I was telling him about my frustrations with my dad, and explaining how his use of the wrong names and pronouns really hurts me. The doctor’s response was, basically, “So?”

Now, I understand the importance of not letting the little things get to you. And that’s basically what he was saying: If my dad is at least giving lip-service support to my transition (which he is) why focus on the area(s) where he’s failing?

But that response really frustrated me, and I ultimately told my doctor that we’d have to agree to disagree. That my dad’s moderate and mediocre support of my transition actually made his ultimate lack of support all the more difficult to deal with. And it was a situation where I really felt othered as a trans person, attempting to explain to this white, cis, privileged doctor how my dad’s lack of respect was affecting me and my relationship with him. I made the comparison of having a black partner, and there being a limit to how much racist commentary I could stand from a family member. (Not that I think any family member would cause any problems, but hypothetically.) Again, my doctor said, “Yeah, but you can’t control how someone else acts.”

Right, but I can acknowledge that their behavior is bullshit, and tell them I don’t want to put up with it.

(I always feel obligated to note my own privilege when commenting on the privilege of others. Because I do have privilege: white, educated, so-called “passing” privilege. But those don’t negate trans-misogyny, even though they might mitigate it.)

A little early, I know

I had brunch with my dad this morning, following our recent issues. Going to brunch was definitely the right thing to do, but I don’t know that I’m happy I went. I certainly don’t feel any better.

We basically talked in circles for an hour. I attempted, once again, to explain why and how his behavior was hurtful for me. Even though I don’t doubt that he loves me, the way we interact still causes me a lot of pain.

And, over and over, he repeated his favorite refrains: “I can’t change what I feel. My feelings are just as valid as yours. You’re asking me to change over night. I had a son for 23 years. I’m trying.”

Hard to have pride...

So, once again, I did my best to explain where I’m coming from. How it feels when he refuses to take down pictures of me from before my transition. I said, “I realize that you perceived me as your son, and have positive associations with those memories. But I’m telling you that isn’t what happened. That person never existed. And to see you celebrate something that was so incredibly painful for me is like you’re cutting into me.”

My dad, in turn, insists that his memory is just as valid as mine. That he isn’t going to revise his memories because I’ve transitioned. That he can’t change what he feels.

And that’s the point where I just want to give up. I almost walked out of brunch today, because I don’t see how we can find any common ground if he claims his ‘vision’ of my identity is just as valid as mine. It’s not – I get to decide who I am, and who I was, not him.

Which brings me to the title of this post: When are feelings not valid? Obviously I don’t doubt that my dad is telling me the truth about what he feels. I fully believe that my transition is really hard for him. But I don’t know that I can – or should, or will – respect those feelings anymore.

The analogy I used with my dad was of racism. If I were dating someone who wasn’t white, it wouldn’t matter if my dad “honestly” felt that my partner were sub-human. I wouldn’t respect his feelings and, if he couldn’t reign them in or keep them in check, I’d tell him to fuck off and get out of my life.

“Not if I was trying, I hope!” was my dad’s reply.

Well, at some point, isn’t trying not good enough? And those “feelings” aren’t false, but I’m sure as hell not going to respect them.

My dad continues to insist that I’m asking him to change “overnight” and that he’s had “23 years of having a son.” But then he went on to say training himself to use my actual name and pronouns might take a month, a year, five years, twenty years. While I’m all for owning up to your own faults, I don’t know if I can deal with that. It’s not good for my emotional health, it’s not good for my mental health, and (as I’ve seen when I’m really stressed) it’s not good for my physical health.

In the short term, I’m thinking of telling him I need some time. I don’t really want to cut off communication with him, again, but I also really don’t want any contact with him.

As usual.

Dad,

I owe you an apology. I’m sorry I hung up on you last week – it was immature and unfair to you. It’s impossible to have a conversation when one party is no longer on the line.

