by Janet Mock
It had been nearly three years since I had sat down with my mother in our house in Kalihi and discussed my sexuality. I was now asking my family to embrace me as Janet. I realized even then that it would take them time to adapt. They slipped from time to time when it came to my name and pronouns, and I forgave those early slips because they were part of our collective growing pains. What mattered to me was that they loved me enough to go on the journey with me and willingly adapt their lives to mine. Though the changes were about me, I couldn’t deny they were also about my family, who reacted positively and grew accustomed at their own pace.
Jeff, who was nine at the time, adapted the easiest, accepting my gender identity as something natural with little concern, the way children do when we present change as positive. Cheraine and Cori, who were busy with their growing families, shrugged at my announcement, claiming that they’d always known. Cori was the proudest of all my siblings to have another sister, lovingly calling me tita (pidgin for “sister”). Chad was the only one I felt a bit self-conscious discussing the gender stuff with. I avoided him, opting to seek refuge in my relationship with Wendi rather than open up to him about what I was going through. I felt accountable to him and our siblinghood because we had spent our entire lives together. Our diverging paths sent us into our respective womanhood and manhood. Though Chad embraced me without rebuttal (he was the most careful with my name and pronouns), I knew he needed time to figure out who he was, come to grips with who I was, and mourn the loss of the big brother he thought he’d always wanted.
My mother, who was preoccupied with bills and Rick, defaulted to her signature hands-off approach with my social transition, which I took into my own hands. She was and has always been the kind of mother who recognized her children as their own beings rather than an extension of her. Her outlook benefited me because it allowed me to set the tone for who I would become with minimal consultation. I purposefully remained silent with Mom about taking hormones. I was immature enough to believe that I could do it all on my own; I didn’t give her the opportunity to be an advocate for me at school and beyond. It wasn’t that I was afraid of my mother freaking out; I just didn’t have the skills to communicate my growing needs, and there was a part of me that was unsure she would be able to meet those needs. Expecting things from other people always led to heartache, I believed at the time, and I didn’t want to be disappointed, so I chose to go it alone for a while longer.
After that class assembly, I continued to improvise, creating the space I needed for myself in school within a cocoon of supportive friends, teachers, and teammates. Instead of embarking on a series of conversations with Moanalua’s staff, I let my denim capris, my brown tribal-pattern choker, my crown of curls, and my growing bust do the talking. It hasn’t been until recently that I have been able to appreciate the brave girl standing on that stage, walking in those hallways, sitting in class, who made herself seen, heard, and known.
My presence as a fifteen-year-old trans girl must’ve been radical to many, but to me it was truth, and my truth led me to form a womanhood all my own. What I failed to realize was that the people outside my home, specifically the school’s staff, weren’t equipped with the resources and experience to help a student like me. Some of them were unwilling to seek that knowledge and chose to view my presence as problematic. I admit that my approach may have appeared abrasive to some, but I was unapologetic about who I was and never felt the need to plead for belonging in school. Though my entitlement aided my survival, it also created problems.
Social transition is the process by which a trans person begins openly living as their true gender. Trans youth who openly express their gender identity at home are usually aided by parents, who speak with teachers, administrators, and other parents about their identity, pronouns, and name. Open, clear communication helps detail the student’s and the family’s journey, educate people about what it means to be trans, and set a precedent of support for the young person. GLSEN (Gay, Lesbian & Straight Education Network), a national organization that advocates for all students regardless of gender identity and sexual orientation, offers a model policy resource for schools to help foster safe, affirmative environments that will meet the needs of trans students.
