During this week leading up to Transgender Day of Visibility as legislative attacks terrorize the LGBTQ+ community with many targeting transgender young people, consider our call as a church and how we might live that call out in proclamation and action for the sake of our siblings.
Read MoreFive years ago, Rebekah went out in to the world for the first time as herself. This is a letter I wrote to Rebekah on the first anniversary of that day, and I read it to her each year.
Dear Daughter,
One year ago today we affirmed your identity with a new name. It was one of the names we considered for you before you were born, when we loved you so but hadn't yet met you. It was fitting to use it now that we finally do know who you are. A year later, I can't imagine calling you anything else. You are our Rebekah, or "Beba" as your littlest brother calls you.
I'm in awe of your strength and determination. I've never seen anything more beautiful than watching you be yourself, and I feel so blessed that I get to watch you grow. You're a spirited human, and you always have been. We've told you time and time again how as a baby you kept us up all hours of the night, refusing to sleep unless you were held, swaddled, rocked, nursed, and bounced in just the right order and the right way. You were born telling us what you needed, loudly. People would ask, "oh are they a good baby?" Of course, they meant did you sleep all night long and were you easy going. The answer to that would have been no, but were you a good baby? Yes, you were. All babies are good. But you were a spirited, intense, joyful, demanding, and affectionate baby... and none of those things have changed.
You didn't just make daddy and I parents, you schooled us on what it meant to love a little person with their own big feelings, thoughts, and personality. You showed us we were capable of things we had never imagined, or never wanted to imagine like not sleeping for more than twenty minutes at a time for months on end. You demanded that your voice be heard. You've known that your thoughts, feelings, and ideas mattered just as much as the next person from the start. Your age never mattered. In truly listening to one another and responding as best we can to each other's needs, magic happens. That's what our family is built on, and you taught us that.
In the same way you made your voice heard at home, you made your voice heard in the world. You asked questions, you took in information, and you decided what that meant for you. At 3, you declared you would be a pink bird for the school play, even if you were supposed to be a seagull. Before you even turned four, you were calmly asserting that colors were for everyone, not just boys or just girls, to the preschoolers at school. In kindergarten, I remember your teacher telling me at pick up that you had corrected her when she said your little brother couldn't marry his best friend, a boy. You told her how boys can marry boys and girls can marry girls. Love is love.
You've dressed the way you want to dress and liked the things you want to like for your whole life. It's not that people always thought it was okay. Sometimes kids, and even adults, didn't. Sometimes they parroted whatever they'd been taught about colors or nail polish and gender norms. That hurt. I know it hurt. But you worked it out. There was a very short time period where your favorite color was "anything but pink or purple", but it didn't last long. You've always known who you are and wanted to express yourself on your terms. It hasn't always been easy, but you've handled it with more grace than I could have dreamed.
In the months leading up to you becoming Rebekah, you continued in this way. Quiet questions. Lots of thinking. Careful choices. You felt your way around the possibilities, you wrestled with what was in your heart versus what was in the world in ways that most adults haven't. Like a little caterpillar, you explored, soaking up information and chomping your way towards an understanding of the world. Then you created a cocoon where you digested all these thoughts and sorted your feelings. When you were ready, you emerged as a brilliant butterfly.
You laughter is infectious. Your smile lights the world. You make friends everywhere you go, and your teachers tell us they wish they had a WHOLE class of “Rebekah”s (although we're certain the world couldn't handle that!). You have a spark in you that drives you to love and care for people while dreaming big and making change. You are still so very spirited, joyful, determined, and affectionate. Mommy and daddy love your snuggles, your humor, and we survive your sass. You are still the strong little person you were when you were born, gently but firmly demanding that the world meet you on your terms, and teaching mommy and daddy the fullest meaning of unconditional love and grace. You know who you are in this world, and we are so incredibly blessed to know and love you.
Love,
Mama
I wrote this 4 years ago when my son was entering a new school for a new school year. As we begin a new school year tomorrow, I still feel every word in my soul. I feel it for every kid who doesn’t fit in the boxes put out for them, who has unique struggles to go with their unique gifts. I feel it for my kiddo who is brilliant, funny, and kind. Sometimes he doesn’t feel quite ready for the world, and other times the world is simply not ready for him. Originally published here.
