So There’s That: Adventures in Transgendering chronicled my transition in 2014. One hopes the gentle readers will forgive any awkward or anachronistic language within.

—

Morning comes and I am awake at the crack of dawn.

I pace downstairs and make coffee. I pace around with my coffee once it’s brewed. And then I pace some more. Waiting. Waiting to see if my oldest son has come around.

I make sure to wear “guy” socks, and even put on my “guy” boots. Without realizing it, I am returning to my traditional role as Dad.

The kids get up around 10 a.m. to go see My Little Pony: Equestria Girls – Rainbow Rocks with a friend at a nearby movie theater. My youngest is a Brony, remember? But my oldest is still distant. I look down at my wrist and realize I haven’t even put on my hair ties, my symbol of strength and defiance.

I continue my pacing around the first floor, cleaning this and that. I just can’t be in the same room as my oldest as I’m afraid I’ll break down in front of him.

Thirty seconds in the living room, then back to the kitchen. My youngest wanders in and I ask for a hug. Not good, I tell them, not good.

Finally their ride arrives and I whisk them out the door. I close the door and lean against it before finally sinking to the ground. And the tears come. Oh, do the tears come.

That’s it, right? I can’t be myself in front of my son. The one who is always understanding. Just not of this. Or of me.

I finally pull myself back together, though I fear it takes me a good hour to exhaust my pity party. I give my face a good splash of cold water to get rid of the red rims around my eyes. Deep breath, buddy. Deep breath.

By the the time the kids return home, I’m feeling better. Whatever happens happens. Either he is here on this journey with me or he’s not. My youngest is good with me, and even more so with their Pony movie.

We finally settle in for some more Doctor Who. It’s a normal day for the three of us and I decide I can live with that. We wrap up a mini-marathon, and it’s time for my youngest to get to work for the evening.

After dropping my youngest off, I finally decide enough is enough and broach the elephant in the room with my oldest.

So we good?

Silence. Lots of face pulling, but no intelligible response.

This goes on a for an eternity, but I’m out of answers. I’m emotionally empty. I feel like there’s a path to reaching him, I just can’t find it. Thicket too dense. Machete too dull.

I finally ask if he wants to read my blog. This blog.

He nods and I head upstairs to let him read alone — without the specter of me pacing or staring at his face for every possible reaction as he reads each post.

I finally return after 20 minutes and he is staring at the screen with tears in his eyes and on his cheeks.

Oh shit. Oh shit? I don’t even know anymore.

But these turn out to be good tears. He gets up and gives me a long hug. And finally says, “Dad, I love you. I think I get it now. And I’m okay with it.” There is a sincerity in his voice and in his hug that tells me we are, in fact, okay.

The rest of the evening is good, relaxing even. We pick up my youngest a few hours later from work, grab dinner and wrap the evening with one more episode of Doctor Who.

It seems only apropos to end this with a quote from Doctor Who, but not actually Doctor Who. That does makes sense. But if not, just trust me…

When you’re a kid, they tell you it’s all… grow up, get a job, get married, get a house, have a kid, and that’s it. But the truth is, the world is so much stranger than that. It’s so much darker. And so much madder. And so much better. 

Maybe not darker, at least not for me anymore. But it definitely is stranger, madder and so much better.

So There’s That: Adventures in Transgendering chronicled my transition in 2014. One hopes the gentle readers will forgive any awkward or anachronistic language within.

—

I catch my train back to BWI in the late afternoon and arrange to meet with my oldest for a weekend home from college. It’s been over a month since I dropped him off for his sophomore year at Goucher College, and it’s great to see him again.

I was hoping to get home before sharing my news, but patience has never been my forte, so we drop our bags off in my car at the parking garage, and I tell him I have some things I need to talk to him about.

Now let me preface this by saying that my oldest son is the one person I was sure would be okay with all of this. He is a terrific kid. Very empathic and always there to give someone a hug when they are the least bit down.

You might see where this is going. And you’d think by now I would have learned my lesson on setting expectations. But no, that’s not how I roll.

I start pacing and tell him first about my move to NYC. All good.

Then I tell him about hiding my stuttering for 25 years. Again, all good.

Then I tell him I’m transgender. Aaaaaand… not so good.

