Once I was a little girl who was sunny, funny and charming. My name meant “worthy of love,” but the world made me feel anything but. The light nearly went out of my life from hopelessness. I came back from that, but I spent years keeping that light dim, just wanting to fit in and be accepted. I wanted to be worthy of love, and I thought being like everyone else was the key.
Thankfully, life didn’t let me keep believing that.
As it turns out, loving my family fiercely and unconditionally is what gives me the love I was craving. Fighting for the rights of families like mine is one of the ways I’ve learned to love myself. It’s helped me let go of my past and heal by using what I’ve learned through trial and trauma. I no longer live like the girl set on fire. I no longer live like the girl who lost her virginity to rape. I no longer live in shame because I was a young mom and never realized the dreams I had for myself. I’m not the woman-who-rips-up-her-lawn-to-make-the-neighbours-happy anymore.
My life reflects exactly who I am: unconventional. And now I get to use what I’ve learned to help other people who are unconventional in their own ways. It’s the very best sort of life.
I might do the bulk of the public advocacy work in my family, but that doesn’t mean the rest of the Knox crew isn’t actively changing the world too. Alexis and Zoë are happy to live their lives quietly, going to school and work, spending time with friends and family, doing a bit of advocacy here and there but otherwise just living. They don’t try to hide who they are, but they don’t make a big deal out of it either. The way they change the world is through example. They continue to call into question old stereotypes about trans people and defy statistics. They’re happy, loved and successful in what they do. They enjoy relative stability and an abundance of support from their community. We need positive examples like them in the world, which is why they’re willing to let the writer and storyteller in the family share parts of their lives with others.
Aerik and Jackson are two of the most loving young men I’ve ever met. They chose to lead with love when their sister and mama came out, rather than with anger or resentment. It hasn’t always been easy.
One day, Aerik told his mama he was struggling with her transition. “I thought I had a father, and then I didn’t. I looked up to you as my male role model. What does that mean for me now?”
Zoë nodded empathetically. She thought for a moment and said, “You know, everything you learned from me about becoming a good man is still valid. All that compassion, sensitivity and strength is still there. Some guys don’t learn that from other guys—they learn it from the strong women in their lives.”
A perfectly stated and abundantly satisfactory answer. Guys with two moms can be amazing too.
Jackson, whose young life changed so much, has made sure to always put love first, even while processing and accepting that change. He was the first to switch pronouns with no mistakes and the first to start cracking “two moms” jokes. He insists that those around him be open-minded and accepting of LGBTQ people, and he is quick to educate them when they are not. He’s my little hero.
Soon after Zoë came out, I asked Jackson and Alexis how things were going at school. Were people accepting of the news they had two moms?
“Oh yeah,” Alexis said. “Having gay parents is cool now.”
“It’s true!” Jackson agreed. “People keep saying to me, ‘Aww! I wish I had two moms!’ ”
“Is everyone like that?” I asked.
“Well,” Jackson replied, “there is this one kid who says you can’t have two moms or two dads. Everyone has to have a mom and a dad or they don’t exist.”
“That must be frustrating,” I empathized.
“Only for him.” He grinned. “Every time I talk about my family in class now, I make a point of saying ‘my moms,’ whenever I can. I figure it’ll eventually sink in.”
I gave him a high-five.
My family members are the ones creating change. I’m just the storyteller.
Our story has reached around the world. I regularly get emails from people in countries where trans rights are non-existent or under attack. Some feel scared and hopeless. Some find hope in stories like ours. Some ask me for advice, although I don’t always know what to say. Sometimes all I can do is listen. Sometimes that’s enough.
I once heard from a trans woman in Finland who had used our story as a springboard to come out to her wife. We ended up hosting them in our home for a few months, along with their baby. They came to Canada to escape the rampant transphobia in their otherwise progressive country. We gave them a place to stay and food to eat, helped raise funds for legal proceedings, and connected them to LGBTQ resources and community. Ultimately, they lost their asylum claim and had to return home. It broke our hearts. Last I heard, things were difficult for them.
We’ve connected with plenty of local people too. I’ve taken several parents of newly out trans kids to an in-person support group so they could see that they’re in good company. Zoë and I have met several strangers who are trying to come to terms with a loved one’s transition—or their own. Sometimes, you just need to know you’re not alone, and sitting with another person who’s been there is the first step in acceptance.
One Ottawa trans woman reached out to me after reading Zoë’s work story. It made her realize she could no longer keep lying to herself. She needed to have the freedom the woman in the story had. We met for lunch when she was at the beginning of her journey, still using a male name and male pronouns, still relatively quiet and introverted. Today, she’s an energetic, extroverted person, living as the woman she always knew she was. Bonus: we’re great friends.
A woman who had been reading my blog for years and would share parts of it with her spouse got in touch with me when that spouse came out to her as a trans woman. “I never thought what I was reading in your blog would become my own life,” she said to me. We invited them over to meet us and other families in similar situations. They ended up moving down the street, and I often bring my dog over to play with theirs.
