Raising Ryland

by Hillary Whittington

  Pastor Eric was one of the people to receive our letter, and he has an understanding of our situation. On the phone, I confide my fears in him. As usual, he is so loving and supportive of us. He tells me that whenever we’re comfortable, he would love to see us in church. “And until that moment comes,” he says, “you’ll all be in my prayers.”

  With that conversation, it doesn’t take long before Jeff and I agree: it’s worth a try. In the summer of 2013, we attend Pastor Eric’s first service at Foothills. It’s the first time that Jeff, or I, or any of us, have been to church in a very long time. When we pull into the parking lot, I notice a car parked in front of us donning a rainbow bumper sticker. To me, it’s an interesting sign. Looks like we may have come to the right place.

  Ryland enjoys Pastor Eric’s service, listening attentively and standing tall to participate in the hymns and prayers. But of course, it doesn’t go off without a hitch: sitting next to us is a teacher’s assistant who remembers Ry from last year in transitional kindergarten. “Mr. and Mrs. Whittington!” he says after church. “I just have to tell you how much I love your daughter Ryland. She was such a sweet girl at school.”

  My stomach flip-flops. I look at Ryland, who’s busy coloring on the children’s program. “Thank you,” I tell him politely, and then I ask: “May I have your email address? I have something very personal to share with you.” I send him the letter and receive a very kind response from him.

  It’s proof that our reality is likely to be something that requires explaining for a very long time . . . and that maybe, just maybe, I’m finally getting the hang of that.

  Chapter Twelve

  Nuclear Reaction

  In the weeks to follow that Sunday church service, we make an effort to re-center our family in other areas, as well. Jeff and I actually decide to take a little bit of time away from the support group for transgender families. Recently, we’ve been so consumed with supporting our own family that we’ve had very little strength to offer to other parents and children who have been struggling.

  Jeff also takes some time away from the fire department, and in a desperate attempt to return to a sense of normalcy, we listen to advice from my dad and rent a motor home to make a family road trip—just the four of us. Jeff and I have remained united in our handling of Ryland’s needs, but the stress of work, and our overall situation, has been taking its toll on our marriage . . . which is still very fragile. I’ve realized that I’d grown so invested in protecting Ryland’s transition that I became defensive against everyone—even Jeff. Because of this, the stress between us has become overwhelming. At times I feel like I am tackling Ryland’s situation alone; because Jeff is increasingly dissatisfied at work, he is not usually in the best mood when he comes home, and I hate piling the problems that I’m facing onto his plate. In turn, I become resentful over the fact that I am the one constantly facing the parents at school and the friends in the neighborhood. When we do talk to each other, it’s about family logistics or it’s often not very loving. It’s been a long time since we’ve had a date or a heart-to-heart chat, since we’ve held hands, since we’ve even laughed together or exchanged a compliment or a thoughtful word. In our everyday exchanges, it’s clear we both can feel this: we’ve been growing apart. Emotionally, we’re very disconnected. We need time away from home to reconnect as a couple and a family, before it’s too late.

  For the trip, we plan almost nothing; in fact, as we’re pulling out of our driveway at dusk, Jeff looks at me. “If we turn left, we can take the 395 up to Mammoth. If we turn right, we drive up the coast. You make the call.”

  “Let’s go up the coast.”

  Jeff nods and turns the steering wheel in my direction, as the RV pivots out of our driveway and onto the road.

  This is the route we took when we were first dating and Jeff wanted to take me on our first weekend away together—camping in Big Sur. We had such a blast, and I think it was on that trip that we both knew that there was no one else we’d rather spend our life with.

  Now, on this family trip, the next five days are wide open for us to do as we please. It’s our first-ever vacation as a nuclear family, without our extended family, and it’s also the first time that Ryland is able to be his authentic self without anyone knowing his past. The driving will give us plenty of time to soul-search and think.

  When we reach San Luis Obispo, we stop at California Polytechnic State University to get Ryland a T-shirt and to show the kids the campus where Jeff went to college. Then we head for Big Sur, where Jeff puts Bryn in a backpack carrier while we hike by the river and through the mountains. We stay in Carmel, walking by the lagoons and gardens and downtown shops, then drive east down the 101, where we find a lake with a camp full of friendly families who all clap and cheer when Ryland catches his very first fish.

  On day five, we decide not to turn toward home as we planned. Instead, we’re having so much fun that we decide to keep going. We stop in stunning Santa Barbara, enjoying views of the hills and the vineyards, and then Jeff finds Refugio State Beach—a gorgeous beach with wildlife reserves, species of flowering trees, and a clean, preserved beach where it’s only possible to camp if you can get a reservation. Amazingly, they’re doing construction and not taking reservations, so we’re able to score an incredible spot to camp.

