Raising Ryland

by Hillary Whittington

  I always feel Jeff’s tension—even after their Christmas clothing shopping trip, he’s avoided talking about it at all costs. Having to fathom Ryland’s future as a deaf person was painful enough for Jeff, but now, dealing with yet another challenge, he has struggled, often in silence, to understand what’s going on. Worse, he and I definitely have not seen the urgency of this situation in the same way.

  But on this night, when Ryland breaks down, I am physically unable to see my child hurt with shame and guilt anymore. I can no longer allow this to go on. I have to choose. The reality of all this has been creeping up on me for some time, but as a mother, my first priority has to be my child’s safety.

  “Ryland . . . honey . . .” I sit up in bed. “You don’t have to wait until the family dies. You can get your hair cut right now.”

  She begins to cry again. Her tears are silent, her face is flushed. She seems to know that her pain is hurting me, too, and neither of us knows how to make it all stop.

  Even at this tiny age, Ryland has the wisdom and self-awareness to know the true significance of what she has just asked me. Cutting her hair is the final bridge left to cross into letting her become a boy. If that makes my child like herself better, then I’m prepared to do it.

  I wrap my arms around her. She removes her ears and hands them to me—her signal that she’s finished having a conversation and is ready to rest. She buries her head into the space under my arm, and she cries. I massage her head and her back until I know she’s fallen asleep.

  And then I begin my own cries. My child, only five years old, is so miserable with who she is. For months I have seen a conversation like this coming. It pains me to think that this little person is smart enough to tell me something so powerful, at such a young age. These tears are for my child—my desire to make things right for Ryland. The final and complete acceptance that this is not a phase, that this isn’t just going to pass, that my daughter isn’t just a tomboy. That on the other side of all this, things will be different—Ryland’s life, Jeff’s life, Brynley’s life—our family will be changed.

  My tears flow harder when I begin to visualize Ryland’s future as a transgender person. Just like I had pictured Ryland sitting at the Thanksgiving table without sound, I begin to picture her as a teenager not having a date to prom because she is the “different” one.

  And many of my tears are disbelief that this is really happening. How could God do this to us again? How could he put this little person through so much in life—what was He trying to do to us? I’m angry that God would make this innocent little child hurt so much inside. Then I think, How am I going to explain this to everyone? How will I deal with Jeff? How will I get everyone to understand that I didn’t do this to my child?

  My mind races with thoughts. I begin to anticipate the comments from the naysayers already, and to practice my responses. I can’t let this go on. I have to get to the bottom of what is going on inside Ryland, and I have to fix my child’s pain. I have to take action.

  The next morning, I’m in Ryland’s bedroom, choosing her outfit for school . . . and hoping that when she wakes up, she’ll have forgotten about the terrible conversation we had last night.

  Without skipping a beat, I’m pulling out underwear and socks when I look to her doorway and find her staring at me.

  “Mom?” she says.

  “What is it, Ry?”

  “Why did God make me this way?”

  What?

  All over again, I’m at a loss. Completely. I search for the words, the thought, to spin this into something positive. “What do you mean, baby?”

  She rubs one foot against the opposite ankle with an innocence that strikes at my heart. Then she leans back against the doorway. “Why didn’t God make me a boy?”

  I have no idea what to say or do, so I take the response that comes to me automatically. I walk to my tiny child, I put my arms around her, and I squeeze her in to me. We stay this way for a few moments, and silently, I make my vow. Ryland, I think, even if one day this means that we have to leave Daddy and our family so that you can be free with me from the judgment of anyone who doesn’t accept you, then I will do what I have to do. My pain and anguish are starting to turn to anger—and anger, I’ve heard, is the powerful agent that catalyzes us to make critical changes in our lives.

  I prepare Ryland for school. As always, I time everything precisely: change Brynley’s diaper, feed both children, make a lunch, load them up, and get to school early enough to grab a decent parking spot—the perfect flow of the morning’s timing that is crucial to most moms.

  I drop Ryland off, but I don’t know if it’s the right thing to do. I feel very reluctant to release my little one into the classroom, into the world, into her day of thinking and interacting and learning, when there’s no way for me to influence what she’ll experience. I make sure Ryland has her snack separate from her lunch on the lunch cart and her FM system turned on and placed around her neck in order to pick up the teacher’s voice directly. Then, when it’s eight o’clock, we hear the bell ring.

  I walk with Ryland to the line outside of her class, where I kiss her good-bye. Mrs. Sayers greets each student with a hug when they enter her classroom. As I watch Ryland go inside, my heart feels a tug as painful as it did on the very first day I ever dropped her off at school. Is my child going to be okay today?

  Before I pull out of the school parking lot, I text my mom and ask her to find all the old photos of me as a little girl during my pixie haircut phase. I used to hate those pictures, but I want to relate to Ryland somehow, any way I can, so that she won’t feel so alone.

  When we arrive home, I sit Brynley onto her blanket on the living room floor and stand there thinking, reflecting, in the way one does when everything in their life has just shifted.