We get stopped by people who recognize us on the street, in the store, at our kids’ schools, at the gym, in restaurants and doctors’ offices. Nearly every interaction is positive, and sometimes involves hugs.
“Thank you for teaching me about families like yours.”
“My nephew came out last week and I was able to send his mom your blog.”
“I don’t have any trans people that I know of in my life, but learning about your family helped me understand why I need to care about their rights and safety anyway.”
Once again, this is the power of visibility. This is what fuels the work we do and helps us push through the negativity. I know we’re making a difference. It’s not always fun and it’s not always comfortable, but when we look at the big picture, it’s always rewarding.
Whenever I’m having a bad day, I read the wall of sticky notes. I run my fingers along the words, written in my best (and yet still terrible) handwriting, and I smile. Even on the worst days, I smile. Each one is meaningful.
Yes, there have been some big opportunities and cool experiences in the past few years. But they pale in comparison to what’s important: our family’s happiness, the friendships we’ve made, the impact we’re having, the community we’re growing. These are the reasons we continue living as openly as we do.
TWENTY-EIGHT
renewal
“ARE YOU READY?” I asked her.
She most certainly was.
It was August 19, 2017. We were in a room at our friends’ country home in Carp, Ontario, sequestered from the forty guests taking seats in the front yard. A white archway decorated with flowers awaited us.
Zoë wore a lovely champagne-coloured dress that went to her knees. Her chestnut hair framed her radiant face. She had on white shoes to match my dress, and I wore champagne shoes to match hers. Colour coordination among brides is everything.
She had dreamed of this moment for a long time. Our first wedding
reflected not who she was but what society expected her to be. This wedding, this joyous do-over twenty years later, was her big day. She was able to wear a dress, be walked down the aisle and say vows all over again to the girl she had fallen in love with at a party so many years ago. But this time, she got to do it as herself.
This was her day, and she was going to enjoy every moment.
* * *
—
This was Zoë’s day.
Hey, I just wanted twinkly lights and I got them, so I was happy.
After the ceremony, I sat under the big white tent in Leslie and Brad’s backyard, watching my lovely bride dance the night away with our closest friends and family. I traced the circumference of my new wedding ring with my finger. We’d opted for matching silver ones this time; I had a feeling we’d be proudly wearing them every day. My vows to her had involved promising to watch Netflix in yoga pants with her for the rest of our lives. See? Romance isn’t dead.
The guests were as much her loved ones as they were mine. My once-introverted spouse had morphed into a vivacious, engaging person who made friends easily. I loved watching this blossoming. I knew it was happening much later than she would have liked, but it was still beautiful.
I wish the girl from Peterborough had been able to live as that girl right from the start. I wish the first half of her life had been easier and more authentic. I wish she hadn’t had to struggle for so long before finally being free. But then we never would have met. She likely would have never come to Ottawa. And even if she did, her life circumstances would have been different, and we probably would not have sat across from each other at that party. And even if, by chance, we had, I would never have allowed myself to fall in love with her. Not then, not there. I wasn’t ready.
No, the circumstances needed to play out exactly as they had for us to find and hold onto each other. It has been an imperfect and at times dysfunctional love story. But it’s our love story, and that love culminated in a remarkable family. While Zoë didn’t get the life she deserved—the life Alexis now has a shot at—I hope that the deep love we share and the family we’ve built is still a nice consolation prize.
* * *
—
Lights beneath a white tent.
When Zoë was recovering from surgery, she took on most of the wedding planning. I told her this day was for her, so she could look and feel exactly how she wanted to, and I would be happy with anything.
She knew I was full of it.
She knew I wanted a white tent with lights strung up around it. I had only been talking about it for the past decade or so. She made sure to order them so I would smile extra wide on our special day too. That’s my wife. She loves me far more than I deserve.
So there I was: hanging out in my perfect tent, under my perfect lights, watching my perfect bride. People made their way up to the deck—also filled with lights, obviously—to get food from the glorious potluck feast all our favourite people had put together. (It’s not a lesbian celebration if it’s not a potluck, you know.)
I used to think I loved our first wedding. I was wrong. I liked it. It was fun, but it didn’t have the depth or meaning of this vow renewal. That day in 1997 felt more like an expectation; I was supposed to marry a guy, and Zoë was supposed to be one. This day, twenty years later, was a decision born from love and nothing else. The way it was supposed to be.
Earlier in the day, our dads had taken turns walking us down the aisle. Our moms gave speeches over dinner that made everyone cry. Little Jackson, now ten, was the handsome ring bearer. Aerik, who was a baby at our first wedding, was our twenty-year-old officiant at this one, and he did an impressive job. Alexis, now a confident fourteen-year-old going through the right puberty and loving the changes to her body, was mixing tunes for us all night long in the DJ booth.
My brother Mike serenaded us with an adorably original love song after the speeches. Katie made sure her one-year-old, Alexa, was wearing her very best rainbow dress to be the flower girl at her aunts’ wedding.
