He met up with trans people on the Internet, then in real life; he dyed his hair blue and got a Mohawk. He said he didn’t care about academics, and might not finish his education. Lynn said to him, “Look, we’ve worked really hard to respect you and let you be who you are, and now we’re asking you to finish school and go to college.” Scott agreed it was a fair bargain. Lynn suggested that he go to college early and register as a guy. UVM was eager to have him, so in what would have been his junior year of high school, he became a freshman in college.
Morris took Scott to freshman orientation. “He was wearing a T-shirt from some trans event,” Morris said. “I was thinking, ‘If you want to be a guy, be a guy, but don’t go wear this trans shirt and look all weird.’ We got to the orientation, and a number of the volunteers said, ‘Hey, I went to that conference,’ or, ‘Great T-shirt.’” Scott had a single room with a private bathroom in a boys’ dorm, but he hated the beer drinkers and football players, so he joined the UVM Pride Suite, with a variety of gay undergrads. The following year, he established a seven-person suite for trans people. He went on to start a trans conference at the university, to convince UVM that students should be able to put whatever name they wanted on their student IDs, and to get the designation transgender added to housing forms.
I first saw the family soon after Scott began his freshman year. When I went back, two years later, Scott had moved away from a trans identity and toward an exclusively male one—a gay male one. “I still haven’t figured out how the person who was my daughter who likes guys is therefore gay,” Morris said. In the general population, some men are gay because they are attracted to men, and when they become women, they remain attracted to men. Some men are gay because they are attracted to sameness, and once they become women, they are attracted to women. These are not independent variables; they are components of a complex relationship with one’s own and other people’s gender. By some estimates, about half of transwomen and a third of transmen are gay or bisexual.
Lynn said, “I asked him lots of questions about how people have sex. He discussed it with me because he was being gracious and I wanted to know. I worry because there are anatomical things that are different, given that he doesn’t want bottom surgery, so he’s got to meet one hell of a nice guy not to mind. But people have richly varied tastes. During those transition years, I would stop by UVM pretty often for lunch, and we’d talk on the phone quite a bit. In the last year he’s been much less forthcoming. He’s doing what a normal teenager does.” Scott said, “I’m fine being out as gay, but I’m not out as trans except to close friends. For a while, my transition was most of what I thought about and did. I’m no longer interested in making my life like an example. I am probably going to medical school. I know my being out could be important for other medical students who have trans issues. But it’s also my life.”
Scott’s younger brother, Charlie, said he didn’t have a hard time with his old friends learning that his sister was now his brother. But he has a hard time telling newer friends that his brother used to be his sister. When those friends come over, Charlie puts away the framed photos of Scott as a little girl. Scott doesn’t mind his parents having the photos out, and he doesn’t mind Charlie putting them away. Lynn said, “If we get rid of them, we erase his childhood. I had a daughter until Scott turned fourteen. Of course, I didn’t have a daughter really, because Scott was Scott the whole time. But also, I did.”
• • •
I found two models for political engagement among trans people. Some activists were newly affirmed in their gender and eager to claim a loud trans identity; over time, I saw them become comfortable passing, wanting simply to live the gender they had always felt themselves to be. For them, activism had been a form of catharsis. Others had made their transitions quietly and privately, often at a great distance from everyone they knew and loved. Over time, they became comfortable with themselves and worked to spare others the difficulty they had experienced. For them, activism was a mechanism of gratitude. Many activists associated themselves with organizations such as TransYouth Family Allies (TYFA), Gender Spectrum, Mermaids (UK), PFLAG Transgender Network, TransFamily of Cleveland, TransActive, Genderfork, the National Center for Transgender Equality, the Transgender Legal Defense & Education Fund (TLDEF), and the Transkids Purple Rainbow Foundation. Some activists were not themselves trans but had an oblique relationship to the trans community. I was especially drawn to two groups that represent the differing archetypes of support for trans children: Gender Spectrum and TYFA.
