Being an Ally

I was born in 1965 and when I was 12 and living in Portsmouth New Hampshire, the worst insult you could give or get was to be called a ‘fag’ or ‘gay’, which meant a homosexual, a deviant, something gross and somebody nobody would want. I never used that word on others, and hoped to keep low enough on the social radar that it didn’t get lobbed at me. It just seemed mean because I guess from an early age I believed that homosexuality wasn’t a choice, like curly hair, buck teeth or a big nose – it was probably something you were born with.

At age 17, working for the third year now for a family run movie theater in Auburn Maine, I was crushed to hear my much admired boss, a huge middle-aged man at over 400 pounds, lament that his size, and therefore anonymity, kept him from joining his buddies in their nightly baseball-bat armed cruise of the downtown streets of Lewiston Maine in search of ‘niggers and faggots not smart enough to be indoors by dark’. That was 1983, which, in Maine, was not so different from 1951, and though I kept my mouth shut about his comment and my new and sad opinion of him, I vowed to be the opposite of that ignorance and hatred in my own life, which I determined then and there, would be well outside of Maine.

As a newly married graduate student in Connecticut in the 1990’s, I helped raise a poor 12 year old boy from Cornwall Bridge who turned out to be my first ‘gay’ family member (Wayde is still family). By the year 2000 when I was busy raising my own kids, I made damn sure that they saw and were comfortable with the idea of homosexuality, with same sex relationships, with my gay friends, with gay-positive movies and TV, in discussions about current laws and religious discriminations. As a parent, I didn’t tolerate any insults that involved sex, race or orientation. I encouraged their questions, their thoughts, even to express their biases and explore them, where and how they got them. So I was surprised when, two years ago, my oldest kid, Isabelle, who was so obviously in emotional pain for weeks finally broke down and told me she was gay. She said it as if expecting to be hit, or yelled at, or thrown out. I know I didn’t foster that in my home, but the message from society, ever-present and blunt though often silent, was that it was absolutely NOT OK to be like that. That was, if you remember, the spring of highly publicized gay bullying/homicide/suicide stories from across the country.

I realized that my kids learn about racial discrimination by studying the civil war and civil rights movements, they learn about sexual discrimination with the suffragist movement and middle eastern cultures. They learn about hate crimes by studying WWII and Hitler. But not many schools point out the current discrimination of LGBTQ. There are anti-bullying rules and codes, but that’s not the same as pointing out discrimination and teaching acceptance. 

Of course I embraced the news, ready to run forward boldly proclaiming my support, only to find the depth of my naiivete in understanding and being welcoming to the entire spectrum of the LGBTQ community. Fast forward two years and my oldest kid, once Isabelle, now Van, now male-identified, has educated me enormously about the transgender experience, about the youth transgender experience. And Rose, my youngest, has let me know that she really, really, REALLY doesn’t like boys. At least not that way. At 11 some would say she is too young to know that. I do believe she knows, but the point is, at 11 I was scared witless at the idea of being called ‘gay’ and my kid, at 11, can tell me matter-of-factly, that that is who she is. Something inside me just says “Wow. The world can change.”

As a lifelong ally, I am hoping to help establish a ‘new normal’. A normal where self-identity, self-expression and who you love is something each of us decides for ourselves. I am hoping my kids carry this idea of a ‘new normal’ within them, that they carry it forward as members and as allies to their families and friends as they grow and learn and love and live their rich lives.

Modern Major General

I am the very model of a modern Major-General,

I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral,

I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical

From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical;^a

I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical,

I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical,

About binomial theorem I'm teeming with a lot o' news,

With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse.

I'm very good at integral and differential calculus;

I know the scientific names of beings animalculous:

In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,

I am the very model of a modern Major-General.

I know our mythic history, King Arthur's and Sir Caradoc's;

I answer hard acrostics, I've a pretty taste for paradox,

I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus,

In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous;

I can tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies,

I know the croaking chorus from The Frogs of Aristophanes!

Then I can hum a fugue of which I've heard the music's din afore,

And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore.

Then I can write a washing bill in Babylonic cuneiform,

And tell you ev'ry detail of Caractacus's uniform:

In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,

I am the very model of a modern Major-General.

In fact, when I know what is meant by "mamelon" and "ravelin",

When I can tell at sight a Mauser rifle from a Javelin,

When such affairs as sorties and surprises I'm more wary at,

And when I know precisely what is meant by "commissariat",

When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern gunnery,

When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery –

In short, when I've a smattering of elemental strategy –

You'll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee.

For my military knowledge, though I'm plucky and adventury,

Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century;

But still, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral,

I am the very model of a modern Major-General.

No Struggle, No Mourning - I Celebrate!

