“That’s it,” Zoë told me, letting out a relieved sigh. “That was the last thing I needed to make it happen. They can change my name in the company system, make me a new badge and I’m good to go. Can you believe it?”
“No, I can’t,” I replied. “I also can’t believe I have a wife named Michelle.”
She stuck out her tongue.
It was time for Zoë to set an official coming-out date. She chose Friday, March 11, 2016, and gave HR a heads-up. Our family of five collectively got ready for what was to come. There was no doubt things were going to change with Zoë finally able to live as Zoë. On the plus side, we wouldn’t have to hide any longer. No need to remember who knows and who doesn’t, or to carefully navigate around pronouns. Jackson, Alexis and Aerik could finally tell anyone they chose that they have two moms, and I could tell the world I have a wife.
But there were some potential negatives too. Zoë could be a target for bigotry. The kids could face anything from uncomfortable questions to outright discrimination. Our family could be harassed in public. I also knew the media would have a field day with this story, and I was trying to figure out how to shield us from the wrong coverage. For all the good I knew we had done, this was one time I wished we hadn’t been so public with Alexis’s story.
We expected some curiosity, questions, ignorance and even hatred from the outside world—we just weren’t sure how much. Most of this was out of our control, however, so we tried to focus on what we could control, like building up my wife’s wardrobe.
My friend Annie gave Zoë two big bags of work clothes. Annie is a tall woman with great style. With these new items and what Zoë had already picked out for herself at the store, her side of the closet was looking fab. We don’t have the same body type or shoe size, but I did make a play for sharing scarves, purses and jewellery. She reluctantly agreed.
My wife is very organized in a way that I, as a chaotic artist type, envy. She had a notebook with a checklist of things that needed to happen before she could live as herself full time: medical, legal and social. She had diligently worked through these items over the past few months, crossing them off as she went. I probably would have asked Siri to make memos on the fly, and then accidentally deleted the memos, and then just cried in bed with the dog because I didn’t know what to do next.
With this birth certificate, every item in her notebook list had been crossed off except the very last one: come out at work.
“Are you ready to be out to the world?” I asked on her last night in the closet.
“I think so,” she replied nervously.
I held her hand. “This is the start of a whole new life. I’m so proud of you.” What it took for her to get here was nothing short of inspiring. It was impossible not to love this woman.
Neither of us slept much that night. When I did manage a few winks, anxiety filled my dreams.
* * *
—
On March 11, 2016, Zoë, the girl from Peterborough who ran far and fast for way too long, sent an email to hundreds of her work colleagues. In it, she told them she was transgender. She explained she had always known she was a woman and was finally taking steps to live as one. She reminded them she was the same person with the same skill set and abilities she’d always had, and asked for their continued respect. She said she was going to take a week off so that her name could be changed in the system and people could have a few days to process what she had just told them. When she came back, she said, she would look quite different, and she asked her co-workers to please use her new name and pronouns. She then closed the laptop, pushed it away and went down to the family room to panic silently under the guise of watching TV.
It was done and there was no going back. Never again would she have to pretend to be him. No matter what happened, from this moment on, the girl from Peterborough was finally free.
At the same time, I was doing my own form of silent panicking. I had a blog post ready to go right after Zoë sent her “It’s a girl!” email announcement. In the spirit of the one I wrote about Alexis, it was entitled “World, Meet My Wife.” I opened with our talk in the car, spoke in general terms about how challenging things had been over the past eight months and explained that we had now come to a good place in our relationship, that our family was happy and that Zoë was coming out at work that day.
“This is the internet,” I observed, “so I expect not all of you will be supportive. But believe me, there isn’t a thing you could say in response to this news that I haven’t already thought of in the last several months. I used to worry about the shade people would throw our way, but not anymore. Our world is so full of love and support that it leaves absolutely no room for hatred or ignorance to reside within it.”
This was entirely true. Another truth was that I had been building up one hell of a backbone. After two years of defending our child and helping her carve out safe places for herself, I finally knew how to manage haters. As the family member with the biggest online presence, I was the one bigots usually sought out to say awful things to. Unfortunately for them, I had become far less generous with my time and energy.
“Besides,” I continued, “on top of having both a transgender daughter and wife, I’ve been fully immersed in gender issues for two years now, studying research, interviewing experts, giving talks, writing articles, and connecting with thousands of families. So unless you’re coming at this with at least as much knowledge as I have now, I’m probably not going to pay your negativity much mind. Just sayin’.”
After nearly four decades, I was done with bullies and wanted to make that abundantly clear.
Once Zoë had pressed Send on her email, I pressed Publish on my post. I then joined her downstairs to “watch TV,” which meant staring at it and not processing a damn thing on the screen.
“Have you checked your email since you sent it?” I asked her as we gazed at the flashy pictures on the wall rectangle.
“Nope. Have you checked your blog?”
“Nope.”
“Cool.”
We stayed like that for a while, away from the internet. I worried people would say awful things about our family and about Zoë herself, and I wouldn’t be able to protect us from it. Her worry was that no one would reply to her email. No one would say anything mean, of course, as that could get them in trouble with HR. But some might choose not to respond, not to show any support at all, and she wouldn’t know why. She would then have to return to work without knowing what awaited her there.