Stephanie Brill, who founded Gender Spectrum in 2007, trades richly in nuance—sometimes at the expense of clarity, but always with an acknowledgment that among human experiences gender lies at the pinnacle of complexity. She is versed in gender theory and queer theory and can spin the obscure vocabulary of abstract philosophy into a dazzling array of options for you or for your child. She believes that a just society must have room for boys who like dolls, for heterosexuals who cross-dress at home, for women who are tough at the office and turn kittenish with intimates, for male kids with long hair who want to learn ballet, and for little girls who are interested only in baseball and climbing trees. Kim Pearson and Shannon Garcia, who run TYFA, a group founded in 2006, are equally intelligent, but they are first and foremost mothers of trans kids. Whereas Stephanie Brill radiates intellect, they emanate a Midwestern, everymom warmth. They are large and loud women who can finish each other’s jokes. You can call them in the middle of the night, and they’ll wake up fast and throw themselves into solving your problem. They can sway a high school principal in a conservative, small town in Middle America by showing that gender variance is a common experience requiring extremely obvious accommodations; they have the kind of courage that makes other people brave.
Stephanie Brill is based in the San Francisco Bay Area, and Gender Spectrum helps liberal families proceed through transition with acuity and self-assurance. Brill encourages parents and patients to explore the many places in the gender middle before they commit to a leap from one side to the other. That is an excellent approach where feasible; it is not feasible in the previously mentioned small towns, where shifting from male to female (or vice versa) is already more than anyone is prepared to entertain. Gender Spectrum is for families pondering the nature of identity; TYFA is for families whose children will kill themselves if they have to live one more day in their natal gender.
Kim Pearson and Shannon Garcia met online in 2006; in January 2007, they set up TYFA, with Amy Guarr, another mom, who is treasurer of the organization, and Jenn Burleton, a transwoman who went on to found TransActive. Ten months later, Amy Guarr’s trans son, Ian Benson, took his own life. “It has shaped the way we do things,” Kim said. “Because even a kid who’s fully supported is still hugely at risk. Children who come out in adolescence know they may lose parents, siblings, friends; they are already at the end of their ropes. So do not ever assume that you have time as a parent to have your own pity party. You can grieve about your child transitioning to another gender, or you can grieve about your child being dead.” After the first of Kim and Shannon’s workshops that I attended, the two women engaged an anxious father who said, “But what if he changes his mind?” Shannon said, “You just explained how he told you on the changing table at two that he was a girl, and that message hasn’t changed in thirteen years. You’re worrying about the future. Talk to your kid about today, right now.” It took them about ten minutes to bring this man around to an acceptance he had been unable to achieve for over a decade.
While most of her work is with parents, Kim Pearson told me that what she finds hardest is helping trans people to keep their dignity. She described meeting a transwoman, Janice, who introduced herself as “a postoperative transsexual.” Kim replied, “Do you view yourself as a woman?” Janice said she did. Kim said, “So I view myself as a woman, and I’ve never, ever introduced myself by my genitalia. I’m going to challenge you to introduce yourself as a woman, or as a
transgender woman, and never to discuss your surgery with a stranger again. Adult trans people say they don’t want to be judged by what’s under their clothes. Well, then stop introducing yourself by what’s under your clothes.”
• • •
For some families transition is harrowing; for others it is easier; and for some, such as the Pearsons, it’s a celebration. Shawn-Dedric Pearson, living in a small town in Arizona, came out officially on May 6, 2006, and a few months later his mother started TransYouth Family Allies, and they boarded a joint bandwagon to change the world.
“I’d faced a lot of expectations of how I should be growing up,” Kim said. “I didn’t want to do that with my kids. At three, Shawn was going, ‘I don’t do dresses!’ We’re like, ‘If it’s going to be a big deal, we’ll switch to pants.’” Nevertheless, her daughter was always unhappy. When Shawn was twelve, she wrote to her parents that she was a lesbian. Things got better for a little while, then they got worse than before. Shawn was failing at school and had constant stomachaches and headaches. “Shawn was staying in a dark room with the covers pulled up,” Kim said. “Not eating, or eating constantly. Not sleeping, or sleeping constantly. You could so clearly tell that something horrible was wrong. But we couldn’t figure out what.”
