Restrictions on Trans Healthcare Threaten My Family

Let’s do something about it. Now.

I spent last Sunday morning crying and screaming at the newspaper: Leave us alone!

The dog looked confused. My coffee got cold. 

Why are they picking on my family? I thought. Erasing my children? Stoking fear?

The article was about transgender women in prison being housed with men.

It mentioned trans athletes and folks in the military.

My children are writers and students. They are not incarcerated. They are not athletes or soldiers. But some of them are transgender, so I pay attention when trans folks are targeted in any way.

You can shake your head and blame the new president and his supporters. You can say that you love my kids and stand by them no matter what.

I appreciate that sentiment, but it misses the point. Yes, I care because I don’t want people to hate my children. You should care too, whether you know my family or not.

Most Americans are either neutral or hostile when it comes to trans rights. This tiny population is an easy target, but we all need to pay attention.

I talk a lot about gender identity because it’s a topic that matters to me.  But I care about all humans. And if you care about humans, you need to care about this, too.

If you are a parent, you know what it’s like to send your child out into the world. My children are young adults now. As teens, some of them began journeys that continue to this day, exploring gender, accessing gender-affirming health care, building communities of peers who support and celebrate one another. 

Being trans is not an accident or something to mourn. It’s who they are. 

When my oldest started first grade more than 20 years ago, I peeked into the classroom and marveled at the miniature desks. These children were becoming students, with backpacks and pencil boxes and notebooks. They were having experiences that we, as parents, would never share. Most of their days would be spent away from us, among people we wouldn’t know.

That separation continued into adolescence and adulthood in the healthiest way. All of my kids have friends and communities and resources that go well beyond their father and me. We taught them to care about themselves and others, to do their laundry and cook meals and be generous with their money, time, and skills. I like to think we taught them to be curious, to use good judgement, and stand by their convictions.

Beyond that, there’s not a lot a parent can do, other than to support them as best we can.

If this issue makes you uncomfortable, acknowledge that discomfort, then let it go. Trans people know exactly who they are. They are not misguided or confused. People often hate what they don’t understand. We can’t allow that. My children and their friends deserve the same respect and community as every other human on the planet. 

Maybe you have trans children and you’re nodding along. 

Maybe you don’t. To you, I say, imagine that this is your kid, and some important aspect of their identity is now the focus of ridicule, hate, and ignorance. Everywhere you turn, politicians, pundits, and random influencers are demeaning the people you love most for political, social, and economic gain. How would you feel?

All the fuss about trans girls and women taking opportunities and trophies away from cisgender people (those whose gender identity corresponds with the sex assigned to them at birth). Really? Do our children play soccer and softball only to win championships? What happened to sportsmanship and camaraderie? What happened to teamwork and generosity? Do you know what it means to a child – any child – to be accepted and embraced on a team?

Making their participation illegal is a distraction. It’s easier to be outraged about trans basketball players and swimmers than to support the children in our own communities.

Maybe you’re sympathetic, but you think the focus on gender in America has gone too far. Maybe you haven’t thought much about gender identity at all. Maybe you have other issues that matter to you more. You’re busy. Overwhelmed. Exhausted. 

We’re all tired. I get it. But this is not the time to take a break from the news. We can’t wait and see what happens. We are seeing it. It is happening.

A recent executive order seeks to restrict gender-affirming care to anyone under 19. It would deny a child like mine medically-necessary hormones because their hospital receives federal funds, or their parent works for the government. Do you know how many children we are talking about? A tiny, tiny fraction of US youth. Do you know how much thought and reflection goes into deciding whether this, or any medical intervention, is right for a particular family? A lot. I know, because I’ve been there.

You may think this issue doesn’t affect you. You may think you don’t know trans people, but trust me, you do. They just haven’t told you, either because their gender is none of your business or because they’re afraid. 

Make no mistake. This is a strategic test. Trans children and adults are among the first targets because this issue polled well among likely voters. Does that sound cynical? It’s not. It’s true. 

