Love Lives Here

by Amanda Jette Knox

  Here’s the reality I denied myself for forty years: I’m gay. A big ol’ lesbian. Dykeville, USA (well, Canada).

  I should have figured this out ages ago. The biggest indicator was that I was instantly and solely attracted to girls and women from a young age. The edgy punk chicks at my school. Daisy Duke and her short shorts from The Dukes of Hazard. Wonder Woman and that whip of hers. Basically the entire cast of Charlie’s Angels. Sure, I could recognize a good-looking guy, but he didn’t do it for me in the same way.

  Maybe I would have admitted this sooner if I hadn’t thrown myself into the closet and slammed it shut with a dozen locks after one terrible incident. In my early teen years, I fooled around with a female friend and we got caught in the act. Her mom pulled us into the kitchen, sat us down and laid a heap of guilt on us.

  “What you did was wrong,” she said, incensed. “It’s disgusting and I’m disappointed. You’re both good girls raised in good homes. Why would you do something like that? Do you want to go to hell?”

  I glanced over at the cross hanging above the door frame. Years of Catholic school teachings and the odd Sunday school lesson had taught me this too. Man does not lie with man. Woman does not lie with woman. This is not how it’s done. Except it sure felt damn good to do it.

  I could hear my friend sniffling quietly as her mom chastised us. We couldn’t look at each other.

  “I understand being curious at your age. But I never want you to do that again,” she said to her daughter with absolute assertion. Then she turned to me. “Amanda, look at me.”

  I looked up hesitantly and met her eyes.

  “I don’t want to get you in trouble over one mistake. If you promise me this won’t happen again, I won’t tell your parents.”

  “I promise,” I said right away. “I’m sorry. It definitely won’t happen again.” I meant every word.

  “Good,” her mother replied. “Then we’ll keep this to ourselves.”

  That was the last time I ever set foot in that kitchen or spent time with that friend. I left quickly, feeling like I had dodged a sizable bullet. I couldn’t imagine my mom getting a phone call like that, or the conversation that would have ensued. My mind played through various scenarios. None of them were good.

  My friend went on to marry a man and have children. I went on to marry someone I thought was a man and have children too. My guess is our little tryst was nothing more than some experimenting for her—lots of teens do that. But it was more than that for me. I was attracted to her, and everything about our time together felt right. Everything about my time with guys afterward felt wrong. But it was easy to ignore those urges and convince myself I was straight—at least for a while. Society is built on straightness. Every movie, every TV show and our terribly limited sex-ed curriculum in the late eighties and early nineties taught me I was supposed to fall for guys, marry one of them and have his babies. It was expected of me. To do anything else would make me stand out. That was the last thing I wanted.

  I dated guys who showed interest in me, however unhealthily, and the intoxicating attention they gave me filled the void where attraction should be. I was intimate with some of them to keep them from leaving me because being left was a blow to my already cracked foundation. I married Zoë because that was the closest to a serious attraction I had experienced with someone I thought was a guy. I thought that was what being in love felt like.

  Over time, I realized I wasn’t happy, but it was easy for me to blame her unhappiness for my own. She was miserable trying to live that life, and I fell into the role of victim. Poor Amanda, raising three kids with someone who wasn’t buying in. Poor Amanda, who would be so much happier if she was with a guy who wanted what they had.

  Poor Amanda, who developed crushes exclusively on women, fantasized about them and admitted to a friend when things were rocky that should she ever find herself single again, she would only date women. After the look my friend gave me, I remember wishing I could take the words back. I had revealed too much.

  After Zoë came out, I didn’t think our relationship would survive. But it wasn’t because she was a woman. It was because of the long history of struggle between us and my worry, deep down, that I might not be attracted to her. Attraction between two people is an imperfect science, after all. When she lived as a man, I could appreciate that she was good-looking. But what would she look like with more feminine features?

  As it turns out, massively hot. She simply glows. The further down the path of transition she went, the more my attraction grew. Not only is she more physically beautiful, with a body I appreciate on a level I never could in a more masculine form, but she smiles more, laughs more and is very funny. I love everything about her, from the gentle way she holds me to the softness of her skin. I love my wife.

  I am in love with my wife in every way. I can’t take my eyes off her when she walks down the stairs looking ready for a night out. My heart skips a beat when she kisses me. I can’t wait to see her at the end of a long day, to spend time with her and make her laugh. That is what I had missed out on in our previous incarnation.

  When people started speculating about my sexuality online after our story broke, I kept quiet about where I stood, not only to make a point about respecting people’s sexual orientations but also to protect myself from shame. I couldn’t admit I was a lesbian—the mere thought sent me back to that kitchen, and I could almost feel the disapproving look from my friend’s mother. Instead, I hid that reality and played a role to make society happy.

  The truth is, if Zoë hadn’t come out, our marriage would have either hobbled along for a lifetime with neither of us feeling good in it or ended when I admitted to myself I was gay. I was getting close to doing that—she just pushed me out of the closet a little sooner than expected.

