My Truman Show, Vol. II

My Truman Show, Vol. II

May 2021

Lest you begin to think that the only interrobang moment is a negative one, I’d like to share a true “is this really real or I am being punk’d and where are the cameras” experience I had at work. I have the good fortune to be a teacher in an elementary school, the very best job on the planet as far as I am concerned. I happened to be teaching grade one during the year of this incident, a magical year where children are learning to read and are using invented spelling. Just getting them to write down the letter sounds they hear is a huge achievement. 

During a time when I was terrified and alone and feeling intense hatred for myself, a little girl in my class brought me some artwork she had made for me over the May long weekend. It saved me, and I do not use that term lightly. I have since laminated it and it hangs in my classroom at all times. 

In December of 2020, my child had come out as nonbinary. I was taken aback, as I had never caught a glimpse of gender questioning in my child, but I didn’t really see how it would change our lives much if my child were androgynous. That was how I thought of nonbinary people at the time, kind of like a David Bowie/Annie Lennox androgynous vibe that wouldn’t really change our lives very much. Although using they/them pronouns really did trip me up, I was adapting and proudly considered myself a very supportive and progressive parent. 

By the time May 2021 rolled around, this had evolved. My child had disclosed to me that they were a demi-girl and they were wearing women’s clothing around the house but never to school. High school PE class was a big part of the reason, but I think they were also worried about how I would react. Probably because I would say things like “What are you talking about, I have never gotten any female vibes from you?!” when they would bring it up or ask for me to purchase some womens clothing or makeup. I wish I could say that my only concern was for their safety and well-being, which really was a concern when my teen was riding public transit every day, but I did not realize how much internalized transphobia I had absorbed due to a lifetime of seeing trans women portrayed in the media as the butts of jokes (at best) and/or villainous, sinister monsters. I could not even conceive of the fact that I, an open-minded progressive woman, just might be a transphobe.  

Parenting a child with lifelong medical issues means that there have been times that I have had to leave work at a moment’s notice to get them to the hospital. Parenting a child with growing mental health concerns such as ADHD and severe anxiety means that there have been times that my child was having a serious meltdown at school and I had to talk to their guidance counselor or teacher or school administration during moments of crisis. Being a single parent, I had my phone on me at all times in case of emergency and my child’s teachers would email me if there were serious events occurring during the school day. 

On the Friday prior to the May long weekend, I got an email from my child’s teacher that made me almost vomit. It opened by stating that she would use the name Ruby when referring to my child, because she had noticed that she was using that name with her peers and had asked her to use it as well. She assumed that I knew about this name and pronoun change, but I did not. 

I can not describe the feeling that coursed through my body when I read an email referring to my child by a name that was not the name I had given her at birth. It was a cold jolt of panic that sat heavily on my chest and seemed determined to keep me from breathing. There was fear at the centre of it, a sensation that I was watching in slow motion as I lost my child and they became a stranger to me. There was also a sort of disgust that my child was “choosing” to be female, which was something that I had always resented being. Males seemed to have it so much easier; I had felt so powerless and unsafe as a girl and then as a woman that I deeply resented not having a Y chromosome. The relief I had felt at having a baby boy rather than a baby girl was something of which I was secretly ashamed. 

Shame. I have struggled with shame my entire life, for many different reasons. Unearthing it and facing it requires a complete and total exposure of the things we would rather keep hidden below ground, and often when something triggers it we are masters of rationalization and avoidance. I will spend years refusing to acknowledge that something is true even when it is staring me in the face. My reaction to that email caused me great shame. I was so upset to hear my child referred to as Ruby that I almost vomited. The same panic that I had felt when my baby almost died at three days of age resurfaced with a vengeance and I had to completely detach from my emotional self in order to get through the rest of the day. The purpose of the email wasn’t even about my child’s new name, it was because the teacher was concerned about some things they had written on their test paper. Things like the fact that they wanted to die. Somehow that didn’t bother me, but the new name did. 