  There, Ryland makes a new buddy—a little boy his age, whose father is a California highway patrolman and whose mom and I hit it off. For a couple of days, the boys run and play catch on the beach, and we enjoy this family so much that before we take off, we exchange contact information with them.

  As we embark on the drive home, I email the mother. “We all had so much fun with you,” I tell her. After conferring with Jeff, I also attach the letter we wrote in January. I tell her, “I just wanted to share our story with you.”

  She calls me right away and says they never would have imagined that Ryland had been through so much. They offer their total support and tell me that they hope to see us again.

  As we near home, in the driver’s seat, Jeff turns to me.

  “I think I know what I need to do, Hill,” he says.

  “What’s that?”

  “I need to find a way to leave the department. I’m not happy anymore.”

  I look in his eyes. “I’ll support whatever you think is best.”

  “I know it’s a risk,” he says. “We’ve counted on the income and benefits. But with overtime, I spend over half my life at the station. I want to be home for the family. . . . I want to be the support you all need.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking. I’m already a licensed real estate agent, and you know I understand the business well. I think I need to give that a go, and if I can make it work after a few months, then I’ll pull the trigger and quit the department. We have a safety net of money if we need it.”

  That night, after the kids are happily tucked into bed, we discuss it some more, and the decision is made. For all the things I had held against him for so long, believing that I had gotten the tougher responsibility in carrying our family since before Ryland’s transition, I’m finally able to let a lot of that go. Jeff has admitted how his unhappiness in his career has affected him, and finally, I have a better appreciation for all he’s been feeling inside: he’s the breadwinner, our provider—he carries our family in another crucial way. He’s felt suffocated by his job, and for him, the idea of leaving the career that granted us financial security is a scary one; it would be a bold move. The internal stress of knowing our family depends on him, while being stifled by his profession, has caused him so much anguish. Without a doubt, leaving this profession will come with a whole new set of worries, but ultimately it will give us the time to heal and focus on our family.

  Lying in bed, while Jeff snoozes beside me, I replay moments of our trip up the California coast—the place where Jeff and I fell in love the first time, and this last week, all over again. On this trip, away from our usual worr
ies and our routine, I came to see how much we really love each other. When we removed ourselves from our typical environment, our interactions with each other were complementary. We worked together to cook, to build fires, to clean the motor home, and to pick our next destinations. Jeff and I shared one main goal: to make this trip fun for the kids. In the process of trying to escape our reality back home, we once again saw how much we mean to one another, and it gave the kids the chance to see us loving each other. It gave us hope for our future, as parents, and it gave us a sense of forgiveness for all of the hurt and pain.

  WITHIN A COUPLE of weeks, Jeff signs on with a local real estate firm and starts plugging away. Right now, the plan is ours: no one on the fire department knows. But when he successfully lists and sells a few properties, it grows difficult to juggle both careers.

  While he’s on the engine one day in August 2013, I call him around lunchtime. “Babe,” I tell him, “I’m really sick.”

  “Okay,” he says. “I’ll be right there.” I’m amazed that he’s so willing to pull himself away from his responsibilities at work—it’s difficult for Jeff to leave his job mid-shift. The fire department would have to call another engineer to come in with overtime pay, and this isn’t something the supervisors take lightly. It’s very rare for Jeff to do something like this and it usually indicates a personal emergency. While my physical symptoms are not life-or-death, Jeff is well aware that my emotional state has been in a state of emergency for quite some time. For me, his coming home mid-shift is further proof that he’s committed to putting our family first.

  So with no one to help me with Brynley, Jeff tells his captain that he needs to go home. When he returns to the station, unbeknownst to him, he steps off the engine as a firefighter for the last time.

  Over the next couple of days I watch him contemplate his decision to leave the department and I can see the heavy weight on his shoulders. He’s nervous about our family’s future as he realizes our financial stability is held solely in his hands. Finally, after some serious thought, he makes his decision. He takes off his next scheduled shift to continue to help me, and then sits down at the computer. I stand next to him, as he drafts an email to be sent to every member of the fire department—his farewell.

  Brothers and Sisters,

  Today is my last official day of employment with San Diego Fire. To many of you that I have come to know over the past seven years, this may come as a surprise. I wanted to take the opportunity to explain some of my situation and hope that any judgment is reserved without full knowledge of the circumstances. The past couple of years have proven difficult within my immediate family, and we have faced private life challenges that were unforeseen. In our navigation through these issues, we as a family have come to the decision that the best career and lifestyle decision is for me to leave the department. I will have an ongoing future need to be home with my children during evenings and work a more standardized M–F schedule. The decision to leave was made many months ago, and I grinded through the revamping and building of my real estate business, to be sure that I would not leave my family high and dry. Having realized some success within the business, I have had increasing difficulty maintaining both positions while maintaining my first priority, which is being present for my family.