But right now, our lives were like Schrödinger’s cat, both alive and dead at the same time. We didn’t know how the internet or her colleagues were reacting because we hadn’t peeked. Until we did, we were both supported and unsupported by everyone.
The rectangular wall box kept showing moving pictures and we kept watching it in a zombie-like state. I wanted to stay just like that forever.
Eventually, Zoë went upstairs and grabbed her laptop.
“Holy cow,” she said, looking at her screen. “I think I’m okay.”
Within minutes of sending her email, she had received dozens of replies, and they just kept coming in. All of them were kind and respectful, and many were outright congratulatory. One of the first was from a VP who adamantly stated his support for her. A few colleagues commended her for taking this step, and some said the respect they already had for her had only grown with this news.
Zoë was still glad she had scheduled a week off to let any water-cooler talk die down. It would take a while for things to return to normal, but the responses were putting some of her fears to rest.
Now it was my turn. I pulled myself away from the TV and hesitantly grabbed my phone from the table. It was lighting up constantly with notifications from Facebook and Twitter. My blog post was being shared widely, and the comments were nearly all positive. My inbox was filling up with messages congratulating Zoë and commending our family for leading with love.
Of course, there were haters too, and they w
ould come out to play in larger numbers over the next couple of weeks. But from that day on, we were a couple of out and proud wives in a family with two trans people. This was our reality. No more hiding. To the girl who’d never wanted to draw attention to herself and never wanted to rock the boat, this felt like freedom.
I was at the top of the mountain, proudly holding a flag and my wife’s hand. Life changes you.
TWENTY-TWO
reaction
IT WAS MONDAY, and the girl from Peterborough was going back to work.
“Are you nervous?” I asked.
“Of course,” she replied.
“Yeah, stupid question.” We both smiled faintly.
Despite the warm email response, she wondered if she would be greeted with as much kindness in person. Would people be whispering just beyond earshot? Would they avoid her? Be awkward around her? There was no way to know until she walked through the company doors.
“Do you want me to come with you?” I asked. “I mean it. I’m happy to walk you right to your desk. I’ll slap my advocacy pants on right now!”
Zoë loved me, that much I knew. In the past two years, she had watched me morph into a stronger, more confident person. She had seen me overcome a lot of my own demons to be the mom, partner and advocate I wanted to be. But Zoë also worried about being viewed as someone to be taken care of. She didn’t need anyone to do that. She was stronger than ever too.
“I’ll be fine,” she reassured me.
“Okay, but you had better text me and let me know how things are going or I’ll be worrying all day long.”
She leaned over and gave me a kiss. “Deal,” she said. She walked out the door and into the first day of the rest of her life.
I have a picture of Zoë on the morning of her first day back at work. It’s now all over the internet and easy to find. In it, she’s sitting at our breakfast bar—the same one we sat at when we nearly broke up a few months before—and she’s looking decidedly beautiful. She’s wearing a lovely royal-blue sweater and a scarf from the scarf-sharing station I so carefully negotiated. She’s smiling.
When I took the picture a few minutes before she left, I was smiling too. I smiled all the way to the door. I smiled when she leaned over and gave me a kiss. And the minute she closed the door and walked out to the car, I stopped smiling and almost started hyperventilating.
I kept my phone nearby and my car keys at the ready. I was convinced Zoë was going to run into some kind of trouble on her first day back and would need me to talk her down, either by phone or in person. Maybe people would avoid her because they wouldn’t know what to say. Maybe someone who used to be friendly with her would treat her like a distant acquaintance.
I paced the floor endlessly.
Then I got a text.
“They decorated my cubicle!” Zoë wrote. “Look!” She sent me pictures.
When Zoë arrived at work, she’d nervously snaked her way through the cube farm and rounded the corner to her normally bland desk. But this time, it was filled with cheer. There were strings of colourful butterflies and shiny spiral decorations hanging from the shelves. There was a sprightly little plant next to her monitor. Her nameplate had been changed to the correct one and “Welcome back, Zoë!” was written in bold letters on her whiteboard. Her co-workers had even tidied up and organized her work area. New beginnings. A fresh start.
One person came by with a wrapped gift. Inside was a framed quote from Oscar Wilde that he had penned in calligraphy: “Be yourself: Everyone else is already taken.”
“Well, fuck,” I texted back to her. “Are you sobbing right now?”
“OMG, YES.”
“Did you bring mascara?”
“Obviously. Who do you think you’re talking to?”
She wrote me a few minutes later to tell me her eyes had been reapplied. “I’ve got to go,” she said. “Emergency meeting upstairs. Guess it’s back to business as usual!”
Zoë made her way upstairs to the conference room. A customer site had gone down, and as manager of the team responsible for some of the software being used, she needed to be briefed and start coming up with solutions. Her closest colleagues had made her feel welcome on her first day back, which she appreciated, but this meeting would be the true test of how the rest of the company—those in other departments—would treat her.
