That’s just it- its an outsider’s perspective. We never know what is happening in someone’s brain, in their heart. Nor can we grasp the immense pressure that we sometimes inflict on ourselves, unbeknownst to others.

As a parent I react by questioning how I can help my child to keep talking, keep relating what she needs and what she feels. As she gets older I know that the lines of communication naturally get strained, but how do you keep a child feeling safe enough to share intimate feelings and realities? Love? Stability? Security? Leading by example?

It’s funny… before I logged on I emailed my sister. Earlier this morning I had a little surgery that brought about a revelation. As the flurry of preparation buzzed around me in the cold operating room I slipped into a trance like state (meditating has proven a success in the face of uncertainty here, and the kirtan music didn’t hurt) and went to my happy place. In my email I reassured that I was fine and then I went on a tiny tangent saying that I felt like I must have been a prisoner of war or a hostage or something in another life because I have an uncanny ability to transport myself to another place when I need to endure pain. I did it giving birth. I did it for my marathons. I do it when my back pain ceases to be manageable.

I guess I did it for my emotional pain as well. When my father died I had just survived a near fatal injury months earlier and was, for all purposes, emotionally tapped. I’d been isolated in the hospital and near silent for hours and then days on end. I went inside myself for comfort and reassurance and it worked. I guess.

After his death I was left without words. It wasn’t that I kept my feelings hidden, it was that I could not sort out the shock from the pain from the grief from the fear. “Jenny doesn’t talk,” was what I heard in my bubble, but I felt too overwhelmed to try and piece apart my confusion and despair. Was this what Mike/ Christine experienced in some way? The inability to translate the tornado of emotions inside. The guilt for not being able to bring something to the table, so to speak. The hatred building because I couldn’t make anything better. The fear that if I said a single word I would lose myself completely.

Now thirty years later I have found my voice and my courage. By writing I’ve found a way to unzip my armor, let every emotion spill out into words, expose the most vulnerable parts of me and witness the reality of where I am at with love. It’s not perfect. It’s not logical at times. But it’s real. And it’s out there. I am grateful that this journey leads me to this result. Standing in my truth.

Sat Nam. Truth is my name. It rang through my ears as I laid on the table today and I was peaceful despite pain. It’s all I could hope for. Maybe tonight I will sit with my kids and talk about my experience honestly. I’ll tell them that I didn’t know what to expect, but I took a deep breath with the knowledge that I could face whatever comes my way.

Buckle up.

Yoga has been with me and inside me my entire life though I have practiced on and off over the years. From the very first moment I saw the mysterious little orange booklet in the checkout aisle at the grocery store I knew I had to have it.

At first glance the otherworldly figure on the cover sat peacefully in lotus with hands at the prayer position. For me it was as if the yogi’s hands were motioning to me. “Grab this book and never let go,” was what I heard. I started when I was only 5, but I spent the next couple years staring at that little book, desperately trying to stand on my head and twist my body to look like the illustrations. It was a godsend for a lonely child with countless hours on their hands. I became lost in my peaceful practice.

Now after all these years I have found a practice that brings back the wonder I felt when I was a child. Fresh. Focused. New. Alive. My favorite part is when the instructor reminds to simply sit and receive. Receive. Accept it all. The overwhelming love I feel spilling out like a fountain. The fear that rattles my core. The delight that crashes like waves. The pain like a noose around my neck. The words I’d like to take back. The tender moments I never want to forget and on and on and on. Whatever messages are coming through. Receive. It felt like an epiphany the first time I heard it.

Even my meditation felt like more like quieting my mind, rather than opening my mind. Like a librarian telling a chatty student to “Shhhhh!” complete with finger tightly pressed to an exhaling mouth. My practice now feels like I am becoming a more beautiful part of the universe. Connected. Strong. Fierce. Whole.

Another step on the journey. Another awareness of love and comfort.

The two baskets that cradled the photos of my kids in their very early years have literally been shoved in the closet. I could barely see them when I glanced through the out-of-season section of my closet, but I’d quickly turn away when I did. The last physical contact I had with the baskets was when I packed away the school photos of Hope when before she transitioned. At her request I’d taken down her picture down from the foyer, stuffed a new one inside the frame and banished the beautiful photo to “The Baskets”.