Many of our friends got involved too. Sarah, who had once made me coffee while I cried about my marriage being over, sang us down the aisle. Dani, a talented photographer I had met through the blogging community years before, took stunning photos of our ceremony. Jenn, a makeup artist who had given Zoë a makeover and tips when she first came out, made sure we looked incredible on our big day. Liliane provided a gorgeous cake—and the twinkly lights for the deck, of course, because she knows me well.
The last of our fears and worries, the ones that had built the walls we hid behind for most of our lives, dissipated that evening. If there was ever an example of true love between a couple, within a family and throughout a community, this was it. We were living it.
* * *
—
A few days later, we took the kids on a family honeymoon. We flew to Calgary, drove west through the Rockies and spent a few days in Vancouver before flying home. We connected with other trans people we knew along the way, including an up-and-coming politician in BC and a woman from Alberta who’d had surgery in Montreal on the same day as Zoë. We had lunch in Banff so I could introduce the women who had invited me to speak there to the family I had spoken so highly of. We held hands through the gay village in Vancouver, dipped our toes in the ocean, saw giant trees I had dreamed about visiting for a lifetime and came home with a pile of new memories.
The vow renewal and family honeymoon were our fresh start, our new beginning. Not long before, we were staring at a pile of rubble beneath our feet. Instead of walking away from it, we took the pieces and built something even more beautiful from them. My foundation—our foundation—is finally rock-solid.
I used to fear change, but now I welcome it. How do we grow without it? How do we get stronger without facing what we don’t think we can possibly get through? I am a far better person today than I was before the night of February 25, 2014, when I stared in disbelief at an email from a frightened eleven-year-old. Since that day, she has taught me not only about the power of unconditional love, but a whole lot about myself too.
Alexis’s courage changed not only her life but also the lives of both her moms. Because of her, Zoë was able to come out. And because of Zoë, I was able to do the same. We have all become better versions of ourselves, and our whole family is benefiting from that.
In 2017, I got a tattoo on my right forearm, the arm I shake everyone’s hand with. It says “Lead with Love.” It’s a reminder to me that when we’re trying to change the world, love must be our foundation. Hate is loud and violent, but it burns out quickly. Love is quieter and slower, but more resilient. It lingers longer and ultimately gets the job done. I’ve seen it work its magic in my own family, and I unquestionably believe in its power to do the same in society.
I will spend as long as it takes telling our story and fighting for families in which one or more people desperately need love, support and understanding. Families like ours. I’ll know I don’t have to fight anymore when I explain my family to others and no one bats an eye. When that happens—when folks just shrug like it’s no big deal; when hate and judgment cease; when threats stop coming; when people truly see me, my wife, my daughter and our family as valid—I can hang up my advocacy hat for good. It will be a glorious day, but I don’t think it will be anytime soon.
What I want the world to know more than anything is that yes, my family looks a little different these days, but not in the ways that really matter. We’re a typical home filled with laughter, conversation, sibling rivalry, too much laundry, not enough vegetables and fights over who gets to pick the Friday-night movie.
And yeah, we have a couple of trans people and some gays. Who cares?
Some of the names and pronouns have changed, but the love remains the same.
EPILOGUE
SHE TOLD ME on the train.
My cellphone rang as I settled into my seat at Toronto’s Union Station on a Friday afternoon. It was February 2018 and I was heading home f
rom a business trip, tired from travel and meetings. But our case worker was calling, and I perked up immediately, hoping this was the news we had been waiting for.
“Hi, Amanda! I just wanted to let you and Zoë know that you’ve been approved for your kinship placement.”
“That’s wonderful!” I replied, a little too loudly for the quiet train car. “Ashley is coming over later. I can’t wait to tell her! She’s going to be so happy.”
“I bet she is,” the worker said. I could almost hear her smiling over the phone. “I’ll be in touch after the weekend to talk about setting an official move-in date.”
It was happening. Our family was about to go through another transition.
* * *
—
Two and a half years earlier, Alexis had been sitting at a school lunch table with her grade eight friends when she noticed a new girl scanning the room.
“You can sit with us,” Alexis and her friends said, waving her over and making room.
Her name was Ashley, and she had just moved into a new foster-care home in the area. She and Alexis hit it off immediately, bonding over Minecraft, music and a love for the mall. They became inseparable. Alexis brought Ashley home to meet us, and she quickly became a regular, staying for dinner and weekend sleepovers.
Then, quite suddenly, she was gone.
Things hadn’t worked out in her foster home, and with very little notice, she was uprooted from the school and Alexis, and placed in a group home across the city.
Alexis was gutted, but Ashley was used to it. By this point, she had been in and out of foster homes and the care of various family members for most of her life. She had been to fifteen different schools. Her norm was unpredictability.
One of the things she had learned was not to count on friendships; she had lost too many amid the upheaval. It was hard to stay in touch when you were young and always on the move, so she didn’t try. For years, to save herself from the hurt of more goodbyes, she had avoided going to friends’ houses and connecting with their lives outside of school. But she made an exception this time and stayed in touch with Alexis. She received permission from the group home to keep visiting her friend on weekends. We would drive across the city to pick her up on Saturday mornings and take her back in time for afternoon chores on Sundays.
Love Lives Here Page 23