Raising Ryland

by Hillary Whittington

  It does strike me, though: how interesting that someone would so readily praise me for acquiring sound for Ryland, but would judge a mother for embracing her transgender child.

  We have a lot of work to do, don’t we?

  By the end of the party, Jody’s dad and I are laughing, hugging, and exchanging more conversation. As we leave their home, I ask him to promise to tell all of his friends that being transgender isn’t as weird as everyone makes it sound. I believe that we’ve changed someone’s mind. It’s working. I’ve won another unexpected ally.

  By August 2014 Ryland has made some major headlines. For his contributions to the LGBT community, he’s invited as a special guest to the Nicky Awards, considered to be the “gay Academy Awards” of San Diego. There he receives the Harvey Milk/City Commissioner Nicole Murray-Ramirez Scholarship. This is followed by an invitation to meet Laverne Cox, and accompany her onstage at the Stonewall rally, which precedes the Pride Parade in San Diego each year.

  As we walk off the stage and head off to our vehicle, Ryland is stopped by a group of college-aged kids who ask, “Can we take a picture with Ryland?” Before we even have a chance to answer for him, Ryland grins and says, “Sure!” The attention is overwhelming but Ryland appears to take it in stride. He stands proudly, soaking it all in, and always remaining loving and sweet.

  Then, in September, it can’t get any better when Demi Lovato comes to perform in San Diego and invites Ryland and a friend to come along. As usual, he chooses his buddy who is always up for having fun: Gianna. Before the show we go backstage, where all of us crowd around Demi with huge smiles taking photos—Jeff’s is bigger than anyone’s!

  Chapter Eighteen

  Child at Play

  After having made some wonderful progress within our family, by May 2015—after about a six-month break from our support group—Jeff and I agree that it’s time we return to the group of families in the support group who have seen us through Ryland’s transition and beyond. Finally we have some strength to offer them again.

  When we arrive at our first meeting back, I notice some new faces—something that our group always welcomes and that I always find comforting to see. It’s nice to know that we can be a source of strength for someone who’s just coming to grips with what we once faced so glaringly head-on. It helps to remind me how far we’ve come with Ryland, and it feeds my spirit to know that I can once again be a shoulder for these families who are discovering the group for the first time.

  We start by going around the circle, as usual, introducing ourselves by saying our names, our children’s names and ages, and a brief statement about our family.

  Quickly I count: there are three new families to the group, and two haven’t socially transitioned their children. One of the families has driven here two hours from out of town. The father sits with eyes red and swollen from the tears that continue to roll down his face. His shoulders are slumped, and his forehead is weathered with wrinkles. He probably hasn’t slept a night in weeks, but there’s something in his expression that suggests he learned just seconds ago that his child is transgender—it’s a disbelief, like someone has punched him in the face, but he can’t imagine what he did to deserve it. It’s all hitting him, like it hit Jeff long ago at our first support group meeting. I recognize that pain and grief. I can feel Jeff take note of it, too. We sat in that very same position just a little over two years ago as the group played a role in leading us to speak the four words that eventually lifted a ten-ton weight from us:

  “My child is transgender.”

  When you first come to the support group, the fact that there are other families and children dealing with the same pain cements your new reality—this is actually real, because look around: other families are experiencing it, too. But, thank goodness, there’s also some relief to it: I am not alone. Looking around, the other families all seem pretty normal, and they’re all here supporting their children or, at the very least, searching for answers. So maybe that means if I do the same, my family could have a positive outcome.

  One of the moms who have shown up for the first time begins to ask questions about how to enforce that her child gets to use the appropriate restroom at school. Another parent speaks up to offer the information that thanks to Asaf Orr at the National Center for Lesbian Rights, Assembly Bill 1266 ensures that all transgender people in California are permitted to use the restroom of their gender identity. It’s a fantastic step in the right direction, but there’s still so much more that needs to happen for our children.

  Again I glance over at that father. He wipes his tears endlessly. I’m bursting inside to pass him a tissue, but no one in the group addresses his pain. Am I the only person witnessing his grief? Or do the others not want to draw attention to it?

  During the meeting’s halfway break, Paul, the middle-aged uncle of a seven-year-old trans girl in the group, nudges me. “Do you have time to talk to that family across the way after the meeting? That dad seems like he could use some extra support.”

  “I was noticing that, too,” I whisper. “I want to say something, he’s in so much pain. It’s killing me.”

  “Hill,” Jeff says, “don’t call him out in front of everyone. Trust me, he doesn’t want attention to be called to it!”

  When the meeting reconvenes, I sit and watch as the dad continues to look around like a lost little child. The group continues discussing legitimate issues, but that makes me hurt for him even more. As we all discuss how to work through practical concerns that we’ve learned to manage, he’s grieving the part of his life that knew and loved his son. Eventually it seems that the more we talk, the more he’s hurting. This isn’t fair—he needs love right now. I remind myself that I can’t save everyone in the way I’d like to, and I tell myself to wait for the right moment. Paul nudges me again and whispers, “Do it, Hillary.”

