Love Lives Here

by Amanda Jette Knox

Zoë and I figured we had nothing to lose by auditioning via Skype, however. We weren’t committing to anything, and going through the process would be a fun experience. We hopped on the call and spent about an hour with the agent and one of her colleagues. Our conversation was recorded and turned into a video for the show’s producers.

  Surprisingly, we were a hit with both the producers and the network executives. “This is the first time this network has been willing to work with a Canadian family,” the agent told us. “The fact they’re willing to send a camera crew to Ottawa to film a season is significant. You really impressed them!”

  Television is a fickle and highly competitive industry. We knew we were one of several families being considered for this opportunity, and we were shocked we had made the cut. But otherwise, we still weren’t sure how we felt about it.

  “The producers will be in touch with a contract for you to look over,” the casting agent explained. “Congratulations!”

  “This could be good, right?” I said to Zoë. “Maybe?”

  “It could,” she replied. “Let’s see what the contract looks like.”

  When it finally arrived, it was anything but good.

  “Have you read this yet?” my wife asked me. “This contract is terrifying.”

  We were sitting on the back deck, a warm summer breeze cutting the evening humidity. I had sent the papers to her to look over, as she was better with fine print. I’m glad I did. Her laptop sat on the table, illuminating the concern on her face.

  “They want to install cameras all over the house,” she said. “Including the bathroom.”

  “What? Like Big Brother?” I was stunned. “We have kids. They know this, right?”

  “And there’s no way to turn them off,” she continued. “They control that function, not us.”

  It got even more invasive. They could use the footage in any way they wished, including creating personas for us through editing that could paint us in a bad light. They could dictate what media outlets we spoke to, and what we spoke to them about. And for all of this, we would get paid a one-time “location fee” of US$10,000 for the entire season. This was not a salary, the contract specified, as our family would be doing this for exposure. Technically, we wouldn’t even be getting paid.

  I couldn’t believe people actually signed contracts like this. “This is a joke, right?”

  We wrote the company to turn down the “opportunity,” then had a good laugh at the absurdity of it all over a glass of wine. The production company tried to assure us this was a standard reality contract, and we could negotiate it to better suit our needs, including around compensation and where the cameras would be placed. But it was clear to us that taking part in this project would not suit our family’s needs at all—nor would it serve to normalize transgender issues.

  We would later decline two other reality-show ideas for the same reason. We’re not here for society to gawk at. We want to educate through visibility, not be exploited or manipulated for ratings. Reaching new demographics through media is important, and television can get it right. But often it still gets it wrong.

  A while back, a friend who works in media gave me an important piece of advice: “Remember this is your story, and you get to control how much of it you tell and how you tell it.” We’re happy to be visible, but on our own terms.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “sir”

  BECAUSE ALEXIS WAS young when she started her transition, and therefore was given hormone blockers before her natal puberty caused too many typically masculine changes, she is always seen by the people she interacts with as a girl. This is the gift of being able to come out at a young age, and to receive good family and medical support when you do.

  Not everyone is so fortunate, particularly when transitioning as an adult. For a while after Zoë socially transitioned, but before hormone therapy reshaped her face and gave it a more feminine look, she was regularly misgendered by others. It cut through her each time.

  There were the usual slip-ups from people she had known pre-transition: a few family members, friends and co-workers fumbled over names and pronouns as their brains rewired themselves. While this could sting a little, what hurt most were the assumptions of people who didn’t know her and didn’t immediately recognize her as a woman. Those encounters were painful reminders of a former life.

  Zoë had spent months working on her voice: she was trying to raise the pitch and change the resonance and intonation. She had been working with a speech therapist and was quite proud of how far she had come. She was feeling particularly confident one day when I asked if we could swing by the drive-through for coffee. It was one of the lovely lighter days, when dysphoria hadn’t taken hold of her and we were enjoying life together. The sun was shining, we had a playlist going, and all we needed was some caffeine to make it perfect.

  “Welcome to Coffee-place-I’m-not-naming-here. Can I take your order?” the outdoor speaker asked.

  “Hi,” said Zoë cheerily. “Can I get a medium with one cream and a small black decaf?”

  “Sure,” said the chipper voice behind the speaker. “Drive up to the window and someone will see you there. Have a nice day, sir.”

  Sir. Three letters that sucker-punched our near-perfect day in the stomach.

  Zoë looked at me, stricken. “Sir. He called me sir.”

  “Honey…” I started, searching for the right words to make this better.

  “Does my voice sound that masculine?”

  “No!” I replied, hoping she could hear the sincerity in my words. With diligent daily practice, her voice had climbed to the lower range of the average cisgender woman. “I don’t know why he said that. Honest.”

  But my reassurances weren’t powerful enough to undo the damage that had been done by this stranger’s one word. My wife looked shattered by the time we got to the drive-through window. She didn’t make eye contact with the cashier. “Thank you,” she practically whispered before driving away. She was holding back tears.