Once it was all tucked away I melted to the floor in a heap, sobbing as if she’d just been torn from my arms, never to be seen again. My head knew this to be true. My child was safe, happier than ever and always mine; however, my heart needed more time letting go of that moment frozen in time when my child was just living like any other boy. Free from people’s judgment and ridicule. Free to see the family and friends who have since let us go. Free from the manipulations of life that some gender non-conforming children endure: searching high and low for a discreet clothes for school, swimming and ballet, growing out your hair, seeing acquaintances on the street that call you the wrong name and then stare at your new curls and dress, being called the wrong name by just about every medical professional, wondering why your grandmother or your uncle or your old best friend just doesn’t call anymore, defending yourself and your identity on a regular basis when all you want to do is just be a kid.

Sure, life was admittedly easier, but “he” wasn’t free, was he? Inside she was trapped. Lost. Silenced. Who wants that for their child? My head knows this. My heart still aches when I see pictures. It’s my Achilles heel. Knowing this, I am going to give myself a little more time to just be with the fact that it hurts me. It’s not that I don’t fully accept my child. I do. It’s not that pictures mean more to me. They don’t. This is painful for me and that just is the way it is.

Shortly after I unearthed the baskets, my sister reached out to me. She knew what this activity would do to me. Pain rippling like the tide. Always insightful, she shared a little revelation that “this little boy existed” and we have the opportunity to honor that. Not toss it away. I don’t have to run from the tender memories of holding my child in my arms, dressing him up, whispering his old name in his ear or the shear joy I felt knowing I had a beautiful, healthy son. Those memories do not have to be my enemy, unless I see them that way. Unless I fear the power of my emotion behind those memories. My emotions are love. Pure love.

The path twists again forcing the person to accept that our Hope is just a child who is not at fault. Another twist and they need to decide whether they will be a loving and supportive influence in Hope’s life. Continuing along, the person must choose whether they can handle being with Hope in public and talking to their friends and family honestly about her transition.

The last stretch of road is where most people call it quits and go home. The final mile is where the person walks in our shoes. This means enduring public or private scrutiny for the choices I’ve made as a mother (“allowing” my child to “be” a girl) and for who my child is. Educating when someone is ignorant and speaking up against nasty comments, accusations or jokes at our expense. Stepping in the line of fire when someone tries to attack this helpless child even if it means taking a hit physically, personally or professionally. This last stretch doesn’t happen when I’m around. It happens when no one is watching.

It’s easy to be “on board” when we are standing right there and then turn your back and follow the crowd when no one would know. It’s easy to attempt to keep us in the closet from the rest of the people in your life. It’s much easier to act like it isn’t true or it didn’t happen, brushing our lives under the rug like an old tabloid article from an unreliable source. It’s easy to give up on us and not go all the way.

Thankfully people have made their way toward us. Some even seem to have journeyed effortlessly, though I am sure that’s not the case. Right now we have a circle of love and acceptance surrounding us that continue to make life worth living. They’ve acted as allies and champions for us. They’ve used sheer force to move mountains so that my child can enjoy a loving and healthy life. They didn’t have to do it. They could have taken the easy route.

If I look at my circle today I am inspired by these courageous people who open their hearts to us, comfort us and want to be a part of our lives. I admit, lots of people aren’t in my circle. Some people surprise me with their actions. Maybe some are taking their time on the path and we might see them again. Some have shown that they will never take a step toward us. That is okay. We have enough. This is the balance of life.

How do we live each day? How do we love?

A few days ago my father-in-law passed away after a painful and heroic battle with lung cancer. He never complained once. He never felt sorry for himself. He never gave up his fight to live even when his body didn’t agree. His life, and death, is a pure example of determination and optimism.

Despite so many life altering and tragic obstacles that would have debilitated most of us, he chose to consistently see the bright side of life and the people around him. I think of that so often.

My kids were lucky to have him in their lives. When Hope transitioned he stayed the same grandfather he’d always been- loving, playful, fun. Even though he was a pretty conservative guy with a traditional history he kept showing his love for my daughter and my son equally. Kept showing everyone how proud he was of them. I was always so touched by him. I loved him dearly.

Unknowingly he filled an aching void in my heart created when my father passed away when I was a child. He comforted me in a way that I could never quite say thank you enough. I am a better person for knowing and loving my father-in-law and having the chance to call him Dad, if only for a short time.