I am really caught off guard. This is not at all what I was expecting. And I start to get a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach.

But I put on a brave face and tell him that he needs to react how ever he feels. We all have visceral reactions to things in life. This isn’t a time to pretend and tell me what I want to hear. This impacts him. This impacts our relationship. This impacts his life. Be honest. It’s okay.

Well, he tells me, I have a few trans friends at Goucher and I’m just not comfortable around them.

Good, good. Don’t hold back.

I try to explain that it’s not like Tootsie. That girl mode entails things like yoga pants, long skirts, clogs. Nothing outrageous. He doesn’t need to see me in girl mode. I’m still mostly in boy mode anyway, etc, etc. etc.

By now, we’ve been in the garage for a while, and I realize we should probably be driving home. We continue our conversation in the car, but this is not going at all how I had envisioned.

That said, I genuinely appreciate his honesty. And I’m sure he’ll come around. Right?

Empathy. Hugs. Just give it time.

We make a pit stop at the mall on the way home because the padding on my glasses broke off earlier in the day. We walk by a slew of women’s clothing stores, and I point out blouses and leggings that I might wear — again, nothing too showy. Nothing too age inappropriate.

He seems to start to get it, but there’s still a palpable distance between us.

We finally get home in time to pick up my youngest from work at the movie theater, and after a late dinner and an episode of Doctor Who, I find myself absolutely exhausted and emotionally spent. I tell the boys I’m beat, and head up to my bedroom, explaining they should spend some time catching up. Sibling-to-sibling time. And that gives me go-upstairs-and-try-not-to-lose-it time.

I close the door of my bedroom behind me and tell myself, hold it together. Give him time. And for god’s sake, get some sleep.

I crawl into bed, close my eyes and wait to see what tomorrow will bring.

So There’s That: Adventures in Transgendering chronicled my transition in 2014. One hopes the gentle readers will forgive any awkward or anachronistic language within.

—

Eleven down.

I think it’s safe to say that this transgender train has sailed (I’ll take “Butchered Analogies” for $500, Alex), and I now fill my days in New York City with coffees, lunches, dinners and drinks to let people know personally what’s going on in my life before news slips out on its own.

No more hiding.

Today starts with a lunch with a former intern from NYU who spent many a day in the office discussing storytelling, narrative structure and the like with me.

Now I get to tell her my story.

We walk to the Melt Shop for lunch (the grilled cheese should do wonders for my figure) and after ordering, I find a quiet spot outside to eat and share my news. A group of rambunctious teens quickly grabs the next table, the one about six inches away from us, and I move us to a bench for a tad more privacy.

Yada, Yada, Blah, blah, blah. Aaaaaaand… transgender.

She makes her feelings on the matter quite apparent. It’s written all over her face. She is thrilled for me.

It’s funny. I’ve come out to 12 people now and I’m at the point where I can almost classify the responses. And her response goes to the top list. Completely accepting. Thrilled for me. So much so that all my nervousness dissipates. I get to be me. I get to stop hiding a part of myself. And let me tell you, that is a wonderful feeling.

We continue our chat as I walk her back to her office, unfortunately, we come up with no new words for my new vocabulary. Guys may be raunchier, but at least they have more creativity when it comes to words for women’s breasts. A lot more creativity.

I head downtown for another meeting, this time with a guy I worked with at AOL, consulted with for a good five years, and the business partner of the first guy I told, last week.

I know he’s going to take it just fine. He’s a terrific guy, and his brother is the leading activist for gay marriage, but I’m still stressed. He’s known me for 15 years. We worked together closely for many of those years. And despite the past week of love and support, this doesn’t seem to get much easier, especially with people I’ve known for a long time.

He gives me a hug when I come in the office, introduces me around as “the best,” and we finally settle in within one of his side offices. He knows I have news, so I start with, “Not gay, not dying of cancer.”

I share my stuttering tale, then the hiding and the shame, aaaaand… transgender.

He gives me a hug, tells me how proud he is of me, how brave I am and proceeds to dominate the conversation, much like he usually does. But it’s good. Nothing has changed between us. He still wants to work with me again, girl mode or boy mode. And he still wants to dominate any conversation he is in.