I have a transgender child. Born Isabelle, now Van. It is something I accept. Something it didn’t take much struggle to accept. It was not obvious or evident that my girl child identified as a boy child throughout their 16 years of life. But it was evident that the ideas of a traditional future most kids hold were rejected early on. Isabelle did not like dolls, not baby dolls,  not Barbie dolls. Not guns or trucks either. Not sports of any kind. Magical fairy tale world items yes – Dorothy ruby red slippers. And anything that encouraged expression – the Blue’s Clues Notebook to draw in  was the must-have-or-else-tears comfort item at age 3. Clothes were always costumes. Later, make-up was actually the mask. When make-up arrived, we were already in deep water, already rejecting much of the traditional world deeply ingrained at school.

Middle school, when most kids were pairing off into best friends and cliques, Isabelle was pulling away, isolating herself, unable to focus on schoolwork. Her period came at 12 and with it deep dark moods. Being my firstborn, I accepted the behavior changes as the normal angst of puberty, our shouting matches over schoolwork and bedroom cleanliness as the rite of passage of parent-child relationships. The request to dye her hair, that would not be dismissed with charges of ‘superficial’, slid quickly from an acceptable auburn to a fire engine red to a partial shaved head to a rainbow mohawk. All the while the grades and overall ability to communicate to the rest of us slipping, depression becoming evident, a total denial of a future worth changing any of these behaviors for.

Near the end of 8^th grade there was an admission of being gay. It was a misery filled loathing admission, so anxiety laden with the expectation of rejection, hatred, perhaps even harm. Not that we, as parents had ever conveyed a sense of intolerance, but because the national news was suddenly flooded with stories of homophobic bullying/harassment/homicide/suicide of outed teens across the nation. Fear drove the admission. The need for even the slimmest chance that we would say “There, there. No need to worry. You are safe with us.” We sent that message. And yet, as a parent, you worry. But still we sent it as strongly as we could. And yet, all our support, our self education, acceptance of the declared lesbianism – it didn’t alleviate the anxiety all that much. In retrospect, I can see that the half truth was as far as Van was willing to go as a first step.

In the testing of us as potential allies that ensued, in terms of the appearances and behaviors that we were willing to accept from Van, I passed and Dad failed. I never said “I miss the blonde haired blue eyed daughter I once had.” I never said “You can’t go out of the house like that. People will think you are weird. (Go wash off that beard.)” I never said “You have to because I am your parent and you have to listen to me. You are not an adult yet. You cannot make your own decisions yet.” These are not abnormal things for a parent to say to a normal kid having normal teen issues. But these are dangerous things to say to a kid that is so clearly struggling with something that is not yet known, not yet evident, to a kid so clearly in pain, daily intense social pain – withdrawing from school, isolating from friends. I did not agree that this was a kid desperately crying out for limits to be imposed. There was intense internal exploration going on, as I could tell from the frenetic cyber-activity and the randomness of the internet page history. Some of it was disturbing – such outpouring of rage against abusers on finding an anonymous picture blog allowing those raped and molested to speak out. My heart raced and pounded at the thought that this was the dark secret behind the withdrawn child we lived with. Who would have hurt our kid? When? How? Was my neglect responsible? Its ironic that I came to see that this fierce anger at injustice Van has as a true glimpse at his core personality, quite separate and distinct from the personal identity journey. Thank goodness and hurray! I took some comfort that good things were happening at the same time, good normal teen explorations of their feelings about the greater world we all live in. Screw the prom dress, my kid bristled at abuse, intolerance and racism! This kid had the big things right, this kid needed to be listened to, this kid needed to lead the way for us. And Van has.

From the baby steps of trusting in a great therapist and choosing a new name, to the big step of coming out to me and requesting gender therapy, sharing his growing knowledge of the terminology, stories, and resources, getting us educated on potential treatments, to the giant steps of dressing as he identifies and planning for a near term future of identifying as male at home and school. My kid Van is so serious and focused and concerned about every detail of this process, that the only heartbreaking regret I have is that we only get rare infrequent glimpses of the carefree silly joy of youth that his brother and sister still bask in. Because transgender is about identity, not sexuality, it’s a process that can start well before 18. Transgender children have to throw off the roles they were handed at birth to assert who they are, rules that are reinforced at every restroom, locker room, doctor’s form, continuously from the onset of puberty. To step outside that without having any idea of what exists beyond it, it takes a strength beyond what we expect from our kids at any age. It is a strength many adults never achieve.  I tell Van as often as possible, that I am blown away by the strength of his conviction. That I know it will see him through this confirmation of his inner identity, even if he cannot yet feel it, believe it, or see it as can I.

