our kids don’t have that luxury.  So there may be tears.  There may be shouting.  But I will not leave that school until I am convinced that they understand how important it is to get this right.  

 This is about protecting and affirming our kids.  This is about protecting and affirming MY kid.  And this kid is my heart.    

 

My left eye has been twitching for nearly a week.  Everything I’ve read tells me it’s nothing to worry about.  It’ll probably stop when I get more sleep and reduce my stress levels and quit drinking caffeine and alcohol.

Just call me Twitchy, because this looks like a long-term condition.

But seriously, I’m convinced at least some of the problem is all of my anxiety over question 3. Question 3 is on the ballot because a group of ‘concerned citizens’ believe that transgender people are a threat in public restrooms.

If you live in Massachusetts and are even considering voting no on question 3, please, PLEASE, PLEASE talk to me about it.  Talk to me so I can explain how this is about so much more than bathrooms.  I need you to know that a NO vote on 3 means that:

– hospital employees could refuse to treat my son because they don’t agree with who he is.  And we would have no recourse.

– restaurant owners could ask him to leave because they don’t like the looks of him and we would have to accept that.  Because, umm… religious liberty?  Seriously?

– my son could be asked to leave or refused service in ANY PUBLIC PLACE and, legally speaking, we would be out of luck.

And, if the opposition wants to make it about bathrooms, then let’s talk about the freaking bathrooms.

My 8 year old used to stand outside the restrooms in his elementary school, trying to inconspicuously wait until nobody was in there.  Because he was still using the girls room but he dressed like a boy and little girls would question him.  If somebody walked in while he was in there, he hid in the stall until they left.  It took him like half an hour to pee.

I was with him once, before he came out to me.  He was wearing boy’s clothes and sporting a sort of androgynous haircut and he stood outside the bathrooms at our open and affirming church and said, “I don’t want to go in there.”  I didn’t get it.  I insensitively dragged him into the ladies room with me, insisting that his mom was with him and he was just washing his hands and nobody was going to bother him. I was wrong.  A teenaged girl told him that the boys’ room was down the hall. My heart cracked into pieces.

NOBODY is more at risk in a public restroom than transgender people. Every time we go to a new place, my son takes his brother with him to check out the bathrooms and make sure that they’re safe.  Bathrooms are fraught.  And for my little boy?  If some transphobic moron decides that he doesn’t belong in the men’s room?  Who do you think is vulnerable in that situation?

Anybody who is worried about ‘a man in a dress’ or some other nonsense obviously doesn’t know any transgender people.  Or at least doesn’t KNOW that they know transgender people.  Can we please focus on protecting people who ACTUALLY experience harassment?

Instead of supporting the legislation that’s ALREADY in place to protect a vulnerable population, we’re proposing to repeal it because somebody might be uncomfortable?

The idea that you deserve to be comfortable all the time is, in itself, an indicator of privilege.  If you can move through your life without being judged by the color of your skin or the size of your body or your country of origin, that’s a privilege.  If you can walk through a parking lot without carrying your keys as a weapon or walk through a store without being followed by security or enter a public restroom without fear of harassment or assault, then you already experience a level of comfort that is out of reach for many people.

Folks, please.  Don’t be gullible.  Don’t allow fear mongering campaign ads to lead you to place the ‘comfort’ of some over the basic rights of others.

And once we settle this thing?  Once we all vote YES on 3, and move on to fighting for human rights at a national level?

Maybe then my eye will stop twitching.  But I’m not holding my breath.

 

 

 

Lee transitioned just about three years ago.  We legally changed his name about a year and a half ago.  But the legal name change was just a court document.  Until that court document was presented to the social security office, most official documents (think bank statements and insurance information) remained under the old name.  This wasn’t a problem in our everyday life.  The schools had changed everything.  Our usual doctors and dentists were able to note their files. Even our pharmacist changed the name in his system.

But on the rare occasion when we had to get blood drawn or see an unfamiliar doctor, I had to call ahead, or whisper to the receptionist, and plead that they PLEASE NOT CALL that name.

Nevertheless, it happened. And every time it did, my child’s eyes widened and his shoulders dropped and he looked at me with pain in his eyes as if to say, “How could you let this happen AGAIN?”

And then, my son would compose himself and lift himself out of his waiting room chair and defiantly walk up to a surprised-looking receptionist or nurse and say, “I prefer Lee.”

I honestly don’t know why it took me so long to get to the Social Security office.  I thought I just didn’t want to sit in that waiting room forever.  But maybe it was a bit deeper than that, and I was in denial.

Today we went.  We gathered our documents and stopped for breakfast and entered the address into the GPS.