Photo credit: Maegan Dougherty Photography
I've worked with kids all my life. I've had those kids in my classes, groups, programs, etc. The ones that didn't fit the mold. The ones who were too loud, too active, too impulsive, just too much. I've known their parents. I have loved those children, and I have worked in earnest to create the best environment for them. I have trained countless staff members on how best to program for these children, how to connect with them, and how to support them. I've seen the parent's relief when at the end of the day, I got to tell them their child had a good day. And I've seen the parent's heartbreak when I had to tell them it wasn't so good a day. I've gotten the hugs that say thank you in a way words cannot. Those hugs said "thank you for seeing me and not just my child's challenges, thank you for seeing my child and not just behavior, thank for you loving and caring about our family".
I was always glad to help. I felt passionate that these kids were good kids (all kids are good kids) who just needed some extra support to excel in a particular environment. I knew what I was doing mattered, but I never fully got it. I mean I did an okay job. I supported parents and kids. Those kids taught me all sorts of things... one size doesn't fit all... we all bring something to the table... the goal isn't to fit in someone's box of expectations.
But now... now I see those parents, those mothers especially, in a way I never could before.
Whether as an adult who still works with children or as another parent at pick up, I see them. Those mothers sighing when their kid screams or nervously exhaling in relief when it goes well, still tensely waiting for the other shoe to drop. I know their heart is breaking a little, or maybe a lot. Their heart is breaking because it's hard to be the mom of that kid. Their heart is breaking because they know their kid is struggling, they know their kid is not thriving. Their heart breaks because no one wants things to be difficult for their child, definitely not this difficult. Their heart is breaking because they are tired and their buckets are empty. Their heart is breaking because they don't know what else they have left to give, what other tools to provide or what strategies to try. Their heart is breaking because nothing makes a person feel more like a failure as a parent than watching their child consistently fail to adapt, fail to fit in, fail to be happy and successful.
Get to know him. See him for who he is, not just how he doesn't fit the system. He's interesting, unique, brilliantly creative, and sharply witty... and he's frustrating, exhausting, limit stretching, and button pushing. Group environments aren't his best place, but he wants to learn and he wants to be there, maybe more than any other kid I know. I know he's not easy. I also know he is sweet, loving, enthusiastic, perceptive, and driven. He's only 6. Please let's keep in mind exactly what are appropriate expectations for a 6 year old. I know this culture is pushing us to do more, do better, and do it all quicker. I know other parents are demanding metrics and results. I know the pressure is on for achievement and meeting standards. But pressure, standards, checkmarks, and boxes aren't going to help my kid. He's got something pretty amazing to bring to the table... to bring to the community, to the world. He's going to do it on his own time and in his own way, and he's going to blow your standards and expectations out of the water. Please just love him, support him, and encourage him. Make room for his passions when it's possible. Appreciate his humor. Help him figure out how to navigate this world that doesn't think at all like him and try not to squish him into a box he was never meant to fit. I assure you I am striving and struggling to do all that and more around the clock, and I would be forever grateful for one more person on our team.
My kid isn't going to fit in any of your boxes. Love him anyway.
Rebekah, 10 years old
Like other families publicly fighting for their transgender kid and the greater trans community, we get a LOT of angry feedback. We get angry hate-filled messages and letters just about every way we can receive a message, so much so that I’m waiting for a carrier pigeon to drop off some hate mail next. Add in all the angry articles written in response to our family’s advocacy and we know quite well how this very loud portion of the population feels about our parenting and our child.
The messages say all sorts of things, but right now, I want to talk about one of the most common themes: outraged accusations of child abuse for supporting our transgender child. They tell us how our children should be taken away, and we should be prosecuted and put in jail. After a while, it became such a broken record that I went numb to it. These weren’t as bad as those messages threatening violence, so I just began to ignore them. I’d scroll on past the comments or click delete without a twinge of emotion… until New Jersey’s Division of Child Protection and Permanency knocked on my door because someone had reported us.
Someone who has likely never met us reported us, anonymously and from a blocked phone number, for forcing our son to be a girl. They used her deadname. They said she was 7 years old when she’s actually 10, and they said we were forcing her to take hormones, something she won’t take for a few more years as medically appropriate, to make her into a girl. Honestly, it’s so absurd it’s almost laughable. It might be laughable if it weren’t so damn dangerous.
Rebekah (10 years old) changing the world by being her.
I’m finding this to be one of the most difficult things I’ve ever written both because I feel it is deeply important to communicate clearly and because it feels deeply vulnerable. There was so much pain, anger, stress, fear and waiting in this process, and then I went numb. I spoke with some parents who have been through this process, through a Child Protective Services investigation, and a few said it was no big deal. Maybe that is true for some. It was not true for my family. The fact that this investigation happened at all is a sign of the raging transphobia embedded in our culture and institutions, and while I wanted to trust that the system would see the truth and all would go well, I know all too well that isn’t always the case.