But for the first time, I realize that people, even open-minded people, don’t necessarily understand what I’m going through. He peppers the conversation with the word “tranny” and asks me if Tootsie was my favorite movie growing up. I’m hesitant to bring up that “tranny” isn’t really a word in favor within the trans community. It feels like a pejorative. Not when he says it, because I know it comes from a place of love. But it’s hard not to wince each time he uses it.

And don’t just take my word for it. To quote Wikipedia (always known to be at least 90% accurate)…

Tranny is a slang term used chiefly to describe people who are transgender, i.e. transsexual, drag, transvestites or cross-dressers. The term is considered a slur by some transgender activists, such as Roz Kaveney. The Gay & Lesbian Alliance Against Defamation (GLAAD) state that the term is “usually considered offensive and/or defamatory” by members of the transgender community. The gay community is believed to have originated the term, and many members of the gay community feel the word is a term of endearment.

As for Tootsie, that’s the first time that movie has been referenced since I started coming out. Sure, I liked the movie, but it didn’t speak to me. It’s about an out-of-work actor who takes on the role of a woman to get work. It has very little to do with gender identity, at least for me. I certainly don’t dress up in glittery gowns and wave around American flags, and perhaps that’s what some people will envision in their minds. That this is about clothing and theater. But that’s not what it’s about for me. It’s about me being who I am.

In a way, that’s what this blog is for. To educate people on what I’m really going through.

Perhaps our next conversation will be a better time to bring this up. I really don’t want to ruin the moment over technicalities, because it is genuinely a delightful meeting and I’m blessed to have friends like him.

His assistant breaks in on our discussion and he is pulled into another meeting, but not before giving me another hug and a kiss on the cheek.

That night, I find myself unexpectedly in New York City for another day, and end up having drinks with a young guy who used to work for me on a web project where we relaunched 167 radio station websites in a little over two months.

I wasn’t planning on outing myself with him. More of a catchup, but we have such a delightful conversation about life that the moment just seems right. I tell him, and maybe these kids in their early twenties just have a different outlook on life, but he is thrilled for me. It doesn’t phase him in the least and he tells me how much he admires me for being honest with myself and being so open about it.

I guess waiting 40 years to come to grips with being transgender doesn’t sound very brave to me, but I’ll take what I can get. And so far, that’s 14 amazing friends.

So There’s That: Adventures in Transgendering chronicled my transition in 2014. One hopes the gentle readers will forgive any awkward or anachronistic language within.

—

N.B.: When I began transitioning, I was known by my nickname “DiG” — prior to learning my mom had chosen Jennifer as my name prior to my birth. 

Wednesday morning 3 A.M.

Not just a Simon & Garfunkel album anymore. It’s me in my hotel room and I can’t sleep.

I send a note of gratitude to my boss for her wonderful and loving support and continue pacing the hotel room.

Why? Because in the morning I have an appointment at Beth Israel Medical Center about my self-medicated hormone use and subsequent blood test. On the positive side, my nurse practitioner is transgender so hopefully she’ll be understanding about what I’ve been going through.

I finally fall asleep, but awake hours later and the pacing continues.

My wait finally comes to an end, and I arrive at Beth Israel on 14th Street. Everyone there is extremely nice and supportive, and I am directed to fill in my personal information.

I am then confronted, for the first time in my life, with a new choice. Male. Female. Transgender.

I smile and circle Transgender. I smile again and can’t suppress a laugh this time. “I accept!!!”

I wish I could recount more epic tales of bravery, but I panic when it comes to my insurance. Do I want my insurance company to know I’m transgender? Do I want that on my permanent medical record? I blink and decide to pay out of pocket for now. I’ll cross that road at another time.

I am beckoned in to have my blood pressure taken. Yeah, that shouldn’t be too high, especially for one afflicted with white coat syndrome (artificially high blood pressure due to anxiety about having your blood pressure taken). But to my surprise it’s 113 over something.

Maybe I’m more at ease about all of this than I thought.

I then meet my NP (I’m new to the world of medical acronyms, but officially Family Nurse Practitioner, Board Certified. FNP-BC for short. NP for really short). Regardless, she is a delight and let’s me nervously share my story over the next half hour. She intersperses my running dialogue with head nods and comments like, yup, that’s normal.