  It has come time for me to find the courage to leave the department and pursue that which I know will allow me to be the family person that I need to be. I must live by the “Family First” mantra. I certainly don’t expect everyone to understand, but at times life leads us down unplanned paths and we must adapt to the hand we are dealt. I respect you all and I will hold dearly the memories built with all of you in this great profession.

  Thank you for any understanding you can lend in my situation, and I look forward to keeping in touch with many of you. Please be safe and remain united in the fight for what you as firefighters deserve. It’s been an honor.

  Respectfully,

  Jeff Whittington

  I watch his finger shake as it hovers over the SEND button, but he takes a deep breath, and he hits it.

  Within seconds, the responses begin to trickle in—sorrow, disappointment, support, bewilderment. He turns to me. “I just closed the door on the job that used to be my dream,” he says. “But I know in my heart that I’ve done the right thing.”

  I know in my heart that I need to exercise this same kind of courage in a conflict that’s been waging inside me ever since Melissa sought to replace Ryland in her wedding—which will happen at the end of this month. When we wrote our letter about Ryland, I made sure to put one particular statement in bold print: “You also must know that if you choose to not support our decision, please don’t expect our relationship to grow from here. Our child’s happiness is most important to us.” When I wrote this, I had every intention to stand by it, and so far I haven’t wavered. I’m dedicated to protecting Ryland, but removing Melissa from our life has proved harder than I ever could have imagined. I knew that the decision not to attend her wedding would forever sever whatever relationship that we had left, but it’s what we had to do. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it, and I’ve been aching for some closure, so the night before her wedding, I email her.

  It’s a letter that’s even more emotionally difficult to write than the letter about Ryland’s transition was, because with our history, our memories that go back to childhood, and our family ties, my relationship with Melissa is one that I have not been willing to let go of. It’s a lengthy message in which I pour out my entire heart as I try to make some sense for her of our decision not to attend her wedding—among the points I want to express, I tell her that I was fiercely hurt by her unwillingness to make Ryland a part of her special day and that there’s not some magic fix for what we’ve been dealing with. I tell her that Ryland’s gender identity was not something he would simply outgrow, and not something that we could have delayed acknowledging. To have denied it any longer would have put us at further risk that Ry could be one of the 41 percent of transgender individuals who try to take their own lives.

  I explain that someday, when she’s a mother, she will understand all this; that her child will be the most important thing to her in the world. “You’re getting married tomorrow,” I write. “I hope you can understand that things aren’t always perfect. I wish they were. I love you so much and this is killing me, and I am willing to meet you halfway. One day, I hope you are willing to do the same. In the meantime, I really do wish you a wonderful wedding day.”

  I read it over once, twice, and one more time . . . then I hit SEND. I allow myself a few minutes of tears—they are heavy, and they fall fast. Then I take a deep breath and sit back in the desk chair where I’d recently watched my husband do the same.

  Our new life begins now.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Educating the Educators

  In the summer of 2013, as we prepare for Ryland to start kindergarten, Jeff and I feel strongly that within his school environment, it will be important for us to foster a sense of understanding and compassion toward him (and any other child who may be living with aspects of their identities that make them anything other than what the school, and our education system at large, consider “normal”). We’re well aware that we can’t control everything in Ryland’s galaxy, but we feel compelled to do what we can.

  We also find it crucial to do all we can to preserve Ryland’s anonymity—for as many people in our community who know what we’ve been through or who have received the letter, we don’t want word to get out that Ryland is the odd kid out at school whose presence demands this training or who needs special treatment. It’s a balance that we need to strike between preparing the adults and kids around Ryland, and preventing stigma. We feel that if we can approach this with as much “normalness” as possible, then this will set the tone for how Ryland will be received at school.

  There aren’t many professional resources to execute this in any “right” way, and we want it to be done as exper
tly as we can possibly make it. Assembly Bill 1266 recently passed in California, permitting transgender kids to participate in school-related activities, sports teams, programs, and facilities. (This means Ryland can now use the restroom according to his gender identity, if he so chooses.) It’s positive progress for transgender people in the state of California, but for most everyone else, this subject is very new and very scary.

  Joel Baum at the Gender Spectrum Conference and his team specialize in the type of training that’s necessary, as far as Jeff and I are concerned, for schools to be inclusive of transgender children. After a brief thread of email exchanges with Joel and Ryland’s principal, we’re under the impression that Joel has arranged to make the trip to San Diego to train Ryland’s teachers within the next month—just in time for the kindergarten year to start in late August.

  I’m elated that both the school and Joel are so open and willing to make this happen, and Jeff and I offer to pay half of Joel’s costs to ensure that it does, but two days before Joel’s trip to San Diego, I learn that the school has made a change of plans—a big one. The training has been canceled.