Notes From the Debris Field

Notes From the Debris Field

It was the summer of 2018 when the transgender hurricane hit our family. At 21, our never gender distressed son made the inexplicable announcement he was transgender. Any attempts at discussion were shut down and within weeks he'd estranged himself from us.

More than five years later, I still study the debris field. What have I learned? And how do we now live in the aftermath?

I leave these notes behind.

Hurt

When my son was 14, he had an accident that required six stitches to his finger. I remember being very calm and clear-headed driving to the ER and throughout his medical care. It was when we were driving home that I broke down and cried. Cried with relief, it could have been so much worse, but also cried because he'd been badly hurt. In the weeks and months after, as we'd tell this story I'd often end with, “I grew those body parts. I'm very fond of them and want you to have them your entire life.”

Every mother cares for the physical well-being of her child. They came from us. They are a part of us.

What is a parent to do then when doctors, therapists and even my son work to poison his body and worse? What is a parent to do with the knowledge doctors, sworn to do no harm, are facilitating that harm? And what is a parent to do when they are powerless to stop any of it?

There is little that could hurt me more than knowing my son is knowingly and willingly hurting himself.

We Are Our Memories

I was recently reading a commentary on why the Jewish people and Jewish religion survived. The Jewish faith is full of practices for remembering. “Remembering links us with those who came before us and reminds us we are part of an ongoing people and/or ideal.^¹

The author then relates this story:

“I once interviewed a man who, as the result of a fall on his head, had lost virtually all long-term memory. He did not even remember who his wife and children were. In the interview he acknowledged that, for all intents and purposes, because of his loss of memory, the man he had been had died.

The same holds true for nations. Nations, too, are their memories.” ²

The same holds true for families. Families, too, are their memories.

I've always been at a loss to explain why the question, “Would you rather have a live daughter or a dead son?” bothered me so much. Now I know. I have no memories of a daughter. We never carefully selected her name, never cheered her first steps, never took her to her first day of school, never encouraged her interests, never went first time bra shopping, never commiserated with her over her period. I only have memories of a son, a treasure trove of memories of my son. If I'm transphobic for remembering my son and admonished not to remember, then not only do I not have a live daughter, I only have a dead son.

Perhaps memories too are why so many trans-identified young adults estrange themselves from their families. They know their family remembers.

Judged

In the early months of the estrangement, where I was coming to understand I'd never have a live daughter and only a dead son, nearly all my other relationships changed. One of my closest friends, a college biology professor, would scoff at the absurd notion of claiming an infant was “assigned mammal at birth”. Yet when it came to sex, she accepted “assigned sex at birth”. NPR and The New York Times told her kids were just born that way, knew their true selves and good people supported Gender Affirming Care. Another friend, initially supportive, quickly changed her mind. She'd asked her doctor and her doctor told her the best thing to do was to “transition these kids as early as possible”. The experts had spoken. Any refusal to accept the wisdom of doctors, The New York Times and NPR would put me on the wrong side of history.

With two friendships lost, people I truly thought I could trust, it became clear I could never speak of what happened and still maintain the relationship. So, all my other relationships changed. Any question of how my son was doing would either be dodged or met with:

• “The situation isn't good. I'd rather not talk about it. It makes me cry.”

• A sad, “Don't ask. How's your family?”

• “I don't know.”

• And if needed, “Please respect our privacy.”

Most of those relationships are now either abandoned or superficial. In many ways I'd rather be alone. I have made a few “after” friends. They know only the parts of my previous life I wish to reveal and never suspect my grief.

Thankfully, my husband and I are on the same page - two sad, wounded animals clinging to each other.

We lost our only child and grieve alone without the support or even acknowledgment of anyone from “before.”

Paused

In the weeks before Christmas I was speaking with an “after” acquaintance whose adult married daughter wouldn't be coming home for Christmas. The daughter lives across the country and with life's complications, coming home this year just didn't work out. The mom was a little sad yet understood. Her daughter was grown-up with grown-up obligations and preferences. Instead, she discussed the gifts she'd bought and how she was putting together a big box to ship. Their relationship had naturally evolved and moved on to the next stage.

Our family hasn't celebrated Christmas since the estrangement. Our relationship is seemingly frozen in time, stuck, or paused. Yet like kids on puberty blockers, life cannot be paused. Time marches on. We've aged. I've retired. We survived a pandemic. All the families in our orbit grew up. Even his dog died. Time marches on. Still, our family is forever stuck in September 2018. We live in an unresolved state: he's not dead, but he's not alive either.

1. Dennis Prager, “The Rational Bible: Exodus,” page 138.

2. Dennis Prager, “The Rational Bible: Exodus,” page 6.