You can make a difference, and make peace with the fact that not everyone is going to be on the front line. Not everyone is going to get that major, easily identifiable footnote in history.
But we can all do something.
Speaking of footnotes, I have one to share, though again, you won’t find it in history books. Last Christmas we went all out on a family photo shoot. Dwyane’s mom flew in, and my mom came in, plus my dad and his second wife, my stepmother. We did the shoot in Miami, and in classic Union-Wade tradition, afterward we sat by the water with margaritas and sangria.
When my mom and my stepmom are in the same place, it’s always a little odd and tricky for me to have both Mrs. Unions there. We were a couple of drinks in, so past recriminations came up, fortunately not about each other, but about times we had to let someone know we were not with the fuckshit.
My mom leaned back. “You know, I remember when I got this call that my husband whipped some white man’s ass for calling him a nigger.”
Dad started cracking up, but the rest of us froze, mainly because my mom said “my husband” which made us all go, “Oop.” That was a little too present tense for this crowd. But then I sat up. “Wait, wait. How is it that I am this old in the year of our Lord and I never heard about my dad whoopin’ somebody’s ass? And, excuse me, I just want to clarify that you said a white man’s ass?”
Yes, indeed, she did. My dad was working on the line at Western Electric in Omaha in the early 1970s. A fellow employee called him a nigger and that was it, my dad snapped and punched him in the face. The guy reported him to their supervisor, not mentioning the whole racism part, which my father hadn’t forgotten.
“Did you call him . . . that?” the supervisor asked the white man, when he learned the full story. When the man nodded and shrugged, trying to proffer that secret handshake, the supervisor didn’t take it.
“Well, that’s what you get,” he said.
My dad called my mother to tell her there might be trouble. I can imagine the pride and fear mixed in the call, back and forth on both ends. He was a worker, not in management yet, but he was going to night school. Still, it was a good job. What would the consequence be for standing up?
We were quiet, the word nigger echoing down decades later. Back then, it was a victory that the man who called him a nigger didn’t get him fired or arrested. But that word holds a promise of harm, you just don’t know what form it will take—violence, oppression, rage, murder, fear? It’s a consuming vortex that can suck the safety from a peaceful night years after it is hurled.
I was struck by my dad’s progression then in a, what, eight-year span? From having to be a statue, to being thrown to the ground because your skin was enough evidence of guilt, to whoopin’ someone’s ass because that was the last time someone was going to call you nigger.
Maybe I do come from civil rights icons, I thought. They just do it in their own way.
6
Zaya
“I need a picture of just me,” Zaya said.
She was in the third grade and we were living in Chicago, where D was playing with the Bulls. I was finishing up my first book and briefly living with the deadly cold of that city before I left town for work again. A real winter was still a novelty for the kids; Zaire and Dahveon were both fourteen, and at nine years old, Zaya had recently made her first ever snowball after living in Miami for years. (A note: At this time, Zaya was ascribed a gender role that was incorrect for her. She accepted he/him pronouns because she did not yet have the voice to request otherwise. When I use her correct pronouns she/her, please know I am not trying to rewrite our shared history, but I do so out of love and respect for her. I will also only use her chosen name here.)
“What do you need a picture for?” I asked.
Zaya already had her smile, an indulgent one that invited everyone else to catch up. In our family of five she was the philosopher with swag.
“For school,” she said, as if that should be obvious. Her class was set to do an assignment the next day about identity. The kids would place pictures of themselves in the center, then draw spokes coming from the photo with things that people don’t know about them.
I got a call from her teacher the next day. On one of the spokes, Zaya had written, “I’m gay.”
Again, Zaya lives her life. We catch up. She had not shared this with us directly, but Dwyane and I had started the conversations a few years before. At the age of three, Zaya showed that she and her older brother Zaire did not share the same interests at all. To his credit, Dwyane never pushed a basketball on Zaya once she showed she much preferred gymnastics. Zaya was already so much herself so young that we had prepped for this for years, but still only as a question. Dwyane had asked himself how he would react if his child came home and said she was gay. The test wasn’t about Zaya. It was about him as a father. Who was he as a father?
The teacher had called right away because the About Me assignments were made for display at the school’s open house. She said she was excited for Zaya, but since this was the first time this news had been articulated, she wanted to be able to respect Zaya’s privacy. She said she just didn’t know if every parent would be able to appreciate that she deserved privacy. Her teacher added that Zaya said she was going to tell Dwyane and me when she got home from school.
Dwyane was about to leave for practice, and I told him what the teacher had said. He nodded, as he does, taking in the information. It was game time. All the what-ifs were about to be in play. He did what he does when he is focused on what you are saying: he lowers his head slightly, knits his brow, and sets his mouth not to speak until he has considered what you’ve said. The end result is that he just looks angry.
“I need you to practice your listening face,” I said, like a director. “I need open face, eyebrows up, like, ‘Oh, this is a pleasant discovery.’”
While D was at practice, I sat on the cream couch in our living room to be there when Zaya’s nanny brought her home from school. Zaya took a spot next to me, so small on the huge couch and shaking from nerves. I was nervous, too, trying to make sure my face had the best reaction. These were memories she was going to have forever.