  That was all I needed. “Can I just say something really quickly?” I interrupt. “I think it’s really amazing that we have the new families here today. I know that it takes a lot of courage to be here, and the fact that you are acknowledging the signs so early on will help your child live an easier, happier life. I know this seems like a lot right now, but we are happy you are here. I know for a lot of us, it sometimes takes dads a little longer to understand this. Just know that it will get easier.”

  Another dad speaks up. “I agree. I have to add that as the father, this isn’t easy. I come from a very religious family from Mexico who still doesn’t really support our family, but my daughter blossomed when I started addressing her with the correct pronouns and treating her like a girl. It took me months before I would even come to a meeting here. One day when I came to pick up Cristy from her youth meeting, Hillary actually grabbed me and convinced me to join the parents’ group. Slowly, I opened my mind to all of this.”

  I’m blown away. This dad, Enrique, was still buying his transgender daughter boy socks when I met him. His wife was the one who broke down in sobbing tears at the first meeting that Jeff and I came to. She’s the one who said, “You’re so lucky that your husband accepts your child.” At the time, she and Enrique were very much at odds about accepting their trans daughter. She had no idea that Jeff was barely on board right then.

  And today, here sits this same dad, giving support to a new dad. It is such a great blessing to witness. The full circle Enrique has come gives me so much hope and peace in my heart. It’s a hard thing for a parent to do, but once you see how happy your child is to live in their correct gender, it’s hard to ever take that away.

  At the end of the meeting, I make a point to go over to give Enrique and his wife a hug. That’s the true meaning of family: we’re all in this together.

  Two days after this meeting, as I’m completing the final pages of this book, I receive a phone call from Monica. For months, writing this book had been very healing for me after years of struggle in our family, but this morning, Monica’s call delivers some horrifying news: a boy from our support group took his
own life yesterday.

  Kyler Prescott was fourteen years old. He had considerable support from his family and his community, but he still felt suicide was his only solution. We’ve wondered whether he was influenced to do this as a result of being attacked on social media. A few weeks before Kyler took his own life, on a social media site another kid asked him: if Kyler’s life was so hard, then why didn’t he just kill himself?

  A little over a month later, he did. For a teenager with a very vulnerable heart who was aching to find where he belonged in this world, it was the situations like this that he dealt with regularly that made it impossible for him to go on. His death shows just how hard it still is out there for transgender people.

  Kyler’s passing was the closest to home that anything like this had come for us. For weeks afterward, the thought of it stayed with me, but as usual, in front of Ryland and Brynley, both Jeff and I had to put the issue aside. For me, it was an opportunity to practice living in the here and now; doing my best not to spend today worrying about the emotional dangers that could be ahead for my transgender child. I have to remember what I always want everybody else to remember: Ryland is just a kid.

  Perhaps nothing says this as clearly as his love for baseball. Last summer, Jeff, Jay, and Rand took him on a boys’ trip to the major-league field downtown, and Jeff reported that Ryland’s eyes were glued to the players—he studied their every move as he shoved his face with popcorn and Skittles, almost like he was studying the way the players even walked. The next time he walked up to bat at his Little League game, he put his research to work: at the plate, he held his back elbow high and bent his knees, wiggling his bottom as he homed in on the ball. Jeff was convinced: Ryland needed his own baseball gear.

  So this past Christmas, when Ry asked Santa for a baseball bag, Jeff was excited to hit up Dick’s Sporting Goods for a bat bag—even surprising Ryland with a lightweight, blue aluminum bat tucked inside it. Now, as he walks down the ramp to the Little League field, he holds his head high, with his Padres shirt tucked into his gray pants with navy socks. As Ryland might say, he looks legit.

  He has made it clear that he loves baseball even more than soccer, which is fine with us. We tell him he can play whatever sport he likes, as long as he stays involved in something active and is happy while he’s doing it.

  And it’s been amazing for us to see him grow in the sport he loves so much. This year we saw how far he’d come from last season, transforming from a child into a little boy. In our Rookie League system, there’s no “three strikes, you’re out” rule. Instead, the pitcher pitches to the batter until the batter has had a chance to hit the ball. At the start of last year’s season, it took Ryland some time to make contact with the ball, but today he makes a hit within the first few pitches. Like most moms in the bleachers, I can relax as soon as he makes contact between the bat and the ball, and know he isn’t struggling to catch up with the others.

  He loves his position playing first base and is confident and capable when his coach puts him in as the catcher, as well. Jeff and I have both noted that he is very focused on the field and conscious of doing a good job for his team. He’s a team player inside the dugout, too. He can’t leave our house without his pack of Big League Chew bubble gum to share with his buddies as soon as they arrive at practice. They all dip in for a fingerful, then Ryland hangs his bat bag on the hook, grabs his glove, and makes his way to the outfield to warm up with his teammates.

  These days, among the other moms, I’m feeling more confident in my own skin, too. If the moms at baseball ever comment about Ryland, it’s generally to comment about how well-behaved and kind he is. I know I’ll always face some criticism to go along with the parenting praise, but I no longer feel afraid if the mom seated next to me in the bleachers knows our story. It shouldn’t matter to anyone anyway—our children are teammates on the field, and I stay close to the moms who are teammates with me in raising all of our children with love and care for their well-being and their futures.

