Happy Trans-Giving and Merry Trans Santa

Throughout the years, we parents and our four children have celebrated birthdays, holidays and special occasions. It’s been our custom that anyone traveling a long distance would call upon arrival to let the family know they were safe. No one needed reminders of these special days and occasions. These events were beautiful because they were opportunities for amnesty and forgiveness. All grudges, all petty quarrels and all memories of petulant insults went by the wayside. All that mattered were wishes for Happy Birthday, Happy Mother’s Day or Father’s Day, Happy Easter/Thanksgiving, Merry Christmas/New Year, and glad you got here safely.

The trans cult destroyed these days of charity and purgation in our family. Instead of being a time of healing and happiness, these traditional events became weapons wherein the trans child and his complicit sister withheld acknowledging these occasions in order to hurt the rest of us and to feel a false sense of liberation.

Of course, the cult masters swarm around their internet spaces and hail Trans-giving and Trans Santa as days of “love” and “empowerment” while they reinforce the irrational fears and artificial identities of these poor, oppressed souls. They sponsor dinners for deeply delusional human beings and urge them to “keep up the fight,” get tested for STDs, donate to LGBTQA++ charities and be vigilant while outdoors because everyone hates them and wants to kill them. They print and distribute sample letters to Trans Santa where boys ask for frilly dresses and girls ask for toy jackhammers that their transphobe parents will not gift them. They blasphemed Easter with that insane Day of Visibility (The fact checkers say, “oh but it does not always FALL on Easter.”). They have taken the Thanks out of Thanksgiving, the Christ out of Christmas and the trust and warm-heartedness out of family traditions. Holidays are all about their live human trans lab experimental subjects. They boast about their “cultural achievements.” The raw materials of outrage.

I am an absolute wreck inside. I will never get over that my son went from being a straight teenage heartthrob to full opposite sex pretender at age 30. After 13 years of self-imposed online hazing and activism, he finally undertook the full three-stage mutilation process, told us to bugger off, then pledged his full membership in the worst fraternity in hell.

I hang on. Like every year, I bring out the chests of Christmas decorations and tweak the lights so they will shine better than the year before. I toss out items that we don’t need anymore. I bring out faded Christmas cards the kids made for us in when they were in elementary school. Some things I can’t toss out.

When he was three years old, my son made up this little poem he would chant over and over while jumping on furniture and trampolines:

Ricky, Ricky shout.

Shout, shout, shout.

In perfect rhythm with each pounce.

Yes, Ricky. Shout out. Shout out and shout down the dross and infested influences that convinced you that living the ultimate lie was cultural advancement. Shout out to us that you are coming home. The lights will always be on.