Truth Table

"Love is that condition in which the happiness

 of another person is essential to your own."

[Robert Heinlein]

It's been months now for me, so it's reached the point of matter-of-factually in my every day now, to where the notion that I have a transgender child feels like "old news".  Even the word "transgender" has started to feel old.  I have a son.  Simple.

I tried to tell a coworker earlier, only to find out I'd already told her.  I tried to tell another, only to find out she'd figured it out herself after I'd forgotten to tell her some time ago - and given her a ride home with my child in the back seat with her a few weeks ago - and she'd long ago noticed the change in name when I was speaking.  She was just too shy to ask, but figured she knew what she needed and what else was there to say, really?  Her reaction to my bringing it up today was to remind me that the offer to lend me DVDs of those movies he liked was still open.

So obviously I've reached the point where I'm now losing track of who I have or haven't told.  So I'm just putting this out here, now, today, and post it on Facebook (something I don't normally do with my blog), because then I can say "I've told everyone, haven't I?"  I know I have two close friends who are specifically not on Facebook; I told them months ago.

Between February and today, as I've rolled out this little tidbit of information to an ever-expanding circle of people in my life: siblings, friends, acquaintances, coworkers, and so on, I've met with mixed reactions, but not the mixed reactions I expected.  As I said to a friend today, 'I expected the reactions to range from neutral to bad.  I didn't think there was such a thing as a good reaction until I was met with one.  I was wrong:  the reactions have ranged from neutral to good.'  From people I've share this with so far,  I've received a lot of positive, supportive reactions from people I've told (and I'm thankful for it).

As for my own reaction, I processed it very quickly.  I was very ignorant at first.  I have no problem admitting this.  I had to learn a lot and I had to learn it quickly.  I'm still learning.  There is so, so much.  As I started breaking the news to the people around me, I often said something to the effect of 'You have a hundred questions, I'm sure.  I only have the answers to about half those myself, and I have an even bigger pile.' 

People sometimes remark to me that I was "quick to get on board".  I am sometimes commended for how easily being supportive of this change came to me.  Yes, I was quick to "get on board".  Yes, I was quick to be supportive.  I rolled with it.  Absolutely I did.

And don't get me wrong:  I've met a lot of great moms and dads, and all of us have struggled with it, in different ways and at different paces.  I'm not condemning anyone for "not coming to it quicker". 

But I've not spoken much to the specifics of how I got "on board" as quickly as I did, and I was asked the other day if I could offer any advice to a woman whose husband was having a hard time coming to terms with the idea of his son possibly being a daughter instead.

I provided a shorter version then of what I'm about to put here.

I've spoken with several other parents of transgender (or non-binary, or fluid - the world is full of all sorts of fascinating possibilities when you let it be), and I've heard their stories of acceptance for their children.  But sadly, in some cases, I have heard stories of spouses who have been less than accepting.  I don't just mean those who struggle with it; that's understandable.  I mean those who simply reject the idea, who stand steadfast against it, and who refuse to allow their child to be their authentic self.

I've been commended for being a "good parent" about it sometimes, and I still have a hard time accepting that compliment.  At first, before hearing some of those stories, I outright rejected it.  I don't feel my reaction was special or worthy of consideration; I feel my reaction was correct.  I am dismayed every single time I hear a story of someone getting it wrong, when the answer to me seemed so obvious so quickly.

I am a risk-averse person.  Even setting aside the idea of parent - when everyone becomes (or should become) somewhat risk-averse - I've always been someone who calculates almost every move and considers carefully the short and long-term implications.  Yes, I'm horrible when it comes to spontaneity.  Some might argue it makes me boring.  I don't care.  This is me.  I'm a thinker.  It's what I do.  I can't stop.

I have worked with various forms of testing for years, because it comes naturally to me as someone skeptical, someone risk-averse, to analyze every situation for all the possible outcomes.  I do it every day.  I do it to the point it annoys people around me (and I know this, polite as you all are, and I appreciate your patience with me, especially Liza-Ann's, who is now getting it from both directions as the child has started picking up some of my bad habits).  This is how my brain is wired.

More specifically, when faced with choices of possible approaches, my brain tends to break decisions down into Truth Tables.  Decisions aren't always binary, granted, but many of the simpler things are and many of the bigger things are.

It's not that emotion doesn't play a role.  It's not that I'm not a compassionate person or a caring person.  I'd like to believe I am very much those things.