The Pearsons started family therapy. A few months later, they happened to watch the movie Transamerica, and Shawn, then fourteen, knew the answer. A few weeks after that, Kim and Shawn walked into the counselor’s office and the dynamic was changed. “I went in with a depressed daughter, and I came out with a happy son,” Kim said. “Shawn says, ‘I’m not a lesbian. I’m transgender. I’m totally a guy. You know that’s who I am.’ I said, ‘I feel like I’ve been working on a jigsaw puzzle all of your life, and there were some pieces that never fit. Today, I see those pieces just fitting perfectly. But I have no freaking clue what we do now.’ He just blithely says, ‘That’s okay, Mom. I’ve got a list. I need a legal name change, I need you to enroll me in school as a boy, and I need to get binders for my chest.’” Kim, who didn’t really want to do any of those things, was horrified. “Somewhere in there he said he wanted to get men’s shampoo and deodorant and socks,” she recalled, “so I said, ‘I don’t know how to do any of the things you’re talking about. But I am really good at shopping. So, what do you say we start there?’ He was animated, his face was lighting up. I hadn’t seen this kind of spark for years.”
When they got home, Shawn found his father, John, relaxing after a long day of work at Home Depot and started showing off his new purchases. Kim took John into their bedroom and explained. John sat staring into space. Kim said, “So, say something.” John said, “I don’t know what to say.” John explained to me, “I went into a cave for twenty-six days. I had to go through a transition myself.” After twenty-six days of silence, John made his peace with the idea.
Shawn came out in early June. The therapist cut the family loose in midsummer, and Shawn returned to school on testosterone and with a new name. Kim said, “It was transition at warp speed.” Shawn had asked Kim to talk to the school. “I approached it as a medical problem,” she said. “If my child was diabetic, you’d make sure he had privacy to give himself shots. We need to look at what restroom he’ll use.” The school made the nurse’s restroom available. Shawn’s legal name change hadn’t yet come through, and the principal initially refused to alter school records. “I convinced him that the less people knew, the less parents would come to school upset that Shawn was in class with their kids,” Kim said.
The family sent around a letter giving everyone the update. The first phone call they had came from one of the people in their community from whom Kim had expected condemnation. “He said, ‘Shawn is always welcome in this home. He will always be safe with us,’” Kim recalled. “I started crying. We had prepared ourselves for negative reactions. We really hadn’t thought about what it would be like to get a positive one.” Kim’s work in the computer industry felt increasingly meaningless and had become physically difficult because of fibromyalgia in her hands. “My church is Unity Church,” Kim said. “The philosophy is, have faith that things will go as they should. So I had this conversation with the universe. I said, my perfect job would involve travel and public speaking; would use my teaching and course-design skills; I’d be writing. Two weeks later, Shawn came out. Three months later, I was founding TYFA. It was exactly what I asked for.”
Soon thereafter, Shawn and Kim headed off to give a presentation at San Diego State University. The car was running low on gas, and Shawn spotted an Indian casino with a gas station. Kim recalled, “I needed to use the restroom. I said, ‘I’m taking twenty dollars with me. I’ll be back in five minutes.’ Put my twenty dollars in a slot machine and hit a ten-thousand-dollar jackpot. That paid for the start-up fees and filing as a nonprofit.” Shawn’s brother created a website and hosted it on two old computers in his parents’ bedroom.
John said, “I never thought I was marrying an activist. I went to hear her in Vegas about a month ago. I always knew Kim was a good communicator. But I was blown away.” Kim later wrote to me, “I have found my calling; I have found my purpose; I am using my God-given talents in a way that is satisfying to me and of service to others.” She recounted a schedule that involved crisscrossing the country, mostly by car, to do five school trainings in one week, including two full days of driving to do one in Ohio. I wondered whether that one couldn’t have been rescheduled. “How can we tell the sixteen-year-old that we can’t come?” Kim said. “People say, ‘How do you do so much?’ I’m like, ‘How do you not?’”