The arguments about gender-affirming care for young people: Wait till they’re adults. Deal with their depression first, then look at gender. I’ve run through all of them and come to the same conclusion: People know who they are. We have to trust them, even children.

What we do with that knowledge in our individual families is a matter for another day. But to outlaw the medical and social supports that can make life manageable for a transgender child or adult? That’s horrifying and cruel.

Recently, one of my children – a kid who was so unhappy in adolescence it frightened me – told me how good she feels about herself, how comfortable she is in her body.

How many people do you know who can say that? Especially cisgender women?

The day after the election, that same kid told me she and her friends are worried that they could lose access to hormones if the US makes those medications unavailable. And yes, hormones are legit medicine. Lots of people take them for all sorts of reasons. They help keep my child alive.

Don’t feel sorry for my family. And don’t let yourself be paralyzed by exhaustion or fear. 

Do something.

—–

Here are some places to learn more or donate time or money:

https://www.hrc.org/resources/transgender

https://www.thetrevorproject.org/resources/

https://pflag.org/resource/transgender-resources/

Gender: Listening without Judgement

I listened to the interview Saturday night, under the covers with David, not sure if I would still like my answers to Piya Chattopadhyay’s questions.

Piya, a Canadian radio personality, hosts a program called “Out in the Open” on CBC Radio, where she explores one topic each week from multiple perspectives. The most recent episode, Whither Gender, includes an interview with me, talking about coming to terms with having a non-binary child.

The show offers a multi-faceted exploration of how we think and talk about a certain gender construct. Is it as complex and complete as it could be? Certainly not. But it’s still excellent. And anyway, that’s not my point.

Continue reading

The Atlantic Misses an Opportunity to Bring a Nuanced Discussion of Gender to the Mainstream

After the Atlantic published a cover story by Jesse Singal Monday entitled “When Children Say They’re Trans,” I received an email from Caroline Kitchener, an associate editor at the magazine. It read, in part:

I’m looking for parents of trans or gender non-binary kids to respond to our latest cover story. Much of the piece reads almost like a letter to this group—of which I know you’re a part—and we’d like to start a thoughtful, productive conversation around it. I read your great essay in the Detroit Free Press, and am wondering if you might want to participate: What does Jesse get right in the piece, and what does he get wrong? What could be the potential implications of a piece like this? Continue reading

Distraction

Perhaps the dog wants to meditate too.https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/81bN9zMeYML._SY550_.jpg More likely, he wants me to get up and walk him around the block. I have tried so hard to incorporate ten minutes of sitting into my mornings. Many days I skip it, and today the dog visited. I heard him walk in, tags jangling. Dog face in my face. Deep dog breaths. And then he sat down, nearly on top of me, all 70 pounds of big black lab. Continue reading

Tradition

Now that Pesach is nearly behind us (one more two-day chag ahead…), here’s a poem about getting ready. It’s been that kind of holiday.

Tradition

The repairman has been here
before. This is not the first time
I self-cleaned the oven
into oblivion. And despite how deeply
I’ve polished a single silver tray,
crumbs still lurk
beneath the fridge, between cushions,
in the depths of my purse. Some years
I clean for Pesach with abandon
but this time I am worn down
by funerals, music lessons, the dog
vomiting on the dining room rug.
We’re T minus 3 hours pre-seder, and the repair guy
has replaced the oven fuse; the table is set
with my mother’s wedding flatware, one
grandmother’s gold-rimmed
china, jewel-tone plastic water cups,
a tablecloth covered in seven years of scribbles. I
am remarkably calm, stunned into stillness,
waiting for guests to arrive.

Friday Poem – Light My Fire

Do you think Jim Morrison imagined his music would become the soundtrack for 11 year-old bakers in the suburbs? Me neither.