It certainly was. As it turned out, the meeting wasn’t a meeting at all: it was a coming-out party. People from other departments had come to welcome her back.
Telecommunications companies have a reputation for being stuffy, conservative places with policies dating back to the Jurassic period. But not in this case. Zoë’s company busted right out of that stereotype. While not every trans person will want a surprise party, her co-workers knew Zoë well enough to judge correctly.
What it boils down to—the parties, decorations, hugs and cupcakes—is inclusion. Zoë’s colleagues wanted her to feel included, safe and reassured that she was still a valuable part of the team. That might look different or involve less fanfare in other work environments, but that’s fine if it achieves the same result. There’s a difference between showing a basic level of decency to another human being and going the extra mile. Following the human rights code and corporate policy on supporting LGBTQ people is basic decency. Letting your colleague know she’s not only tolerated but fully accepted is going the extra mile.
That’s what Zoë’s colleagues did, and that’s why, when she texted, “OMG, IT’S NOT A MEETING! IT’S A COMING OUT PARTY! *cry face*” I threw on my coat and ran out the door. I showed up at her work, hugged everyone I could find and took pictures of all the nice things they did for her that day. Then I put it all together in a blog post called “My Wife Came Out at Work and Her Co-Workers Threw Her a Party.” I walked readers step by step through all the times Zoë had to reapply her mascara that day due to exceptional kindness.
I knew a handful of her work friends read my blog and I thought it would be nice to publicly thank them. I also hoped anyone else who read the post would get inspired to better support their trans co-workers. Look what these people did and the difference it made! You can do it too! Here’s a step-by-step guide to being awesome! I expected it would be a cute little story read by a few hundred people. I must stress, once again, that I am a very poor estimator.
The post became one of the most widely read pieces I have ever written. It was featured on BuzzFeed, Upworthy and many other sites. One thing was becoming clear about sharing our family’s journey through change: people love a happy story.
For the first few weeks after Zoë came out, we found ourselves in the media frenzy I had predicted. We weren’t the first family to have more than one trans person in it, but we were one of the first to be public about it. People were also interested to hear that Zoë and I were staying together and were in a better place than before her transition began, which was not typical. We were pushing boundaries everywhere, and journalists wanted to talk to us about it.
We were careful about who we did interviews with. I did a search on every journalist who approached us, to see what that person’s previous work was like. If it was ultra-conservative, transphobic or homophobic, we stayed away. If it was clear the journalist wanted to present our story in an honest and positive way, we were willing to talk. Our primary goal with all media was to show the world it was possible to thrive through transition and change. We wanted to normalize queer families.
We gave interviews to outlets such as Global News, US Weekly, BuzzFeed, Redbook, Cosmo, the Independent, the Huffington Post and various radio stations and podcasts. Each time, we made sure to set firm boundaries. No, we will not give you old pictures of what Zoë and Alexis used to look like. No, we will not give you old names. No, we will not talk about the state of anyone’s genitals.
Setting boundaries is easy when you know what your goals are. When you’re trying to get famous, you might have looser boundaries when talking to journalists. You might take more risks.
But weren’t trying to get famous. Our goal was to get a message out without harming the community we wanted to benefit. We wanted to highlight the positives in our story, while being candid about some of the struggles it took to get here. We didn’t want to be gawked at or seen as some anomaly. We were just a family moving forward through change like many others. We didn’t want media to show side-by-side comparisons of what Zoë and Alexis looked like then and now. The trans women in my family didn’t believe that would send the right message; it would only perpetuate the idea they were a boy and a man who were becoming a girl and a woman.
They weren’t. That’s a big part of what we were trying to get across. Alexis and Zoë might have been labelled boys—they might have been born with the genitals associated with boys and men—but they never were. That’s why they needed to transition.
My wife and daughter had chosen to move forward, beyond those old perceptions of them, and that is their right. If the media wanted to share our story, they would have to do it in a way that respected them. That was non-negotiable.
* * *
—
On April 8, just a few days after Zoë went back to work and life felt like it was finally starting to settle down again, my sister, Katie, texted me and said, “Your family is in the Daily Mail!”
She sent a link. I opened it. My body went cold.
The Daily Mail had emailed me twice in the past few days. They didn’t ask for an interview but instead stated they were getting ready to publish a story about us and needed photos—including “before transition photos if available.”
Nope. I wasn’t giving them pictures. Not only for the reasons I’ve previously stated but also because the Daily Mail has a sordid history with the trans community and has published articles many deemed harmful.
I hoped that without photos, they wouldn’t run the story. That was very naive of me.
As soon as the page loaded, my heart rose up into my throat. The header photo was a before-and-after shot of me and Zoë. The bigger photo was a recent one I had shared of the two of us. The one in the top corner was taken before transition. Other photos of my family were used too. They had deadnamed Zoë within the first few sentences. The entire article featured quotes from my blog and pieces of an interview I had granted to another publication. Furious, I yelled, “Assholes!” as I pounded my fists on the dining-room table and burst into tears.
Love Lives Here Page 19