Love Lives Here

by Amanda Jette Knox

  All the while, I was blogging about my family’s continuing journey through Alexis’s transition, giving public talks (sometimes with our daughter), working with media and using social media as an advocacy platform. It was a juggling act to do all this while also keeping Zoë’s gender identity a secret—and I’m a terrible juggler.

  In the late summer of 2015, just weeks after Zoë came out, I got an email from Microsoft Canada’s marketing team. The company wanted Alexis and me to be part of a campaign to promote using technology to create positive change. It was to be called #My24hrs and would feature activists and changemakers from across the country. Microsoft had a keen interest in featuring us—trans kids were at the forefront of a new fight for inclusion and equality, and we were a family working to spread that message.

  The plan was simple: we would travel to Toronto to do an in-studio interview, and that interview, coupled with footage that would be shot later in Ottawa, would be turned into a video explaining our advocacy work and how we were using blogging and social media to create change in the world.

  I knew this could be a game changer. With a giant like Microsoft backing us, we could reach a whole new audience. The company’s support would lend significant weight to our message of embracing trans youth for who they are. I could imagine a young trans person watching the video and feeling hopeful because one of the world’s most prominent companies was supporting them. What would have happened if Alexis had seen something like that earlier in her life?

  But I also knew that the increased exposure associated with this campaign carried risk. Would my children become targets for more hate? Would they be applauded at school for their candour or taunted for taking such a strong stand? It was impossible to tell.

  I worried about being able to handle such a public project. Would I be riddled with such anxiety that there weren’t enough crullers in the world to manage it? I knew I would question myself at every step, convinced that I was way out of my league and the Microsoft people would soon realize they had gambled on the wrong woman.

  I even worried about Microsoft. Yes, that’s right. At times like these, I am the mom to everyone, including forward-thinking, multi-billion-dollar companies. But the backlash could be significant: angry customers, vicious comments and even boycotts were possible. This was right around the time when Target merged their boys’ and girls’ toys and Cheerios began featuring ads with same-sex parents. The pushback from a subset of consumers with highly conservative “values” was loud and intense. What would happen if a giant tech company promoted a family accepting a trans child?

  But mostly, I worried about Zoë, who was at a vulnerable juncture in her life. She had only recently disclosed her news to a select group of people, and she wasn’t ready to be out to the world yet—much less part of a video campaign. To most people, she was still Alexis’s dad. On the other hand, representing herself as Alexis’s dad in that campaign wouldn’t be right either. The timing of this offer couldn’t have been worse.

  I called my wife, pacing the bedroom with a knot in my stomach. She was at work and answered in a deeper voice than she’d been using at home. It threw me for a second.

  “Hey,” I said. “I just got off the phone with someone at Microsoft. They want to work with us.”

  “The Microsoft?” she asked, sounding as surprised as I felt.

  “No, the other one,” I replied sarcastically.

  I explained how they wanted to profile our family. “It’s an amazing opportunity,” I said. “This could be significant in the fight to support trans kids.”

  “No kidding,” Zoë replied. I could almost hear her trying to take in the scope of it.

  “But the thing is, I think they want the whole family involved.”

  “Oh,” she replied, worry creeping into her voice. She had arrived at the same place where I was, sitting on the fence between excitement and panic. Great opportunity, terrible timing.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” I said. “Don’t worry, I haven’t agreed to anything. I haven’t even talked to Alexis because I wanted to see how you felt about it first. Your safety and comfort are my top priority right now.”

  “No, the priority is to help kids like Alexis,” she said immediately. “I don’t want them to end up like me, having to do this in their forties. It’s awful. Let’s figure out how to do this right, okay?”

  It was decided: Zoë was one extraordinary woman.

  I told the people at Microsoft that we would love to take part, but my spouse couldn’t participate too heavily. They were fine with that. They wanted to focus on Alexis and me—and while any other family members who wished to take part were welcome, there would be no pressure. I didn’t tell them why Zoë couldn’t participate because it didn’t matter. They were capturing our family the way it looked at that point in time, and if it happened to look different a few months after the campaign was over, so be it. Families change all the time—just not always in this way.

  In October, Zoë, Alexis and I drove to Toronto to film the in-studio interview part of our video. Alexis and I had our makeup and hair done, then sat on a couch in front of bright lights to answer questions about her journey so far and what it meant to our family. It was an unforgettable experience.

  Afterward, Zoë took Alexis home to Ottawa so I could head directly to an event north of Toronto to speak on stage for the first time. Blissdom Canada was a yearly social media conference covering topics from growing an audience to working with companies. The world had changed in the nine years since I had started blogging. What used to be a hobby for a few of us was now a career for thousands. And it wasn’t just blogging anymore; there were videos, Twitter parties (where everyone uses the same hashtag to promote the issue or business they’re talking about) and carefully staged Instagram or Pinterest photos. This was all part of “building your brand.”