When she told me, I hugged her, and said the words I had prepared. “I’m so happy for you,” I said. “Congratulations. This is the best. I’m so happy that you get to live your truth.”
Zaya nodded, and I saw a feeling of relief on her face. Not about how I had reacted, but that she had done something she had obviously wanted to do for a while. “So,” I said, “are you ready to tell Dad?”
“No,” she said, quiet.
I didn’t want her to know he knew already. “I think your dad is going to be excited for you,” I said.
She said nothing.
When D came home shortly after, Zaya was still next to me on the couch. There is a secret language married people have. She told me, my eyes said. It’s on. D nodded, and took the chair across from the couch.
“So . . .” Zaya said, then fell into me. She tried to find words, starting and stopping until she curled into my body. She couldn’t even look at him.
D looked so concerned that I was afraid she would see that “angry” face. I smiled maniacally, trying to imitate a “happy discovery” look for D. Fix your face.
He smiled. And finally, she told him.
“I’m gay.”
“That’s wonderful,” Dwyane said. He said her name, and she looked. “I’m so happy for you,” he said, looking right at her. “Come give me a hug.”
She walked over and fell into Dwyane, and he swooped her into his arms. She had decided in her mind how her dad was going to react and this was the opposite. The fullness of her was held. She cried more, probably a thousand emotions I couldn’t begin to guess at happening to her all at once. Her dad was fine. And fine with her being herself.
It was three of us sharing this truth now. “So, who else do you want to know?” I asked.
“Oh, God,” she said with a laugh. “Nobody.”
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br /> “I think people might surprise you,” said Dwyane.
“But this is your journey,” I said.
I forget whose idea the list was, but I know one of us said, “How about you just give us the names of everyone you don’t want to know. We’ll respect that.”
She called it the Never Ever list, naming certain family members who she felt would not respond with immediate acceptance. Zaire and Dada were on the list.
We disagreed with some people on the list, but gave her the agency. “Okay,” was all we said.
When the older boys came home and went upstairs, Zaya was on edge, but giddy. She had told someone who works in our home, and she’d gotten such a positive reaction that whatever sad script she had written for this day had been thrown out.
She went upstairs to her room, and came down ten minutes later.
“I told them,” she said.
“Who?” said Dwyane.
“Dada and Zaire.”
“You just put them on the Never Ever list!”
“I know, I know,” she said quickly, the star of the show. “I just . . . I just . . . I just told ’em.”
“Well, okay,” said D, in a protective voice. “How did they react?”
She looked down to get the words exactly right. “Zaire said, ‘Oh, okay.’ And Dada said, ‘Cool.’”
“That was it?” I asked.
“That was it.”
“Okay,” I said. “Anyone else you want to take off this list? Because people seem to be reacting pretty well.” Over the next few days, Zaya told more and more people until eventually there was nobody left on the list. She got, for the most part, reasonable reactions. A few people looked at her age and said, “Maybe you don’t want to label yourself too early. You might change your mind.”
And things do change as a person accesses more information about themselves and the world around them. Telling someone to be open to change is okay as long as it’s not an invitation or demand for silence. Over time, the more we gave Zaya access to her community, the more she realized identity is not about boxes. It’s not gay or straight or bisexual. There’s a continuum of all sorts of things, where everything that serves you in a healthy way is on the table and nothing is wrong.
In 2017, we celebrated Zaya’s tenth birthday in Chicago, and Dwyane and I each posted photos with her. The world knew Zaya as male. When people detected even the slightest femininity to her carriage, the comments were vicious. It was hurtful that the meanest comments were on Black blogs. They attacked Zaya as a human being, Dwyane as a father, and me as a stepmother. Zaya later told me, “It felt like I was outed, and I was just standing next to my cake.”
She was ten. It was terrifying, As Black parents, it is almost impossible not to project your fears onto your children. It is sometimes a necessity, having seen the devil up close, and that’s the catch-22 of every Black parent: Do you share with your children the reality of the world, or do you allow them to be innocent a little bit longer? And at exactly what point do you strip them of this innocence and reveal the evil and bigotry that exists in the world? How were we supposed to keep Zaya safe, and not rob her of the time to be her most authentic self?
* * *
It was in the fifth grade, at eleven, that Zaya began voicing her need to wear more feminine clothes. On Target runs, she would pick up pajamas she liked, and began to experiment with makeup the way any young girl would. She identified as gender nonconforming. Because this was a period when we moved a lot for Dwyane’s work, at each stop I would visit the school and let them know what was what. We wanted to make sure that the school had an LGBTQ+ community she could be a part of. There needed to be access to mentors and safety.
We were back in Miami in April 2019 when I realized Miami Pride was coming up. I called a place where I had once gone for a drag queen brunch to make an afternoon reservation for the Sunday of Pride.
“This is so crazy,” said the manager. “Our float is actually a Bring It On float this year. Would you want to come be on our float before the brunch?”
“One, that sounds amazing. I am honored. Two, I just have to check with someone. Lemme call you back.”