As I perused Netflix it offered me it’s usual suggestions. “If you like Farewell My Concubine then you’ll like Blah Blah Blah…” I normally don’t pay attention. Just because I liked Life is Beautiful doesn’t mean I want to see everything about that era. I kept looking through the choices. That is until I saw the picture of Michael Bluth. Now that will get my attention. Nothing says hilarious like Arrested Development. I laugh like a small child when it’s on. I can’t explain it. Something tickles my fancy and I laugh out loud without abandon. (Everyone should have something like that, right?)

This time Netflix says “Since you like Arrested Development you’ll like Soap.” Well, yeah, I did like Soap, about a million years ago. We even affectionately called my mom Jessica Tate. Of course I’ll watch Soap. Funny show as memory serves.

Stay with me… remember that I was reaching 10 when this show aired so some things I “got” and some I did not. I also have to recognize that I am sure I didn’t see every episode. No Tivo. No DVR. Just you and the tv with a standing date. Go to a friend’s house and you miss the whole shebang. Get the flu and no dice. Being in grade school I think it’s logical to say that this tv show was not on the official agenda. I did; however, remember several parts, some of which scared me (demonic possession) and equally intrigued me (really clever humor).

When I downloaded the first couple episodes I was blown away. How did I not know that Billy Crystal played a transgender person? I always thought the character was gay. Researching later Wikipedia describes the character as gay too, even going so far as to say that several gay rights organizations were upset that Crystal was portrayed as wanting to have sex reassignment surgery. In the first few episodes the character (ze perhaps) was standing in hir mom’s clothes, with her wig, explaining that ze has always been a woman. Even recalling a shaving kit ze got when ze was four. Hir brother started shaving his face and ze started shaving hir legs.

My heart pulled when Crystal’s character was seriously (a rare moment) explaining that he was “just a person” to his step father who could not bear to even look at him. This was the 70′s folks. Why can’t we see something as progressive on network television today? Now granted, I only saw three episodes, but in that short time I saw something that is missing today and for that moment I was so proud. Funny that I was looking back in order to look forward.

I keep thinking about S. Bear Bergman’s book, The Nearest Exit May Be Behind You, where he talks about how trans individuals are portrayed in the media, particularly as a deceptive group. Think Crying Game and you get the picture. Then I thought about Candis Cayne, the gorgeous actress who portrayed a trans woman in the tv series Dirty Sexy Money. I loved that she was on prime time, but at the same time I wished it wasn’t in a story line about a politician trying to keep his affair with a trans woman out of the media spotlight. Why couldn’t she have been a boring, but very attractive co-worker or neighbor? I guess that isn’t quite saucy enough.

Who represents our children?

I’ve searched high and low for books that represent my daughter, but I haven’t found a single one. Warning! Tangent- Please do not suggest 10,000 Dresses. Most people who recommend this book do so without reading it first. Trust me, big mistake. It’s one of my daughter’s least favorite books. She actually re-wrote the ending to this book because she and her brother found it so offensive. The main character who is painfully shunned by hir whole family sees a friendly stranger on a porch and goes into their house. Does anyone else see the problem with stranger-danger here? Encouraging vulnerable kids to seek emotional and physical shelter in a (possible) predator’s home is grossly irresponsible.

Since the books, movies and tv shows are lagging behind we just have to keep putting our stories and images out there until the world stops slapping a label on what it means to be transgender and starts seeing all people for who they are- unique, beautiful and yes, different in a good way.

I am continually grateful for the people in my life that have shared what they have learned about gender identity with the world and used their voice when they see an injustice. They may not even know it, but these allies outside of the transgender community are making the difference. If I were to write this letter to Doubleday or Random House perhaps it would not have as much impact. Would they simply see me as a mother of a trans person reacting? Would the words still carry weight? The message needs to reach society, but the reality is that we need more messengers.

Help us. Read the excerpt, share it with a friend or two (or twenty) and let me know what you think. While you are at it let Dan Brown, Doubleday and Random House know what you think. My first inclination was to email ddaypub@randomhouse.com, but this is what their website said about emails… ”Unfortunately, we cannot forward e-mail to authors, nor can we give out authors’ e-mail or postal addresses. However, you can always contact Random House, Inc. authors by mailing a letter to them in care of their publisher’s publicity department at: 1745 Broadway, New York, NY 10019 USA”.

___________________________________

The Lost Symbol

Dan Brown

Doubleday, 2009

p. 10

“The act of tattooing one’s skin was a transformative declaration of

power, an announcement to the world: I am in control of my own flesh.