• • •
Shannon and John Garcia had six boys, or so they thought, in Indiana, in what Shannon has described as “a white-bread neighborhood in a white-bread town in a white-bread state.” Their youngest son developed language quickly and at fifteen months said, “I’m not a boy. I’m a girl.” Shannon said, “Sure you are,” and kept changing the diaper. At two, he asked for a Barbie doll. By the time he was three, Shannon thought he was gay. At four, he entered the Christian preschool his five brothers had attended. At the first parent-teacher meeting, his teacher said, “Your son will not be allowed to play dress-up because boys don’t wear skirts.” Shannon was outraged. “That was the first time that our son discovered that the way he felt was not acceptable to others outside. Within days, we started to see anxiety.”
John, however, was furious with his wife. “It was my fault. I babied him,” Shannon said. “He was going to fix it.” John confiscated all the girlish toys. He took his son out to the yard, said, “I’m going to butch you up,” and gave him a baseball bat. John threw the ball over and over and over, saying, “I want you to hit it.” His son stood there with the bat with tears streaming down his face. Shannon said, “It was very ugly in our home. I wanted it fixed, too. But I knew that shaming our son was not the way to do it. I owed it to John to try his way. All that happened is that our child grew to hate him.”
The following September, Shannon’s son resisted kindergarten with tearful entreaties, saying, “It’s too hard to pretend to be a boy all day long.” Shannon steeled herself to it. When first grade started, Shannon began bribing him. “If you don’t cry all week, I’ll buy you a Barbie this weekend,” she said. Each week they would choose the bribe, trying to keep it from John. Then one week, the little boy said, “Can I have a quarter instead of a toy?” Shannon asked why. He said, “Because on the way to school, we pass a house with a wishing well. I’m going to ask the bus driver if she’ll stop so I can wish I’m a girl.”
John kept saying, “You have a penis. That means you’re a boy.” One day, Shannon noticed that her son had been in the bathroom an awfully long time and pushed the door open. “He had a pair of my best, sharpest sewing scissors poised, ready to cut. Penis in the scissors. I said, ‘What are you doing?’ He said, ‘This doesn’t belong here. So I’m going to cut it off.’ I said, ‘You can’t do that.’ He said, ‘Why not?’ I said, ‘Because if you ever want
to have girl parts, they need that to make them.’ I pulled that one right out of my ass. He handed me the scissors and said, ‘Okay.’”
The family was preparing to go away to Tennessee for Thanksgiving, and Shannon decided it was a perfect opportunity to experiment. Her husband opposed it; her other five sons hated the idea. Their youngest announced that her new name was Keely. When they set out, Keely was dressed in pink from head to toe, with a barrette taped in her crew cut. “We drive several hours and then stop to eat,” Shannon said. “We sit down at the table. My child had never spoken to a stranger, ever. When the waitress gets to Keely, she says, ‘And what will you have, pretty girl?’ Keely says, ‘I’ll have chocolate milk, please.’ I went to the restroom and I was an absolute puddle of tears on a public bathroom floor. Over the next forty-eight hours, words cannot describe the difference. It was so profound that my husband said, ‘I hope you’ve looked into homeschool options, because she can never go to school as a boy again.’”
They enrolled Keely at a new school and changed the name and gender designation on her educational records. She had previously qualified for services under Title I, a federally funded program for learning-disabled students. Within six months, she was two grade levels ahead in reading, and at grade level for math. “Twelve months later, we went to the doctor for a checkup,” Shannon said. “The doctor walked into the exam room and Keely started talking, and I don’t think she shut up the whole time we were there. His mouth was hanging open, and he said, ‘There is absolutely no way this is the same child that I saw for six years.’ She was that profoundly different.”
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