My parents recommend that I make time to go back to church to be part of a community and pray for some answers, but a church is really the last place I want to go with questions about my child’s sexual orientation. I’m afraid there will be too much judgment there, and I don’t want to be swayed into any particular way of thinking. In our family, love is unconditional and universal.
One of Jenn’s friends hears about Ryland’s love for male clothes and sends us a box of her son’s hand-me-downs. Ryland and I peek inside, and Ry looks up at me with those big, hazel eyes: the box is stuffed with Gap shirts, sweatshirts, pairs of long pants. These definitely aren’t like much of the rest of Ryland’s wardrobe—girls’ clothes neutralized in shades of blue, green, and yellow. These are definitely clothes for a boy, and as her options grow, so does her insistence. Ryland fights to wear these boys’ clothes everywhere.
At preschool, Ryland’s teacher introduces her class to a math and phonics website called Starfall.com, where the kids can design their own avatar’s face and clothing and play from anywhere. We log in at home, and together Ryland and I begin to make choices for her character. The program asks us: is our avatar a boy or a girl? “Girl,” I click.
“I am a BOY!” Ryland screams.
I look at my child, deep in the eyes. I don’t think I can fight this anymore. I need help.
Why am I even fighting her? When I force myself to really think about it, I realize that I’ve been denying the truth about her true well-being again. I had been in denial once before with Ryland’s deafness. It cost us months of setback and potential limits for Ryland’s hearing success, and once we got through the worst of it, I promised myself that I would never make that mistake again. I’m paying attention to the signs this time . . . it’s just that I don’t know what the signs and all of her struggle mean.
Slowly, I’m discovering that there’s something even deeper to this expression of masculinity. I start to listen to Ryland from around the corner while she’s playing Starfall. Sometimes, when I walk into the room, she turns to me quickly and her face flushes with embarrassment. One day, when I find her playing, she looks at me with those same innocent eyes as on the day when I found her in Jeff’s closet and she asked me, “Momma, please don’t tell anybody.” I realize: I cannot fuel Ryland’s feelings of shame, or make her feel a sense of responsibility for how I as her mother feel. I know that this won’t be easy, but if this is really who my child is, then I need to learn how not just to tolerate it, but to embrace that.
Chapter Five
Immediate Attention
During this period, Ryland is going on four years old and now transitioning out of the special needs preschool because her speech and language have progressed so quickly. Our fears associated with her deafness are starting to ease, and we are extremely active throwing large gatherings for the Bionic Ear Association. We also have new families of deaf children over for dinner to be a source of support for them, but even in the presence of the families who relate to our journey with Ryland’s hearing and speaking, there is a constant, pulsing anxiety inside me over Ryland’s masculine behaviors and expression. I don’t know where all this is headed, and as a first-time mom, I definitely don’t know how to manage it with any sort of expertise.
As much as I can, I soak in every possible moment to observe Ryland being carefree and happy. I love to stand back and watch her fondness for different things develop: she adores animals, exploring outside, being silly, using her hands, being creative, and playing with her friends. Gianna is the pal she sees the most frequently—they always get along, and their personalities complement each other. Both are take-charge, but when it comes down to it, Gianna tends to let Ryland take the lead. When Jenn and I take them swimming, Gianna wears a ruffled pink swimsuit while Ryland, still wearing a ponytail, refuses to wear anything besides blue swimming bottoms. She and Gianna carry on with no worries, loving all the make-believe scenarios and games. Jeff, Jenn, and I marvel in amazement when, while they’re playing House, Gianna completely goes with the flow when Ryland tells her: “I be da dad.”
“Okay!”
They race back to Ryland’s room to pick out dress-up clothes. Gianna finds the frilliest pink tutu, and Ryland grabs her blue shirt. (She’d also begun to request the addition of a necktie, so I bought a few kids’ ties with elastic bands to go over her head, which she’s been pairing with a T-shirt at home.)