Normal. Not a word I ever expected to hear when it came to being transgender.

She seems satisfied with my story, progress and therapy, and innocuously asks if I want to continue my hormones. That catches me off guard as I was expecting to be reprimanded for my previous self-medication and taken off all hormones until I had proceeded further down “official” channels.

I think about it and nod my assent. Yes, I would. The subtle changes so far are welcome, and I feel like I’m making progress. She gives me a release to sign about the hazards of estrogen and before long I have my prescriptions.

She then catches me off guard a second time with another question. What pronoun would I like to use? I suddenly have a vision of the Bugs Bunny cartoon with Daffy Duck, Rabbit Seasoning, where Bugs repeatedly tricks Elmer Fudd into shooting Daffy.

Daffy Duck: Let’s run through that again.

Bugs Bunny: Okay.

Bugs Bunny: Wouldja like to shoot me now or wait till you get home?

Daffy Duck: Shoot him now, shoot him now.

Bugs Bunny: You keep outta this. He doesn’t hafta shoot you now.

Daffy Duck: Ha! That’s it! Hold it right there! Pronoun trouble.

Daffy Duck: It’s not: “He doesn’t have to shoot *you* now.” It’s: “He doesn’t have to shoot *me* now.” Well, I say he does have to shoot me now!

I don’t think I’m ready for “pronoun troubles” just yet and request that we just use “DiG” for now. Pronouns can be sorted out on another day.

I then get my blood taken and finally depart for the front desk. As I’m about to pay, I decide, screw it. I am transgender. I circled the damn word on the form. Damn the torpedoes, let’s submit to my insurance company and let the chips fall where they may.

Okay, I may be brave, but I still torture analogies with the best of ’em.

I leave Beth Israel feeling great. And again can’t suppress a laugh.

You, my friend, are officially transgender.

So There’s That: Adventures in Transgendering chronicled my transition in 2014. One hopes the gentle readers will forgive any awkward or anachronistic language within.

—

After my appointment at Beth Israel Medical Center, my day continues with two more reveals.

Damn the torpedoes, etc, etc.

The thing is, as happy as I am about my appointment at Beth Israel, I’m still nervous. Really nervous. And this time it’s mostly my own doing.

I dropped an email to a former coworker, and to be honest, I’m not sure how he will take the news. I mean, he’s a really good guy. But he’s a guy’s guy. And we hung out together as guys.

To complicate the problem, I phrased the email asking to have lunch rather awkwardly, leaving him to believe I had dire news to share with him. Like I’m dying of cancer news.

And don’t just take my word for it. Enjoy my masterfully subtle email:

Long time no talk. I was wondering if you have some time next week to get together. I have a few things I’d like to fill you in on before things go public, so to speak.

Yeah, I’m an idiot. A cute idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.

We connect for lunch and I can see the look of concern on his face.

Are you okay? I’m here for you, man.

If I weren’t so nervous, this would be a pretty funny episode of Three’s Company.

So on the way to the restaurant I assure him. Not gay. Not dying of cancer. You can cross those two off your list. Though I do admit to working on a really crazy cover story to mess with his mind. “Yeah, I’m starting a porn site and I want you to be the star.” Something that would elicit Billy Bob Thornton’s classic line from Bad Santa, “Are you fucking with me?”

We settle in at a Chinese restaurant and I start my spiel. Deep breath aaaaand… transgender.

He is immediately and unabashedly happy for me. He tells me about a trans friend with whom he is helping to create a vast photography project. He is crazy supportive. And not in the let’s-talk-about-fantasy-football way I have come to expect from guys.

I know I sound like a broken record, but I am blessed with an extraordinary collection of friends. I never thought I would receive so much support. In a way, I feel guilty for doubting them.

Amusingly, the guy sitting behind him is trying to eavesdrop on the conversation. Not sure if I can blame him as it is probably the juiciest conversation in the whole restaurant. I am tempted to ask him if he needs me to repeat anything but I let it go. This is a day for being positive, not jaded. That can come next month.

We part with a hug, an honest-to-god hug, and I head back to work in a great mood. But I still have one more coming out tonight, with a young woman I used to work with. A wonderfully sweet girl.