And when it comes to raising a child, I'd also already established before he even came out to us my feelings that "I am the bow, not the arrow."  It's not my life to live; it's his.  I can not and will not live vicariously through him.

But setting all that aside for a moment, my solutions-oriented, over-analytical, puzzle-solving, cold, calculating mind began constructing the truth table in my head:  Options "accept it and be supportive" vs. "resist - stay the course" would go on one axis, and "it's just a phase" vs. "real and lasting" on the other.  And I knew immediately the things that I would need to put at the intersection where "resist - stay the course" meets "real and lasting":  lifelong resentment, anxiety, depression... much higher than normal probability of suicide.

That's as far as I got.

In my mind, I didn't need to finish the table.  This is why I considered it a correct decision, and not a particularly difficult one.  This is why I have a hard time at the idea of someone commending me for making it.  Quite simply, the thought in my head read:

I'd rather have a live boy than a dead girl.

Yup.

Harsh, isn't it?

That's what echoed in my head.

That's probably a hard sentence to read.  It was a hard one to type.  It was truly horrifying to hear it in my own head many moons ago, and to hear it echoing there today as I bring myself to write about it.  But if it makes you think, if it gives you pause, if it drives home the gravity of the situation we're talking about here, then I'm very glad I wrote it.

Even when you do take the time to dig down and fill out the table, even if you carefully weigh all your options, there is nothing that can possibly justify that risk.  Don't want to have to buy a whole new wardrobe?  It's only money; you'll manage.  Don't know how so-and-so will feel about it?  Not as important as how your child feels about it.  You'll be embarrassed if it's only a phase and you have to explain it again later?  Fuck your pride.

Nothing justifies that risk.  That risk can lead to an irreversible result.  You can change back the clothes and the hair.  You can make a second round of announcements and redo the paperwork for the name change.  You can't undo the depression and anxiety.  And you certainly can't dig the child back up and breathe life back into them.

I have a really, really cool kid.  My kid is freakin' awesome!  Smart, clever, funny, polite, kind, compassionate... cool...  none of which have anything to do with genitalia.  And all I want for that child, that incredibly impressive specimen of humanity, is to flourish, and to be happy.

How could I ever, in a million years, do anything to jeopardize that?

Not complicated.  Obvious.

Love.

So if you're someone who didn't know until now:  for reasons of privacy and safety, we feel it's been important to us to share at a certain pace and in certain ways.  I hope you can understand and appreciate that.

If you're someone who has questions, I have some answers, but I still figure I only have half of them at best.  Shoot me an Email.  Maybe we can do tea/coffee sometime.  I'm happy to talk about it.  I enjoy talking about my kid.  He's really cool.  Did I mention that?

If you're someone whose reaction on learning this to think 'Oh, I don't know if I believe in/approve of this whole transgender thing!' then do yourself this favor:  stop reading my blog, and if you have me on Facebook, you should probably remove me there as well.  Because if you try to have that conversation with me - it will not end well for you, I promise.  I have too much riding on this to lose.  This post isn't remotely an apology of any sort.  This post isn't me timidly telling the world something squeamish.  This post isn't a plea.

This post is my unabashed declaration:

See Dan here?  Yeah, he's my kid.  He's with me.  

I'm with him.

Always.

With thanks to all those who have and who continue to support us through our wonderful and peculiar journey,

Patrick 

Breaking the Shell

Originally written:  August 11, 2016.

“Your pain is the breaking of the shell 
that encloses your understanding. 
It is the bitter potion by which the physician 
within you heals your sick self. 
Therefore, trust the physician and 
drink his remedy in silence and tranquility.”

[Kahlil Gibran, "The Prophet"]

I would never deny someone their grief.  This is not that.  

Despite my intellectualism, I have always believed that emotional responses are, in many ways, our most honest ones.  And I believe every human being should work to live with authenticity, to truly experience the world for themselves.  'Trust in your own experience of the world', said Buddha.

I would never deny someone their grief.  This is not that.  

Rather, this is the feeble attempt of one man to assuage the pain of those around me.  To tell them I know their pain.  To tell them how I cope with it and put it behind me, in the vain hope it may, in some small way, help them to do the same.

Let this be that.

