My Dad was the last to know.

I knew it would be hard for him. The most important responsibility our culture assigns its fathers is the transmission of masculinity to their sons, and so I worried that he would blame himself for my choice to drop the masculine mask I wore for so long. I worried that he would agonize over all the ways my transition might affect me adversely and wouldn’t be able to see how healthy and happy I was finally becoming. I worried that he would feel like he was losing a friend, and that he might never recover from his grief enough to give our new friendship a chance to begin.

I never worried, though, that my father would reject me. It’s hard to put my finger on precisely why. He just wasn’t that kind of person. Maybe my intuition was based in my experience of his love as absolutely without conditions. Maybe it grew from the value I knew he placed on loyalty. I think sometimes you just know who you can count on in this world, and I knew I could count on my Dad.

I wanted to tell him in person, face to face. I hoped to sit down with him and Say the Words. In the end, though, it didn’t turn out that way. He knew something was wrong, and he was really worried, and he was losing sleep, and it was time for him to know the truth. But distance and circumstances conspired to prevent me from being able to go and tell it to him, so instead, I wrote him a letter.

Before I sent the letter, my Dad and I would speak by phone several times a week and exchange email about as often. After I sent the letter, it was over three weeks before I heard from him. The silence wasn’t unexpected; I knew he would need some time to absorb the truth, figure out how he should respond, and find the strength to do it. I was genuinely relieved, though, when he called me one day during my afternoon commute.

“Let’s talk about your letter,” he said after pleasantries.

“Okay.”

“Your news really surprised me, but I want you to know right now that I love you as much today as I did the day you were born.”

My Dad is a person who chooses his words carefully, and as a father myself, I understood exactly what those words meant. I know how it feels to hold your newborn child for the very first time. I know what that kind of love is like.

But I knew it would be hard, and to be honest, it has been for both of us. My Dad and I have struggled to reestablish our relationship. He has found it supremely difficult to talk about my trans-ness with me or even to call me by my new name, and I have wrestled with anger, impatience, and frustration. He has yet to see me in person as I am today, a logical “next step” that I fear circumstances are going to force on him before he feels ready for it. I’m ashamed to confess that I have occasionally questioned the character of his love for me. “He says he loves me,” I’ve said to myself, “but love is as love does.”

And then today, he called me–on the anniversary of the day I was born. Just to tell me he loves me, and to wish me a happy birthday.

Thanks for the call, Dad. It means more than you know.

(Great news!  I was recently asked by the wonderful people at the Family Equality Council to become a regular contributor to their blog for LGBT families.  I’m thrilled at the opportunity to be associated with such a great organization.  Here’s my first post for FEC, cross-posted with their permission.)

In the most recent installment of their video blog “She Got Me Pregnant,” lesbian moms Dana and Helen laugh about the befuddlement many of their straight friends seem to feel over how their son addresses them.  I mean, the famous Heather may have two mommies, but she certainly can’t call them both “Mommy,” right?  That would be way too confusing for a child . . . wouldn’t it? 

Well, probably not.  It turns out our little ones are a lot smarter than we sometimes give them credit for being.  As Dana says, “Your kids are going to figure it out.”  And they do, don’t they?

But what about when one of Heather’s mommies used to be her daddy?

When I began my transition at home, my partner and I worried a lot about what our kids would call me.  Okay, to be perfectly honest, I was the one who did most of the worrying.  In fact, calling it “worrying” is a bit of an understatement.  Truth is I practically obsessed over it.  I even recall a particularly vivid nightmare in which I was out shopping with my kids and couldn’t get them to stop calling me “Daddy” in voices vastly disproportionate to their little bodies.  I kept ducking behind racks of clothing and trying to explain to them that they couldn’t do that–that people might find out I had once been a boy and would be mean to us–but it just didn’t seem to sink in.  It felt strangely like one of those dreams where you suddenly realize you’re naked in front of a crowd of people.  I woke up in a cold sweat.

As the time approached for me to transition publicly, we sat down at our kitchen table with the oldest two, who were eight and five at the time, to let them know what was ahead.  I would be living as a girl all the time from that point forward, we told them, and at the advice of my wonderful counselor, asked if they would like to pick a new name to call me.  A big part of the transition strategy my counselor and I developed together was to share control over things with my family as much as I possibly could, and so I wanted to offer the kids some say in the matter.  We suggested a few options and waited for their response.

I’ll confess that, as the question hung in the air between us for a moment, I was really hoping they’d pick something like “Mama,” “Maddy” (the fine conflation suggested by Jenny Boylan), or even my first name.  Kids call parents by their first name in all the really cool families, right?

My five-year-old daughter responded first.  “I like ‘Daddy.’”

“Yeah, me too,” my son agreed.

“Then ‘Daddy’ it is,” I told them.  Big hugs, sloppy kisses, and they were running into the back yard to play.