Ideally, administrators clearly communicate to teachers the importance of assisting the student by using the preferred name and pronouns and ensuring that other students do so as well. A teacher sets the tone in the classroom by ensuring that misuse of names and pronouns is not tolerated and that harassment and name-calling will be grounds for discipline. Though most of my teachers were on board with role modeling in the classroom, I can still feel the sting of my chemistry teacher purposefully calling out “Charles” every morning during role call, to the giggles of my peers. To add insult to injury, she repeatedly misgendered me, deliberately referring to me as “he” and “him” and refusing to reprimand bullies who interrupted class by shouting, “I can see your balls!” or “How big are your tits now?” Instead of taking a leadership role and proclaiming that intolerance would not be tolerated, she chose to turn a blind eye to insults, going as far as blaming me for putting a target on my own back for dressing the way I did. She viewed my femininity as extra, as something that was forced and unnatural.
Femininity in general is seen as frivolous. People often say feminine people are doing “the most,” meaning that to don a dress, heels, lipstick, and big hair is artifice, fake, and a distraction. But I knew even as a teenager that my femininity was more than just adornments; they were extensions of me, enabling me to express myself and my identity. My body, my clothes, and my makeup are on purpose, just as I am on purpose.
My teacher’s judgments fostered an environment that became increasingly uncomfortable for me daily. If I hadn’t valued my education and hadn’t been accepted at home, skipping class or dropping out of school to avoid the harassment would have been an appealing choice. It’s no wonder nearly one-third of LGBTQ students are driven out of school—a dropout rate nearly three times the national average, according to Lambda Legal.
Administrators can also navigate gender-segregated activities, sports, restrooms, and locker rooms based on the circumstances of the student and the school facilities, with the intent of maximizing safety, comfort, and social integration. Some students may be comfortable using restrooms, locker rooms, and changing facilities that correspond with gender identity (for example, I freely used the girls’ restroom), while others may prefer a single-user and/or gender-neutral restroom or changing room (for example, I used my teacher’s locked classroom to change for physical education). While some students and parents may express discomfort with sharing such gender-separated facilities with a trans student, school staff must work diligently to address concerns through education that fosters understanding and empathy and creates a safe campus for all students, regardless of bodily differences.
It’s important to note confidentiality and discretion, as some students (with the guidance of their parents) may choose to attend a school where no one knows that they’re trans. Others may not be open at home for reasons such as safety concerns, lack of acceptance, or potential rejection. For these students, school may be a safer environment to express themselves truly, and school staff should remain open and supportive as they help navigate social transition. Disclosing to a parent that a child is trans carries risks for the student, such as being forced to leave home. Let the student lead the way, be willing and open to educate yourself and others, and set the tone in the classroom about how a trans student should be treated.
Unfortunately, I was going at it all alone, with little guidance from my mother and a lack of leadership and sensitivity from school administrators who chose to view me as a nuisance. I remember Vice Principal Johnson, a forty-something white woman from the South, tapping me on the shoulder during lunch to follow her to her office. She was a regular sight at lunchtime, hard to miss, standing five-ten, her bright blond pixie cut reflecting the high-noon sun.
; “Do you know why I called you in here today?” she asked as I sat in the metal chair near her desk. I shook my head, having never been summoned to the administrators’ building, a place I associated with delinquents and truant students. “We have a ‘standard rules of conduct and dress code’ policy,” she said. “Have you read it?”
“I haven’t, miss,” I said, cradling my right hand nervously in my left palm.
“If you did read it, you’d see that your dress is inappropriate,” she said. “Young men don’t wear skirts,” she said, narrowing her green eyes on my denim skirt with rhinestones lining the pockets.
I had to exert everything in my limited power from reacting to the shade she was throwing at me. “I’m going through some changes,” I said, aiming to explain myself to her. “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding, because I’m not a boy.”
“Really?” she said quizzically.
“I see myself as a girl, and I know the way I dress isn’t bothering anyone,” I said. “I’m an honor student, class treasurer, and captain of the volleyball team.”
“I’m glad you’re doing well,” she said, cutting me off. “We need more good students. But I’ve spoken with your teachers, and from my understanding, the way you’re dressing has caused disruptions in class.”
“Yes, I’m teased frequently,” I argued, “with some teachers choosing not to defend me.”