I firmly believe there is no right way for any of us to get anywhere in life. There are a multitude of ways, some longer, some shorter, some harder, some easier. My role as a parent is to support my child in finding a way to live happily in this world, with the rest of us, as they truly are. But they decide who that is and what happiness means to them, not me. I learn as much from them as they ever could from me and so long as I don’t forget that, I can trust that I am listening close enough to them to be able to help them find their way. All of my experience, though great and varied, cannot tell them who they are or what should make them happy. But if I am living a true life, happy being myself, not afraid to be, do or say what is inside of me, to express the full spectrum of emotions – that’s the only way I know to teach them about life. Love, respect, acceptance, and most of all compassion – of self and others – that’s all that truly matters. That is my parenting creedo. That is why I have not struggled at all with Van being transgender. And for Van to have the courage to step forward with that self knowledge and understanding at this young age – it deserves nothing less than my full support. Nothing less. No doubt. No apologies. Because I love my kid, who has always been the same kid on the inside. My beautiful Van.

Telling Mom

I was not that nervous when, following my oldest child, I entered the therapist’s office for the session I was specifically asked to attend to discuss some of what Van was experiencing. Van. I was still getting used to that, getting used to trying to use that when calling to her from another room. Van, short for Nirvana, a spiritual bodiless state of perfection. Her chosen name, she told me, since Isabelle never felt comfortable to her. Isabelle stumbled – wait, I mean Van stumbled through her pronouncement while I sat there in a consciously open and receptive pose, with a warm loving smile. I took the news on auto-pilot. “Okay, sure. I’m fine with that. I’m not sure what it all means yet, but I can’t see that it would be a problem in any way. … You’re my child and I love you no matter what you are. That’s all that really matters.” Nervous smiles from Van, approving ones from her therapist. I was handed pamphlets and a book on understanding my teen and business cards for therapists in New Haven specializing in this situation. I kept trying to process the information. I knew I wouldn’t ultimately have any negative thoughts or feelings, but I could feel a sense of loss that would require grieving. There was just nothing to attach it to as of yet. Nothing had changed except the knowledge of what was to come. And what was to cease. On the positive side, Van was greatly relieved and more open and talkative than she had been in months.

The last of my chemo treatments, the frantic assignment push at the end of her freshman year, the new prescription for Concerta, an ADD medicine Van requested to be allowed to try, the 4^th grad and 6^th grade stepping up ceremonies and the pre-op appointments for my next surgery all conspired to keep me from reading the 65 page mini-book on understanding my teen until almost three weeks later. A time during which the news had made not one iota of difference in the day to day happenings. When there was finally time to brush up on this new horizon before us, I felt already qualified to navigate the social and emotional issues, to advocate on her behalf in the school system. I was already composing letters to family and friends explaining the change gently but firmly. It wasn’t until I got to the chapter on the process that I felt the hitch, specifically the FTM sequence. My heart froze up at the simple term “Top Surgery”. It put a crack in my acceptance and very quickly shattered my grief all around me.

Page 63 of Understanding Your Transgendered Teen, the section on FTM, female to male transitioning. This chapter put into a clearer context the chest binder we special ordered from Malaysia and the goatee she often sketched on her mouth and jaw with eyebrow pencil in the privacy of our home. These things I could accept as explorations of her identity. It was more than a year and a half since her tortured admission that she was gay, so these behaviors seemed, well… seemed in line with a “butch” identity. Not that Isabelle – I mean Van, had ever allowed herself to get within a mile of a personal romantic relationship. Though I accepted her stated preference, it was all still theoretical.

Over the course of the next year she modified her self-identity from gay to gender queer. “Google it” she suggested, if I wanted to understand her better. Gender queer is explained by Google as someone who prefers at times to be female in appearance and at other times to be male in appearance. It seemed the latest fad in teen rejection of the binary choices often laid out before them, like the rush to embrace term bisexual as opposed to heterosexual or homosexual when a new sexual revolution was underway, the AIDS goes public years in the 90’s. I myself helped her shop for a suitable tux ensemble rather than a prom dress for the homecoming dance, her first at high school. I had accepted it all without judgment or criticism or even just the reluctance to let go of the daughter I thought I might have that her father so often burdened her with.

But top surgery, surgical removal of breast tissue that causes  gender dysphoria, an emotionally painful schism between what my child felt she was and how she was seen by the rest of the world. Well, hadn’t I just been through that?

 It all began around then, I think to myself, around the time she first started menstruating. She was nearing thirteen. The start of December. The end of the second quarter in 7^th grade, just 

As they approach their teens, you know that their hormones will lead them around by the nose, or drag them, kicking and screaming, forward. So yes, you expect  the pulling away, the with-holding of intimate personal information, the crankiness. But not the unbridled anger alternating with self-isolation from me and the rest of the family that Isabelle fell into.

