Love Lives Here

by Amanda Jette Knox

  It was a productive first day. We were invited to the new parents’ group the following week and put on a waiting list to see someone at the hospital’s gender diversity clinic. Most importantly, I was assured by everyone I spoke to that we were on the right path. “Following your child’s lead in these situations is critical,” they told me again and again. Good thing that was happening.

  I mean, sort of. Well, most of the time.

  Knowing what I know now, I would love to tell this story in a way that paints me in a better light. It would be great to say I immediately embraced my child’s gender as legitimate and permanent. But that would be a lie. Humans make mistakes. Thankfully, we can also learn from those mistakes.

  Some of what I did was right. I got over myself and asked what pronouns my child would like us to use. She asked that we use “she” and “her” in the house, but “he” and “him” outside of it, at least for the short term. Tricky but manageable. Admittedly, calling the child I had known as my son for eleven years by female pronouns felt awkward at first. But so had the first time I did squats at the gym, and now I do them without thinking. Pronouns, I figured, were a lot like squats: I would trip all over them at first, but they would get easier with practice.

  I was stuck on the permanency of her gender identity, however. I wondered if someone her age could make such a big proclamation and mean it in a “forever” kind of way. A lot of kids try on different labels for size. Maybe she was just trying this out, you know? And if that was the case, how far down this path did we want to go?

  I tried to find what I thought were subtle ways of bringing this up with her. As it turns out, I wasn’t very subtle at all.

  “I’m just wondering,” I said one day, “and I mean, I fully support you in who you are, but I’m wondering how long you’ve felt this way.”

  “A long time, Mom,” she replied.

  “Well, it’s just that I’m reading this book right now that was recommended to me—and I tracked down the last copy in the city, by the way, so you know I’m serious about learning!—and it says most transgender children show signs early on. Like saying they don’t feel right in their bodies, or insisting their gender isn’t what everyone thinks it is.”

  “Uh-huh.” She knew exactly where I was going with this.

  “But you didn’t do that,” I continued. “You weren’t trying on dresses or wanting to grow your hair long. You never argued when people referred to you as a boy. Sure, you liked a lot of things that are deemed more feminine, like dance classes and playing restaurant and that brief Hannah Montana phase. But you never said anything. You seemed fine.”

  “I wasn’t fine, though,” she replied. “Why do you think I never wanted to go to school? Why do you think I had such a hard time making friends after the girls stopped playing with me? I just didn’t know what it was for a while, and I didn’t have the words to tell you two.”

  “Okay, but—”

  She cut me off. “It’s not a phase, Mom. I know that’s what you’re getting at. It’s not. This is who I am. I already told you. Stop questioning it.”

  I wish I could say I did stop, but there would be a few more times. I was grasping at straws, hoping beyond hope this wasn’t happening. Society makes life hard on trans people, and I didn’t want my child to face a mountain of challenges. The Most Planned Baby in the Universe had thrown the plans out the window without warning, and I was understandably worried for her. But that doesn’t excuse my incessant questioning in those first few days. Later, she would tell me how much those conversations hurt her. I will carry that for the rest of my life. But more importantly, she’ll carry it, and that’s so unfair.

  At the same time, I was also struggling with something common to a lot of us in my generation: ingrained transphobia. I knew very little about the trans community. Until our child came out, I didn’t really need to know, and I didn’t take the time to learn. I had no ill will against the community, and I firmly believed people have the right to be who they are. But I was also raised in a time and a society that mocked, misunderstood and feared trans people. This left me with some big misconceptions, even if I didn’t realize it.

  The movies and shows I had grown up on were chock full of transphobia. Trans people were the antagonists, the deranged, the deceptive or the butt of the joke. They were unstable geniuses with mommy issues or perverted tricksters trying to fool the ones they were seducing. They were fetishized, ridiculed and never painted in a good light. They were also never played by actual trans people.

  Like a lot of folks my age, I didn’t know any out trans people who could dispel those harmful myths. All I knew was what I saw on the screen or heard about in conversations with others who weren’t trans. I spent a lifetime with only those negative examples. But in 2014, the media was beginning to turn its attention to the trans community in an educational way, spotlighting people like Chaz Bono and Janet Mock. Hollywood was just starting to cast real trans people in more positive roles. I had watched Laverne Cox in Orange Is the New Black and learned more about actual trans issues from one episode featuring her character’s backstory than I had from all previous negative media representations combined.

  Like racism or homophobia, transphobia can take a lifetime to acknowledge and unlearn. But this is especially important to do when you’re raising a trans child who needs your unwavering support. I needed to unlearn at warp speed.

  I knew this was critical the first time I took her shopping for clothes to wear around the house. She seemed delighted by the fabrics, and commented shyly on the colours and patterns she liked most. I should have been pleased for her and excited to experience a “first” with my daughter. Instead, everything about that day felt wrong, but I couldn’t put my finger on why. I was clouded by all I had learned, all the misconceptions I had internalized throughout my life. She was happy, and I should have been happy. Instead, I was fighting the idea that this was a child who was just trying to be herself.