  I knew nothing about building my brand. My “brand”—if I chose to call it that—was to write blog posts and share them on social media. I didn’t monetize my site, and I didn’t make special efforts to grow followers on any platform. I just wrote for the love of it. Some people read my posts and shared them, and my audience grew organically. By all accounts, this made me a social media dinosaur.

  But I wasn’t asked to be a part of this conference for my branding prowess. The organizers wanted to showcase people who used their platform to make a difference in the world—a topic in which I had growing experience. I would share the stage with other women who were fighting for their own causes. One had been sexually assaulted and chose to speak publicly about it, while another was a Muslim woman working to dispel misconceptions surrounding her faith. Our common bond was that all of us had found ourselves faced with injustice and refused to stay quiet. It sounded as if it could be a fruitful discussion.

  A shame about all the freaking out I was doing, though.

  I wondered what I could possibly add to the conversation. Would I have anything insightful to say, or would I freeze up? I also didn’t know how big the audience would be or whether people would be receptive to my message. As I knew all too well, not everyone believes in affirming trans kids. Some even consider it a form of child abuse. If I were in the audience, would I want to hear from someone I thought was a child abuser? Probably not.

  And in the back of mind, but always in the centre of my heart, was Zoë. I had to make sure not to out her. I needed to be careful at this conference full of people with large social media followings not to disclose anything I shouldn’t.

  But no pressure, Amanda.

  The panel was being held the next day. There were several small breakout rooms where workshops were held, but I couldn’t find where ours would be.

  “That’s because you’re going to be presenting right here,” one of the organizers explained.

  ‘Right here’ was a large, beautifully decorated reception room with a big stage where the keynote speakers would be doing their thing.

  “Oh,” I replied, trying not to f
ollow it up with “shit.”

  “We were going to make it a workshop, but there’s been a lot of interest, so we’re going big.”

  “Great!” I replied cheerily, wondering where the nearest bathroom was so I could go throw up in it.

  I couldn’t find a nearby bathroom, so I made a beeline to my hotel room. It was large, sunny and had a lovely view of the mountains, which calmed me down significantly. But most importantly, it was all mine. In nearly forty years, I had never had my own hotel room, and I didn’t know where to start. Should I roll around on the bed, strut around the room naked like a boss or live-tweet myself eating room service in my underwear? There were too many fantastic options to choose from.

  I opted to enjoy the quiet for a moment and take stock of where I was.

  For a long time, I had been a mom and budding writer with no steady career outside the home and little job experience. I had mostly kept to my same group of friends and daily routines, with only a blog as evidence to the world that I existed. I had striven to blend in with everyone because it offered the least amount of risk of rejection.

  But now, seemingly overnight, I had a message, a growing audience and new opportunities to share our family’s journey. I was now an advocate, someone people looked to for guidance on a subject still vastly misunderstood. I had never expected this to happen and I felt ill-equipped to manage it. Inside, I was still that lonely girl in the schoolyard, still the teen who was set on fire. I was still the woman who wondered how she could fit in when she felt so out of place. I was still the one whose father had never bothered to get to know her.

  I had become friendly with some other attendees since I arrived at the conference. But would they be as friendly once I stepped off that stage tomorrow? What about at the next conference, when the world knew more about my family than I was disclosing now? Would they unfriend me on Facebook as quickly as they’d added me? Between working with Microsoft and gearing up to speak in front of my first large audience, I was feeling the glare of the spotlight a little too intensely.

  I ate nothing the next morning. I couldn’t eat, for fear of throwing up on my cute little blazer. My only sustenance for several hours was coffee, which is the wrong thing to consume when you’re excruciatingly nervous. I began to think I couldn’t do this. I was a writer, not a public speaker. I’d picked writing as a career because it allowed me time to formulate my thoughts before putting them out there. (Also, I don’t have to wear pants.)

  I had given a few radio interviews, but even when done live, they didn’t happen on a large stage in front of hundreds of people, with lights and microphones and the potential for booing. In fact, they were usually done on my cellphone in the basement as I sat on the old stained couch in the dark. (Pants optional.)

  But before I knew it—and well before I was ready—it was time. I was ushered to the front of the room, next to the stage. I stood beside the other people who would be appearing with me. I was relieved to see I wasn’t the only nervous one.

  We were introduced one a time. When I was called up, I heard encouraging cheers from the crowd and held on tightly to that positivity as I made my way up the stairs. I waved awkwardly to the crowd, partially blinded by the bright spotlights, and then settled in for what ended up being an empowering discussion.

  I spoke about leading with love and letting everything else fall into place. I spoke about the thorny path of advocacy, but said I would walk it until the day I died for my child. As I spoke, the giant screens on each side of the stage showed one of my recent tweets: “I used to not want to rock the boat, but I think I tipped it over a long time ago and am now using it as a battering ram.”

