On Knowing

Wordsworth said it well:  “Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark. And shares the nature of infinity.”

It seems, ofttimes, that even amidst the greatest joy and gladness there is an element of suffering in each and every day that passes. But where does this suffering stem from?

Hypobole, and Then Some

This afternoon I received a letter. I looked at the envelope, it was addressed to me in a shaky hand with uneven strokes and, apparently, a pen on the verge of running out of ink.

Curious.

There was no return address... but the postmark was from my hometown. Initially I panicked, thinking it was from one of my family members, but no. The handwriting was all wrong.

Curiouser.

I turned it over and noticed it was sealed with a wax seal bearing the letter "Z." Uh-oh. The Socialist's grandmother is the only person in my past who always, ALWAYS sends her letters with that stamp.

Curiouser and Curiouser indeed.

Complications After Birth – Part 2

My child is three years old now. It’s been a long, sleep deprived and often agony-filled journey. But it’s also been full of joys. Whether the delight on my child’s face when picking wild berries, the reveling when a favorite poem is read, or the simply joy of arranging dozens of blocks by color, shape, and size – my little one can bring light wherever she goes.

She. He. Him. Her. That’s where our next complication came up.

At 18 months old, my little one asked to wear dresses and skirts like mama. “Sure,” we said. “No problem.” And we meant it. We’ve worked very hard to remain gender-neutral for the most part in our home. There are so many positive aspects to traditional masculinity and femininity, but our society at large has also twisted and perverted so many of those norms and we were keen to have our child express him or herself however she deemed fit, regardless of whether society at large would tell her that’s ‘boy stuff’ or ‘girl stuff.’ So dresses it was. We knew our child struggled with sensory processing disorder and assumed that, perhaps, pants/leggings were just too darned intense of a sensation.

At 22 months old, our little one started asking to be referred to as names other than the one we’d bestowed. Often these were the names of close family friends such as Kelly, Hailey, or Francine. Sweet! How many children with autism have that kind of imagination at that age? Or at any age for that matter… ABA must really be doing it’s work. Right?

At 2 years old, we discussed that maybe our little one wouldn’t end up as heteronormative as we’d assumed. Again, no problem. We love our child, the family who will assume custody in the event of a tragic accident are a gay couple, and the impetus for each of us in our careers is to pursue social justice. Heck, my ex and best friend realized she was gay 6 years into our marriage. It’s not a big deal. What better family, what better region of the country to be other than a heteronormative, white, cis-gendered male of means, right?

But, no, I said. I don’t want my child to be other than the proverbial, fictitious norm. Because I know how cruel society can be. I grew up a bigot, I’ve lived among them, I’ve been one of them. I know the hatred and vitriol awaiting those outside of hegemony, disguised as love and righteousness. Well, 2 is WAY too young to tell, right?

The next several months passed without much of note in the gender arena. The kiddo wore mostly dresses and skirts in hues of purple and seemed largely happy. When the cashier would say ‘my, what a beautiful little girl’ and I’d correct them, my beloved would whimper or cry, but she’d always done that when strangers spoke to her. Clearly she just didn’t want to talk to strangers. I’d ask if she wanted to talk to the person and I’d receive an emphatic “NO THANK YOU! You do it for me papa.” Clearly it was about the stranger-conversation. I honestly didn’t think any more of it.

Then, 3 months before her 3^rd birthday, she refused to go by her given name, insisting it was the wrong name. She also asked to go by ‘she’ and ‘her,’ insisting that she was only a boy on the changing table. Again, we didn’t think much of it. Who cares what pronoun you use?

How on earth could we have been so blind?

2 months before turning 3, my child started sobbing hysterically when, after making a very proper request for grapes I replied, “I’m so proud of you for being so polite, my son.” Several hours later, once calm enough to speak – though far from consoled, my child gasped through sobs and tears, “Papa, why does everyone think I’m a boy? I’m not your son, I’m your daughter. I’m a girl papa, I’ve ALWAYS been a girl. And you always tell everyone I’m a boy.” This went on for some time, with my precious, my diamond, my beloved pouring out her heart to me, sharing her agony, her sense of never being truly known, her hatred of being perceived as someone she was not. She listed dozens of people who’ve called her ‘he’ or insisted she was a boy. She accused me, rightly, of contradicting the few people in her community who assumed she was a girl, despite the fact that she IS, in fact, a girl. And she asked me, “Papa, why is it that even strangers know I’m a girl, but that you and mama, my parents, don’t understand?”