  At a game this week, I find myself sitting in the stands and glancing toward the dugout as Ryland grabs his batting helmet and prepares to walk to the plate. Picking up his bat, he shuffles past his coach, who says a few words of encouragement. At the plate, Ryland gets into his stance, digs in just like the big-league players, and stares toward the pitcher.

  Sitting there, I can’t help but think of how comfortable all this feels. As far as I know, to this day, not even Ryland’s coach knows our history; he really doesn’t need to. And I smile to myself with this knowledge. As my son’s mom, I’ve spent years wanting to be a regular parent watching her kid learn on the field, and now, that’s exactly what I’ve become.

  And so, like all the other parents, I sit patiently in the bleachers, watching from the sidelines and waiting for my son to hit the ball as far as he can.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Conclusion:A Mother’s Love

  After the YouTube release in May 2014, I felt less anxious than I had in years—probably six years, to be exact, when we discovered that Ryland was deaf. Today I finally feel that for the most part, I’m over the phase of expecting unfortunate things to happen in Ryland’s future. I’ve stopped trying (or, as much as a mom can, I’ve tried to stop trying) to envision exactly how my son’s life will play out. Instead, I’m focusing on the precious days that Jeff and I have with Ryland and Brynley while they’re living under our roof and still loving and appreciating us as their parents.

  Interestingly, since the YouTube release, Ryland has eased up quite a bit. He used to be very picky and insistent about demonstrating his masculinity: boys’ clothes, boys’ toys, boys’ preferences. If there was a toy designed for a child of either gender to play with, he would reject it. I knew that deep down, he felt more pain than anything else when he was trying to “prove” himself as a boy.

  Now he will ride around the house on his sister’s pink scooter and isn’t so opposed to playing with some of her “girl stuff.” Since we’ve affirmed his masculinity, he has definitely chilled out on proving it to us. Now that he’s allowed to live the way he feels most comfortable, he has relaxed as a person.

  Our journey with Ryland has taught us to be ready for anything. I don’t know the future, and I think a common struggle for most parents is that it’s difficult not to get your hands in there and try to shape your child’s future yourself. We sometimes do it without even realizing it, and usually without knowing what on earth we’re doing. I remember while I was trying to figure all this out, I was always talking to other friends and family about the signs I was seeing. I was seeking out anyone with an ear to listen, and hoping someone would lead me to the answer. The truth is, I had all the answers at the time, but I needed confirmation that I wasn’t crazy. I knew Ryland best. I spent the most time with him throughout his life. I saw the signs as they unfolded. I was constantly seeking others to justify my biggest fears, but no one had answers. I had to dig deeper. And I had to trust myself. When Ryland grows older, he will be the only one who will know what’s happening inside him, and I’ll have to learn to trust that, too.

  The past seven years since Ryland was born have flown by in the blink of an eye. I know that soon I will look back on these days right now and wish I could experience them all over again. Heaven knows the teenage years will be here soon enough, and every day I work to accept the fact that there is no way to know what Ryland’s teenage experience will be like. When I confide those worries in my friends who are also moms, they remind me that regardless of our child’s identity or preferences or orientation, we all dread the teenage years, the uncertainties and insecurities that come with puberty, and the possibility that our children will experience cruelty or loneliness during that universally difficult period of life.

  Our hope and our goal has been that by starting Ryland’s transition as early as we did, by digging deep to understand what we have to do to protect him and our family, we’ll be ready. We’ve begun to take those necessary steps to ensure R
yland’s safety, happiness, and well-being, and we’ve weathered the storms early on. Now, every time Ryland enters a new situation or stage in his life, Jeff and I will be able to approach it with a sense of informed parental involvement to monitor and protect our son, while also giving him some space to explore it on his own and to work out possible solutions to the challenges he encounters. Our vigilance in these years of his childhood isn’t necessarily to try to deflect any negative experience, as much as it is to make it clear to him that we will always be here for him.

  I like to think that we’re on the leading edge of this movement and that we’ll inspire more families to see that their children who are like Ryland can live more happily and healthily if they’re embraced in their desire to transition. It did take Jeff and me some time to fully grasp what was going on—having a transgender child is no small thing to get one’s head around!—but what we saw after we permitted the transition has proven to us over and over that we did the right thing. The child we knew before Ryland’s transition compared to the child we know now is the difference between night and day. Anytime we give an individual the freedom to be who they are, the world becomes a happier place. In many cases of parents with transgender children, so does the family home.

  The bottom line is, we embarked on this path with Ryland specifically as a response to stories about the risks of suicide and self-harm, and because we refused to see that happen to our child. I wasn’t living in the dark—in losing my brother not long before Ryland was born, I learned that when you’re a parent, the worst really can happen. Warning signs have to be taken seriously. We know that we can’t control the future, but we can deal appropriately with the present. Coming out of my earlier experiences and the traumas in our family, that was the choice Jeff and I made.