We meet for drinks and after some idle chitchat, I launch into my standard pitch. Moving to New York, yada, yada. Stuttering, blah, blah, blah. Aaaaand… transgender.

She is fascinated by my story and by my journey and we have the most delightful evening talking about being transgender, being a girl, shaving legs, the effects of hormones and nicknames for breasts.

Yup, I go there. I mean, guys always have the raunchiest words for breasts. Melons, knockers, hooters… hell, they don’t even need to be real words. Gozongas, yabbos, hoohas. But I’m intrigued to discover what words women use when guys aren’t around. And I get two delightful examples.

The Girls. And the Twins.

I must admit that I don’t exactly have women’s breasts at the moment, but if and when I do, at least I’ll know what to call them.

So There’s That: Adventures in Transgendering chronicled my transition in 2014. One hopes the gentle readers will forgive any awkward or anachronistic language within.

—

If it’s Tuesday, I must be in NYC.

And this time I’m excited. Really excited. It’s time to tell my current boss, a former colleague and a friend from my days at AOL. Our current gig together is wrapping up shortly, so even if, on the oft chance it does go south, it shouldn’t be too awkward for too long.

I actually was hoping to tell her last week as part of my initial reveal, but fate has a funny way of tossing you curveballs, and I prefer to go with the flow.

Another mutilated analogy. <sigh> I fear you’ll have to get used to that, as Captain Jack Aubrey appears to have become my muse.

Back to the story at hand, we opt to have our chat in the office since everyone else clears out for lunch. I’m surprisingly NOT terrified, though I can feel my heart thumping in my chest.

Deep breath.

She reacts much the way I had hoped. She smiles infectiously, is so genuinely thrilled, and gives me a big hug, before leaping into a million questions.

As usual, I only have so many answers. This is step two of my master plan. Step one, the hair ties on my wrist. Step two, no more hiding. Step three, the evolution of boy and modes. Steps four and beyond, not sure yet. One step at a time, each step in its own time.

But the questions are wonderful. It allows me to dispel myths about being transgender. It allows me to share details of my journey, not what other might assume or guess it to be. And perhaps most importantly, it allows me to talk about something I’ve never been able to talk about openly. I don’t think animated conversations with myself in the mirror quite count.

I tell her about my blog (this blog) and she thinks it’s a fantastic idea. An opportunity to share, an opportunity to teach.

Life being what it is, we only have an hour, but she promises me a shopping trip. “We are going to have a so much fun dressing you up!” I smile. I’ll take all the help I can get.

We hug again, and it’s good. Really good. In fact, we are much closer than before our chat. There seems to be a bond of friendship created, at least between women (well, in my case, almost woman), when confessing emotional vulnerabilities and sharing a part of one’s soul. It was the case with the first woman I came out to last week and it happens again here. After all this anxiety, after all this fear, I feel so blessed to have such wonderful friends.

The day passes and I head for another reveal in my black women’s high tops. They don’t look like women’s high tops, they are fairly androgynous, but I know, and it feels like progress.

I grab drinks in midtown with a former coworker, another woman. But this time the response is a bit more sedate. Not bad, just sedate. But I’ll take what I can get, and after an hour, I bound off to therapy.

My therapist seems genuinely surprised at my progress. I mean, I’ve come out to, what nine people? I’m starting to lose count. But I tell her I like to jump off cliffs every few years. I like the unknown. I like the exhilaration. I might even like the fear.

It’s another hugely positive session and I leave feeling happy and alive and ready to conquer the world. Okay, maybe not the world, maybe just my corner of it.

So There’s That: Adventures in Transgendering chronicled my transition in 2014. One hopes the gentle readers will forgive any awkward or anachronistic language within.

—

My youngest heads to school at zero dark thirty Monday morning, and I decide today is boy mode. No need to push it. I have all the time in the world, to paraphrase Louis Armstrong from On Her Majesty’s Secret Service. As long as I’m not shot by Blofeld in the end, I should be good.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not making progress.

Now that I’ve told my youngest, I can literally come out of the closet. Or at least my wardrobe can.

But first things first. I need to pack up my comic book collection from the Ikea shelves in my bedroom. Yes, I am a geek. A divorced geek. And to quote Jonathan Coulton, “Ikea: selling furniture for college kids and divorced men.”

