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 8th 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.
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