Now, I knew this was a possibility all along. In fact, when I do trainings orspeak about transgender children and youth I often bring up the fact thatparents are encouraged to have a “safe folder” filled with documents attesting to their child’s good healthcare, gender expression and identity, and their good parenting in case someone reports them for abuse. People are almost universally shocked when I share this piece of information. They are shocked anyone would report a family for supporting their transgender child, and they are even more shocked that we would need documents to help prove our child is who they deeply know themselves to be.
They are more shocked than I expect them to be, because we live our lives in a day to day fight with this kind of thinking and hatred so much so that it becomes normal. Parents who support their trans kids are vilified across many circles. Usually it’s the mother’s fault. It’s her own mental illness, it’s her need for attention, it’s munchausen syndrome by proxy. Misogyny runs deep. Not every trans kid has two or any supportive parents, let alone two supportive parents who happen to be straight, cisgender, white, Christian and highly educated. Not every trans kid is neurotypical, white, economically secure, English speaking, or fits neatly into the gender binary.Kids and families who are not protected by these pretty little white picket fences of privilege are most at risk, and the results can be devastating.
At the same time, if I’m being honest which apparently I’m going to be, Ididn’t think it could or at the very least would happen to us. I was naive. We have so much privilege, and we live in a little bubble of support. We live in a state with pretty good protections, and our rather conservative town has been very kind to us. Our family and friends from across the country have been incredible in their love and encouragement. It’s why we choose to be as visible as we are; we hope to be visible for those who can’t be.
So when the nice people from the Division of Child Protection and Permanency (DCPP) showed up at our my door, my husband explained to them that our daughter was transgender and her name was legally changed to Rebekah. The two men were confused. They said, “well then why would someone call this in?” My husband patiently explained our public advocacy and the backlash we’d received. The two men were still confused. They said, “Okay, but still why would someone call making this accusation?” My husband still patiently, bless his heart, further explained that, at best, these people believe children cannot be transgender and so it could only be a result of abuse. They said, “Oh. So they’re just ignorant.” Yeah, something like that, except there is nothing small or minor about their ignorance, and the reality is at their worst this is a tactic being used by the far right to silence those of us speaking out for transgender rights.
That’s part of why I’m having a hard time writing this. I don’t want the haters to know they’ve gotten to us, but I need our allies to know this is what parents of transgender children face. I wish I could brush it off and say “Good try! You can’t rattle us”, but we were truly rattled. This happened two days before my daughter and I were scheduled to be on Good Day Philadelphia. I wanted to cancel. I wanted to hide. I wanted to never speak out again. It was my husband who reminded me that our silence is exactly what they want. I wasn’t about to let that happen.
Rebekah on Good Day Philadelphia with her mom and Christian Fuscarino, Garden State Equality
The people from DCPP were kind enough, but the entire situation was deeply problematic. We knew they had a trans affirming policy in place for how youth are handled in their care. We’d even heard from an acquaintance going through foster care training that our family was lifted up as an example of how you support transgender children. And yet, every professional we spoke to shared the same anxiety we did. They said things like, “The system is broken. I don’t trust them. They hurt good families and fail to help hurting ones.” Now, of course, I know that’s a sweeping generalization… but for the professionals in our family’s life to have such feelings said a lot to us. We all knew our family should come out of this okay, but we were collectively concerned nonetheless.
When they came on a Saturday and said they’d be in touch on Monday, I spent the next 48 hours struggling to breathe, cleaning every surface preparing someone to enter my home and assess my parenting, and scrambling for every document I knew we had that could prove my child is in good health, well cared for, and is, in fact, transgender, all while trying to maintain a sense of normalcy and calm for our family.
When I had to explain to my children that someone would be coming to the house to look around and ask us questions, I saw the look of terror on my transgender child’s face. Before I even said the words she knew someone had reported us. No matter how much I tried to tell her everything was okay, I still found myself holding her while she cried deeply worried the state would take her away from us because of who she is and our support for her.
When they asked for releases to speak to my child’s doctors and find out about details about her care in order to “ensure she was receiving the appropriate medical care”, I wondered how the state thinks they know more about care for transgender children than the Gender Clinic at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia.