It is a special and unique type of grief, one that less than two percent of the world population will likely ever feel.  It's also very invisible.  It sometimes takes place right under the noses of friends, family, and coworkers, and often goes unnoticed or unaddressed.  They might not suspect, and even if they did they could probably never empathize.  It is peculiar, conflicted, and will be difficult to even describe in a way that anyone who's never experienced it might understand.

It is nonetheless very real.

Insects of the suborder "rhopalocera" as adults typically have large, brightly-coloured wings and noticeably "fluttering" flight paths.  There are species around the globe, and in the art and literature of many cultures they are regarded as beautiful, and as symbols of transformation, transcendence, or rebirth.  In some mythologies and folklore, they are regarded as symbols of the human soul.  From Filipino superstitions to Roman sculptures, they're known the world over. 

And most people are familiar with at least the basics of their multi-phase life-cycle: eggs, caterpillar (larva), pupa (cocoons), and adults.  And of course, we've all seen them in their caterpillar stage, voraciously munching away on the leaves of our gardens.

I am fond of butterflies, and I wrote once of a particular little parable involving one from Taoist lore, of which I'm also very fond.  This is no surprise for anyone who knows me.

Any story involving my making and leaving behind origami wherever I go would also not come as a surprise to anyone who knows me well.  All three floors of the office at work are littered with little paper flowers, frogs, minions, a few dragons, and - from over the last several months - butterflies.

Many months ago, I began attending a monthly support group for parents of "gender creative" kids.  It's an eclectic group of people from all walks of life, who share one peculiar thing in common: raising transgender (or non-binary, a-gender, gender-fluid... it gets complicated...) kids.

These people share a common grief, one of which they are often reluctant to speak even among this collection of people who might understand, and of which they likely never speak outside those precious walls.  How can they confide in those who they fear most certainly could never understand the bizarre experience of feeling as though you've lost a child... ...when you still have that child?

Can you mourn someone who isn't gone?  Can you mourn a future you expected that you know now will never come?  Can you mourn for a future that didn't truly belong to you, but to someone else?  Can you mourn it even though that someone else will still have a future, just one that's very different than you'd ever expected or planned for?

The answer to all those questions is a mind-boggling "yes".

And I'm not saying it holds the same gravity as having a child die - I'm sure it doesn't - but it must be a shadow - an echo of sorts, perhaps -  that is in some strange way what it must be like.

It is felt very mildly by some (among whom I count myself), and somewhat more acutely by others (among whom I count Liza-Ann).  And while I think I've generally had it pretty easy (the smiles of relief of a child able to be his most authentic self did wonders to wash away the shock and confusion of life's biggest curve ball), I still, many moons later, notice the occasional old photo, or hear a feminine giggle escape, and am reminded of what was to be, but won't.  What can't.

And I feel a touch of sadness.

And I remind myself, in my head, of what I told myself countless times over the course of months as I littered the office, my house, friend's houses, doctor's offices, grocery stores, airports, and support group meeting rooms with little, folded pieces of colourful paper:

Don't mourn the caterpillar.  Embrace the butterfly.

Men

"I am the man, that's what I am
I'm a straight shooter, with a master plan
I am the man, that's why I'm here
I am the man, I am the man"

["I am the Man", The Philosopher Kings]

I was lying on the bed with my shirt open when Liza-Ann came in and lay alongside me with her head on my shoulder.  She sighed and said, "You smell good.  Must be your deodorant.  Manly."  Then spying a straight hair by my left nipple, she laughed and said mockingly, "Oooh, a stray hair!  Should I grab the tweezers?"

I laughed and told her it'd make the blog.

The world is getting more complicated.

That's a lie, actually.  But it's a convenient lie that we like to tell ourselves.  The way we view certain things... that is certainly more complicated than ever.  That much is true.

It really shouldn't be.  It doesn't need to be.  This ever-increasing complexity is mostly borne of mankind's desire to classify everything and put it into nice tidy little boxes, even binary check-boxes where able, so that the world is easier to understand, despite the fact that life is ... well, messy.  Mother nature doesn't particular give a shit when biologists do a whole pile of cataloguing only to arrive at the duck-billed platypus and throw up their hands in frustration.  ("Eggs?  Mammary glands but no teats?!  What the fuck?!").  Mother nature just goes on puttering about and doing her thing, while the puny humans angrily debate what's "natural" and invent new terms like "hetero-normality".  Mother Nature?  D.G.A.F.  We're the ones with the "problems".