 

Light My Fire

The boy is rocking out in the kitchen
browning butter to The Doors
wearing a cap
reminiscent of his great-grandfather
while the dog snores and snoozes
beneath the bulletin board

You know the one – my super mama
drill sergeant schedule – all black tape
and dry erase – fencing practice,
piano lessons, dinner ideas – maybe Tuesday
we’ll have farro, and doesn’t that sound
so self-congratulatory and wholesome, when really

it’s more like butter and sugar, a box of spaghetti,
some broccoli, steamed again, and I pray
we don’t run out of milk
before breakfast. This whole damn business
is mostly seat of the pants, and it does not

get easier, except sometimes
the house smells like caramel, and piano music
drifts from the living room –
a sonatina starting
then stopping, then starting again

Ziggy in the Living Room

Most celebrity deaths don’t affect me. Somehow this one punched me in the gut. My husband came downstairs for breakfast and asked if I’d heard: David Bowie died of cancer. He’d been sick for 18 months, and managed to keep it out of the news.ziggy lyrics.png

For a kid leading a pretty average life, I loved Bowie. I’ve had Ziggy Stardust running through my head all day. Really? Of all the lyrics, these are the ones I’m stuck with? Ah, well, we can’t always choose our memories.

Here’s a better one: I’ve been out running errands. Who knows what or where. Groceries? Target? As I enter the door from the driveway, a wall of sound greets me: Bowie blasting in the living room, and my children going about their business, at least one singing along.

So glad we introduced them way back when.

It’s the soundtrack of my youth: odd, confusing and a little bit crazy (the soundtrack, that is; not the youth. I was nothing if not well-behaved.)

Thanks, David Bowie. Much appreciated.

Soup

 

Portobello-Mushroom-Barley-Soup

Jeannette: Mushroom Barley

I can hardly
keep my eyes open
the day she brings soup
in a jar — recycled; no obligation.
The baby is crying. I nurse her
over that first bowl.

Wendy: Butternut Squash

The house
is fragrant with onions
and cinnamon. I scoop
roasted flesh
from its shell, puree it
with vegetable stock. This
is the soup I will bring
when your new baby arrives.

Sandra: Matzo Ball

Thigh bones disintegrate
between my fingers
like you taught me —
pressure cooked to a pulp,
chicken concentrate
steaming up the windows. Strain it
then heat again Friday afternoon.
Add carrot slices,
matzo balls, bits of chicken.

Ellen: Split Pea

All I want
is soup for my freezer.
A gift
from my sister.

 

Packing for Camp

I haven’t opened the duffel bag. Eighteen hours till we leave for the bus, and I haven’t even peeked. I am itching to unzip that big black bag, even a little crack, but so far I have resisted.

My 11 year-old son packed himself for camp. I asked if he wanted me to double check, and he said no. When I asked myself why I wanted to, I realized that I had no good reason, save a mom’s anxiety that her darling might not have enough bathing suits or pj’s.

The packing checklist is marked up, the box from the Ziplocs he likes to stuff underwear and t-shirts into is empty. The duffel bags are full. If I encourage independence and then follow him to the corner, does that make me a liar? A worrier? A normal mom?

I don’t follow him to the corner. Last Tuesday I sent him off to Royal Oak with a buddy, even let them cross Woodward Ave., and I didn’t watch. Three hours later they returned, smiling, satisfied, thrilled that the server at the tea shop treated them like real customers, annoyed that the clerk at the movie theater did not (though she did sell them tickets to see Minions anyway.)

If I say I trust him, but I’m double-checking, he’ll know. KidFeatured images have a sixth sense like that. They listen. They watch. And so I am not checking.

Wednesday afternoon I let him push the cart at the grocery store. Every time he careened around a corner I warned him to slow down. I took over in the produce aisle because there were so many people. He told me he could handle it, and I didn’t let him try.

He will leave for overnight camp tomorrow morning, and I will assume that the pens he packed have ink. I will trust that the swim goggles are properly labeled. Tomorrow he leaves on the bus. I will send postcards and silly socks. He will not think of me much. And that is as it should be.