In August 2011, Ryland starts at a local preschool. It’s a well-known, highly regarded program in our neighborhood that’s connected to Foothills, the Methodist church in our area. The preschool there is known for its safety and warm environment. All of our neighbors’ kids attend, and Jeff and I feel that it would be nice for Ryland, and also for us, to be part of a school community with so many local friends.
Last year, the special needs school was a supportive environment for Ryland—they coached her on the name of her teachers and classmates to make sure she knew what to call them, to avoid getting lost in the shuffle. They always double-checked to be sure she heard her instructions clearly. They even carpeted the classroom so that the children with cochlear implants could pick up the best acoustical sound possible. But now, at Foothills, we’re excited for Ryland to be challenged in an environment with typically developing children, too. I don’t say this to anyone but Jeff, but Ryland’s participation at Foothills makes it feel as though we’ve arrived. Finally, we’re a normal family.
At our orientation meeting, I make a point to let Ryland’s new teacher know that not only is Ryland deaf with cochlear implants, but she’s also a tomboy who may very well hang around the boys more than the girls. The word tomboy is the quickest, easiest way I can find to describe Ryland and protect her from people’s expectations that she will like “girl” things, and I find myself beginning to use it as much for my protection from judgment as for Ryland’s. It upsets my child so much every time a teacher or nurse or anyone else assumes she will want the princess sticker over the car sticker. When teachers hand out projects, or ask children to line up in the girl line or the boy line, they sometimes don’t think about how uncomfortable this may be for kids like Ryland, who are more gender-fluid. At Ryland’s special needs preschool, many times I watched as she struggled to find a way to politely choose something that wasn’t offered to her as a choice, or to turn down a toy or an opportunity altogether because it just didn’t suit her. Now, as she enters her mainstream preschool, I can’t help but feel like I have to step in and help her in these cases. Why is it that we, as a society, automatically assume what a girl or boy likes before they even get the opportunity to figure it out for themselves and choose?
Ms. Vicci is a woman in her fifties, young-looking with brown hair and a kind smile. “We’ll all watch her closely,” she assures us, “and we’ll roll with it. Every child is different.”
We are over the moon when we attend our first parent-teacher conference and learn that Ryland is able to communicate and understand at a level with other children her same age. It’s a miracle, really, and it makes me feel like all the pain we’ve been through is worth it.
As the school year continues, I grow friendly with some of the mothers who have children in Ryland’s class. I take a liking to Chase’s mom—a sweet single mom with a heart of gold in whom I’ve confided some of my questions about Ryland’s sexuality. Chase is also one of the nicest little boys I’ve ever met. He’s a beautiful child—very tall with olive skin, a precious smile, and the most gorgeous brown curls. He also has mild autism. His mom often sends him to school with small treats that they baked together at home for him to share with Ryland. Because Chase grows so fast for his age, they give Ryland boxes of his hand-me-down clothes. One day he even brings Ryland a school folder that matches his own with the infamous red Angry Bird on the cover.
Chase and his mom share a home with Chase’s grandmother, Barbara, who is Chase’s daytime caregiver. At school pickup, I often chat with Barbara, loving her spirit—she’s an activist, she tells me, and I’ve
noticed that she has a bumper sticker on her car that reads “99%.” I was raised conservative, but I know how to listen and I enjoy hearing her outspoken views on politics and social issues. I respect her and her passion, and I’m intrigued by her dedication to her beliefs. Most of all, I see how much she loves her grandson, and I don’t really care what political party she chooses.
One day after school, Ryland and I are at their house. Barbara and I are in the kitchen talking when Ryland runs out and puts her hands on my lap. “Momma,” she says, “I go potty.”
“You have to go potty?” I ask her, glancing down. “Oh, you already did go potty. Uh-oh.”
Immediately, Chase’s grandma waltzes back to Chase’s room and brings out a pair of Chase’s Star Wars underwear.
Ryland’s eyes light up like the Fourth of July.
We go to the bathroom and change into them. The underwear has a blue background and a red waistband, with black Darth Vader faces and the Star Wars logo. On our way out, I hug Barbara.