  Zoë wanted not only to live as the woman she’s always been but also to be seen as one by the rest of society. To be seen as a woman would mean being accepted and safe. It would mean never having to justify or validate her gender to anyone, or be viewed as “other.” My womanhood had never been called into question, and until I’d supported two people through transition, I had never considered how damaging that invalidation could be.

  I was watching that damage unfold right now. She was gutted, her feelings spilling out in front of me. The confidence she had built up over the past few weeks was crumbling. Our perfect day ended up with her sitting in the bedroom, hiding from the world. I sat beside her and struggled to find the words—any words—to make things better. The hole she had crawled into was so deep I wasn’t able to reach down far enough to pull her out. I could only wait at the top and shine a light down.

  I can’t take the pain away when someone misgenders Zoë. All I can do is be there for her in the short term while working in the longer term to help my fellow cis people gain a broader understanding of gender. Most of the time, we misgender trans and non-binary people without malice. We’re either learning new pronouns for someone or making assumptions about gender based on what we’ve been taught. Most of us have been taught to assume someone is either a man or a woman. We do this by picking up on physical characteristics, dress, voice and even subtle mannerisms. We’ve done this for years in Western society, not realizing we were sometimes getting it wrong and causing real harm.

  To complicate matters, we not only make these gender assumptions but also declare them as an act of respect. Calling someone “sir,” “miss” or the dreaded “ma’am” (which I’m greeted with far more these days) is strongly encouraged, if not outright enforced, in many customer-service jobs. But because gender isn’t as clear-cut as society once thought, it’s time to start rethinking our ideas of politeness.

  There are many genderless ways to greet people without being rude. Here are a few samples:


  “Hello, how are you today?”

  “Hi! Can I help you find anything?”

  “Hello, folks. How’s everyone doing today?”

  “Are the two of you ready to order?”

  Yes, Alexis was once thrilled to bits at a coffee shop drive-through window when the server got her gender right. But Zoë’s confidence took a hit when someone got hers wrong in the same circumstance. We don’t need to guess at someone’s gender to be kind. In fact, it might be kinder and simpler if we don’t.

  The world is changing. More people are coming out than ever, and our society needs to evolve along with them. Rather than insisting that trans and non-binary people meet cisgender criteria, let’s change our ideas of gender and be more inclusive. That would allow everyone—trans and cis people alike—to live with fewer restraints. Change, I’m discovering, is refreshing.

  For now, though, Zoë and I take turns being there for each other during our respective tumbles into the darkness. I’ll wait at the top all day if I need to, holding the light and extending a hand down for when she eventually grabs it. She does the same for me. I love her through it. She loves me through it. Our relationship is built on shared experiences, and not all of them are good. But each one of these painful moments makes us stronger. There’s a trust in falling apart in front of someone and allowing her the honour of being there for you. For years, Zoë didn’t put that trust in me. Everything inside screamed to hold back or risk losing me. I don’t blame her; she was almost right about that. But I’m glad she trusts me today. I’ll hold her while she cries any day she needs me to.

  But she doesn’t need me to very often these days. I would much rather hold her while she smiles. She has a beautiful smile.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  whole

  OUR SOCIETY IS obsessed with trans people’s genitals.

  What is or isn’t between a person’s legs seems to govern how much we accept them, judge them or fear them. We try to pass laws restricting where trans people can go to the bathroom, where they can change clothes, what shelters they can stay in and even what prisons should house them.

  A journalist once asked my twelve-year-old about her future plans for surgery. When I stepped in to stop it, the journalist turned to me and said, “Can I ask you about her plans, then?”

  No, you cannot. Fixating on a child’s genitals is never appropriate, whether that child is trans or not. That should be common sense. Sadly, it isn’t. It’s weird, and frankly a little creepy, how much people care.

  This is why, for the entirety of my family’s time sharing our story publicly, none of us has ever discussed whether Alexis or Zoë has had or will have gender-affirming surgery. People have made countless assumptions about what’s between my wife’s legs, often as an attempt to invalidate her womanhood or my attraction to her. We’ve refused to comment on or clarify those assumptions. It is no one else’s business.

  Some people can’t wait for surgery; they want it yesterday. Some desperately want it but can’t get it for medical or financial reasons. Some have no interest whatsoever; they feel completely comfortable with the parts they were born with. Choosing to forgo gender-affirming surgery—there are several kinds, but we tend to fixate on the lower half, or “bottom surgery”—does not negate that person’s gender identity. Some women have penises and some men have vulvas. I’ve met plenty, and I know they have these parts only because they’ve chosen to disclose that information. It does not take away from who they are.

  That being said, there is one good reason to discuss surgical procedures: for some, they are absolutely necessary and lifesaving. If these procedures are never discussed—if no one shares their importance—it makes it easier for governments and insurance companies to deem them cosmetic and unnecessary. Some of them already are. As I’ve said before, trans people who need surgery but face long wait times or are unable to get it at all have an increased risk of suicide. We need to keep these surgeries funded and make them more accessible.

  For this reason alone, this chapter exists.

