Love Lives Here
Page 10
The trans community has one of the highest rates of suicide of any marginalized group. There are many reasons for this, but most can be boiled down to one truth: society treats trans people terribly. A big part of that awfulness is a refusal to believe trans people are who they say they are. Imagine for a minute having to fight every day of your life to be seen as yourself. Imagine having to prove or justify your gender to loved ones, co-workers, neighbours, medical staff and potential romantic partners. Imagine being misgendered all the time. Imagine being called “miss” five times a day when you’re not a woman. Imagine being told you’re mentally ill simply for living as yourself. Imagine seeing hate groups lobby governments to deny you basic human rights. Imagine being questioned, doubted, ridiculed, belittled and told repeatedly that others know you better than you know yourself.
Being trans isn’t what causes the high rates of self-harm; it’s the cisgender people—those of us who identify with the gender we were assigned at birth—who do. And one of our biggest targets is also the most vulnerable: trans kids.
People love to question the very existence of trans youth. They like to say that these kids are too young to know their gender, that they’re simply confused, and that parents and medical professionals, brainwashed by trans activists, are guiding them down a dangerous and irreversible path. As proof, they cite largely debunked studies showing a “desistance” rate of over 80 percent. They claim the bulk of young patients at a gender identity clinic went on to live as the gender they were assigned at birth. They call affirming parents child abusers. (I’ve lost count of how many times that insult has been hurled my way.) They protest school boards that include trans education in the curriculum or allow young people to use the bathroom that matches their identity. They attack doctors who provide treatment for trans children.
These people harm trans kids and are on the wrong side of history. They may think they’re right, but they’re not. How could they be? It’s like a white person telling a person of colour there’s no such thing as racism. Despite having no lived experience, they still believe they know better than the people who are dealing with it first-hand. That’s not only foolish but also dangerous.
So when it came to the question of medical support, we chose to listen to our child rather than the opinions of people who are not transgender. What did she need? What could we help with? We reached out to the trans community to find out how we could do this right, and we sought help from the Children’s Hospital of Eastern Ontario, whose medical experts had been working with gender-diverse youth for several years.
Alexis will tell you that our assistance saved her life. Statisticians would agree. Research has found that when trans children are given strong support by their parents, their rate of attempted suicide drops to nearly that of the average cisgender child. Again, being trans is not the problem—a lack of support is.
I had put Alexis on the list for the hospital’s gender diversity clinic the week after she came out because I knew it could take a while to get her in. I suspected she was in the very early stages of puberty at that point. At the first appointment a few weeks later, my spouse and I met with the social worker, a friendly young guy with a great smile who also co-facilitated the support group we had been attending. This was a meeting to go over the basics, which, we all realized, we already knew.
The next couple of appointments were with one of the doctors. To receive medical treatment at the clinic, patients had to meet the criteria for gender dysphoria, a feeling of deep discomfort or distress about living as the gender assigned at birth. Not all trans people experience this, but many who do require medical intervention to ease that distress.
The studies showing large desistance rates often conflate gender identity and gender expression. The difference is important. Gender identity is how you identify: man, woman, non-binary (a term used by many people who don’t fit neatly into the gender binary concept of “man” or “woman”) or something else entirely. Gender expression is how you express who you are on the outside: your mannerisms, your clothes, your hairstyle. A boy who likes to wear dresses but still identifies as a boy is not transgender. Some of these studies mix this all up and package it as one finding, but it’s apples and oranges. And neither gender identity nor gender expression is in any way related to a person’s sexual orientation. Trans people can be gay, straight, bisexual, pansexual or asexual, just like the rest of the population.
Furthermore, one of the desistance studies measured gender identity by who kept returning to the clinic for treatment. When the researchers found that many kids stopped coming, they concluded it was because those kids weren’t trans. But maybe they felt uncomfortable there. Maybe they found treatment elsewhere. Maybe some of them felt it was too unsafe to be themselves and went back into the closet. Maybe their parents refused to help them transition. And yes, maybe some of them truly weren’t trans. But I don’t think leaving a clinic is a reliable scientific indicator of someone’s gender identity.
Trans children and their parents are constantly under attack because of incomplete or biased studies like these. Thankfully, there are more current and reliable studies that show largely positive outcomes for young people who are affirmed at home, in the community and by the medical professionals who work with them. They have significantly lower rates of depression and suicide, along with higher rates of happiness.
But we didn’t need those studies to know what to do. We just needed to listen to what our child was telling us.
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Within a few sessions, Alexis was diagnosed with gender dysphoria. The doctor was impressed by how self-aware she was and how well she could describe her feelings. That diagnosis opened the door for her to receive medical care that would change her life for the better.