That said, I’m not sorry I brought up how I’ve been feeling, even though I expressed myself really poorly. I need you to know that it hurts to be called “kid” and “child,” when I know you’re doing so to avoid gendered pronouns. It’s hurts, a lot, to hear you slip up and refer to me as “he” or my old name. I have no doubt that you love me. But like I said, I think you love me as your child and I want – desperately, painfully – for you to love me as your daughter.

But my frustration over how we communicate goes deeper than names and pronouns, and I need you to know that, too. I love you. I see so much of you in myself: my humor, my attentiveness to detail, my love of knowledge and education (and gadgets). So it’s all the more painful when I feel like we’re talking past each other, something that seems to be happening more and more.

When we talk, I feel like we’re having different conversations. You’ll ask a question, and before I’m half-finished answering it you’ll have asked another. It makes me feel like a client (or, worse, an opposing witness) rather than someone you love and care about. Or I’ll ask about how you perceived Billy Elliot’s father – whether he resonated with you – and be absolutely baffled when you say, “No, that wasn’t my experience.”

Than what was your experience? What is your experience? Because, from where I’m sitting, I feel like you’re ashamed of me. Or embarrassed. Awkward and unsure how to interact, torn between loving me and wanting to be done with whatever conversation or interaction we’re in.

So that’s why I hung up on you. I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry I did, but I become so flustered and so hurt when we talk, that I lashed out.

I love you, even when you frustrate the hell out of me
-Rebecca

I'm not convinced my father could carry me on his shoulders these days...

Earlier this week, I asked my mom to call my dad. I hate having her act as an intermediary between the two of us, but I wanted to figure out what – if anything – he’d be doing about my hospital bills and insurance since my telling him off. He’s been speaking with the “risk management” department at the first ER I visited, because when I finally got my gallbladder out they strongly implied the first ER should have caught the gallstones.

So my mom called my dad. She said she’d thought things out beforehand, and opened by asking him, “Rebecca asked me to talk to you about the insurance situation, and if you need to return any of the paperwork to her.” (My mom knew he didn’t, as I’d provided him with copies, but wasn’t sure how to say “So are you continuing to help your daughter while refusing to speak to her, or not?” without sound like she was judging him. Which she was, but didn’t want to sound like it.) He replied, “Nope. She’s fine to speak to the hospital herself,” and said goodbye.

About three minutes later, he called my mom back. “I don’t like you being a go-between for Rebecca and I.”

My mom said that she didn’t want to be a go-between either, but just wanted to figure out what was happening with the hospital and insurance.

Ever the tactful one, my dad told my mom that “Rebecca can call me herself. But I won’t be calling her until I hear from her. So I guess she’ll have to figure things out with the hospital on her own.” And, that said, hung up on my mom.

I’m not too concerned about the hospital. Worst case scenario is I pay them the ~$1,000 they say I owe. That’ll obviously suck, but my insurance is covering the vast majority of the expenses, so I wont have to go into debt or anything too bad. I know my mom said she’d help with the bills, too.

And, to some extent, it’s nice not having to deal with my dad for a while. Obviously it’d be nicer to not have to “deal” with him because we were speaking and he didn’t need “dealing with,” but this is a (distant) second-place substitute.

One less thing I have to think about. Anyone want to start a pool on if or when I’ll hear from him? Because he won’t be hearing from me.

Oh Daffy. He gets so close to understanding where he goes wrong. And then, inevitably, he ends up getting shot in the face.

Just about ten years ago, I came out to my parents. For a long time, that didn’t really mean anything: no changes, no transitioning, just them having the knowledge that I’m trans.

About three years ago, I started on hormones and mark that as the general beginning of my actual transition. While I spent about a year presenting as male some of the time and female some of the time, both of my parents knew I was transitioning and (at some point during that “in between” year)  I had a chat with both of them about wanting to be called Rebecca, and referred to with feminine pronouns.

Last night, my dad – who is attempting to help me with some insurance stuff from having my gallbladder removed – called to ask my about my social security number. “It’s still under [male name], right?”

I paused, surprised he would even ask such a question. “No, I went to the social security office and had it changed.”

“Oh. But do you have a new card?”

