This first blog entry coordinates with the ten year anniversary of my own public coming-out experience. In the height of Pride season ten years ago, I found my way to Denver to proclaim my queer identity with thousands of others who had flocked from the four corners of my square state. I had not told anyone that I was making the journey to Denver that day. I was expected to be at a birthday party and I had simply insisted that I had to do a little shopping and I might be a little late. The weather was perfect. The sky was a rich blue as the sun rained down on the thousands of rainbows before me. I was not yet prideful. Scared, I looked out on to the parade, those dressed in creative costumes, marching as if being LGBTQ was beautiful. I did not feel beautiful. I stood there in silence. Taking in every breath as if it was the first fresh air I had ever ingested. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I felt a sense of belonging. People waved at me, smiled at my choice of clothing and complemented my understanding of self. These people, these thousands before me, shared a similar struggle, but for them they held a sense of pride in this connection.
My mother mentions a similar feeling about her first PFLAG meeting. It was the first time she hadn’t felt alone in her own journey with my transgender identity. When I had come out to her, a new identity had been forced on her, an identity that she wasn’t excited to have. In an instant, as the words stumbled off my lips, I changed her entire world. She was no longer the mother of a daughter, but rather the mother of a daughter who was going to transition to be her son. Living in the same small town that she was raised in, that her mother was raised in and her mother’s mother, she was forced into her own coming-out journey. With only a few thousand people, daily outings become places for socializing. “How is your daughter doing?” For months the mere question would nearly send her into tears. “Is your daughter still in school?” Friends and family members in town would ask. How does a mother negotiate these spaces? Does the local drugstore become the place for trans 101? How does she process her own emotions while also holding true to her child’s identity? These are the issues that my mother struggled with. Loosing my father at a young age, and with no siblings, my mother and I have always been close. In those first few years, over and over my mother would say, “Isn’t there a book I can read?” I searched for it, for the lost voices of other mothers, partners, friends, allies, community members, coworkers, doctors, and ministers who are forced to process the transgender status or gender non-conforming status of a loved one, but nothing seemed to surface. Repeatedly, I returned to my mother, “I can get you a book for parents of lesbian and gays,” I would say. She would shake her head, frustrated. She had always assumed that I was gay, so processing my dating women was not as much of an issue; she had never considered that I might become a man, that I might decide to transition. She had never considered what it would be like to have a son. I remember talking to her about her own journey. “When your child is gay you can choose to hide it, pretend that your child is not gay, still using the same name and sex, but when you child is trans that is impossible… The visual presentation, voice, and how the world treats your child changes…you are forced to come to terms with it, forced to learn to come-out even when you don’t want to.”
During the past ten years, I have been fortunate to witness pride celebrations across the country and no matter where I am, I often think about those early years with my mother, and the coming-out journey that has been forced on her. While my journey as a transgender man has been a long process through transition, I believe her journey has been equally challenging, painful, beautiful, enlightening, spiritual, and amazing. My journey started with a feeling of finally being free, her journey started with isolation, hate-filled statements have been enlisted to challenge her connection to faith and to tear down her parenting skills. “Her child is different because of a missing father,” “She was 42 when she gave birth, of course the child would have problems” and “If she had a stronger faith this wouldn’t have happened. It’s obvious she has turned away from God.” Similarly hateful critiques have been slung my way; yet, we rarely give credit to our loved ones for their strength and endurance through this process. So, on this Pride as I join in the festivities I want to make sure that I am aware of the hidden struggles and joys, the hidden journeys of our significant others, family members, friends and allies as they provide support, love and compassion to my transgender and gender non-conforming siblings, recognizing that we are all on a journey. For some of us, we have had years to process this path while for others only minutes, but regardless of our time on this road we must share in the joy, pain, grief and love of this voyage, recognizing that it may not always be easy, but that together no one needs to feel isolated including our loved ones trans and non-trans alike.
In the coming months, Eleanor and I would like to take the time to explore the relationship between global issues and the issues faced by significant others, family members, friends and allies of transgender and gender non-conforming individuals. Recognizing that the use of SOFFA can be problematic for some, we will also take time to explore this topic, specifically focusing on the divisions within transgender and gender non-conforming communities. How do we choose to label ourselves? What do these labels assert? How is race, class, sexual orientation, gender identity, ability, religion, faith, spirituality, veteran status, etc. reflected in these labels? Who is and is not included? More specifically, who is excluded from the table when we limit identity membership?
We look forward to the discussion, challenges, heated debates, brilliant submissions, passionate responses and collective engagement.
Best,
C.T. Whitley