With this modern complexity comes a lot of confusion.  You don't have a one-hour conversation and walk away feeling you have a grip on this new world order.  Most often, you come away with more questions than answers.  So for me, my "problem" of late is about masculinity.  It has been in the back of my mind off and on for the past few months.  What is 'masculinity'?

In a "post-Caitlyn-Jenner-world", what makes one 'a man'? 

Masculinity is not the simple thing it once was.  I've been spending a lot of time these days thinking about men in the modern era, about what it means to be 'manly'.  Long gone is the era of John Wayne, of the constant references shows like Three's Company made that anything construed as feminine was signaling homosexuality, and of the expectation that every man over 18 knows what a carburetor is and how to fix one.  (I, on the other hand, had to look up how to spell "carburetor" just now.)

Going back a generation or two, it was a simple matter of organs.  That was in a time when everyone lived with the misconception that mother nature was perfectly binary about what she handed out and that brains always matched body-parts.  Has testicles equals man?

"Testicle" comes from the Latin "testiculus", meaning "witness of virility".  "Virility" - from "virilitas", Latin for "man"- is defined as the collection of positive masculine traits.

Well there we have it right from Wikipedia.  Simple, right?

A few years back, I had a vasectomy.  I don't recall exactly when.  I'd meant to put something vague on Facebook about listening to the "Fixed" EP by Nine Inch Nails as a sort of tongue-in-cheek joke to others and a timeline reminder to myself.  It was, at one point in the process, a sort of surreal experience:  the male doctor performing the surgery is the sort who drives a convertible, wears sandals to work, and sports a tan that makes him look like he's just returned from California.  There was a female doctor attending him.  As I lay there, I thought, 'what a strange juxtaposition this must be for her - this doctor-with-possible-god-complex symbol of masculinity to the left, and me lying splayed out on the table before him, about the most vulnerable a man can be, on the right.'

What about if there are injuries?  I know a guy who lost a testicle in an accident.  Does having a vasectomy change anything?  Am I less of a man because I'm "fixed"?

Maybe it's not testicles.  Maybe it's just the testosterone?  What about those of us who are middle-aged and feeling the effects of lower testosterone?  Less of a man?  What about trans males who weren't born with testicles and get their testosterone through injections?  What about hypogonadism and testosterone replacement therapy in Mixed Martial Arts fighters?  I certainly wouldn't want to be the one who stands in front of one and tells him he's not as much of a man any more. 

Fist fights!  I've been in those.  But then, I know plenty of guys around me I consider "men" who I know have never been in a fight.  And I probably lost about as many as I won.

Scars!  Oooh!  I have scars.  Do they still count if most of them are scratches that just came from owning cats?  The burn mark came from... cooking... we're still good, right?  I've been fortunate enough to never hurt myself with power tools, but I do own some!  Does that means there's still hope for me?


Hair on the chest?  Shit, I've never had much of that.  The few stray ones that do pop up I pluck because I hate body hair and I notice them getting out of the shower, thus Liza-Ann's joke.

Beards!  I've never in my life grown a full beard.  I hope it's not that.

How about a set of large, rough, calloused hands?  Hmmm.  If you've ever watched me doing origami, you'll know I'm sporting a pretty dainty little set of fingers.  And more than half of what I make is flowers.


Is it about being aggressive or outspoken?  My parents taught me to be polite, and I'm often shy around strangers.  Should I be louder and ruder to assert myself as male?  That hardly seems right. That combined with notions about sexual conquest are how society produces the likes of Brock Turner.  Nah, fuck that.


I was never that much into sports.  I'm not a big fan of beer and only have the occasional whiskey.  I think I've only ever changed a car tire once and unless you count headlight bulbs don't think I've ever "fixed" a car.  I've no interest in fast cars, and I've never owned a motorcycle.  I've no desire to own ski-doo, and no compulsion to buy a pickup or quad.  I don't own a firearm and don't want to.  I've never shot and killed anything.  I can't say I've hunted unless you count that one time I threw a knife at a squirrel.

I've mowed lawns...

You know what?  I've clearly reached that point where I'm just struggling to even find things to put on the list, and none of them are much sticking to me anyway.

Maybe I'm not a "man" after all, or at least not a masculine one.  I'm not a "manly man".  Can't be.  Don't qualify.

Obviously.

I'm rather uncertain what masculine means any more.

But then, I am only half certain I care what masculine means any more.

And I'm damn near certain I shouldn't care what masculine means any more.