It’s a long process as I need to catalogue what goes in the short boxes (didn’t I tell you I’m a geek?), but I finally start to create some space. One shelf unit for girl t-shirts. Another for yoga pants and jeans. And a third for long skirts.

It’s a small step. But a big one at the same time. No more hiding.

Before long, my youngest comes home from school, and we start to discuss what adjective we should use to describe this experience.

I mean, it’s crazy. And it’s nuts. And it’s insane. But we need something non-disparaging we can both use to get across the fact that this is not exactly what someone expects out of life.

Weird? Too negative.

Odd? Ditto.

Strange? Houston, we have a problem.

Funky? Hmmm… this one has potential. As in, this music is funky (hopefully not like, that cheese smells funky).

To quote Urban Dictionary: Different, but cool/nice.

Yeah, I kinda like that.

Funky.

Ladies and gentlemen, I think we have a winner.

So There’s That: Adventures in Transgendering chronicled my transition in 2014. One hopes the gentle readers will forgive any awkward or anachronistic language within.

—

Sunday comes and I decide I’d like to spend the day in girl mode.

My youngest is cool with it (again), so I change into a long burgundy skirt. My top is another story. I find myself trying on a series of different long sleeve t-shirts. Too fat. Too tight. Too bright. Too sexy (!). I then put on the one that looks just right. The black one. Modest, slimming and appropriate for a lazy Sunday.

Just like a girl, right?

I come downstairs, no clogs this time, and my youngest smiles again. Skirt or yoga pants, I ask.

Definitely skirt. This one’s a charmer.

We spend the day catching up on Sleepy Hollow. A normal Sunday with my youngest. But in girl mode.

I am a lucky man. Or girl. Or whatever. Not sure how that works yet.

In between episodes I decide to paint my toenails. Unfortunately, I’m still at the stage of painting more than the just the nails and sheepishly scrape the excess polish off my toes. Not as much as on previous attempts, but it’d be nice to master the art of toenail painting eventually.

Night comes and my youngest votes pizza for dinner. Okay, let me change into boy mode for the delivery guy. No need to freak out the locals. Let’s give that a few more weeks.

My youngest gives me a look and says, no, let’s pay cash and I’ll handle it.

For a moment I feel a little weird about that. As if I’m hiding. And I’m done with hiding. But they talk me into it.

Pizza ordered, pizza arrives and it’s all good.

Now it’s important that you know something about me. I am incapable of eating dinner without dripping stain-inducing blobs of food on myself. Usually when I’m wearing a white shirt. But the burgundy skirt goes with the sauce, so it doesn’t portend to be a complete disaster. That said, I’ve learned to drape a tea towel over my skirt when I eat. And shockingly no spills this time.

We end the evening with me still in girl mode and it’s wonderful. I literally have never spent the day with someone whilst in girl mode. Ever. And the best part is that it’s starting to feel almost “normal.”

So There’s That: Adventures in Transgendering chronicled my transition in 2014. One hopes the gentle readers will forgive any awkward or anachronistic language within.

—

N.B.: My youngest, the other key figure below, has since come out as non-binary. After chatting with them, we made the decision to update their pronouns accordingly.

I wake up early Saturday and my mind is racing. About everything.

And in a moment of extreme clarity (or extreme insanity), I make a decision.

I’m selling the house and moving to NYC (and yes, the line, “Fuck it, I’m going to Narnia” does run through my head).

Why? To be brutally honest, nothing is keeping me in Maryland once both my kids are in school. Because NYC is one of the few places that might accept me for who I really am. More so than Maryland at least. At least I won’t get stares for colorful hair ties on my wrist.

I suddenly feel free. To be who I am. To start a new life.

That said, I wouldn’t be moving until August, but I feel like the decision has been made. The dice have been rolled. So let it be written, so it shall be done. Blah, blah, blah.

I start padding around the house (in boy mode) exclaiming wildly, I don’t need THAT. Or THAT. Or THAT chair. GONE!

It’s like I’m purging my old life to get ready for my new one. Amazing year indeed.

My youngest wakes up and I tell them my decision. And we are perhaps closer than we’ve ever been. Laughing, joking, dancing. Okay, I’m dancing, they’re staring at me like I’ve lost yet another marble.