  Then suddenly, a memory rises up.

  It was an afternoon late last summer when I was feeling very alone, very lost and sad, pondering the fact that Ryland was less than a month away from entering transitional kindergarten with so many battles happening inside of her. At that time, I was under the deepest impression that she was showing me signs that she was a lesbian. It’s when things were growing clear to me that this wasn’t a phase, or something she would outgrow—I just felt it.

  That day, Peg and Rand had the kids so that I could get some errands done. I craved the feeling of being surrounded by other people . . . but I didn’t want to have to speak to any of them. And I wanted to see something beautiful. I took the impulse to drive to Mission Valley’s outdoor mall with its palm trees rising up like pillars and its sleek, bright construction.

  The only thing I had any intention to buy was an Orange Julius and an order of mini pretzels with warm cheese sauce. For a few minutes, I sat on the bench and enjoyed every morsel, every sip. Pure pleasure . . . it was a contentment that I hadn’t experienced in as long as I could remember.

  Just as I stood up to wander a little more, a middle-aged woman approached me. For some reason, I remember that I found myself not immediately inclined to dismiss her. Her clipboard had some paperwork on it, and when I glanced down, I saw the image of a rainbow on the paper. “Do you have a few minutes?” she said. Ryland and Brynley were taken care of. What would a few more minutes be, if it had any potential to lead me to some clarity?

  “Yes,” I told her. “I have a minute or two.”

  She shared a very emotional story about a young woman who came out as a lesbian and was not accepted by her family. She grew visibly emotional as she told it, and suddenly I was so glad that I’d given her the chance to speak. She asked me whether I’d like to donate to the nonprofit she was representing, whose main goal was to raise awareness about the experiences of the LGBTQ population.

  “I will absolutely donate,” I told her, and I couldn’t stop myself from asking: “Can I tell you something?”

  She nodded and stood patiently. And I poured my heart out.

  I told her that no one really understood what I was going t
hrough, that my husband didn’t even really understand. I told her the painful stories of Ryland hiding in the closet wearing Jeff’s clothes and making me promise not to tell anyone. I told her every little indication I had that my child was either lesbian or transgender. There were so many. I broke down and cried, and she hugged me, right there in the middle of the mall. I gave her a donation, and she gave me a slip of paper with the contact information for their free help line.

  When I arrived at home, I tucked the paper far into one of my dresser drawers. If Jeff found it, he would probably be very angry, for two reasons: one, we were on a tight budget and he probably wouldn’t have been thrilled that I was donating money without his consent, and two, he might be upset that I was “jumping to conclusions” about Ryland.

  I held on to this piece of paper for a long time. I didn’t do anything with it, but since I knew I was certainly no expert on this subject, something told me that it might come in handy one day. I know now that I saved that piece of paper with the same dedicated resourcefulness I used when we were researching the possibility of Ryland’s cochlear implants: There had to be other families who had gone through this before us, who could give us some strength and direction to the resources we needed back then; who could enlighten us with lessons from their experiences. During that period, I didn’t know if we’d be able to make it through all that—but now we have. That experience in our family’s life solidified the belief for me that I can always learn from someone just by asking for help.

  Now, I know I have to do the same thing in this case. I have to find every story and person I can who might relate to my child, and to help me find which path is best for our family.

  Back in our living room as Brynley lifts her head and wiggles her arms to stay occupied, I pick up my phone again and quickly punch out an email. It’s to Aunt Sue, Rand’s sister, who is gay and has been an advocate for the LGBTQ population for many years. “Call me if you can,” I write. “Ryland just shocked me with a comment. I need an honest opinion. xoxo.”

  A minute later, I jump when I see her name in my inbox, but it’s an automatic reply message. She’s away traveling on business and will respond to emails when she returns to California.

  Then, remembering the slip of paper with rainbows on it from Canvas for the Cause, I dash back to my bedroom and fumble into the back of my drawer. Yes! There it is. I run back to the living room and quickly dial the number.

  “Hello, this is Shannon,” says a friendly voice.

  “Hi,” I tell her. “Ummm . . . my name is Hillary, and I met one of your activists months ago at Mission Valley. I’ve been wanting to call you for months, but I haven’t.”

  “I’m glad you did,” Shannon says. “What’s the reason for your call?”

  I take a deep breath and launch into it. “My daughter has been showing signs of being gay. She’s five. She dresses in my husband’s clothes and only wants to do boy things. But recently, it’s gotten more serious. The other night she said to me, ‘Mom, when the family dies, I’m going to cut my hair so I can be a boy.’ Then this morning she looked at me with tears in her eyes and asked why God made her this way. I am at the point that I don’t know what to say to her. I really don’t. I am okay with her being a lesbian, but I just don’t think that is it.”

  Shannon’s voice is consistently calm and kind. “I can find you some help,” she says. “We’ll get you some support groups and resources in your area. If you’re open to my honest opinion—”

  “I am.”

  “It sounds to me like Ryland may be transgender.”