“Thanks for the underwear,” I tell her. “We’ll return them.”
“Please,” she says, “don’t worry about it. We can spare a pair of underwear for Ryland.”
When Jeff comes home, I tell him the story about Ryland’s potty accident and the Darth Vader underwear. He takes it in, folds his arms, and stands back against the kitchen counter. In his reaction, I see a disappointment—no, a sadness—that I haven’t seen until now. He looks at me, and with our silence, we acknowledge it.
“This may be one step too far,” he says.
“You think I’m encouraging this?”
“You’re allowing it.”
“Allowing what?”
“You’re allowing her to be in charge!”
“What do you want me to do instead?”
“Something!” he says. “Now it will be even harder to—”
“To what, Jeff?” I know what he’s saying: now it will be even harder to curb some of this behavior.
I know my husband does not like the idea of his daughter wearing boys’ undies, and I know that I should be able to stop it. Parents should have control over their children’s wardrobes, right? But nobody, not even Jeff, knows the fight I go through every day. I’ve tried everything, and besides giving in, nothing I’ve been able to think of has worked.
I can see where Jeff is coming from, but I don’t know what to do about it. We may have just reached the point of no return.
The next day, I wash the Star Wars underwear, still intending to return them to Chase, but Ryland asks to wear them again. I bargain with myself: because they were borrowed, we can get away with letting Ryland wear them, can’t we? We put them on, and Ryland wants to wear them again, the next day. I wash them again and again, over and over. Ryland refuses to wear anything else. I wash them until they fade to baby blue and I can barely make out the Darth Vader faces. Does it bother me that my daughter likes boys’ underwear? Some. But her daily wardrobe tantrums bother me worse. Her not being able to hear bothers me worse than that.
To everyone else, I’m supposed to have this child under control, but Ryland is very strong, self-aware, and clear on what she wants. Plus, in my eyes, she’s not being disobedient—she’s generally an incredibly sweet and loving child who’s considerate of others, and she listens in every other situation except where her clothes are concerned. She just expresses who she is through her external appearance, like all of us. She wants to dress like a boy.
I know that for Jeff, especially working in such a macho field of work, this is growing more and more uncomfortable all the time. I also believe that if the rest of the family were to find out how far this has gone behind closed doors, they would find it very strange and awkward. Our little Ryland in boys’ underwear? I get how something about it is just too close for comfort.
A FEW MONTHS later, we learn that we’re expecting again. Jeff and I are thrilled, and so is Ryland—she’s been asking for a sibling for months. However, because of all I went through in my first pregnancy, I hold some trepidation that I don’t hide very well. My doctor tells me to put my feet up and relax as much as I can, and it’s all I can do not to laugh in his face: I have a three-and-a-half-year-old to keep up with, a house to take care of, a husband who comes home exhausted after twenty-four-hour shifts, and extended family who need us, too. Relaxing won’t really be an option.
Periodically throughout the first trimester, Melissa comes to help take care of me, putting her nursing skills to the test as I fight to hold any morsel of food in my stomach without losing it moments later. I hit midterm, twenty weeks, just as we’re nearing Ryland’s fourth birthday. Jeff and I have discussed it: we don’t want to throw her a birthday party this year because we don’t know how we’ll manage her disappointment over receiving “girl” gifts. I don’t want to have to explain to every single guest that Ryland is a tomboy, and I feel very awkward addressing what presents people should buy for her. She would be so sad to open presents that are designed in the traditional way for little girls. We feel like we’re protecting her by making sure she won’t have to deal with that, but we’re aware that we’re also actively thinking of depriving Ryland of a birthday party because of our own insecurities and uncertainties.
It’s a tough call . . . until I have a brainstorm: my parents used to love to take my brother and me to Disneyland every year before Christmas, and Ryland is at the perfect age to bring back that tradition. Jeff agrees with me that this could be a good way to avoid an uncomfortable situation, and the outcome is what matters to us the most. If we can get Ryland on board for a Disneyland birthday, then the deferment of a party could help keep the peace for everyone.
