an extraordinary machine
This entry might be a surprise. But it probably is not. “Surprise” is a frame I kept using when telling friends and family that our child is transitioning genders—changing his name, his pronouns, his outer shell—to better match who he knows himself to be. “I have some news,” I’d say. “This may come as a surprise,” I’d say. Over and over again, the response I got back was along the lines of “we figured” or “makes sense” or “not really all that surprised.”
For me, the word “transgender”—when I first heard it from my kid in 2015, was indeed a surprise. I could be dumb, or blind, or maybe I had been doing parenting “weird” for years. We never put limits on any sort of gender expression—you refuse all dresses as soon as you can speak in full sentences? Fine. Boys’ clothes only by kindergarten? Okay. Boys’ haircut by age 8? Not a problem. Maybe if we had been more insistent on You Are A Girl And Girls Do These Things, our kid would have found the word earlier. Maybe he would have had something to kick against. Who knows.
Puberty was full of unpleasantness. The world got smaller, the anxiety got worse. The coed, full-contact hockey team started insisting on segregated locker rooms. (Nonsensical. Opposite genders can body-check each other but not sit on the same bench all sweaty in their hockey pads?) Our once-confident child spoke up less and went outside less. We had terrible conversations that sometimes turned loud. There was a very gentle and vague therapist, who turned out to be so gentle and vague that nothing actually got discussed. (Bad.) There was (and is) a equally gentle but more efficient therapist, with actual gender-issue experience. (Terrific!)
I know I have a tendency to do Life Stuff under the cover of night and then KAPOW announce it on the internet as ALL DONE. A secret little back-and-forth with a publisher and KAPOW parts of my dumb blog are turned into an equally dumb book. All done! Nine months of secret paperwork and another nine of secret waiting, KAPOW we’re adopting this baby from China and leave in a week, photos when I get back. All done! I don’t want to give the impression that this has been simple or easy or unconsidered. There were some modified “stages of grief” after his announcement. Denial: not that he was transgender or that he was feeling what he was feeling, but does he really need to *do* anything about it? Anger: not at him, never at him, but at the unfairness of everything. Bargaining: not “pretend to be a girl, please” but “maybe we could delay this whole conversation for a year or two?” Depression: for sure, on everyone’s part—just because change is hard. Acceptance: always, always, of my baby. But acceptance of the situation, along with a real understanding of how, at a deep level, nothing has really changed, is such a relief.
(And the relief in the kid! If bigoted-jerk parents could really see that, the before and the after, they would not be bigoted jerks any more. Back to hobbies, talking to friends, sharing opinions. Back to saying “yes” to things.)
(Another way for the parent of a transgender teen to feel relief: fill out the intake form at a comprehensive gender clinic. Check “no” to question after question: has your child run away from home, attempted suicide, been a victim of violence, flunked out of school, been arrested, used drugs or alcohol, etc etc etc. Realize you have insurance and resources and have the time and the inclination to read and learn and get help and figure things out. Realize how incredibly lucky you are.)
Today in family court, we were successful in our petition for Aaron’s legal name change. (It suits him, and it also happens to be Nora backwards + a bonus vowel, which I admit does appeal to the poet in me.) We have been to family court once before, in September 2004, to do an Illinois “re-adoption” and get a Certificate of Foreign Birth (which now has to be amended, along with a million other pieces of identification—O Gender! O Paperwork!) I remember the judge asking, “Are you a good girl?” and Nora immediately responding “Noooo!” We all laughed about that, focusing the rejection of “good” in the judge’s question, but maybe we should have been focusing on “girl.” (Note: Before you email me, I am not seriously suggesting that my toddler was asserting gender in the courtroom at that time.) (But isn’t it a great story? Who would ruin such a great story with all these explanatory parentheticals?) (Me!)
No one in my life has actually been an asshole about this. I know you won’t be either. I have not watched any of the rebooted Twin Peaks, but my sister alerted me to this David Lynch moment. He has a message for anyone who feels like being an asshole:
And seriously, it’s good advice.
Anyway, since this is my diary and I’m sure he’ll get mentioned from time to time, I want to introduce you to Aaron Smartypants, beloved teenage son, guitarist, outdoorsman, woodworker, flannel enthusiast, gentleman and scholar; formerly of Chongqing, currently of Chicago, on course to be happy and comfortable in the entire world. Same kid. Different wrapper. We’re honored to love him.
—mimi smartypants, a mom for all seasons.