It was recently graduation time at the local university and at the high school, here where I live. Many young women and men will now be entering into the world from under the protective wings of schools, parents, families, and closest friends. And this of course means that they, and their loved ones, have spent great amounts of time recalling years of memories. Ones of funny outfits, cute little things that occurred in childhood, first loves, first heartbreaks, and the first time that death(s) came sweeping in, and all the rest. It was a time of memories.
Recently, I had the privilege of speaking to a group of individuals at a gender diversity training, telling my story, and then answering their questions. They themselves were a diverse group, but most all of them served young people. But unlike most of the recent graduates here, the young people they serve have painful and challenging memories from their childhoods. Their stories are too often ones of crises, issues of sexual orientation, gender identity, and the loss of securities that comes with each of these challenges. I was honestly moved to see a room full of people who specifically wanted to know how they could better help youth and (hopefully) their families safely begin and continue the process of transgender transition. And to reconcile the memories of who they were with the people they are becoming.
In my talk, in all of my talks that I give, I always share my first memory of knowing that I was different. Of knowing that I was someone else than what the world saw me as. That I was transgender. It is a story I have told a hundred times or more, yet every time I tell it, I find new parts of how I felt at that moment. Of how my relationships with my family were formed at that very moment. I see the confusion, the distress, the anger, the fear, and the courage that would come from this chance exchange with my parents when I was only 3 years old.
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| Not original, but close. |
The year was 1978, and fashion was at an all time low. We wore red, white, and blue checked polyester bell bottom pants, with striped polyester shirts, and knee high athletic socks that had inch wide bands of color at the tops. Usually, the colors were either red and blue or yellow and green. It was an unfortunate time for style, but of course those clothes were the style. Terrycloth was also a staple of our wardrobes then as well, as we wore shorts that not only matched, but doubled as hand towels. I am thankful that I no longer wear such things, however I sometimes yearn for those shorts since they were so handy when you spilled something. It was convenient to be able to sit down and mop the floor with your fanny. But I digress.
At any rate, it was a hot July day, and I was standing in our dining room in between my parents' separate bedroom doors, wearing those beloved, mint colored green terrycloth shorts with the white trim sewn around the edges.
My father was wearing well worn and dirty shorts, and dirty tan slip on canvas shoes that had white rubber soles and white trim. My mother had something on, however I do not remember what, most likely because they were from the ladies' section of the department store, a place that held no relevance for me.
It was mid to late afternoon, and time for my father to go out to water and/or weed our 1/4 acre garden. I was excited to join him, he was highly protective of it, and gave me tasks that wouldn't lead to the destruction of the actual plants he had growing. Standing there I was ready to be out there with my dad, the hero of every little boy's life, doing something that had been reserved for someone older, responsible, and able to do real work. It was a magical moment.
And then my mother ruined it.
As my father told her that he was heading out to work on the garden, I gleefully announced that I was going too. And that was when the fateful blow was dealt, as the words came pouring out of her mouth.
"No you're not." she said.
Unsure of her statement I quickly replied, "Why not?"
"Because," she said, "little girls wear shirts when they go outside."
Standing there, blindsided by this news, I stammered my assent, went to my room and found a plain white undershirt. I threw it on and went out the door.
I had complied with her expectations.
I had complied with a gendered world's expectations.
And I complied, for more than 25 years, with those expectations.
That day, I was confronted by the truth that I was not who I thought I was. Every fiber of my being was boy through and through. And yet, the woman who had brought me into this world, had just told me, point blank, that I was wrong. With just the one word 'girls' I was informed that I was in fact female, and not male. I wasn't the perfect little boy I believed I was. I was not the miniature man in training that I thought. I was not a he. And in that moment everything I thought I knew exploded.
And of course that 3 year old's belief still explodes daily, when I am confronted with the physical realities of my body that are so deeply incongruous to the mental realities of my mind. That memory, that self knowledge, has become entrenched and added to with other little girl memories. Each one a story itself, packed away like old clothes in the back of the closet. With time and attention I hope that they will reveal more truths, more heartbreaks, and more insights. Ultimately, I hope that they will provide more understanding and love for all of us who've worn the wrong outfits from gendered wardrobes.
Thank you for continuing on this journey with me, and for sharing the memories.
Be well, love your neighbor as you love yourself, and remember to actually love yourself.
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