Why My Daughter is My Hero

December 1, 2014 The Maven

Last week, something potentially disastrous happened: My daughter was misgendered.

In case you're not knee-deep in transgender terms like the nerd-turned-ally that is me, I'll let Google explain: to misgender is "to refer to someone, (especially a transgender person) using a word, especially a pronoun or form of address, that does not correctly reflect the gender with which they identify."

In other words, my transgender child, who identifies as a girl and presents as such, was labeled as a boy. It was a younger child who made the faux pas. And while it's happened before (and I'm sure will happen again), this situation was particularly cringe-worthy because it did not stop for what felt like forever.

It went a little something like this:

Younger kid: "So this is Spawnling's brother, Gutsy?"

Me: "No. This is Spawnling's sister, Gutsy."

Younger kid: "That's a sister? Gutsy's a girl?"

Me: "Yes, she is."

Younger kid: "Really? Gutsy, you're actually a girl?"

Gutsy: "Yep. I am."

Younger kid: "No, seriously. Spawnling, Gutsy is your sister?!"

Spawnling: "Dude. It's a long story. Don't worry about it. Gutsy is definitely my sister, ok?"

Younger kid to Gutsy: "Oooook, then. I guess you're a girl who looks exactly like a boy. That's so weird." *shrugs and runs off to play*

I need to state, right off the bat, that this is a good kid. He's funny and sweet and young and was just taken off guard, I guess. He doesn't know our family or its history, and this was the first time he had met Gutsy.

But wow, if I didn't feel punched in the gut right then. I can't imagine being misgendered in my day-to-day life; the idea that the world sees me as I see myself is something I've always taken for granted until recently. But to be a 12-year-old trans kid and have that happen? Ouch.

I would love to tell you that I knew exactly what to say, that I was able to swoop in and educate and make everything better. But I was so taken aback by what had just transpired that it rendered me absolutely speechless (such a rarity, if you ask anyone who knows me.)

So many thoughts ran through my mind. What kind of damage control could I possibly do? He had already said what was undoubtedly a very hurtful thing to my child, the fragile young girl who stepped out of the closet only a few months ago and was just starting to find her wings. She's the one I delicately bubble wrap in a little homeschooling world right now, making sure she's not overly exposed to the cruelties that wait just beyond our front door.

And now this? In our own home? I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what to say. I didn't know all the things. My heart was pounding.

How was she feeling after that exchange?

As it turns out, just fine. The conversation with her a few minutes later in her room went a little something like this:

Me: "Hey, are you ok?"

Gutsy: "Yeah. Why?"

Me: "Well, because I was worried about you after what Spawnling's friend said."

Gutsy: "Oh, that? Whatever. It's fine."

Me: "Really? Are you sure you're ok?"

Gutsy: "Yeah, mom, really. It's not a big deal. He's just a little kid. He can think what he wants."

So I smiled, gave her a kiss on the top of the head and walked out. And that should have been that - except it wasn't. It stayed with me, even if it didn't stay with her. For the last few days, I've been haunted by it, because I knew I wouldn't feel ok after that. So how could she?

Gutsy took me out for coffee a few minutes ago. Not the cheap kind, either. That girl loves her mom. On the way there, I said, "Can I ask you a question? Are you really ok with what happened with Spawnling's friend?"

"Yeah, I'm totally fine with it, mom. Honestly," she replied, her tone strong and positive.

"Ok. I believe you. You sound fine. I know this isn't the first time someone has said something insensitive to you. But can you tell me something? How do you just let stuff roll off your back like that? I have such a hard time when someone insults me, whether they mean it or not. Can you teach me?" And I meant it, because I've struggled my entire life with how the world views me and how accepted I am by others. It's getting better, but I'm still a giant work in progress. Falling dysfunction. Hard hats required on site.

"It's easy, mom," she explained so matter-of-factly. "I know who I am. I know who I want to be. Other people's opinions don't matter because I know who I am inside. That's all there is to it. I know me."

I sat in silence for a moment, letting her words sink in, this not-so-delicate flower with more fierceness in her than I could ever imagine. "Wow, honey. Just... Wow. Do you know how long it takes most people to figure that out, if they ever do? It's taken me a lifetime. How are you so unbelievably strong? I am amazed by you."

She just smiled at me in that wise old soul way she does and asked me what I wanted to drink at Starbucks.

I should start having what she's having, apparently.

You can keep your astronauts and Mount Kilimanjaro climbers. My daughter is my hero.