“Ry,” I ask her, “for your birthday, how would you like it if we go to Disneyland? Grandma and Grandpa will come along, and you can choose a friend to bring with you—what do you think?”
She tilts her head in consideration, and then shouts, “Yeah!” She chooses to bring Gianna, and we all gear up to celebrate Ryland’s big day at the happiest place on earth. I choose a sundress, knowing that Gianna will be dressed to the Disneyland nines, and knowing that when we arrive, every Disney princess at every intersection of the park will greet Ryland. I don’t want our whole family to stand witness to what happens when her outfit creates confusion.
As we’re getting ready for my parents and Gianna to arrive, Ryland fights me on the outfit choice. Hard. Jeff tries to reason with her while I stand back, and when he looks at me with surrender on his face, I attempt to negotiate with candy, then toys. When neither of those options works, I remember: I am the parent!
Our reasoning turns into a wrestle as I try to wrangle her into the dress. Ryland is sobbing, tears and saliva smeared all over her face. “I don’t want to go!” she wails. “I don’t want to go, I don’t like this!”
Suddenly, I feel a hardening sensation in my tummy and I recognize the contractions instantly: these are preterm labor pains. I should go sit on the couch, I tell myself, but I should also do Ryland’s hair, stick in a bow, and brush her teeth before my parents get here.
Never imagining that a child would dare miss Disneyland because of a dress (and not wanting to disappoint my parents, who have been planning this day for weeks), I compromise with Ry: if she’ll wear a gray T-shirt and jeans—with hair bows—then we can still go. She calms down and agrees. Heading into the bathroom to finish getting her ready, I stop myself in our hallway to make sure: the contractions have stopped, but I am worried sick. Going to Disneyland is probably the last thing I should be doing today, I think. I promise myself that I’ll take rests throughout the day and definitely the second that I feel something more.
When we make it to the park, Ryland has pretty much forgotten the whole sundress episode. Before we enter the turnstiles into the park, we head straight to Goofy’s Kitchen for a special breakfast buffet to celebrate Ry’s big day. Then as we make our way into the park, she is visibly standoffish when Cinderella and Ariel say things like, “What a pretty girl you
are!” Instead, she’s got her heart set on the Darth Vader training academy. It’s this cute little Disneyland skit where the Jedi Knights select kids out of the crowd to go through training to eventually engage in a swordfight with Darth Vader.
I know how badly Ryland wants to be chosen; she’s been talking about it for weeks. She and Gianna stand among the audience of kids, the two of them jumping and waving to be chosen. Gianna couldn’t care less about Star Wars, but when she looks around at Ryland and all the other kids’ excitement, she jumps and waves even more to keep up.
As the Jedi Knights make their selections, I notice that they’re choosing children significantly older than Ryland and Gianna, most likely so they’re old enough to follow commands. Suddenly, a Jedi chooses Gianna. I freeze. Oh God, please choose Ryland, please choose Ryland! It’s her birthday, and it will kill Ryland if Gianna gets chosen and she doesn’t! I grab Ryland’s hand and lift her up so that the Jedi can see her, and finally, one of the kind Jedis motions for Ryland to come onstage. Ryland runs for the stage, and her eyes light up as she performs in front of the crowd. She and Gianna are the tiniest ones performing by far, but Ryland’s smile is bigger than anything onstage.
Ry and Gianna are still buzzing about this when, nearing lunchtime, I see a man who seems to be approaching us. He’s wearing a button-down shirt, a hat, and sunglasses, and at his side is a blond woman who’s walking toward us, too.
“Tim?” he says, removing his sunglasses.
My dad stops in his tracks. “Eric?”
“Pastor Eric!”
There are hugs all around with our old family friend and his wife, Karen, neither of whom we’ve seen since he was gracious enough to travel with our family to Oregon to conduct my brother’s funeral service and help us spread Ryan’s ashes near the lighthouse that stands near my grandfather’s property, which has been one of our family’s favorite places to visit over the years.
Raising Ryland Page 8