My soul rent asunder. My darling, my child, my love, heart of my heart, blood of my blood, my baby… I am sorry. Forgive me. Forgive me. I’m sorry. You have been suffering in silence for how long? No, not in silence. You told me, you’ve insisted in your own small – no, not small, very large and very plain – ways that I was wrong. You’ve given me every opportunity, every clue that you might not be a boy. That you were not a boy. That you were a girl. That you’ve known for years. That it hurt you when I insisted otherwise. And I was so scared for you, for your future, for the cruelty of the world we live in, from the likes of Westboro to the simple misunderstandings of your fellow toddlers… so afraid and desperate to spare you suffering… so afraid to see you hurt that I perpetrated my own micro-hate crimes upon you. From daily micro-aggressions to outright insistence of the wrong gender. I’ve become the source of our agony, your isolation and sense of being, in your own words, an ‘outcast within our family.’ Forgive me my child. Papa was wrong. Mama was wrong. I am sorry. Forgive us. We will do better.

“Papa,” she asks me every morning. “Papa, why did you think I was a boy? Why did you call me Little Smye when that’s not my name?” S*#%. “Papa was wrong honey, I am sorry. I did think you were a boy, and I was wrong. But you told me you are a girl and now I know. You are my daughter, and I am so glad to know that you are a girl. Sometimes I might make a mistake and say ‘he’ or use the name I thought was yours, but I’m working on it.”

A few weeks later she asked for a family meeting. The Socialist, our daughter and I sat down at the kitchen able to decide on her name. “I want to go by Phutup,” she insists. “Well kiddo… that’s not usually a name. Mama and I talked about it, and usually parents who are right about whether their child is a girl or boy get to choose the child’s name. We were wrong, so we want you to help us decide on your name, but Phutup is usually not a name. Are you sure you want that for your name?” “I dunno, I just like how it sounds.”

PHEW!

“Okay little girl, how about Little Smyette? That’s the girl version of Little Smye and will be easier for your friends and family to get used to.”

“NO! That is not my name, I hate it!”

“Well,” The Socialist follows up. “How about Snugglet? If we had known you were a girl when you were born, that’s the name we could have given you.”

“Oooooh… Mama, Papa, you found my name! My name is Snugglet! I love it.” And then, for the first time in her life, she began to truly weep. No screaming, no sobs, no violent kicking, thrashing and biting… but weeping. “Papa, I’m crying for happiness. What is this?” Needless to say, The Socialist and I were quick to join her.

It’s been rough, coming out – again – as a family to friends and family. Deciding who to tell and when. How much of this story is hers to tell when she wants? How much is our family’s? How do we respond with kindness and compassion when hatred rears its ugly head – not only to Snugglet but to the hater as well? How do we know whether to refer to her as a girl vs a trans-girl and to whom? How can we maintain our composure when a loved one spits in our faces and insists ‘she’s too young to even have a concept of trans,’ we ‘made her this way,’ ‘did she really try living as a boy to make sure?’ or that we’re guilty of child abuse by making her live as a girl? What can we say when even our closest relatives insist it’s just because The Socialist is gay?

Answer: By doing our best and arming ourselves with evidence.

1)    Snugglet absolutely knows she’s a girl – most kids have a gender identity solidly developed sometime between the ages of 2 & 3 and many trans people who come out later in life report having tried to tell someone at a younger age but being told “GET BACK INSIDE! You’re a girl and you MUST have long hair! You’re a boy GD-it! What’s wrong with you?” They shame spiraled, they self-loathed, and the remained closeted in silence. Or else they insisted and were met with rejection and spite. Or, for a very few, they were accepted and grew up well-adjusted. This is our dream for Snugglet. And no, she’s not aware of the concept of being trans or LGBTIQ… but she absolutely knows she’s a girl with a penis.

2)    Nope. You can’t make a person trans. Anymore than you can make a person cis. Or straight. Or gay. Or bi. Wait, are you saying that your own sexual identity is maleable enough that someone could make you gay? Could, without surgery, make you a man/woman/other? Wow…

3)    Are YOU sure you’re cis? Have you tried living as the other gender for a year or two, just to be sure? I mean… c’mon.

4)    How is allowing my child to be who she is at the core of her being, provided she harms no one else, is worse than forcing my child to adopt a persona counter to her very soul? Seems to me very much akin to forcing a boy to wear only girl’s clothes and go by a girl’s name, even when he’s very much a boy. Or forcing a girl to pretend she’s a boy, even when she’s not. How on earth is allowing my girl to be a girl more cruel than forcing her to be a boy?

5)    Beyond that, if this isn’t enough for you, I highly suggest you read some peer-reviewed journals on the topic. Or else get a good therapist. Or, if you want to believe I’m evil and my child is an abomination… I suppose your right to hate has the same constitutional protections as my right to love, so go ahead. Just keep those thoughts to yourself. Just as you have the right to raise your child to believe transgenderedness is wrong, I have a right to raise my child how I will, with what I believe to be love and acceptance. Thank you.

I still slip up, I still call her by her old name instead of her new name. And she is so generous, so gracious, in a way no child – especially no preschooler – should ever have to be: “It’s okay Papa. I know it will take you some practice and I know you’re trying. Thank you Papa for catching yourself and changing to my real name.” Daily my heart breaks as I’m consumed with shame for the suffering I’ve caused the one human on earth who most deserves my unbridled devotion, respect, and full recognition of who she is.