For trans kids, natal puberty can be traumatic and can also cause a lifetime of pain. In the case of a girl with testosterone driving the body bus, puberty can trigger changes to height, skeletal structure, facial features, hair growth and voice that are either impossible or difficult and costly to undo. Many trans people who went through puberty prior to transitioning have spent tens of thousands of dollars trying to undo what hormones did to them in their teen years—that is, if they can afford it. Most of these treatments are not covered by public or private health insurance. They’re considered cosmetic procedures.
Of course, not all trans and non-binary people need or want medical support. Some are comfortable with their bodies just the way they are. But for many I talked to, puberty caused distress, and much of what can be changed is unaffordable.
“If you can do one thing for your daughter,” a new trans friend told me, “get her on puberty blockers as soon as she needs them. It will save her a lot of pain, trust me.” I had no idea puberty blockers existed, and I wondered what the side effects of halting hormone production could be.
We didn’t have to wait long to find out. Alexis’s first appointment with the CHEO endocrinologist specializing in trans youth involved a long chat, her own assessment of Alexis’s dysphoria and a blood test. The doctor was kind and smart, and she treated Alexis like a partner in her own medical journey. I liked her immediately. She explained that there are five stages of puberty, and that it’s ideal to stop it in stage two, in part for better surgical outcomes in adulthood.
I was fascinated. Now I knew that there were puberty blockers and stages of puberty, and that doctors had really thought this out for long-term success. Not all trans people want surgeries, but it’s good to have those options.
“What happens if she changes her mind and doesn’t want the blockers anymore?” I asked privately. As far as I had come in the last little while, there was still a part of me that struggled with the idea of doing anything permanent.
“Then we stop them,” the doctor said. “All blockers do is hit the pause button. They give kids a while to figure out where they want to go. If we take her off them, the body kicks back into gear and puberty continues.”
We got a call a few days later. “Alex is in stage three,” the nurse explained.
“Wow,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“We could tell right away she was at stage two or three,” she said. “But we’ve seen a lot of puberty here.”
Testosterone is sneaky. Unlike estrogen, it can initiate early changes with next to no fanfare. That’s why cisgender girls tend to develop faster than boys for a year or two, before the boys catch up. Estrogen is quick, then slows down. Testosterone is slow, then speeds up.
We had caught it in the nick of time.
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I was now getting daily emails and Facebook messages from people around the world who were reading my blog. Several told me they were being investigated by local child protection services simply for raising their trans children in an affirming way. One person from a small town in South America said they could never transition because not only would their family disown them but they would be in real danger of being assaulted or murdered. A US parent said her teen was on suicide watch because the family had no insurance and couldn’t afford the $1,200 a month for a blocker, let alone any hormones.
In Ontario, the only thing we had to pay for was the hormone blocker. I was floored when I saw the bill for that, though. A single monthly injection was around $450. We were fortunate to have private drug insurance through my partner’s work that covered 80 percent. Later, we were able to bump it up to 100 percent.
Telling our story had allowed us to see what life was like for other families with transgender kids, which was sobering. Our daughter’s ride, overall, had been smoother than most. But it wasn’t without its bumps.
A few weeks after Alexis had come out to us, I noticed her starting to slip into a darker place again. She was withdrawing to her room more often and resisting going to school. She had come a long way since that terrible night she spent cowering under the covers. Now it felt like she was regressing.
“What’s up? You haven’t been yourself lately,” I asked. “You seemed happier for a while, but not so much right now.”
She sighed and looked out the window. “It’s the kids in my class. A lot of them don’t get it.”
“Don’t get being trans?”
“Yeah. They don’t understand.”
She had been gung-ho about coming out at school in the beginning—backed by a teacher and two classmates she had confided in early on—but she had quickly put the brakes on. She was growing her hair and had started wearing clothes exclusively from the girls’ department, but nothing that screamed pink-glitter-explosion femininity; she was subtle about it. After hesitating for a while, she had asked her classmates to call her Alex, and to use the pronouns “she” and “her.” But most of the students in her class had not received any education in transgender issues. They didn’t understand why this kid was changing names and pronouns.
Alexis tried to quash misconceptions with facts. “I told them what transgender means and I thought that would help,” she said. “It didn’t make it better.”
At this point, the kids split into two groups: those who mocked her and those who avoided her. A group of three boys she knew well now called her “tranny” and “faggot” whenever the opportunity arose. The rest of her classmates, not knowing how to adapt to the change, pretended she wasn’t there. When she walked up to them, they walked away. When she spoke, they ignored her.
“What about your friends? Those girls you confided in?” I asked.
“Mom, they’re grade six girls. They don’t want to be seen with me because they’ll get made fun of too. They joined the Avoiding Alexis Club.”
I felt my heart breaking into pieces. My daughter had been brave enough to tell the world who she really was, and now she was all alone with that truth every day. I remembered what it felt like to be alone. This was ten times worse, though, because it was my child going through it instead of me.