When we walked in, we were asked to check in at a kiosk. For about 45 minutes, we sat anxiously on plastic government chairs in a waiting room full of other anxious people in plastic government chairs.  I had forgotten my book, so I did a little people-watching.  An elderly woman had apparently been waiting for some time, and she walked up to the window as someone else left.  It wasn’t her turn.  She hadn’t been called.  A security guard walked over to check in with her, and he kindly and patiently explained that she needed a number.  Even as she insisted she had one, but couldn’t find it, he checked in with the other people in the waiting room.  Does somebody have number 84?  85? As people raised their numbers, he used a little humor, took the paperwork that the woman handed him, and walked over to the kiosk himself.  He got her a number, and handed it to her with a kind smile.  He wasn’t rude or condescending.  He wasn’t impatient.  He went above and beyond to make sure that she was all set before he went back to his post.

It restored my faith a little.  My previous experience with government offices left much to be desired, and watching this interaction full of faith and compassion left me feeling hopeful.

We continued to wait. We played word games and had whispered conversations.  We played on our phones and doubled checked our documents.  And then it was our turn.

We walked up to the counter. There were two chairs in front of a plastic window with a small slit at the bottom for passing papers back and forth. The woman on the other side of the window was older, with long white hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She wore a green shirt and a layered necklace with white and gold beads.  Her face was impassive.  She wasn’t particularly friendly, but she also wasn’t rude.  She smiled one small smile in greeting, and accepted the paperwork I passed under the plexiglass.  I explained that we needed a new social security card because of a name change.  She nodded, conveying that this was something she could take care of.  And then she asked, “What is the reason for the name change?”

I’m not sure why I wasn’t prepared to answer this question.  I hesitated.  In all the official documents, the indicated reason was “common usage,” and as I mentally reached for this phrase, she noted my hesitation.

Then things began to happen in slow motion.  She looked at me first, trying to determine the reason for the pause.  Not noting any apparent cause, she glanced at my child sitting next to me.  Her eyebrows raised.  Her mouth opened ever so slightly.  Then her brow furrowed and she glanced down at the paperwork and back up to me.  I opened my mouth to answer and she quietly interrupted me by saying, “You’re just changing it.”  Definitively.  With a slight shrug.

I felt as if I had watched her surprise and her judgement move across her face and then I watched her wave it away and choose professionalism and compassion.

It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how vulnerable we were.  I had heard horror stories, of course, of name-change petitions denied. But we live in progressive Massachusetts.  We didn’t even have to appear before a judge. We submitted our documents and the courts supported our right to make this decision for our child.

I hadn’t considered that we would still be vulnerable to a clerk at the Social Security Office.  I hadn’t realized the power she would have in that moment.  She could have embarrassed us.  She could have pushed for answers to uncomfortable questions.  She could have scrutinized our documentation, searching for reasons to deny our request. She could have outed my child to everyone in that office.  She could have cited ‘religious objection’ and refused to serve us.

And for a brief moment, I felt the weight of my own privilege.  I had never felt this way.  I had never been afraid that a stranger had the power to publicly embarrass me or judge my choices.  I had never understood what it might mean to have someone invalidate your existence. And the weight of that was multiplied by the fact that it wasn’t MY selfhood at risk.  It was my child’s.

I sat there, focusing on the small beads in her necklace that wasn’t falling quite straight.  I tried not to stare at her as she typed, but I noted each time that her eyebrows furrowed, trying to determine what box to check or what reason to cite in her database.  She slowly copied information from our paperwork into her computer, and her face remained mostly impassive.

I’m not sure if I had been hoping for something unrealistic.  We’ve had so much support in Lee’s transition that I honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if we had a clerk who said, “Congratulations,” or “You’re so brave,” or even just smiled encouragingly.  In hindsight, I think I must have been expecting something like that.

But in the absence of any encouragement or connection, I began to question the decision to bring him at all.  What if this woman said something hurtful?  What if she outed my son?  What if? What if?

I clenched my hands, as if in prayer.  I glanced at my child, happily playing a game on his phone, oblivious to the tension around him.  I tried to breathe slowly and calmly.  I asked God to please let us make it through this interaction without causing pain to this brave, sweet, amazing kid.

The clerk began to pass papers back to me, one at a time.  First the birth certificate.  Then the name change order.  She quietly said, “I just need to get you a receipt.”  She stood up and walked to the back of the office, shuffled some papers, and returned with the same impassive look on her face.  She handed me the receipt and said, “All set.”

“That’s it?” I asked.

“Yes.  You should get your new card in the mail in seven to ten days.  If you don’t receive it by then, you can call this number.”  She circled the information on the receipt.

I didn’t realize I had been holding my breath, and as I finally released it, a single tear escaped my left eye.  I quickly brushed it away, but she noticed.

My voice hitched as I said “Thank you.”  I gathered our papers and hurried away from the desk.  Lee glanced at me.

“Are you crying, Mom?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

We crossed the threshold into the summer sun and I hugged him fiercely.

“Because nobody will ever call you the wrong name again.”

“So they’re happy tears?”

“Yes, baby.  They’re happy tears.”

 

 

 

 

I’ve been a part of a lot of parent support groups.  The ones for parents of transgender children always wind up talking about photos.