To my credit, I was so determined to respect their feelings that I didn’t feel all that disappointed.  I’ve never really wanted or needed to live a “stealth” life, in which nobody around me knew of my male history.  I had, however, been hoping to be able to go with my family to the grocery store or McDonalds without being outed all the time–but my children’s choice opened that desire up for a little much-needed inspection.  Why was this so important to me?  What was I afraid of?  What might be lost by being called “Daddy” in public, and what might be gained?

I wish I could say that it’s been an easy thing for me, that I’ve never flinched at hearing my kids call to me across a crowded playground or blushed at the strange looks I occasionally get.  It hasn’t, and I have.  And together we’ve learned that we have to be careful sometimes (in the ladies’ room, for instance).  But we’ve also discovered a few really important things about ourselves and others through it.  I’ve discovered that I really amproud to be a transgender woman–proud enough, in fact, to let the whole world know it.  And I’m proud of my partner and my kids, who are courageous enough in their love to own me for who I am.  I’ve also learned that most people aren’t nearly as judgmental as I once feared they would be. 

I’d be the last to imply that our way is the only way or even the best way for families with a transgender parent.  But it’s working for us.  And maybe it’s helping to change a few minds and hearts about transgender people and their families.  Call it “playground activism.” 

My good friend Joyce, who is navigating a gender transition, writes about her annoyance at having the word “effeminate” applied to her by those who do not yet know she is transgendered:

I guess I had thought of myself as feminine (or at least androgynous) because of my obvious shift in sex and gender, and for some reason the word effeminate grated on me. Although it shouldn’t bother me, it did, and I’m wondering why. Maybe it was my old self sitting up, taking notice, and arguing with whatever macho pride he could muster. That’s plausible and is almost certainly a component of my annoyance, but I think there’s something else going on, if you’ll permit me to explain.

What follows is a wonderful double deconstruction of our culture’s gender norms and Joyce’s own emotional response to them.  To make her point, she asks us to consider the significance of two statements:

While Joyce plays on the dichotomy between what is “natural” and “unnatural” inherent in these observations, a different distinction came to my mind.  The first statement is value-neutral.  In and of itself it does not assign any moral value, positive or negative, to being or becoming feminine.  The second, however, clearly assigns a negative moral value to femininity.  It implies that taking on feminine traits is ethically questionable, culturally undesirable, or personally unsuitable. 

The first statement affirms the value of femininity and of women.  The second is patently misogynistic. 

I’m with Joyce–when I was still presenting myself to the world as a man, I would have been mortified to be thought of as effeminate.  I think, though, that the offense in that kind of statement is not really against the person to whom it is directed.  It is against women and womanhood.

Salt Lake City’s largest daily, the Deseret Morning News, has picked up Kourt Osborn’s story today. Details are finally beginning to emerge on SUU’s position. From the article:

But it isn’t a case of discrimination because the only reason Osborn was denied is because he didn’t meet the school’s baseline requirements that he’s completed hormone treatment and undergone gender-reassignment surgery, says Michael Carter, assistant attorney general and SUU counsel. Osborn’s application will be reconsidered if he can provide proof that he’s done both, Carter said.

The most obvious problem here is that one does not “complete” hormone treatment, but the deeper issue in my mind is the way the University seems oblivious to how classist their position is. Gender reassignment surgery is an incredibly expensive procedure–prohibitively expensive for the vast majority of transgendered people. They apparently expect a person in his twenties without a college education to have somehow amassed the necessary resources to meet their requirements. Those who come from all but the highest classes of our society will never be able to do so–and, honestly, how many multi-millionaire’s children are going to attend SUU?  They’ve established a barrier to on-campus housing that is effectively impossible for the vast majority of transgendered students to meet.

Kudos are in order for the Deseret News, first for publishing the story, then for telling it so even-handedly, and finally for following editorial guidelines for referring to trans people according to their gender identity rather than biological sex.  Now what I’d really like to see is their editorial board taking a position on this case.

When all you’ve got to keep is strong
Move along, move along like I know you do.
And even when your hope is gone
Move along, move along just to make it through…

My eldest son loves Bionicles. (What? You don’t know what Bionicles are?) They’re a line of Lego kits with an extensive backstory, told in three films and a constantly updated online archive. The stories are pretty standard mythological fare–the hero’s quest always figures strongly–set in a science-fantasy world heavily influenced by Polynesian mythology. The whole thing is great, geeky fun.

Each year, when Lego releases the new Bionicle storyline, they put together a music video. My son especially loves these, and watches them over and over until he knows every word of the song. That’s how I met the All American Rejects, and how I first heard “Move Along.”

It resonated strongly with one of the simplest but most powerful lessons I learned as I transitioned: sometimes you just have to grit your teeth and push through, no matter how much it hurts. People are counting on you to be strong, so that they can be strong, too.

“Move Along” by All American Rejects, from Move Along, 2005 (Lyrics)