She started to cry. “I can’t do this,” she said.
I held her close, holding in my own tears. “Oh, honey,” I said. “We’re going to make this better, I promise.”
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The Ten Oaks Project is a camp in Ontario that caters specifically to LGBTQ youth and the children of queer parents (lovingly known as “queerlings” or “queerspawn”). For a few magical days, these kids and teens get to be in an environment where they don’t have to hide their identities or continually explain themselves and their families to others. It’s a haven for youth who don’t necessarily have that anywhere else.
Alexis was keen to go. The only issue was a serious lack of funds. The camp cost hundreds of dollars, which we simply didn’t have. We were a family of five living on mostly one income. My work was very part time, as I was spending much of my time trying to finish high school through online courses. Ten Oaks does provide subsidies for families in need, but we didn’t feel “in need” enough to take that subsidy from someone who could use it more.
A friend strongly suggested we set up a GoFundMe campaign, an idea that made me hugely uncomfortable. Again, we weren’t struggling to eat—we just didn’t have money for extras. There’s a difference, and having been hungry before, I recognized it.
“If you don’t do it, someone else will do it for you,” she said. I think she was talking about herself. That would have felt even weirder. Fine. I sucked it up for my daughter’s sake.
The GoFundMe went live around 10 p.m. on a weekday evening in mid-June. I had created a fundraiser called “Let’s Get Gutsy to Camp!” and set a goal. On the campaign page, I admitted how weird this was for me, but I said that I’d rather be uncomfortable than see my daughter disappointed. I shared the link on social media and figured that even if we raised only a few hundred dollars, it would make a solid dent.
Twelve hours later, the internet had raised all of Alexis’s camp money plus an extra $300 to subsidize another camper’s trip. It came from friends, family, blog readers and even complete strangers who had seen the link and wanted to help. I couldn’t believe it. People just wanted my awesome kid to have an awesome time at an awesome camp. Alexis was an overjoyed tween when I told her she was going. And that summer, she not only made some great friends but also came home with a new confidence and a strong sense of self.
Thanks, internet.
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It was good that Alexis had an affirming camp to look forward to, because there were ongoing issues at school that were anything but affirming to a trans child.
One day, I got an email informing me that the school was conducting a sexual and health education class, and that I might want to consider keeping Alexis home that day. They were separating boys and girls, as is often the case. The boys would be learning about testosterone-driven puberty and wet dreams. The girls would be learning about estrogen-driven puberty, including menstruation. These lessons were geared exclusively to kids who are cisgender and didn’t take into consideration those who are not.
“I don’t fit into either of those boxes right now,” Alexis said. “I’m not a boy, so I don’t belong in that session. I’m a girl, but I’m never going to get a period or anything. Besides, the other girls might not like me being there.”
In other words, the girls didn’t see her as a fellow girl, which made me sad. If there had been better LGBTQ education in the classroom, students would have learned that not all girls are born with the same body parts, and it wouldn’t have been a problem for my daughter to deal with.
At the time, that type of education was in the pipeline in Ontario. The then Liberal government had announced more comprehensive health education in all schools, which was to include learning about trans issues at the elementary level. Some parents were in an uproar, with news outlets covering petitions and
protests. But many parents of LGBTQ kids were excited. We were coping with what happens when children don’t get that education. Our kids were being bullied and ostracized, and some were taking their lives because of it. In the short time since Alexis came out, I had already spoken to parents whose children were dead because they felt they would never be accepted by their peers.
Meanwhile, conservative politicians and pastors were screaming about innocence lost and confusing young minds with information they didn’t need to hear. “This type of thing doesn’t belong in schools!” people would (and still do) cry out. “They can be taught this at home!” But taught by whom, exactly? Parents who hadn’t received the education themselves? Who might offer kids sketchy facts tainted by their own biases? And what about those who decide not to tell their kids anything at all? I believe acceptance begins at home, but not all households are at the same starting point. In some homes, there are educational, religious and cultural barriers that make tolerance more challenging. Hell, even in our liberal, atheist household, I had been grossly ignorant about what it meant to be transgender and the issues facing that population.
Like it or not, LGBTQ people exist in the world, in all walks of life, and all our kids will be interacting with them. More importantly, some of our children are a part of that community too, whether they’re aware of it yet or not. Educating everyone means all our children grow up in a safer and more accepting world. We can foster inclusion at home, but if we don’t also foster it in the public education system, we’re not a truly inclusive society.
In Ontario in 2014, health and sexual education classes were still predominantly geared toward straight cisgender kids. People who didn’t fit the mould would not see themselves represented. We could have insisted that Alexis attend, as it was her right to do so. She could not be discriminated against on the grounds of gender identity. However, we decided to conserve our energy for things that really mattered to her. This wasn’t one of them.