I hung up and turned to Zaya.
“Would you want to go to Pride and be on this float with me?”
“Oh my God, I’ve always wanted to go to Pride.”
“What? You’ve always wanted to go to Pride? You’ve never said anything! I can make any Pride you want happen. Pride is everywhere.”
“Oh my God,” she said, her hand to her throat, “the dream.”
I called them right back. “We’re in.” And we all were. I invited everyone in Zaya’s support system, and we brought about twenty-plus people to Pride, including her friends, tutors, Zaire, and Kaavia James in her rainbow onesie. Dwyane would have been there, but had to be in Toronto to play the Raptors.
Zaya and I were on the float, and she had her own cheering section forming a circle below us. The whole concept of Pride is the victory of being yourself, because when you are wholly yourself, you win. One of the best moments of my life was on that float, watching Zaya have one of her best moments. I replay it all the time in my mind. Zaya lifts her chin to the air in happiness, safe in the dream she talked about. She is in her community, wrapped in so much love.
We all posted photos on our socials, including Dwyane and Zaire. Dwyane captioned a group photo of the cheering section, “Wish I was there to see you smile, kid.” Zaire wrote on a photo of him and Zaya, “Gotcha back, kid.” People in the LGBTQ+ community reposted the photos, many saying the images made them cry. This was us being us, just documenting what was already real. It was also an opportunity to say, as a family and a community, “Don’t try us. Our belief is stronger than your doubt.”
Zaya has called this one of the moments she came out. There was the third grade, then the birthday party in Chicago where strangers pointed and called her gay. And this one, where she came out publicly on her terms. But there would be one more.
* * *
Just before September 2019, when Zaya was twelve, I was getting ready to go to her new middle school to do my usual “here’s the deal.” I was on the edge of not being late, but not being early, which I prefer. Dwyane couldn’t make it, and I checked in with Zaya right before I left. She was in her room reading.
“Hey, I’m going to go up to the school,” I said. “I gotta talk to ’em. How do you want me to identify you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” I said, mentioning her old school, “when I met with them, I said you identified as gender nonconforming. A gay boy. Is that still okay with you?”
“Oh, yeah,” she said. “I’m not gay. I’m a straight trans girl.”
“Okay, great,” I said.
Zaya looked back at her book.
As I walked to the front door, I said aloud, “What just happened?” I wasn’t shocked, I was just surprised by her nonchalance. I was almost to the car when I ran back inside.
“Okay, um, are you still going by—” I said, using her deadname.
“No, no, no,” she said, still so casual. “Um, Zaya.”
“Zaya,” I said. “Uh, what pronouns?”
Finally, I got her to look up from her book. Her expression said Really, bitch? “She and her,” she said.
We both started giggling. “Ma’am, she and her,” I said, repeating her. “Well, it’s just that there are options. I don’t want to assume anything. It could be ‘they.’”
She nodded, appreciating my thoroughness. So off I went to the school. Zaya had done a summer program there and had already met so many people using her deadname and he/him pronouns. We had specifically chosen this school in L.A. because we knew other families with gender-nonconforming kids who graduated from there. They had said the community was amazing, but this was our Zaya. It’s one thing for people to say “Oh, they’re amazing,” and it’s another thing for people to have to prove it before school has even started. And this was all so new t
o us, too.
I went in armed and ready with lines I practiced on the way over, but apprehensive. “We need to change all of the paperwork and information to Zaya, which is the name she wants to go by. She is identifying as a straight trans girl. Zaya is her name, and her pronouns are she and her.”
“Okay, no problem.”
I was ready for a battle.
“No problem.” When I tell you I wish this for every parent of an LGBTQ+ child . . . that the person they adore and cherish is not seen as a problem . . . I say this from the deepest part of my soul.
When Zaya started that school, her classmates only knew her as Zaya. From the second she claimed her name and identity out loud, Zaya began to define what femininity meant for her. At twelve, she didn’t go for wigs anymore or makeup regularly. She felt she didn’t need the cultural trappings of being a girl any longer. She just is.
That realization was profound to me, because I thought back on all that I had been taught at her age about what it meant to be a woman. But much of it amounted to the performance of gender. My mom showed me how to shave my legs and armpits, and I had wanted to have these bonding stepmother-stepdaughter moments with Zaya. In prioritizing these rites of passage, were we bonding through patriarchy? I felt I would be teaching her what will appear pleasing and thus increase her chances to be chosen by someone else. Not necessarily be happy with herself. There’s more than one way to be a woman, and I could explain that these were things that a lot of women choose to do, but not all women. “You can be whatever kind of woman you want to be,” I told Zaya. “Whoever you are is exactly right, because that’s who you are.”
I have had to stop myself from rushing in with answers in the form of options. I didn’t fully understand the richness of trans identity. That first day coming back from the meeting at school, I assumed that “trans” was about anatomy. I thought I needed to learn about surgery, about hormones. When Dwyane was home, we had a more serious talk with her.
“So, what should we be looking for for you?” Dwyane asked. “Understanding what this means for you.”
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