At ten she was outgoing, and had lots of friends. When she was with them she was crazy with laughter and inane antics. But on her 10^th birthday, she asked me an odd thing. She asked if she could be ten twice, since in most of the chapter books she was reading, bad things happened in your 11^th year. She insisted on being 10, 10 again and then 12. When she did turn 11, it was as if she spent the year holding her breath. She joined in on the laughter only after she was sure it was safe, and stopped laughing before the others, nervously looking around. I chalked it up to self-consciousness creeping in.

School was becoming increasingly difficult for her. She was as disorganized as she had ever been, but she was also unfocused, increasingly only physically present in the classroom, emotionally and mentally not listening to her teachers, not with the rest of her peers. Where was she? Where did her thoughts lead her, I wondered. Wherever it was, it seemed not a happy place.

The pressure of all that she was not, in the face of all the things she was expected to be – when she could verbalize her despair, eventually, two years later - it was that. She was not a 'she' at all. Imagine how stressful that would be. Everyday of your life since you realized the error that was made for you at birth.

For all of that, Van, my compassion for you flows.
Thank-you for believing in me enough to share it. For trusting in me enough to ask for help.
And my apology for all the time it took us to be ready for you.

- Mom

Dear Harry (Telling Dad)

For all the things we still share, you and I - the kids, the house, the cats, finances - we don't talk nearly enough. And there is a lot to talk about concerning Isabelle(Van). There is so much going on inside that kid, but what is in there only comes out when she feels safe to share.

Since last fall she has been exploring questions of identity and gender. The therapist in New Haven is helping her explore that and helping enormously with the ADHD and anxiety medicine balance. Since the start, Van has asked me to respect what and when she wants to share with others, including you, and it has seemed critical to her level of anxiety that I do respect that. Throughout (last fall to the present) I have continually encouraged her to share her thoughts with you, I have brought it up with the therapist and Van at the end of just about each meeting. Coming back from True Colors on Saturday I brought it up again. She said she wasn't ready. But I did push to ask if she would allow me to talk with you, to start the conversation. She said yes, which is why I am answering you directly, now, not vaguely. I apologize that I could not have been more direct from the start, as I wanted to be.

Van identifies as transgender, as a male born in a female body. The therapist in New Haven helps gender minorities (anything other than male biological&identified and female biological&identified) address their gender dysphoria (the psychological and emotional clash they feel because of the chasm between how they feel inside and how they are expected to act in society) and explore ways to align their internal identity with how they want to be perceived by others. Have you noticed that with the short hair and button down shirts, the facial piercings, crazy colored hair dyes, extreme makeup and clothes have disappeared? Van is feeling more comfortable expressing who she feels she is on the inside.

Her avoidance of you, and limited conversation, comes from being convinced that you won't accept her. Your comments about missing the daughter you thought you were going to have, about not accepting her piercings, or her hair styles and colors - these are all her weight of evidence that you won't accept who she feels she really is. It’s hard enough for her to accept who she really is, she hasn't felt strong enough to try and convince others.

To me, she's always been the same kid inside. And since I see no drugs or alcohol, no dangerous friends or habits, no self harming, a deep respect for the medications she is taking and a lot of responsibility for trying to get what she needs for herself - I go with her instincts for what she needs.

She asked for the therapist in New Haven. She has gotten tons of information on transgendered people and has begun to meet kids like herself. And her anxiety is less, her schoolwork is better, her extreme appearance is not so extreme, non-traditional maybe, but not extreme. Having even just a slice of acceptance outside of herself for who she feels she is seems to be helping greatly.

You and I should talk before you say much to Van directly on this since she is so sensitive about being questioned, challenged or judged or letting this news out in any way. Anytime this week that you want, except Thursday night, I'll make time for us to talk. I have some literature on transgender teens that was given to me by Pam that I can pass on to you and I can tell you what I've learned, what I think and how I feel about it. It takes some getting used to but it also makes a lot of sense to me.

Lets talk soon,
Shirley  

All of life is a journey

My dearest Van -

You were my first. My introduction to motherhood. My love at first sight and heart grown larger than imaginable. My first living babydoll. Those first nine months, in Ann Arbor Michigan and then in Branford Connecticut - it was mostly just me and you.

All the hopes and dreams I had for you - not a one has come undone by the path you are on. Know that.

They were these;

- that you would feel loved by me
- that you would understand I will do anything for you
- that you would know you can always turn to me, you can tell me anything, you can rely on me
- that if you were in trouble or hurt or in need, that you would call on me
- that you would know I respect you as an individual

I knew the rest you would make up as you go, as you needed to, with my blessing and my support.

My parenting philosophy, taken from the poet/philosopher Kahil Gibran;

On Children;

     Your children are not your children.
      They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
      They come through you but not from you,
      And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
      You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
      For they have their own thoughts.
      You may house their bodies but not their souls,
      For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
      You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
      For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
      You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
      The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
      Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
      For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.