  The word actually gives me a sense of relief—finally, someone has validated what I’ve been guessing. “What do I do?”

  “Maybe you can start referring to Ryland as ‘them’ or ‘they.’”

  I try to turn this phrase over in my head, but my thoughts are on spin cycle.

  “Here,” Shannon says. “I’m going to give you the names of a few therapists Ryland could see. You and your husband should go, as well. Most of the ones I know are for ages fourteen and above, but I will call around and do some research to make sure we can find someone who’s appropriate for you.”

  “I’ll appreciate absolutely any resources you have,” I tell her. “I’ll do whatever you suggest.” When we hang up, that moment of relief is short-lived. More than ever, this is very real . . . and the area underneath my rib cage is sick with emotion. I’m worried for Ryland’s future.

  Shannon calls me later that day, before Ryland gets out of school. “I have two names for you to contact,” she says. “These are both very good therapists who deal with gender identity.” One is Marcie Goldman, and the other is Darlene Tando. In addition, she’s called both of them and left messages on our behalf. She also tells me about an underground parent support group in San Diego that meets every month, and she offers to put me in touch with the group leader.

  Ryland and Brynley are both in bed when Jeff comes home that night. I ask him to sit down with me, and I tell him what Ryland told me the night before. Pushing against my own tears to try to keep from breaking down, I also observe Jeff’s reaction: the conversation is definitely bringing him farther down the path to acceptance and the need to explore more of what Ryland is experiencing.

  “Honey,” I tell him, feeling my affection for him bubbling up again now that I’m seeing the authenticity in his reaction. “I know how hard this is for you—and I know I handle it differently, but trust me, this is not any easier for me.”

  He looks at me, waiting patiently to hear what’s coming next.

  “But staying in denial is not going to make this go away. We need to talk to other parents—some who can offer some guidance for how we could be handling this.”

  After a silent pause, Jeff nods. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s see if we can find any resources.” We walk into the office, where he sits down at the computer. “What should we search for?” he says.

  “Start with ‘transgender kids.’”

  Up comes the name of a transgender girl, Jazz Jennings, whose name I’ve come across every time I’ve done a search on the topic. I urge Jeff to click on a video of her on a recent talk show, and I raise my eyebrows at him when he sees how confident she is in the interview. “Wow,” he says. “She’s so happy.”

  There’s also a list of a few books by experts, so I order every book I can find on the topic of gender nonconformity, like The Transgender Child by Stephanie Brill and Rachel Pepper. When it arrives three days later, I break down crying as I read. It’s a huge “aha” moment when The Transgender Child lists the four distinguishing characteristics that can indicate that a child is indeed transgender: bathroom behavior, swimsuit aversion, their underwear preferences, and the type of toys they choose. Ryland meets all four.

  In this moment, I am officially convinced.

  The very next day, Ryland and Brynley are in the bath together, and knowing now what we’re dealing with, I videotape it with my phone. When I hit the RECORD button, Ryland puts her arm around Brynley and says, “This is my sister Brynley, and I’m her brudder, Ryland.”

  Immediately I hit the STOP button, as if out of reflex. Then I take a deep breath and send the video to Jeff at work. My subject line reads one word: “wow.”

  The statement is clear and simple.

  Photo Section

  The day that Jeff and I met on the beaches of San Diego. That day made me a believer in love at first sight.

  By far the most significant part of our wedding day was having my brother (Ryan) and the rest of the family together for one of the last days of his life.

  DMZ Visual Marketing & Photography

  My brother gave the warmest and longest hugs that made you feel how much he cared. He later said that my wedding day “was the best day of his life.”

  DMZ Visual Marketing & Photography

  We were so excited when we learned that we were having a little girl, and we immediately went to work on the perfect nursery plan.

  Ryland
’s arrival was one of the happiest days of my life. Becoming a mother was one of my biggest dreams.

  Jeff has always been a very involved, hands-on, and loving father. From the very beginning, he has wanted to be present for every milestone or fall.

  Meeting Jenn and Gianna came at a perfect time. Ryland and Gianna quickly became friends and continue to share an unbreakable bond.

  We knew the day of Ryland’s cochlear implant surgery would be difficult, but we also knew we made the right choice.

  The day Ryland was “turned on” came with much anticipation, and eventually Ryland grew to love the new sensation of hearing.

  Visiting Jeff at the firehouse was one of Ryland’s favorite outings, but our visits became less frequent as Ryland progressed through transition.

  Image provided courtesy of Advanced Bionics. Photograph by Gilles Mingasson.

  Visiting Grandma and Grandpa on their ranch was always something Ryland looked forward to.

  You can see the sadness in Ryland’s eyes, at age 2, when we forced her to wear feminine costumes.

  Ryland would try every tactic to avoid wearing dresses, and I would often have to “coach” her for weeks leading up to an event.

  Ryland loved to dress up as a cowboy, not a cowgirl, as often as possible.

  Santa provided Ryland with her favorite Toy Story Christmas gifts this year.