With all that we have going on; all the dangers and discrimination that our kids face; all the advocacy and human rights campaigns, the bullying, the fear-mongering, and the legal battles, you’d think we wouldn’t have time to worry about the little things.

But we do.  We worry about the big things AND the little things. We talk about the safety of chest-binding and recommend prosthetics and specialized clothing products.  We discuss pros and cons of medications and surgery and therapies and the details of how to navigate insurance claims. We talk about suicide attempts and mental health and family rejection.  We talk about so many things….

But we also, inevitably, wind up talking about old photographs.

I went to my first parent support meeting less than two weeks after I found out that my child was trans. Somebody brought up old pictures… but I hadn’t even thought about photos yet.  I couldn’t understand what the big deal was about PICTURES… I was still trying to wrap my mind around what it even meant to be transgender.  I was learning a whole new vocabulary.  Phrases like ‘gender dysphoria’ and ‘sex assigned at birth’ were entering my vernacular and I still wasn’t sure how to speak this language where I referred to my child as ‘he.’  I was in a state of shock, feeling curious and numb at the same time; feeling profound love layered on top of profound fear, and knowing that it was my JOB; no, it was my DUTY to press through the discomfort for the sake of my child.

I sat through that first conversation, half-listening to a mother’s grief, but not really understanding why it mattered so much.

Fast – forward three months. The new name was becoming more natural. My pronouns were right more than half the time, and my mistakes were more generalized; I misgendered the dog and my sister and my best friend; not just my son.  It still felt disingenuous to tell strangers I had “four sons” instead of “three sons and a daughter,” but I was beginning to understand I was holding something sacred, and that was more important than what any stranger believed.

And then pictures began to disappear off the shelves in my house.  Small 3x5s and 5x7s, missing.  I didn’t connect the dots until I found them, stashed under my child’s bed. These photos… these memories. They brought me such joy!  Look at those pigtails and smiles and frilly little skirts.  This apple-picking photo is one of my favorites.  And here they are, hidden in the dark.  I cried, alone on his bedroom floor.

I composed myself and knew that I couldn’t bring that grief into my conversation with my son.  So later, with feigned, casual indifference, I asked, “Hey.  I found a bunch of pictures under your bed. What do you think we should do with those?” I was terrified that he would want to destroy them or get rid of them.  He had already asked me to donate the keepsake dresses; from his baptism and his first birthday and his first Christmas. I secretly tucked them in the back of my closet, because I couldn’t bring myself to give them away.

“I guess I’m not sure.” He replied. “I mean, I know they’re important to you.  But I don’t really want them on the shelves.  Maybe we could make an album?”  This kid was so insightful; at the tender age of 9, he was still weighing my needs against his own.  I cried again, but this time the tears came from a combination of relief and pride. We made an album.  We reminisced together as we filled a book with his old ‘girl’ photos and replaced our framed photos with gender-neutral or masculine images.

But there was one photo I couldn’t let go.  It was the only professional photo I had of our whole family.  I left that one on the wall in its frame, not realizing the impact of that one picture.

Shortly after that, we had a sticky childcare situation.  We asked for help from friends and got a new sitter to come sit with the kids for an hour or two.  It was a frantic, emergency sort of situation, and while she came highly recommended, I didn’t know this woman at all.   We were short on time and pressed for help, and I chose not to disclose my child’s gender transition to this stranger who would likely only be part of our lives for an hour or two.

When I came home later that afternoon, my child was sullen.  He was struggling with something, and I worried that I had made a poor choice by leaving him with a stranger.  I probed a bit, asking about the sitter.  “How was she?”  “Did you have fun?”  “Did you get in trouble?”  I peppered him with questions.  He told me that she was fine, that they did, in fact, have fun, and that nobody got in trouble.

“So, honey… what’s wrong?”

He looked at me, with his huge brown eyes and paused.  I knew this look.  This look meant he needed to say something that he thought might hurt me.  This look meant he was measuring his words and weighing his emotions.  He took a deep breath and whispered, “She asked about the little girl in the picture.”

My heart broke wide open. I had unintentionally outed my son; embarrassed him and set him up to share this highly personal detail with a total stranger all on his own.  He was nine years old, and I had failed to protect him.

I hugged him and I cried with him and I apologized and we took that damned picture down.  It took that moment for me to realize how selfish I had been.  All along, I thought I was being supportive.  But that one photo… that one relic that I thought to be so important… it hurt my child more than I had ever imagined possible.

So now, when parents in support groups talk about photos, I don’t tune out.  I lean in and I feel their pain and I hear their grief and I gently share my story.

For me, at first, those photos held weight; they felt important.  Now, I look at them differently.  What’s important is my child.  His happiness, his wholeness, his peace.  Those photos are just pieces of paper.  Putting them away doesn’t negate the memories.  It doesn’t eliminate the past or diminish the love.  Putting those photos away was an act of love.  It was a release for both of us.

And in the end, it felt good.