“Consider this a warning,” she said after a short pause during which she took in the hint of cleavage from my white V-neck sweater. “We have dress codes to avoid the disruptions you’ve encountered in class. Do you understand?”
After a few weeks of wearing bell-bottoms and denim shorts, I chose to wear a skirt, but this time self-consciousness crept in. I was no longer as carefree. To wear a skirt, to be proud and unapologetically feminine, was a badge of honor for me initially, but it had transformed into another thing I was forced to hide. I should have been allowed to wear whatever I wanted as long as it was within the dress code for all girls. I often successfully dodged VP Johnson in the halls, but there were a number of times when she sent me home to change.
Home was no refuge, as I incredulously watched Mom picking up lint, on all fours, from our carpet. She was totally zoned out on the floor, holding her findings in her palm while using her free hand as the picker. I was suspicious that Mom was smoking meth with Rick. When I brought it up with Chad, he adamantly denied it, helping to assuage my anxieties. “She wouldn’t do that,” he said. I could see he was offended by my accusations that Mom could be like Rick.
Putting aside Mom’s alleged drug use, her volatile relationship set the tone in our house. Rick was normally calm and quiet, unengaged, but out of nowhere he’d explode. He and Mom usually yelled from behind their bedroom walls, something we adapted and grew accustomed to. We’d turn up the television when they fought, trying our best to ignore Rick’s roars and Mom’s whimpers. We grew accustomed to their screaming matches, which usually ended with the two of them leaving the house together, giving us money for dinner.
Mom followed Rick everywhere, even if it meant missing work. I would wake in the mornings to grab Raisin Bran, and she’d be on the couch in denim shorts and a T-shirt with her bag at her side, ready for one of his “adventures.” He was a thief and would pull stunts regularly to stay afloat, selling or pawning goods for money or drugs. He worked as a security guard for a hot second and eventually was fired after he spent off-the-clock hours stealing from the offices and homes he was supposed to surveillance. Mom told me she went on a bunch of these stunts with him, including the time he stole our first computer. I wasn’t apologetic about having a stolen computer, just happy to have one, gleefully chatting on AOL Instant Messenger.
Shit got real one night when we were grabbing dinner at L&L near the airport. On our way home, Mom began whining that she wanted to go somewhere with Rick. This pathetic sound was one I had grown accustomed to hearing. Usually, it would end with Rick going along with her begging, but this time he wasn’t having it.
“Why you wanna come with me for?” Rick asked.
“I just want to be with you,” Mom said.
They were quiet until we pulled in the parking lot of our apartment. Mom passed the food to Chad, putting her and Rick’s plates in a separate bag, which she placed on her lap in the front seat.
“Elizabeth, get out of the car,” Rick said, obviously fed up.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Mom said, unmovable.
“I’m only going to say it one more time: Get out of the fucking car, Elizabeth!” he roared.
Mom didn’t move. Chad, Jeff, and I stood by the elevator watching Rick open the driver’s door, lean over, and scream, “Get the fuck out!”
“This is my car,” she said. “Get your own car if you want to leave.”
“Get the fuck out of here,” he shouted as his right hand smacked her in the back of the head, rocking the car. My heart was beating fast. My eyes followed Rick as he slammed his door, stomped to my mother’s side, and dragged her out of the car with a fistful of her brown hair in his hand. Gravy from her hamburger steak plate was all over her shorts as she sat in her own food.
I watched my mother pick herself up from the oil-stained cement. She stood up, grabbed the styrofoam plates, and threw them at Rick. Defeated, he returned to the driver’s side, and they drove off together.