Frustrated, I told him, “Yes. A new card. With Rebecca on it. Sitting on my desk at home. Same social security number, different name.”

“Oh, OK.”

It wasn’t until reflecting on the conversation that I realized how upset it made me. After ten years of being out to him, does he not understand how important this is to me? It wasn’t that he wanted to double-check about the name associated social security number. I could understand if he said, “I just wanted to double check that your social security number is under Rebecca now.” Or even, “Hey, what name is on your social security card these days?” I might be a little annoyed, but not really upset or hurt. But the way he did phrase it, assuming it wasn’t important enough to have gotten changed, really made me feel like he still, after all these years, is just as clueless as he was when I came out to him.

He’s the only person in my life who still constantly slips up with names or pronouns. No matter how feminine I make my presentation, no matter who we’re with, it’s a regular stream of “he” and “his” and “him,” not to mention my old name. He does surprise me sometimes, but he usually just upsets me when we talk about anything substantial.

So, later in the evening, I called him back. I told him that he had really hurt me by assuming I hadn’t changed the name on my social security card. That it hurts me every time he uses ‘he’ or slips up on my name. That I have no doubt he loves me as his child, but am really unconvinced he loves me as his daughter. That I love him, and always will, but can only have him in my life if he affords me the same respect everyone else in my life does.

He tried to turn it around, to say he hoped I didn’t make the choice of removing him from his life.

“No,” I said, “This isn’t about my choice. This is about your choice to not respect my identity. You don’t get to make this about my “choice.”"

“But I’m trying,” he insisted.

“After ten years of being out to you, and three years of transitioning, ‘trying’ simply isn’t good enough any more. I hope you’ll be able to see that, and be able to continue to be a part of my life.”

And then I hung up on him.

I really hope he does get his act together. I offered to find him resources, suggest therapists, and give him places to find support.

But I’m not holding my breath. And he’s the one who know has to make the first move.

Pantomime of a morning routine: Brushing teeth, washing face, plucking eyebrows, putting on foundation, eyeshadow, eyeliner, blush, lipstick. Clothing. Earrings. Then pantomime undoing everything, disrobing, and makeup wipes to remove everything (‘rinse and repeat’) and begin again.

While going through the routine the second (and subsequent) times: I’ve been in the hospital twice in as many months, after having stayed gloriously out of the hospital for years. Both times, I was admitted to the ER with severe abdominal pain, something that has been plaguing me every 6-8 weeks for the last year or so.  The pain usually went away after a few hours, so though I’d almost gone to the ER a number of times, I’d always felt better before actually making the trip.

The first time I went to the ER , in early April, I was admitted at about 3AM. My roommate drove me to Swedish Covenant, on Foster, and they quickly admitted me – the waiting room was pretty empty. I stress about going to the hospital for all the usual reasons, but also because I’m trans: Any nurse or doctor or administrator could make my life very difficult because what’s between my legs doesn’t match most people’s concept of what “should” be there.

Within the first 30 minutes of my visit, I’d had to out myself multiple times, to multiple nurses and doctors: “I’m on Allegra. For allergies. And 100mg daily Sprionolactone, 100mg daily Prometrem, and 10mg daily Estrodial. Because I’m transgender – I’m on hormone replacement therapy.”

No one gave me a hard time about being trans, and I was released seven hours later with an embarrassing diagnoses: really bad constipation.

But in early March, my stomach was at it again. All the laxatives and stool softeners in the world weren’t helping, so it was back to the ER, this time at Evanston Hospital. Now, I was born at Evanston Hospital so when I gave them my social security number, it pulled up a chart with the wrong name. My old name. My given, male name. The little bracelet I wore in the ER, with a barcode so the hospital’s mobile computer stations could scan me like produce, had the wrong name.

They actually cleared it up pretty quickly, and issued me a new, corrected, bracelet. My entire stay, I didn’t have any major issues around being trans – none of the doctors gave me shit, the nurses all treated me respectfully, and used the proper name and pronouns. But I was always on edge. In fact…

Stop whatever part of the morning routine, and look out at the audience

…the one person who had the most trouble keeping my pronouns in order was my dad. Don’t get me wrong, he’s very supportive, but he was stressed and has never been good at using feminine pronouns with me.

