transkid

My first-born son was in the second grade, on the day the world didn’t end.

I had resigned from the gender police; dressing Osar was up to my wife. In my defense, I’m not a clothes person. Periodically my wife buys me clothes—when the ones I have start to fall apart or become so stained as to embarrass her when we we’re out in public. So she bought clothes for the kids.  I remember watching her agonize over a pair of translucent, flower-encrusted glittery sandals which Oscar had thrust into her hand.

“No.” She said. “They’re too…much.”

But Oscar, you may recall, was a girl-stuff magnet. He found lipsticks, hairbows, glitter, lip gloss, discarded, lying around, and rather than let him use them (ick) we bought him clean hair ties, lip gloss, and told him make-up was for older people. Age appropriate we could be, if not gender appropriate.

But skirts and dresses were a no go. Except on halloween.

Our progressive public school is multigraded, combining grades 1-2, 3-4, 5-6, in our K-8 school. So in second grade Oscar was an old hand, and pretty comfortable in his skin. Oscar’s teacher had defended his long hair, holding out Johnny Damon of the Red Sox as an example of how boys could have long hair. Johnny Damon!

The day the world didn’t end, she had to come up with something else.

Our school has a swap day, where people bring in clothes their kids have outgrown, and share them for free on big banquet tables. Oscar found some skirts—for dress up—and brought them home. The one I recall was denim, with a sort of ruffled hem? I lack the language to even describe clothing! It was a skirt, OK? So he wore it in the house. He wore it around on weekends.

Then one Monday morning, as we got ready to go to school, he put it on.

I looked up at him coming down the stairs, and looked at my wife. She looked at me. She didn’t say anything. Neither did I.

Oscar’s first grade teacher has wanted us to see somebody about him, so she knew what to tell people. We’d had a few long conversations with her early on, where she admitted it was a relief to talk to parents who could even see, and admit, that their kid was different. Most parents with gender variant kids were in deep denial, or were so deeply ashamed, that they would never, ever talk about it.

So, we consulted our support group list, and got the name of a Ph.D clinician in our area who worked in a unit dedicated to special needs kids; they dealt mostly with ADD and aspergers, but they did a side-line in gender stuff. First grade, the transition from Kindergarten, had been rough on Oscar. No more dress up. No more singing. No more bathroom integrated with the classroom. More academic challenges.

It took a long time to have Oscar evaluated; we waited six months, I think. By the time we got in to the evaluation, most of Oscar’s problems had been dealt with. His teacher could say the child was being seen by professionals, even though we’d just made an appointment. Eventually, we took him on the subway into the city, and in three weekly three hour sessions, a small group of clinicians got to know Oscar.

At the end, we sat across the table from the doctor. “So,” she said, “Is there anything we can do for you? Any kind of support you need?”

We weren’t sure what to say. We had thought, been a bit afraid, that she would tell us what to do. She didn’t tell us anything. What did we want from her?

“Um,” I said. “Oscar’s doing pretty well now, but could you give us a recommendation for a therapist he could see if he starts getting stressed again?”

“Sure,” she said. “This person works with older kids; some of them transgender, but she’d know who to talk to, if she can’t take him as a patient.”

I took the number, and lost it. Oscar has never seen a therapist, other than during this evaluation. He’s been pretty happy. Dramatic, but mostly happy.

“He knows you’re behind him. He knows he can count on you guys,” she said. “He knows you love him.”

We thanked her. I wouldn’t know for a year that she’d given us what we’d come for.

“Oh,” I said as we were leaving. “One thing. It’s been bothering me. Do you think it would be OK if he wore…a skirt? In public I mean?”

She looked down the hallway at the elfin child with the waist length hair, the pink hello-kitty t-shrit, the jeans with the floral patterned stitching; the pink sneakers, and she smiled and shook her head. I felt stupid.

“Do you really think it makes a difference?”

So those were the words that were going though my head, as I walked my first-born son, in his denim skirt from the clothing swap, his white tights, his girl power t-shirt, his pink backpack, to the bus stop, thinking, I need to call his teacher. I should give her some kind of warning. But what would I say exactly? That my professional, who I had seen three times many months earlier, had thought this was a silly question?

We heard much later on that Oscar’s teacher had gathered the class together, and read them the riot act. Oscar could wear a skirt if he wanted.

Most of the kids loved him. The ones who didn’t kept their mouths shut. Mostly.

Oscar seemed happy as he got off the bus that afternoon. He usually was. “How did today go?” I asked. He shrugged. “It was no big deal.”

I waited for the other shoe to drop. I think you know how it ends. The world kept spinning. Oscar was still Oscar.

And my stupid question had found its answer.

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