  Because Zoë’s living her truth, I’m finally able to live mine. This is the life I should have had all along. I’m a lesbian. Being able to say it, to own it and to be proud of it only makes my foundation stronger.

  I wish the rest of the world understood this. It would make our lives a little easier. In fact, other than when I’m called a child abuser for affirming my trans teen, one of the things I get attacked for the most is saying I’m a lesbian. Anti-trans activists regularly criticize me online for this declaration. Why? Because they don’t accept trans women as women, and therefore they believe I’m straight and resent me saying otherwise.

  Obviously, this just makes me plant my lesbian flag on every hill I can find. If there’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s bigotry in all its forms.

  People don’t get to decide what my sexual orientation is, and they also don’t get to exclude trans women from womanhood. This type of trans-exclusionary behaviour is extremely damaging to an already marginalized community. Telling me I’m not a lesbian is another way to invalidate my wife’s gender. To get their point across, they misgender Zoë and call her my husband, a “confused man who gets turned on by pretending to be a woman.” They fetishize her, ridicule her.

  They say I’m along for the ride, indulging her fantasy to keep our marriage afloat. They call me names, tell me I’m lying to myself and everyone else. They say I’m pretending to be gay and “erasing real lesbians.” They even make up things I’ve supposedly said to try to discredit me to my growing audience of readers and online followers. The more visible we get, the more they try to take us down.

  This small but vocal and organized group of anti-trans activists—many of whom proudly call themselves “gender-critical”—focus intensely on denying the validity of transgender experiences. While many are straight, some are part of the lesbian, gay and bisexual communities—heartbreaking proof that not all of us are in this together. These people often claim that trans men are simply confused lesbians, and that trans women are perverts playing dress-up. They claim an invasion of women’s spaces, and the indoctrination of children into the “trans ideology.” It’s confusing and ugly rhetoric, based largely on unfounded fears and misconcept
ions.

  Our love threatens them. Our story frightens them. It undoes the work they try to do. They want to make trans people out to be unlovable monsters, not wonderful partners, caring parents and happy human beings.

  On one occasion, after I had talked about the vileness of their attacks and even the threats I had received, one tweeted me and said if I would just admit I’m not a lesbian, they would leave me alone.

  In other words, if I just backed down, they would stop bullying me.

  She clearly doesn’t know me.

  Unfortunately for her and the others of that ilk, I spent my formative years dealing with bullies. I know them well. I’ve been attacked from every angle and I know all the tricks. I nearly ended my life because of them, then I spent years cultivating the resiliency I needed to push beyond that pain.

  My friend, I was literally set on fucking fire. Do you honestly think calling me a few bad words is going to make me stop speaking out for LGBTQ rights? Please.

  I’m here for the long haul. This is the fight life set me up to do. I don’t know if I believe in a higher power, but I know the universe took a bullied girl who was afraid of change and nonconformity, threw her into one of the most misunderstood family situations on the planet and made her face her fears. How could I not learn to be a better person? How could I not get stronger? I have an abundance of strength in my own home to draw from every day.

  I was built for this. I’m not going anywhere.

  One day, Jackson, Zoë and I were all sitting on the couch in the living room when our phones lit up in succession. They were Facebook messages from the same unknown individual. I read mine first. It was a string of insults and slurs about how sick my family was, how disgusting my wife and child were, and how we were damaging our other children. Zoë had received something similar.

  “Jackson, please hand me your phone,” I asked calmly.

  “Why?” he asked, picking it up from the coffee table in front of him.

  “Someone has sent you a terrible message and I’m going to delete it.”

  “One of your ‘admirers,’ Mom?” he inquired sarcastically. He handed it over.

  “I’m really sorry, buddy. I’m disgusted someone would send this to you,” I said, reading it to myself. It was all about how dysfunctional our family was, and how Jackson was going to be messed up for the rest of his life. I nuked it and blocked the person.

  “Whatever,” he said. “Get a hobby, guy. I’m not the one who’s trolling kids.” He gave us both a hug and we went back to watching TV.

  Our children are just fine, thanks.

  I have had to file police reports on two separate occasions after receiving threats. Those are just the ones I’ve bothered to report. One was sent to my daughter’s middle school after the release of the Microsoft video. Another was sent directly to me on Facebook messenger. It told me I had a giant target on my back.

  Going on high alert is stressful. The kids couldn’t go anywhere alone for a while. I had to talk to teachers and principals about taking increased security measures. I made sure all our doors and windows were locked. I was jumpy in public and didn’t even enjoy my usual trips to the grocery store.

  After the second time, I began taking antidepressants again and have stayed on them since. Life is more manageable this way. But we can’t—and don’t—live our lives in fear. We’re careful about sharing too much personal information online, but we don’t hide from our community. Zoë and I often walk hand in hand when we take the dogs out, and just about everyone, young and old, greets us with a smile. Our kids rule the neighbourhood on bikes, scooters and skateboards. A pride flag waves proudly in our front garden.