When they asked my kid if she was really a girl, I know they don’t realize the depth of pain that caused a child who has fought to articulate and be accepted for her affirmed gender for years. My 10 year old child had to defend her identity to the state. Every. single. time. we ask transgender people to prove, authenticate, and demonstrate that they are trans-enough, that they are girl/boy-enough… it is deeply painful and damaging. This is exactly what I spend every day fighting against and that fight brought them into my home.
Rebekah with her dad and her brothers hiking
I share all this not because it’s so unique or we are so special. I share this because it happens to families with transgender children. It happens to those of us who are public in our advocacy, and it happens to those of us who are just trying to support our kids and live out our lives quietly. This experience was traumatic for my family, but we are the lucky ones. We are the ones with the support, resources, time, and education to provide document after document proving my kid’s identity and good health. We had family, friends, colleagues, and pastors graciously respond to our last minute call for letters of reference and support. We are the ones without a bunch of other check marks against us in the CPS handbooks, whether that be because of marital status, economic status, sexuality, gender identity, citizenship, race, religion, health, educational level, family background, or the state where we live. We are the ones who came out the other side relatively unscathed. Others are not so lucky.
The rhetoric that somehow parents force transgender identities on their kids is deeply damaging and downright dangerous. The idea that medical care for transgender children is abusive or that children shouldn’t be allowed to transition until they are 18 is life threatening to our children.The ripples created by anti-trans and anti-LGBT language and policy at the federal level impact our families on a far greater scale than most realize.The power those who think transgender people have no place in society have over families like mine is far too great. The system has to change, at every level. It starts in our homes but the change has to go deep into our institutions. Families shouldn’t have to live in fear of the courts, and misinformed strangers on the internet shouldn’t be able to put families through what we went through. Kids like mine shouldn’t have to be scared that they’ll be taken away because their parents love and affirm them, and no transgender person, let alone a child, should have to defend their gender identity to the state.
Originally published on Medium September 19, 2017.
We have been incredibly blessed by an enormous show of love and support since our daughter came out as transgender two years ago. Whenever I speak at an event or lead a workshop and share our story, I’m told how wonderful I am as a person and a mother. I mean, don’t get me wrong, that’s nice and all. It’s more than nice — the support is incredible, but it also feels a little strange.
2016
When we first posted the news of Rebekah’s social transition (i.e. her changing her name and going by female pronouns) on social media for our family and friends, I remember reading the comments with Rebekah. Among comments about her beauty and bravery (both of which she has plenty!), these comments kept popping up.
“You guys are amazing parents.”
“Rebekah is so lucky to have you as parents.”
“The world needs more parents like you!!!!!”
“Can you please give parenting lessons?!”
No. Seriously. I’m not even kidding with that last one. Clearly, they don’t know us that well. Rebekah eventually said, “well you’re not that amazing”. HA! Leave it to the kid to tell it like it is. But she’s right! We’re not that amazing.
Now, let me be clear, I’m not knocking anyone who said any of these things. I am absolutely bursting with gratitude and love for this village who has our back. I know life would be very, very, different for us and Rebekah without them. And I try to graciously accept compliments on the way we are navigating these uncharted waters.
Rebekah (age 11 months) with me and her father
But here’s the deal. What you call amazing, I call parenting.
And it’s not even the hardest part of parenting. Hard is trying to figure out how to best educate my kids. Hard is dealing with autoimmune disorders and symptoms of ADHD. Hard is trying to meet the unique needs of three very different children. Hard is parenting while fighting my own anxiety and depression. Hard is watching your child struggle with those same illnesses. Hard is somehow trying to do that while modeling any amount of love and grace. Hard is keeping my cool when I’m tired and my bucket is empty. Hard is figuring out how to fill my kids’ bellies and bodies with nourishing and nutrient dense food that helps them thrive. Hard is doing all that while being oh-so-very-sleep-deprived.
Do you know what’s not hard? It’s not hard to support our daughter in her affirmed gender identity, loving and accepting her for who she really is. Listening to her and respecting that she knows who she is better than anyone else ever could has never been the hard part.
Our family 2015, just after Rebekah transitioned. Photo credit: Maegan Dougherty
Now, I know we will encounter hard stuff, situations and decisions, as a result of our daughter’s gender identity. There are medical decisions. There is advocating for her rights. We know the challenges facing the trans community are not small. We’ve done some of that, and we know there’s a lot more to come. But the decision to love and accept her, well that wasn’t even a decision. It was a given.
We’re just parents doing the best we can for our kids, like every other parent I know. Wading through the hard and the messy, screwing up often, apologizing at least as often, and trying again the next day.
