By J. A. Wilson
She told me she wanted to be a boy. She couldn’t live this lie any longer. I sat listening, trying not to hear.
What’s in a name? Should a mom feel differently about her child if her name does not remain the name she had been given at birth – should a mom care? I did care…at least in the beginning. At 20 years old, my daughter changed her name…and her gender. That’s when I began what seemed like some type of strange twelve-step program …denial, panic, fear, admittance, guilt…and finally, acceptance and support.
It started in the spring of 2003. That was the year my daughter attempted to be a lesbian. It wasn’t really a shock to me; she had always been boyish. There was one little detail that I was missing however. I was completely unaware that Jul had to make quite an effort to fit into this new role.
Later that summer, I came home from work to find Jen watching Oprah. It was a show about transsexual people. Each guest was a male-to-female transgender, meaning that each was born with a male body complete with penis and testicles, but felt, with all their heart and soul, like they were a woman inside.
Oprah’s guests had all started hormone therapy to make their faces more feminine, reduce body hair, and begin the growth of breasts. I knew cosmetic surgery was common to improve facial features or increase breast size, but I began to squirm in my chair as they described the other surgical ordeals these guests had tackled. It was fascinating, but completely terrifying and the possible complications - horrible.
They had all suffered through so much, but it was not just physical pain. Each of their lives had been bruised by the effects of being judged, of being ridiculed, of being labeled. They had lost jobs, been abandoned by colleagues, friends, family, even parents. Being brutally beaten was not uncommon in their stories.
Jen decided this was the time. She looked at me apprehensively and quietly said, “Mom, I think that is what I am.”
It came like a blow that knocked the wind out of me. All the air seemed to leave the room. All I could think was Oh my God, how could you want a life like that honey? A life filled with prejudice, betrayal, anger and pain. The answer was simple…she didn’t “want” this life – it isn’t a choice. I couldn’t see that at the time.
I thought about the impact of her getting a sex change. She would be judged by everyone in our hometown. How could I tell people that my daughter was now a man; knowing they would probably see her as some type of freak? Even worse, how would we tell my very Catholic family? And what if she was still unhappy after her change; these procedures were irreversible.
My instinct was to try to convince my daughter that she was wrong. I desperately tied to make her believe she was just a little uncomfortable about being a lesbian because it was new to her.
With hurt in her eyes my daughter sheepishly began to tell me how she knew she wasn’t a lesbian. A few dates that summer had been enough to prove that. She had experimented with touching. The way she explained it to me made it sound awful. She couldn’t relax while someone touched the parts of her body that repulsed her. It was in no way enjoyable, it made her feel sick. She just couldn’t stand the thought of a girl, or anyone for that matter, touching “this” body, the wrong body.
She wanted to be a boy. She was a boy. And she wanted the body that she should have been born with. She was sure. She couldn’t live this lie any longer.
I sat listening, trying not to hear. I didn’t want it to be true. Unfortunately her words had given me something to think about.
I tried to imagine how I would feel if I woke up the next morning with a penis, no breasts and a body covered with hair. As the new me I would need to hide my emotional side or I would be seen as weak. If I continued to be attracted to men, people would consider me gay, even though I am not. I would still be me on the inside. It would only be my packaging that had changed. Could I fit into the role of this foreign body even though I still felt like a woman inside? Could I just make that work?
Of course not. So…at twenty, my daughter became my son. Acceptance didn’t happen overnight. Jen’s step-dad however, took the news with incredible grace. He had known Jen since she was eight-years-old and had seen that she had had the nature and characteristics of a boy her whole life. His reaction gave me strength. I slowly began to tell people, my friends at first, my family, eventually everyone. The first time I tried to talk about it with a friend, I opened my mouth but the words held back. I pushed out the beginning, “Jen wants to be…” OK, it was time to say it; I forced myself, “a boy.” And then the tears started. My friend reacted with kindness and encouragement.
As I relaxed into telling others, I received varied responses. People reacted as people do; in every way, shape, and form. Some gave me a warm hug. A few even thanked me for sharing such personal information with them. Others said nothing; they did not seem to be able to find the right words for me. The reactions I did get were supportive.
I struggled with my new son’s name change at first; you could see him cringe every time I got it wrong. But, even more challenging was that stupid little three-letter-word “she”. Try changing to “he” after twenty years with your daughter. I would get it, it would just take practice. Everything worthwhile takes time.
Now, five years later, thanks to hormone therapy and surgery, I have an amazing son, complete with facial hair, flat chest, and the letter “m” on his identification.
I have been asked by friends if I miss Jen, if I had to grieve the death of my daughter. I have always answered no. I guess that is not the whole truth.
Like any parent, I miss the days when my son was younger. I miss getting hugs and kisses as I tucked Jen into bed. I miss taking her to the beach on hot summer afternoons. Yes, I miss those days but no differently than any parent who thinks back to their fond memories. Do I want Jen back now? I can honestly say no. I haven’t lost a daughter. I have gained a confident, strong, level-headed son that I am immensely proud of.
J. A. Wilson lives in Arnprior.
This piece was originally printed in the Globe & Mail and is reprinted with permission from the author, who is writing a book about her experiences.
______