  I knew I had some work to do, and I had better do it quickly. Because if I didn’t, she would be the one to pay the price.

  * * *

  —

  “Have you thought of a name?”

  I had come to see her in her room for a chat the day after we went shopping. It had occurred to me that in order to get comfortable with the changes, I had to immerse myself in them. I wanted to get to know my daughter as my daughter. Sure, she was technically still the same person, but I could already sense there was a whole lot more to her that had been locked away for a long time. There was a little flower blooming in front of my eyes, and I wanted to know if it had a name.

  For the first few days, we avoided using any name as much as possible; the old one caused her too much pain, and a new one would have raised questions with those we hadn’t told, including her siblings. Other than both sets of grandparents, the experts I had talked to and a handful of close friends, nobody but me and my spouse knew what was going on. In my research, I had also read that it was important not to “out” trans people. My daughter would have to tell her friends and family herself or give me permission to do it for her. This was her journey and I was doing my best to be a good co-pilot: gathering information, making suggestions, but not taking over. We would go at her speed.

  “I have some ideas for names,” she said, and began listing them off.

  I didn’t like any of them. I opened my mouth to say so, and a little voice inside me screamed: Co-pilot, co-pilot, co-pilot!

  Deep breath. “Those are great ideas!” I said. “Let’s put a pin in them and maybe check out some others as well. Did you know I thought I was going to have a girl when I was pregnant with you?”

  “You did have a girl,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Argh! Proper language! Ingrained transphobia! Rampant unintentional assholeness!

  Another deep breath. “Right! Yes, of course. I didn’t mean it that way. What I meant is that I thought we had a boy, but it turns out we had a girl all along, which is amaz
ing! I’m so excited!” That wasn’t a lie. My fears had put a damper on that excitement, but it was still there. Even though I had been happy being a mom to what I thought were three boys, a part of me had always longed to have a daughter. This discovery was unexpected and came about in a way I could never have predicted.

  She smiled. She could see I was trying.

  “What names did you have picked out for me?” she asked.

  This was a bonding moment. I could feel it.

  “Well,” I began, “we both really liked the name Meghan.”

  “Gross. That sounds like an eighties name.”

  I opened my mouth—and promptly shut it again. Co-pilot, co-pilot! Also, it was true. It was an eighties name.

  “Okay, how about Annika? That’s a little trendier.”

  She cringed. “Like the Star Wars kid?”

  “No, that’s Anakin.”

  “They sound a lot alike. People would call me the Star Wars kid.”

  “Fine. Any other ideas?” I asked in that so-you-think-you-can-name-yourself tone.

  “I like the name Kerri. K-E-R-R-I.”

  “Kerri Knox? KK? Isn’t that how people reply to each other in texts now?”

  “Oh my God, Mom.” She rolled her eyes at me. “Not for the last five years.”

  And that’s when I saw it. Really saw it. That eye roll was the exact one I used to give to my own mother when she said something I clearly knew more about. My daughter was behaving exactly like I had.

  “Another name we really liked was Alexis.”

  “Alexis,” she said, mulling it over. “Alexis Kerri Knox. Yeah, I like it. It suits me.”

  And just like that, my daughter had a name.

  “I think for now, though, we should just call me Alex when we’re out in public.”

  Alex. Alexis. My daughter. Cool.

  * * *

  —

  “Are we telling your brothers today?” I asked the following afternoon. This was the flight plan she had come up with. As her co-pilot, I was simply checking in.

  “Yeah, I think we should,” Alexis said. “I don’t like keeping things from them.”

  I could see she was nervous. While we had quickly rallied around her, her siblings might not. They were seventeen and seven years old. I figured Aerik could get to a place of acceptance relatively quickly, but Jackson might struggle and would certainly have plenty of questions.

  We sat them down in the living room after school, and Alexis started to talk. She told them everything, from how sad and confused she had been to when she realized she was trans. She asked for their understanding and support. At the end, Aerik gave her a big hug and said he loved her no matter what. Jackson sat on the couch, lost in thought.

  “Wait a minute,” he said, the wheels turning in his mind. “Let me get this straight: everyone thought you were a boy, but inside you felt like a girl?”

  “Yeah, that’s about right,” Alexis replied.

  “Okay. Cool. I always wanted a sister, anyway.” He gave her a hug too, and that was that.

  I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop. I thought that maybe one of the boys would end up having a harder time with it. That never happened.

  The following day, I realized that Jackson had fully internalized this sister business when he ran upstairs to tattle on her and used her pronouns perfectly. “And then she hit me!” he yelled. “Alexis is such a jerk! She’s the worst!”

  I suppressed a grin as I listened, and he got mad that I wasn’t taking his issues seriously. It’s still one of my favourite stories to tell.