  Fear does not win in this house, on this street or in this city. Love does.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  ripples

  “MY DRESS IS HERE!” Zoë shouted excitedly from the front door.

  It was a few weeks before our vow renewal. We had both taken a big gamble and ordered our dresses online. She brought the box containing hers up to the bedroom and opened it. I took my dress, which had arrived a few days before, out of the closet and put it up next to hers.

  The gamble had not paid off.

  “These don’t go together,” I said, panic mounting in my voice.

  “Sure, they do,” she said. “If you maybe…um, if we…” She trailed off, moving her dress to one side of mine then the other as I shook my head.

  “The fabrics and styles are completely different,” I said. “And yours doesn’t look like the pictures.”

  As cute as it was, Zoë’s dress was not cute in the way the website photos had said it would be. It was shorter and whiter than we had been led to believe. Next to mine—a lacy, creamy, garden party dress with dainty pink flowers—it looked completely out of place.

  “You’re right,” she said. “This is a fashion disaster.”

  Weddings between two feminine-presenting—or femme—lesbians, I decided, were complicated. If one of us had wanted to wear a suit, this would be much easier. But because neither of us did, we had to find two dresses that not only complemented our different body types but also looked great together. No small feat.

  “What should we do?” Zoë asked. “Return them?”

  “I can’t return my dress!” I exclaimed. “Do you know how hard it is to find one you feel great in when you’re a full-figured woman who’s had three kids?”

  “I like my dress too,” she said, staring at it longingly. “I don’t want to send it back.”

  “I know, but you look good in everything,” I said, a little too resentfully. “You have the body of a model.”

  “Not true!”

  “Please.” I rolled my eyes. “Going dress shopping with you is hard only because they all look so nice on you that you can’t decide which one to buy. What a problem to have.”

  “That’s such an exaggeration!” she fired back.

  Things were getting heated. There was only one thing to do.

  “That’s it,” I said, putting my hand up to stop the conversation. “We need to settle this with a dress-off.”

  “A what?”

  “A dress-off,” I declared. “We both try on our dresses, and whoever wears hers best gets to keep it.”

  “Deal,” she replied competitively, and started throwing off her clothes.

  Within a couple of minutes, we were zipping up our wedding wear in front of the mirror.

  “Wow,” said Zoë, looking at me. “You really do look beautiful in that dress. It’s perfect on you.”

  “Thanks,” I replied, blushing. “And you…uh…” I stopped. There was no use in lying.

  “I look terrible in this dress,” she said.

  “I didn’t want to say it.” I winced. Zoë, who rocked every dress I had ever seen her in, looked like a cotton ball with legs. The dress was too short. It didn’t hang well on her at all, and it was decidedly not meant for taller women, no matter what the website promised.

  “You win,” she sighed. “I’ll box this up. Let’s hit the mall tomorrow.”

  Given how stunning my wife is, this is likely the only dress-off I will ever win. But I will hold it over her head for a very long time.

  * * *

  —

  I have by my desk a wall filled with sticky notes. Each one has a message I’ve transcribed from an email, tweet, text, Facebook message or in-person conversation where someone has told me that the advocacy work I do and our family’s story has made a difference. There are dozens of them, and all of them are along these lines:

  “You’re a strong role model for parents, resilient children and youth.”

  “Thank you for being the voice for so many of us.”

  “You’re one of the reasons I didn’t kill myself.”

  “Your family is saving lives with what you’re doing. Not all heroes wear capes.”

  If you had asked me years ago what I would be doing with my life, I never could have guessed this. The ideas I had for careers ranged from
veterinarian to computer hardware engineer to journalist. None of my dreams involved LGBTQ advocacy.

  I did not expect to speak in front of thousands of people at WE Day Vancouver with my amazing trans kid. In November 2016, we took the stage at this celebration of young changemakers with Microsoft’s vice-president of worldwide education to discuss our online advocacy work. When I asked the audience if acceptance and understanding for trans people was finally happening, eighteen thousand people cheered. Loudly. It was beautiful.

  I could never have guessed I would be the keynote speaker in Banff on International Women’s Day, discussing the importance of lifting up all women, including our transgender sisters.

  I never thought our whole family would be invited to meet Prime Minister Justin Trudeau on the day the federal government’s trans rights bill was tabled. His commitment to LGBTQ rights could be felt in every word he spoke to us. He thanked us for our visibility, and we thanked him for keeping his campaign promise to make the country safer for trans people.

  I couldn’t have predicted the embarrassing moment when I cried with joy in Justice Minister Jody Wilson-Raybould’s arms when the trans rights bill was passed into law in June 2017. After years of stalled and failed bills and after months of debate in Parliament and in the media, I was overwhelmed by the relief of knowing my daughter would grow up with laws protecting her.

  I never expected to speak in the Reading Room on Parliament Hill for the House of Commons’ first Pride Month celebrations. It was an honour to be asked, and the fact I was speaks volumes about the work done by those who came before us, the ones who did the hard labour to get society to a place where Pride is recognized and a gay woman with a trans wife and daughter would even be considered someone worth listening to.