The intoxicating feeling of control derived from physical

transformation had addicted millions to flesh-altering practices…

cosmetic surgery, body piercing, bodybuilding and steroids… even

bulimia and transgendering.  The human spirit craves mastery over its

carnal shell.”

________________________________________

To Whom it May Concern;

I began reading The Lost Symbol yesterday. I am an avid Dan Brown fan,

especially due to his methodic research and attention to detail. I

cannot begin to tell you how shocked and disappointed I was to find a

statement at the beginning of Chapter 2 that was so ignorant and so

prejudicial that I had to put down the book and begin making phone

calls. Chapter 2 opens to a person getting a tattoo. As Mr. Brown

discusses the motivation to get the tattoo, he likens the motivation to

steroid use, body building, body piercing and bulimia. I understand

these comparisons and I agree with his supposition that this reflects a

person’s need to conquer and show strength over their body (both in

healthy and unhealthy ways). I was horrified when in that list he also

likened tattooing to “transgendering”. This was so wrong and ignorant

on so many levels that I don’t know where to begin.

To make that comparison one would have to believe that a transgender

person chose to be transgender. That they decided to show mastery

over their body through manipulating their gender. This is so untrue.

As the aunt of a six year old transgender child, I can assure you

there is no choice being made except the one to acknowledge and respect

my niece’s need to be who her brain tells her she is. I am certain that

she, like every other transgender person, did not wake up one day

with the need to master her body. She isn’t even aware of the angst

involved in that endeavor. She grew up always knowing, always in

turmoil, always feeling that we; her family who knew and loved her

best, had no idea who she truly was. She had to come to us and tell us

that she wasn’t a boy, that her name didn’t fit her, that the clothes

she wore and the very pronoun we used to describe her did not match the

person she knew she was. To compare this to the choice to alter your

body is a travesty and a disrespect so fundamental that it takes my

breath away.

It may well be that Mr. Brown meant to point to the cross dressing or

“drag queen” population which might better fit into his comparison. Yet

for him to make the statement with no thought to his actual

understanding of the words he was using is indefensible. By making that

statement the mainstream population will take it as truth, especially

being that the statement was made by an author known for his meticulous

research.

I have no idea at this point how Mr. Brown could make this right. Every

day, every hour, someone reads that sentence and an opinion is formed

that is prejudicial and uninformed. That person then enters the world

and forms opinions about the transgender population that are harmful,

and in some cases dangerous. My niece and others like her have to live

in this world. They have to tell their families who they are; they have

to face school, church, neighbors and people on the street. They have

to live knowing who they are and having others hate them or disregard

them for their very being. When a popular, well respected author

perpetuates these stereotypes the world feels justified in continuing

to abuse the transgender population. They are making a choice, right?

They could just as easily be “normal”, right? Tell that to my niece.

Tell that to her parents who agonize daily that she may be hurt by the

people who surround her in her daily life.

I hope that you and Mr. Brown take this seriously. I hope that he

understands that he has made a grave mistake and that he needs to find

a way to make it right. I hope that he can see the group of people that

he has hurt with this one small statement, because even though it was a

sentence buried within a long novel; it was a sentence that helps to

form opinions that then motivate people’s actions.

Thank you for your time and consideration in reading this. I hope to

have a response to what I have said, so that I know that serious

thought is being given to this and that some action will be taken.

Respectfully,

XX

I had the good fortune to meet with with Sharon Black, Founder of My Gender Place, a new non-profit organization dedicated to gender non-conforming youth and their families. Here is our conversation…

TYAY: Why did you create My Gender Place?

SB:  I created My Gender Place to help gender unique kids and their families understand and cope with all of the issues that they face. We provide counseling, spread information, and advocate.  We want to reach out to parents, families and caregivers so that finding help is easy and information is accessible.  You are not alone.

TYAY: Tell us about the population you are serving.

SB:  The population that we serve are primarily young children and their families.  We do individual counseling and play therapy with the kids so that they may better understand themselves and how they fit into the world around them.  The family therapy component is designed to help the families strengthen the unit they need to be in order to navigate within a not always friendly world.

TYAY: If I am a parent out there with a child who is coping with issues around gender, what would you tell me?

SB:  I would say to you 3 things: First and above all else, do no harm.  Second, nurture and protect. Third: All persons should have the opportunity to act naturally.  These are the 3 tenets of My Gender Place as well as my general psychotherapy practice.  After all, these tenets apply to everyone, don’t you think so?