  NINE

  confrontation

  IN THE FIRST few weeks after Alexis came out, when she was at her most vulnerable, I acted like her shield—and often felt quite alone in it. I had taken the lead on all things transition-related: gathering information, making appointments, talking to people I’d been allowed to share with, and regularly checking in with Alexis and her brothers. It was a big emotional load. My spouse, while seemingly supportive, remained a step removed from the process. I didn’t understand why, but I also didn’t have time to figure it out. It was a critical point in Alexis’s life, and she needed to know she could count on us.

  I focused my attention on carving out as many safe environments for her as possible. I called the dental office ahead of a scheduled cleaning and asked if they had ever worked with transgender patients before. They had, but not a child. Still, they were quick to switch her name and gender marker in their system. I spoke to her pediatrician prior to an upcoming appointment. “I don’t believe I have any other transgender patients in my practice,” he said. “So this will be a learning opportunity for me.”

  It was a learning opportunity for many of us. Trans youth were not coming out at the rates they are today. The term “transgender” was still alien to, or at least misunderstood by, most people we spoke to outside of the medical community. For many of those people, Alexis was their first known point of contact with a transgender individual. There were some ignorant questions as people wrapped their minds around the concept, but the general reaction was kind. The many fears I had about Alexis living as herself were beginning to slip away. Maybe, I thought, this will be easier than the disaster scenario my anxiety-riddled mind conjured up.

  But one of the biggest stresses in those first few weeks still remained: How were we going to handle telling people at school?

  I had been learning how unique transition is for each person going through it. How, when and even if trans people present their true selves to the world depends on several factors, including personal preference, safety, support, finances, job security, family acceptance and access to medical care. Timelines vary widely. Some walk out the door fully expressing their gender right away, while others take slow and steady steps in that direction. And some never come out at all.

  Now that she was getting more comfortable with the idea of being out, Alexis had made very clear that she needed to transition socially as soon as possible, moving quickly from being perceived as a boy to living as a girl. She wanted to wear feminine clothing, grow her hair and be called by the right name and pronouns by everyone. She wanted to use the bathroom that matched her gender identity and be wholly accepted as “just one of the girls.”

  I wanted to make all this happen for her, but I wasn’t sure how. At the time, our school board didn’t have an official policy or any guidelines on how to support transgender kids. There was some training happening, but not all schools had received it. My stomach was in knots anticipating what the reaction would be.

  I’d like to say that engaging the school was an easy process. But there were some initial bumps. After meeting with Alexis’s very supportive teacher, I worked up the courage to talk to an administrator. It didn’t go well. Concern clouded her face as I shared what our daughter had told us, and what had transpired in our discussions with the teacher.

  She suggested that perhaps my child could wait until middle school the following year to transition, as this could be “easier.” She wondered aloud if other parents would have an issue with the transition and worried about potential backlash. She asked me to refrain from talking about the situation with anyone else at the school and even sent a follow-up email stating that we were no longer to speak directly to the teacher—all concerns should go solely to the administrative staff. And although I consistently used Alexis’s new pronouns, she kept using the old ones.

  It was a very discouraging meeting. I felt no support in her words, only apprehension and misunderstanding. I searched for my own words to counter hers but couldn’t find them. It was all too new, and I was feeling entirely too vulnerable. Everything I had feared about telling the school had come true in the span of ten minutes. I walked out of her office in a daze, went back to my car in the parking lot and burst into tears.

  Too upset to drive, I called my mother instead. “This can’t be the way it is,” I cried. “How do I fight for her? I feel like the whole world is against us right now
. I’m not strong enough for this, Mom. I can’t fight like you.”

  “Amanda,” she said calmly, “I know this is hard. Believe me, I know. But you are strong enough.”

  My mother knew how to fight for a child because she’d had to as well. Her fourth child, my brother Mike, was born with Down syndrome when I was eleven; my sister, Katie, was four; and my other brother, Charlie, was two. Michael was a beautiful baby with bright blue eyes and squishy little toes—a cherub in a Michelangelo painting. He was perfection, and you couldn’t tell me otherwise.

  One of our most striking family pictures was taken minutes after his birth, new life wrapped up in hospital blankets and held close by my mom, who looks on with a mixture of joy and sadness in her red, weepy eyes. Joy for having just given birth to a child she already loved, and sadness, I’m guessing, because she knew his life would be filled with challenges.

  Mike had a host of medical issues and developmental delays, although we wouldn’t know how much that extra chromosome would affect him until later. For a while, we didn’t know if there would be a “later.” We lived life one day, one new medical condition, one specialist appointment at a time. Mike’s early years were especially frightening: pneumonia, partially collapsing lungs, infections, feeding tubes and a prediction that he wouldn’t live a long life.

  My parents were judged harshly for bringing a child with Down syndrome into the world when fetal test results had indicated the condition. I once overheard someone complain to my mom that the baby would burden the taxpayer by putting pressure on the province’s public health-care system. My parents were chastised by more than one medical professional, both before and after Mike was born, for not terminating the pregnancy. A grim picture was painted for his future: he would never walk, never talk, never achieve the hopes and dreams all parents have for their children.