I started to feel like I was in a call-and-response game, though: “He said he slept through the night.” “She.” Or: “He went for a walk earlier.” “She.”

It made me tired, to always be on guard for that. To never let a rogue ‘he’ or ‘his’ or ‘him’ slip through.

I feel like I need a chorus to follow me around, to enforce the pronouns I have so proudly and boldly chosen, asserting my control over my identity. (Directed to the audience) Can I enlist you to do that, as my chorus?

Great. Lets give it a try. “I was in his room earlier…”

(Hopefully the audience will say “her!”)

“…and he still isn’t allowed solid food.”

(“She!”)

To the audience: That was really great! I felt very taken care of, chorus. Lets try one more round.

“They said he can go home later this week…”

(“She!”)

“…as soon as he can hold down food.”

(“She!”)

Because, ultimately, the hospital is the last place you want to feel like you need to assert your identity. You aren’t supposed to have to think about plucking and shaving and nylons and pushups. And gender. And pronouns. You’re in the hospital for a reason, and you’re supposed to focus on getting better.

My problem was ultimately more serious than constipation. I had numerous gallstones, and had surgery at 10PM Wednesday night, two days after I was admitted to the ER, to remove my gallbladder entirely.

But my entire hospital stay I had to be on guard, or risk being ungendered. My identity rests within myself, but can feel lost when denied by those around me. So I play my own chorus – a chorus of one – protesting against the “he”s and “him”s thrown my way.

“Well, his pain hasn’t been that bad…”

“Her.”

“He’s finally on solid food.”

“She’s.”

“I was talking with him earlier, and he said…”

“Her. She.”

It was kind of infuriating. My dad said, with some legitimacy, that my mom has had more time with me than he has. But, in my frustration, I could only respond, “I’ve been out to you for ten years. I’ve been transitioning for three years. You’ve had time.”

Maybe not the most tactful response, but just as true.

This morning, after lugging myself to the bathroom, I looked in the mirror to see something of a stranger. First, because one of my roommates had put my hair into two braided pigtails last night, before I went into surgery. I’ve been way to lazy to remove ‘em, so they’ve stayed the last 24 hours. Second, because the IV fluids, coupled with little food, have given me a simultaneously gaunt and water-bloated look. On top of that, I haven’t really bathed all week, so my color is way off and I’m all blotchy.

Most obnoxious, though, was the little soul-patch beneath my lower lip, a  remnant of my facial hair that the laser removal hasn’t been able extinguish.

My hospital stay has actually been pretty gender-affirming. As usual, my dad has “he”d and “him”d me tons more than any of the hospital staff. My mom or I would usually correct him right after. It’s also the hospital where I was born, so they initially had me in the system with my old name and gender. But the staff very quickly and efficiently changed those on my records and wrist-band, and one staff person actually apologized they had even taken as long as they did. Bonus points, Evanston hospital!

All of my nurses and aides and doctors have similarly used “Ms. Kling” when referring to me, which has amused me to no end. I also had fun when the anesthesiologist asked me if I could be pregnant. “Nope!”

“Oh, you’re on the pill?”

“No – I don’t have a uterus or ovaries.” I probably didn’t need to be so snarky, but I was tired and cranky and he didn’t seem thrown by my response.

So I’m more than a little bummed that I looked into the mirror this morning to find such a stark reminder of my transition. My arms and legs have  slowly regrown their hair this week during my hospital stay, but enough has been removed via laser that what does regrow doesn’t gender me in the same was as I think my facial hair does. And I know it’s not tons of hair, and lots of women do have a patch or two of facial hair. But it still wasn’t what I wanted to see when I already feel so icky and sick.

On the up side, I should be leaving tomorrow. And I’ll just need to schedule an appointment to get that last little bit of facial hair zapped, once and for all.