  * * *

  —

  Zoë, the once-hidden girl from Peterborough, was finally living in the open. Blockers had stopped her testosterone production, and estrogen was doing the right things to her body—albeit much later than she would have liked. After more than four decades of shame and secrecy, everything was moving in the right direction. Not only that, but her family still loved her, her co-workers had accepted her and the neighbours still chatted with her without skipping a beat. By all accounts, her transition had been fairly smooth.

  She had difficult days, certainly. Dysphoria would take over at the most expected and unexpected times. Being misgendered on the phone would do it—that was expected. But she also might go to bed one night, happy with what was reflected in the mirror, only to wake up hating what she saw the next morning. Staring back at her wouldn’t be the beautiful woman she saw hours before, but the person she used to be—the one who didn’t fit and brought her pain. Those days were hard. She would fight her way through them the best she could. But the fight was harder because there was still a part of her that triggered those feelings so easily.

  After assessments, hormones, social transition and name and gender marker changes, there was just one more thing to do, one thing to put right. It would take many steps to get there. She needed a whole new psychological and medical assessment. She required letters from her psychologist, endocrinologist and family doctor. She needed to send blood-work results, photos and a pile of papers to a small Montreal surgical clinic that specialized in exactly what she was looking for. She had less of a wait than some people she had talked to, but still far too long.

  One evening, while we were drinking wine with two friends, an email popped up on Zoë’s phone. And just like the message from Alexis three years earlier, this one was life-changing. Her surgery date was May 23, 2017, just a few weeks away. She could barely contain her joy, and neither could those of us around her.

  On May 21, we arrived at a three-storey bed and breakfast in Montreal, excited and nervous. We spent time meeting other trans women who had come for the same reason, and bonds were quickly formed. They were sharing a deeply personal and unique experience. The entire stay was a well-oiled machine—the clinic even sent a taxi to pick us up the morning of her surgery and take us to the hospital.

  “This is it,” Zoë said as she tucked her hair into the surgical cap. She smiled one last time and left the room, walking up a flight of stairs to greet the specialists who would finally help her feel complete.

  I drove to a nearby Tim Hortons to grab a quick lunch before returning to the hospital. I didn’t want to miss Zoë getting out of surgery. I paced the main floor, watching trans people climb gingerly out of bed and shuffle the halls with the help of nursing staff. I saw on their faces the pain of moving about after a major surgery, but mixed in with the discomfort was an unmistakable look of peace. I was so moved I had to look away. The last thing I wanted to do was stare, but it was a beautiful sight. I only hoped Zoë would feel this way too.

  Like many cisgender people, I used to question why anyone would want to have such a delicate area completely reworked. But after living through the transition with Zoë and watching her struggle, I got it. This was a critical step in her journey. It wasn’t a desire—it was a need that could vastly improve her life.

  After what seemed like far too long (it was only about four hours), a nurse came to tell me that Zoë was in recovery, slowly waking up. I breathed a huge sigh of relief.

  An hour or so later, my wife was wheeled into the room. Drugged and dazed, she smiled from her bed.

  “Honey, it’s done,” she said. “Can you believe it? I’m so happy.”

  “Oh, babe. I’m so happy for you too,” I replied. Because there, amid the high from the drugs, was that unmistakable look of peace. She could fully live her life now.

  There’s a lot of crying in our story. That day was no exception. But it was the happy kind
of crying.

  TWENTY-SIX

  resolve

  “WE SHOULD GET MARRIED AGAIN,” I had said to Zoë on one of our nature walks a few months before her surgery. Fall was coming to Ottawa and we were trying to make the most of the warm weather before the snow and frigid temperatures arrived.

  “Like a vow renewal?” she asked.

  “Yeah. For our twentieth anniversary.”

  “Okay,” she said, mulling the idea over. “What would that look like?”

  “Whatever we want it to look like,” I replied. “That seems to be the running theme of our relationship anyway.”

  She tried to elbow me playfully. I dodged it, giggling. I was still going to the gym, was still eating healthy portions and had been maintaining a fifty-pound weight loss with ease. Strength training and walking were a big part of my life. I wasn’t exactly a small person, but I was a hell of a lot faster. She would have to try harder.

  “Hey, I’d get to wear a dress,” she said.

  “Yes, you would!”

  When we got married in 1997, she had stuffed herself into a rented tuxedo and spent the next eighteen years trying to be my husband. It ended up being a painful experience for both of us. That pain came out in some obvious ways, and some less obvious ones. Case in point: never once in those eighteen years did we display a wedding photo. They had always been tucked away in a box and a half-finished wedding album. We took them out from time to time to show the kids, but they were otherwise neglected.

  We also never wore our wedding rings. Because we were living below the poverty line at the time, we had bought them, mismatched, from a pawnshop. Those were sitting in a box too. I know how special wedding rings are for some people; they’re worn with a sense of pride. We never had that.

  It’s easy to blame an unhappy marriage on the obvious. In this case, Zoë’s need to transition was the glaring culprit. I can pinpoint many times when her sullen moods and angry outbursts took a toll on our relationship. But there’s more to this story. There’s a less obvious but just as damaging culprit. Alexis and Zoë weren’t the only ones in dark closets for too long.