Pride
The bravest act I’ve ever witnessed was at a gas station off a highway in the middle of nowhere California.
Our little family of four was on our way home from a desperately needed getaway to the Sierra Nevada mountains, where we spent our pandemic vacation hiding out in a cabin in the woods. Now, hours into the drive back, we had to stop to fuel up, grab a snack and, of course, to pee. Without any real choice, we rolled into a dingy desert station; overflowing trash bins, cigarette butts littering the ground, too many Monster drink and tobacco signs taped to the greasy windows to see inside.
While my husband filled the tank, I went with the kids to find a bathroom. The store wasn’t much better; crates of neon colored drink bottles stacked high around the aisles funneled the customers like rats in a maze. We made our way past the racks of beef jerky and stale muffins to the tiny hallway with two restroom doors.
Two ladies formed a queue for the three stall women’s bathroom, which I caught a glimpse of as the door swung open. The men’s door opened and closed frequently. A steady flow of traffic entered and exited, as this was the only restroom for miles.
My daughter and I took our spots in line, but my son, my 14 year old transgender son Michael, headed to the men’s room. This tiled room barely bigger than a walk-in closet smelling of urinal cakes and piss. I stood frozen as I watched a large, bearded man in a tattered black T-shirt, tired jeans, heavy boots and a trucker hat push past us into the restroom.
Michael was born Merry. Just typing those four words, I get hit with a tsunami of emotion and tears. Too many feelings to manage, to unravel, to understand. But gratitude and pride always override them all.
I can’t tell you Michael’s story of becoming Michael. Some day I hope that he finds a way to tell it himself. He is a brilliant storyteller, artist and poet and the way he sees the world, his place in it, is a gift I hope you all receive.
I can’t tell you the stories of other trans kids and their families. This is something that gets brought to me when people learn of Michael. “How does this happen?” or “Do you know why parents are letting their children do this?” or even “How can parents do this to their children?”.
Even as a fiction writer, not only is it not my place to tell the deeply personal journey of another, but I wouldn’t want to assume that I know how or why anyone does anything. And my advice for those that are: question with curiosity, not judgement.
But I can tell you my story of being Michael’s mom. Only three days old this child smiled. A lot. We chose the name “Merry Cherubina” not only because it was a version of my great grandmother’s name, but because it means “happy little angel”. This is who this kid was and struggles to continue to be.
People want to know if we knew Michael was trans, if as his parents, did we see signs that pointed us toward a conclusion. What they are really asking is if this is real. Is there evidence to prove that this isn’t some mistake? What they cannot say is, “Please tell me something that will help me erase the incredible discomfort this makes me feel.”
If I told you he refused to wear dresses as a little kid, would that make you feel better? Because he didn’t. He loved them and insisted on wearing a chiffon blue one with butterflies years after he’d outgrown it. What if I told you he only pretended to be cowboys or police men? Would that help? Except this kid ran through our yard chasing chickens in a fairy dress and rain boots.
What I can tell you is this sweet, funny, quirky child one day stopped smiling. Instead, they curled up in bed at night sobbing and full of terror. “Why am I so awful?” he cried. “Why are you, Parker and Dad so amazing and I’m this horrible person?”
How devastating it is to find out that no matter how much love you give your child, they will somehow learn to hate themselves.
COVID brought us Michael. (Again, more tears as I type.) While he was just beginning to try on new nicknames and pronouns, it was the cocoon of the pandemic that gave him the space and the support to really shine. Merry, she/her/they/them entered into the pandemic. Michael, he/him/they/them flew out.
His tears stopped. The terror diminished. Michael stepped into himself and every day grows more comfortable, more colorful, most confident.
"Are you sure you want to go in there?” I asked in that lightless gas station, grabbed hold of his arm. He looked warily at the bathroom, the line up of urinals, then back at me.
“No. Definitely not awesome. But I’ll be fine.”
“You sure you don’t want to…” A man exited the bathroom. Black Patagonia pullover and Nike sneakers. He glanced at Michael. “… wait for Dad?”
“Nope. I’ll be fine, Mom.”
“I’ll be right here. Right. Here,” I said, crossing my arms and taking up post. He disappeared behind the door.
As Michael’s mom, it is my privilege and my pleasure to be his safety net, his tour guide and his cheerleader. In return, I have a teacher who is helping me reconcile my deepest fears about society, question my assumptions about gender and mine my unknown strengths.
I thought I knew what it was to be brave when I became a mom. He has taught me that I have no idea.
*** OH CRAP MOMENT***
It was only until I’d re-read this essay for the 25th time that I realized I have made a common misgendering mistake. This is part of my/our journey… being aware of the moments where societal programming creeps in, noting it and doing better.
Can you find my mistake?