They work at the nearby movie theater and due to Computer Tsunami 2014, my playlist has been stagnant for nearly three weeks. Why don’t you provide the music for our drive?

They look at me, think for a moment, then smile and say, yeah, that’d be cool.

We get in the car, they fire up their iPhone and selects the first song. A Brony song.

Pony, pony, blah blah blah, then…

Isn’t it great to be different?
Isn’t it wonderful to be exactly who you are?
When you learn to start accepting yourself
You’ll become a shining star

We hit a stop light and I ask them to hit pause. They stare at me, a little taken aback.

I laugh through another bout of tears and tell them I’d like to get them to work without crashing the damn car due to another crying jag.

We both laugh and it’s all good. In other wave of synchronicity, the song is by Forest Rain, their favorite Brony musician. And transgender.

It seems the person I feared who would be the least understanding of my plight is perhaps the most supportive. Genuinely supportive.

Perhaps this won’t be so lonely and scary after all.

So There’s That: Adventures in Transgendering chronicled my transition in 2014. One hopes the gentle readers will forgive any awkward or anachronistic language within.

—

N.B.: My youngest, the other key figure below, has since come out as non-binary. After chatting with them, we made the decision to update their pronouns accordingly.

As if my harrowing day in NYC was not enough, I decide to bite the bullet and tell my youngest child when I get home.

Age 17. Senior in high school. Interested in art school. And a Brony.

I’m not good at waiting and I don’t want them to think my moodiness has anything to do with them.

So I come home and announce I have something to tell them. Something I’ve hidden from the world for 40 years. And no, I’m not gay.

In a flash, I get a vision of them not responding well. Of never wanting to see me again. Of being ashamed of me. And I lose it. In front of them.

I try to gather myself up, but tears are streaming down my face. Deep breath. REALLY deep breath.

So I dive into my sixth (!!!!!!) admission of the day (are you nuts!?!) and finally speak the words, I am transgender.

I look up and they are staring at me expressionless. Nothing. Nada.

Not good. REALLY not good.

So I start to babble. This is me babbling. Oh wow have I have become good at babbling. Then I pause.

Wait a minute…

Do you know what the word “transgender” means?

No.

Omigod, omigod, omigod. It’s second chance time. Like losing a football game on a missed kick, then seeing that glorious roughing the kicker flag.

Well, it’s kinda like Eddie Izzard (who we went to see in D.C. and ran into in London at the Monty Python Reunion show).

After more babbling, my youngest stops me and tells me they are totally fine with it. Really. Their favorite Brony musician is transgender. Their Facebook picture is a photo of them with the same transgender musician.

I am so relieved. I am so lucky. I am so blessed. They’re even intrigued to see me in “girl” mode.

We hug and while I can’t stop the tears, I can stop the fear, the panic, for at least one night.

But morning comes early for parents of high school students. 6:10 to be exact and while all is good between us, not all is good between my ears.

They leave for school at 6:30 and within minutes I’m sobbing in the bathroom. Everything that I’ve been holding in from the previous day comes tumbling out. Hell, everything I’ve been holding in for 40 years.

I finally pull myself together, throw on my yoga pants and an eggplant long sleeve women’s ribbed tee over my bra. I tie my hair in a side ponytail, put on hoop earrings and my clogs, and appraise myself in the mirror. Not too shabby. A little cute, actually. Very understated. Very non-threatening (I hope).

3:00 comes and I hear the front door open, my youngest returning from school. I’m upstairs, so I give them a minute to get settled in, then text, Do you mind seeing girl mode?

Silence.

After five tortuous minutes, I add, should I take that as a no? 😉

More silence. A LOT more silence

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Then my phone buzzes. Sorry, the cat sat on me and I feel asleep. I would not mind.

Deep breath. Deep breath.  Don’t hyperventilate. Deep breath.

I come down the stairs and my youngest is waiting for me. They break into a broad smile and says, Wow, you look really nice.

Either they means it or they’re going to do really well with women. Either way, score!

I spend the next few hours in girl mode. With someone I know. With someone I love. Who isn’t freaked out by it.

Life is good. Scary, but really, really good.