If you want to call it amazing, go ahead. Then again, if we’re amazing for the love and support we’re showing our daughter because she happens to be transgender… you’re amazing for the love and support you’re showing our family because we happen to have a transgender daughter. So thank you for being amazing.
In the end, I want to live in a world where none of it is amazing. I dream of and hope for the day when it’s no longer extraordinary to affirm, support, and love your child for who they are.
Originally published on Medium June 5, 2017.
I was at a Lutheran youth gathering when it happened. Walking my daughter through a convention center overflowing with displays, I spotted Reconciling Works, an organization committed to affirming and celebrating LGBTQ folks. Their space was covered in all different Pride flags – non-binary, transgender, bisexual, pansexual, asexual, gender fluid, and more. Young people were excitedly finding their flags, taking selfies, and sharing their identities with each other and the world. It was beautiful and joy-filled, and I wanted in on it. The bisexual flag was right there waiting for me. But, that would mean coming out.
To me, being bisexual means I experience attraction to people of my own gender and genders other than my own. Over the past few years, I slowly came to terms with this part of myself. My journey as a parent of a transgender child led me to more fully understanding who I am. My daughter taught me what it meant to truly love someone for who they are and not who you thought they were. She modeled for me what it means to fully show up as yourself in the world. Watching my daughter bravely live her truth and connecting to the wider LGBTQ community alongside her gave me the courage to come out as bisexual to myself, and then my husband and a few close friends. But I hadn’t gone any further.
My daughter and I were at the youth gathering for a few days, and each time we went by all those flags, my breath would catch in my chest. Could I do it? Would I do it? On our last day we headed back to the space so my daughter could get a picture with her flags. She innocently said, “And you can get a picture with the ally flag!” She knew I was cisgender. She assumed I was straight. I had never said otherwise. I was married to a man, a man I’d been in love with the past 22 years. But that wasn’t the whole story; that wasn’t all of me. My marriage doesn’t put a limit on who I can be. My previous relationships don’t either. For a long time I thought they did. Suddenly, I felt like a fraud. I had become an outspoken parent advocate for transgender and LGBTQ+ youth. I spent my life publicly fighting for this community, her community, celebrating people for being themselves all while I wasn’t showing up as my whole self.
I said, “I’m not an ally.” She looked confused. “But you’re married to Daddy,” she replied. I watched the wheels turn in her head as she thought it through. “Oh! But you could still be bi or pan or probably a lot of other things!” Yes. I told her I was bisexual, and a beautiful conversation followed. We talked about identities and assumptions, biphobia and bisexual erasure. I told her that it was her authenticity and confidence that helped me stop feeling like I wasn’t queer enough or like I didn’t deserve to take up space as my full self. We went back to those flags, and we both proudly took our selfies.
I posted that selfie, of me and the bisexual flag, a year ago. I came out to my family, my friends, and the whole darn internet. It’s been wonderful and hard, affirming and exhausting. I’m still getting used to saying it aloud. I’m bisexual. I’m openly queer. My heart still beats a smidge faster when the words leave my mouth, but I know visibility matters.
People are usually surprised when I say I’m queer. I’m married to a man. I’m a pastor’s wife. I don’t fit whatever image they have in their head of what queer means, but that’s the point. For me being queer means rejecting the boxes people want to shove me in, not simply choosing a different box. This is who I am. By being open and proud of my identity, I can create space for other people to show up as themselves.
I still feel the weight of biphobia and bisexual erasure. It can still feel like I don’t quite belong. People regularly ask, “how can you say you’re queer when you’re married to a man?” I (mostly) patiently explain, just like I do in the workshops I lead, that you can’t know someone’s gender identity based on the way they act, dress, or talk and you can’t know someone’s sexuality based on their current or past relationship. We make assumptions, but that’s all they are — assumptions.
It can be hard. Just the other day, someone attacked me on social media for thoughts I shared about people of faith at Pride celebrations. They demanded, “What right do you have as an ally to speak on this?” Except, I’m not an ally. My stomach churned. This person’s assumption about who I was and how I’m allowed to take up space in the world stirred up all my fears of not being queer enough. But then I get messages from bi folks, out or not, who thank me for being visible and showing them they aren’t alone, and I’m reminded that I’m not alone.
The world is a more beautiful place when we all dare to be seen and loved for our true selves. So here I am celebrating my first Pride Month as an out member of the community. I'm a writer, speaker, and an advocate for transgender young people. I'm a clergy spouse. I'm the parent of three kids. I'm a million other things. And, I'm proud to be queer.