I’m still afraid. I still dread having the conversation about why this or that adult did this or that hateful thing. But I am so damn proud of my child. My daughter. My beautiful beautiful little girl. I love you Snugglet, thank you for having the courage to teach me who you really are. Perhaps I can thank, at least in part, your wonderful autistic brain for helping give you a voice amidst the silencing of our world. 

I love you.

Selling The Farm

What was that saying my middle school teachers always used? The only constant in life is change?

If that's the case, then why does change hurt so badly? Why is it something so incredibly frightening? And how on earth is it possible to be at once in a place of such horror and hope?

Suffice it to say, a change has come and we're selling the farm! More changes are afoot soon, one of the biggest will be coming soon, so stay tuned.

For those in the PNW interested in a hobby farm not an hour from Seattle, check out our listing here. 1770 sq ft on one acre with a large greenhouse, workshop, goat barn, and chicken house.



We're having an open house on Sunday from 1-4 if you're interested.

A Change is Gonna Come

...And there's not a darned thing I can do about it.

The Socialist continues to grow. She continues to change. She continues individualize and separate her identity. I am so proud of her. I hurt so much.

Recently we realized that we both want so badly to keep our home, but neither of us believes it would be sustainable to continue sharing a living space. Yet we can't afford to build an addition or a second dwelling on the property.

Then one of The Socialist's good friends came up with what seemed the perfect solution - add about eight feet of interior wall and convert the house to a duplex.  I feel no sense of loss at 'losing' access to The Socialist, only the dread of losing the casual interactions with Little Smye on her parenting nights and the sense of 'hey now, this is MY house, why don't I get to keep it?" But realistically, I'll still share a roof with my son, he's a 20 foot walk and a door knock away, and really... it gets us both what we want.

Perfect right? If only.

As Nobel Laureate Andre Gide once said, “Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore.” As much as I loathe it... I think it's time to head out to sea and hope the weather holds...

(more after the jump)

 

Last week we had a real estate agent friend out to advise us on how to go about converting the house to a duplex by adding a central interior wall (cost estimate, impact on resale, etc etc). Long story short, her advice was DO NOT DO IT! We (apparently) have somewhere between $200k and $250k in equity in the house (hooray for buying in late 2011 and it being an election year approaching summer) and, in her work over the last 30 years, she's helped a number of clients (which we are not) through similar divorces (one spouse realizes they are gay and it's amicable) and only once has living on the same property  survived beyond the acquisition of a new partner. In all the others, even those who'd been best of friends since childhood, things eventually turned ugly. Not to mention the fact that The Socialist has made it clear she wants a home entirely to herself within the next 5 years.

 

Additionally, the preschools and elementary schools that provide appropriate services for Little Smye are all out of the district we live in now. Her advice is: Sell the house this summer, use the profits to 1) give The Socialist a large chunk of $ to survive on while she sets up her practice/downpayment on a small house for her/Little Smye 2) give myself a smaller chunk (only $80k) to completely zero out all student loans 3) reduce my spousal support by way of the larger share of profits going to The Socialist at the outset 4) provide myself a larger portion of his income to be able to rent for a short while near to work and build a stockpile to buy again when the market next drops 5) provide Little Smye a stable, single move, landing in a near-forever home. 

 

It's utterly heartbreaking, but admittedly seems to be the most reasonable solution. I don't want to give up my home, but I can't afford to support my own mortgage, a household for The Socialist once she moves out, AND make my student loan payments. And if The Socialist is going to move Westward towards better schools for Little Smye , I want to be nearby.

 

My biggest anxiety (other than losing my wife [oh wait, that's already done] and not living with my son most of the time [in his best interest based on the careers of his parents]) is the financial aspect of all of this. The Socialist took a low paying job and I acquired $80k in student loans in order to maximize our family's long-term earning potential, but with the divorce it leaves us both effectively screwed... except that we've got such equity in the house that we can effectively solve both problems (giving her enough of a cushion to live off of until she finishes her licensure and eliminating all of my student debt).

 

We've not made any decisions at this point, but it's looking like we'll likely aim for a deal to be reached end-of-spring with closing in mid summer (I have a full month off this summer, which would allow for crashing on The Socialist's couch while I hunt for a new home once we have her securely placed). We'll also likely stay married until after the house is sold as there are no capital gains taxes on up to $500k if we're married, but $250k if we're divorced. We'll then see about doing one of those 'self-guided divorce' deals for $800 rather than the $8-20k attorney-guided divorces - we'll effectively have no further assets or debts to divvy up.

 

I'll be meeting with our former realtor (who helped us buy the house) in three days, and we'll go from there.

In brief, I'm terrified, I'm reluctant, I'm suffering. But I'm also hopeful. Perhaps, just maybe, I'll find land again, or at least a beautiful sea.