It was this “I have nothing to lose” climate, this understanding that the bottom couldn’t be far away and that I didn’t have stability anyway, that gave me the courage to open up to my mother about the fact that I had been taking Wendi’s hormones behind her back. It was just after dinner. I was damp from my shower, bare-faced, wearing pom-pom shorts and a tank top covering the full A-cups that I was proud of. I was helping Mom load the dishwasher as I detailed that I had been taking medicine for the past six months that would help me become a girl, that my mind was made up, that I had a plan, and that I needed her help. “I never ask you for anything,” I said, “but I need you to take me to Wendi’s doctor in Waikiki, who specializes in this medicine, and sign off on my treatments.”
Mom looked at me with a knowing glare, as if she had known years before—maybe back when I mistakenly told her I was gay, maybe way back when she was sixteen and told her mother in their kitchen she was pregnant with Cori—that we would be right here, with me telling her that I needed her help. I felt she was finally looking at the daughter she had overlooked this entire time.
“Whatever you need, Janet,” Mom said without argument, returning to the dishes in the sink. My mother knew the train had left the station and that she had a choice: to jump aboard or let it reach its destination without her. Thankfully, she chose to ride it out with me. That didn’t mean my mother didn’t have her reservations. She later told me she worried about what others thought and said, about the second-guessing of family and friends who told her she shouldn’t encourage me in this way, that she was doing the wrong thing by letting me dress like a girl. I’m not a parent, so I can only imagine the guilt, judgment, and pressure my mother must’ve silently endured those years as she let me steer the way toward my future.
A few Saturdays later, Mom drove Wendi and me to Dr. R.’ s for my first physician-monitored hormone appointment. The three of us sat in the waiting room as Wendi (whose skittish presence had become constant in the office over the years) signed herself in. I had accompanied Wendi a number of times to Dr. R.’s office—I was a familiar sight to him—but this was the first time I had signed myself in for an appointment. He called Wendi first, spending about twenty minutes taking her weight and blood pressure and injecting her with estrogen. After she returned, Dr. R. called my mother and me into his office. “Hi, Mrs. Mock,” he said, extending his hand to Mom while shooting a knowing glance my way. “So I hear Janet is ready to take the next step.”
My mother smiled apprehensively from her seat across from the doctor, taking in his gray hair, blue smock, thick glasses, and perpetually chapped lips. I was sure his
empathetic and direct approach would ease any reservations Mom had. I watched her closely as she took in the bulletin board covered with photos of past and present patients, including a snapshot of Tracy onstage at Venus and Wendi’s freshman yearbook photo.
“Great, and are you both clear about the regimen?”
“I know the next step is shots, since I’ve been taking Premarin for the past six months,” I explained excitedly, knowing that Dr. R. had experience with patients who self-medicated.
“You are right: The next step does include weekly doses of Estradiol Valerate, which is the estrogen I prefer for my patients. I find that injections reduce the strain that oral medicine has on the liver,” he said. “It’s twenty dollars for a twenty-milligram shot of Estradiol, which I pair with the supplemental vitamin B12. We will start Janet off with half a dose, monitor that for three months, and then graduate her to the full dose.”
During our consultation, Dr. R. detailed the potential side effects, including mood swings, altered hunger patterns, slower metabolism, weight gain, water retention, increased risk of blood clots and breast cancer, and of course infertility. I was a child, so having children was never on my mind; I can only echo Morrison’s character Sula: “I don’t want to make someone else. I want to make myself.” Dr. R. assured my mother that I was in good hands and that he had been treating transsexual patients for nearly thirty years in Hawaii.
“Most important, your daughter will remain healthy and will be pleased to finally appear as she feels,” he said. “She will also be able to live in the world as a young woman, an attractive one at that, something that isn’t easily achieved or possible for most of my patients.”
It was vital to me to be seen as the girl I was, and Dr. R. was the first person to vocalize that possibility as a reality. Becoming my own woman was no longer the unrealistic fantasy of a thirteen-year-old. His statements about my appearance validated my dreams, easing Mom’s anxieties about my prospects and the effects of the irreversible steps. The fact that I fit our society’s narrow standard of female appearance also eased my mother’s worries about my future and the harsh discrimination and harassment that often comes with being read as trans.