  Mostly, I remember how I felt both during and afterward. Speaking is like writing on steroids. It has all the benefits of connecting with an audience, but in an instantaneous and dynamic way. Not sure if you’re getting your message across? Just have a look into the crowd. Are people watching intently? Are they nodding in agreement? Are they clapping when you say something important? If not, switch up how you connect with them. Check in with them. Ask them a question, provide more of what they need.

  Writing, for all its beauty, is a one-shot deal. You have all the time you need to formulate a thought, but once you publish it, it’s done. You’ve either hit the target or you’ve missed. Your words either reach the desired audience or they don’t.

  Speaking, in many ways, is an extension of writing. It complements the work I do, and despite the initial stress, I found it exceptionally rewarding.

  Afterward, people lined up to talk to me. One woman hung back until the crowd dissipated. When she did speak, she began to cry. She told me she thought one of her children might be trans and I was the first person she had met who could understand her mix of feelings. It was the first time I met in person someone who was directly impacted by our story. We talked, hugged and exchanged information. We’re still in touch today.

  The power of personal connection is beyond compare. I’ve spoken many times since then, on stages across the country, and I’ve loved each opportunity to meet the people our story reaches.

  But you never forget your first.

  TWENTY

  insidious

  IN DECEMBER 2015, some friends invited me to see The Danish Girl, the story of a transgender woman and her wife in 1920s Copenhagen.

  If you ask many members of the transgender community, they’ll tell you the movie is problematic. For one thing, while it’s based on a true story, it’s not historically accurate. Also, the film focuses a great deal on the internal suffering of the trans character, which is a one-dimensional view of trans experiences. There is also the chronic Hollywood issue of having a cisgender person play a transgender character, even though there are plenty of talented trans actors in the industry. I don’t disagree with any of this.

  However, I will say that the movie played a key role in solidifying my marriage. The plot centres around Lili, a closeted trans woman born in a time when most people did not understand the complexities of gender. When presenting as male becomes unbearable, Lili comes out to her wife, Gerda, and together they start seeking answers to Lili’s internal struggle.

  I found myself lost in the story and relating heavily to what Gerda was experiencing. Her fierce protection of and fears for her wife were tangible to me. Lili’s struggles, meanwhile, reminded me so much of Zoë’s. I could see how hard she tried to hide. I could see she had no choice but to be herself at all costs. I saw this movie at just the right time for it all to have a profound impact on my life.

  I came home and broke into tears in the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong?” Zoë asked, concern forming on her face.

  “Oh, honey,” I said, putting my arms around her and burying my gross wet face in her neck.

  “Are you okay?” she asked. “Did something happen?”

  “Yes!” I said, scanning the counter for therapy cookies. There were none. Bloody hell.

  “What happened?” she asked, holding me closer.

  “It was the stupid movie!” I cried.

  “The movie? The Danish Girl one?”

  “Oh my God, I get it now. I get it!”

  “What do you mean?” she asked.

  “It was our story! Except like a hundred years ago, and in Europe, and they were artists and had no kids!”

  “So…not our story,” she corrected.

  I pulled away and wiped my tears on my sleeve. “No, not our story exactly,” I said, giving her a teary red eye-roll. “But the trans woman was hurting and just trying to be herself, and her wife was hurting and trying to be supportive. And it was so sad and beautiful. It was basically us, but younger and with nicer lipstick. Do we have cookies?”

  “I love you,” she said, laughing.

  I took her by the shoulders and looked her in the eye to make sure that she heard every word I was about to say. “I want you to know I’m in this for the long haul. We’re in this together, okay?”

  She looked surprised
. “You don’t have to say that, you know. You can take more time.”

  “I’ve taken all the time I need.”

  I meant it. It was time to rebuild that demolished foundation of ours.

  * * *

  —

  We were all doing our best to get through the final closeted months. Zoë was preparing to be physically and legally out full time. She had quietly spoken with her boss, her closest co-workers and the human resources people. They said she was the first person they knew of to transition within the company. They vowed to make sure that the Ontario Human Rights Code was followed to the letter, and that Zoë was treated with dignity and respect. When the time came, she would give them a heads-up so they could take the final steps needed for her to transition on the job.

  But for now, we waited. Half in the closet, half out.

  And while we waited, Microsoft came to film the B-roll, or background footage, for our video. Zoë is in exactly one shot in the final product, and only the back of her head is visible. The rest of it is mostly of me and Alexis, along with some clips from Alexis’s middle school principal talking about the importance of inclusion in education, and a visit to Kind Space, a local LGBTQ organization to which Microsoft donated in our name. The video was released in late February 2016, and we were proud of it.

  Overall, the reception was positive, but I watched some negative comments scroll by on my Twitter feed, and a few pieces of hate mail landed in my inbox. I wondered if Microsoft would be hit with a boycott, as had happened to other companies that stood up for LGBTQ rights. I was relieved not to see one. More importantly, I started hearing from other families like ours, with kids like our own, who were grateful to see such a large company openly support them. Visibility truly does make a difference.