My third child was born into a female body.
She was a girl, a curvy woman, my daughter. Tomboy? Yes, but a girl nonetheless. She was born into a time when women could be more: More assertive, more physical, more bold. And women could be less: Less feminine. Less dependent. Less docile. And I thought that was enough. She was midway into her 20s before she shared with us that she was lesbian. The news was not hard. The few tears shed were those of sadness for any pain she suffered in delaying the news. She met and later married a wonderful young woman who we love as our own. They compliment each other beautifully.
Several months back we learned
she is trans gendered. I won’t lie, the news was hard. Could this be true? Could my daughter actually be a boy? What is the difference between being, say, a “butch lesbian”, and being trans gendered? Fear gripped my throat. She is my little girl! Can a mother bury her daughter only to give birth to her again as a him? Is it possible to relearn everything you know about a loved one?
The data I read and hear lays flat. I have no feel for what I am taking in. It is foreign. Cisgender. Binary. Preposition of Choice. They and Them. It is a slow learning curve.
Will this ever become rote?
Note: This post is published with my child’s permission. Use of strikethrough serves as a “visual aid” in helping me to recognize the frequency that gender preposition is used in my everyday thought and language.
Photo Sony Reproductive System by John Watson