I wish I could say that I went home and asked my child about the new name that weekend and that we had a lovely bonding conversation and all was right as rain. I avoided any conversation around names or gender. I cried myself to sleep at night, reliving the time we had spent in hospital that same May long weekend when she was 4 months old and had to have major surgery. I didn’t have anyone to talk to about any of this because my child was not ready to tell any friends or family what was happening. I was feeling pretty terrible about myself as a parent, because I knew that I wanted to accept my child no matter what, but I was having this violent emotional reaction to the idea of my AMAB (assigned male at birth) child being trans. My AMAB child was already trans, as that is what being nonbinary is, but for some reason my mind didn’t register it as such. It was only when she wanted to wear makeup and women’s clothing and use a female name and pronouns that it really registered. The rift between how I felt ideologically (fully supportive) and emotionally (completely devastated) seemed shocking, insurmountable, and beyond shameful. 

The following Tuesday I went into work and one of my students came bouncing up to me with some artwork she had made for me over the weekend. She was very proud of the fact that she had used “kid spelling” to write out some song lyrics she had heard, and she had drawn an illustration. 

Cyndi Lauper performed this song, and it resonated with her because of the recent death of a friend who had succumbed to AIDS. It has become an anthem for the LGBTQ+ community, and Lauper founded the True Colors Foundation which seeks to end the youth homelessness that runs rampant in that community. Many teens find themselves faced with homelessness when they come out. I knew I would never do that to my child, yet I could not figure out why I was so devastated when I wanted to be supportive. It felt like my child had died, or rather like I was watching helplessly as she died slowly. 

Arriving at work and being gifted that picture shocked me. It didn’t seem possible that it was a coincidence that this child had heard this song and thought to draw a picture for me. Coincidence, serendipity, fate?! Truthfully, it felt like the universe was mocking me and presenting me with this lovely gift as some sort of twisted punishment for my bad inner reaction to Friday’s email. I had not told my child’s teacher that I didn’t know about the new name, nor had I confided in anyone that this was happening. Once again I found myself looking around for cameras, or some sort of evidence that I was on candid camera and that people were being entertained by my misery and confusion. I was beginning to question my sanity, wondering if this sensation of being on The Truman Show was some sort of paranoia creeping into my incredibly stressed out mind. 

After she gave me the picture, she wanted to sing the part of the song that she had written down in kid spelling. When she sang “…I see your true colors, that’s why I love you…” I felt a sudden physical sensation that I can only liken to a knowing, a deep comforting knowledge in my bones that my child was always going to be the same person that I loved, even if they were presenting different colors at different times. The fear that I was somehow losing my child vanished. I have often said that for me, the most difficult part of this trans journey has been the inconsistency. I saw it as proof that my child’s experience was somehow not real. She first came out as nonbinary, then changed to demi-girl, then to full trans femme, with changing pronouns each step of the way. What was actually happening was that my child was terrified to come out, so was moving at a very slow pace and trying out different levels of gender expression to see if she could be comfortable with something that seemed more easily accepted than a constantly vilified male to female trans person. My reactions were important, because my support indicated safety and acceptance at home. 

I wish I could say that from that moment on I was a perfect parent who never messed up or hurt my child by my reactions to their gender journey. When I was finally told weeks later that the name they were assigned at birth was now a dead name, I mourned. I couldn’t utter the name Ruby, so for about four months I used “sweetie” and “honey” and “cutie pie” in place of a proper name. The relief, and then joy I felt at seeing my child feel more at home in her body and clothing soon outweighed the fear and devastation I had felt when I thought that I was losing her. Regardless of name or pronouns, this tiny human was entrusted to me at birth and I am lucky to have the privilege of being on this journey. 

I have to come to understand many of my so-called “interrobang” moments as events that evoke opposing reactions in me, that force me to try and bridge the gap between my rational and emotional minds. I have done a lot of work to keep those two far apart, mainly in an effort to remain functional but also in an attempt to have a sense of security in this complex world which often feels so unsafe. I have the immense privilege of being a teacher, but I have found time and time again that I learn just as much from six year olds as they do from me. I also have the immense privilege of being a parent, and I have found time and time again that I learn more about myself from the experience of parenting the true colors of my child than I ever thought possible. Life is beautiful, like a rainbow.