A sort of manifesto letter

This is intended for my mother within the next couple weeks. Feedback would be appreciated.


Dear mom,

By the time of writing, I have been out to you for almost two months. And I have yet to see any benefit to coming out. Every day I regret it.

When I came out to you, I hoped above anything that my life would be better no matter the conclusion. I’d be able to be myself. Hiding around, living a double life, would all come to an end. I could dress how I wanted and when the time was right, broaden my circle of people I was out to so I would be known and introduced as the man I perceived myself to be.

I didn’t think you’d understand. Didn’t think you’d initially accept me or use the right name, pronouns. But what I expected was for you to make the effort. I bought e-books. Downloaded pamphlets. Had websites bookmarked and people to refer you to. I was willing to help you understand. But you’ve proven to me that you’re not. And I’m not sure what hurts worse. If it’s that or you not believing me.

You claim you have no issue with transgender people. You’ve said “they’re perfectly lovely people”. Then why is the very idea of having a transgender child so wrong to you?

I’ll be seeing a gender counselor. Exploring every possible option and conclusion. And if I decide gender transition is the path I wish to pursue, then that will be my choice and mine alone. It will not be up to you to decide I’m wrong about whom I am.

What I want from you is respect. You don’t need to believe me. You don’t need to approve. But the least I can ask of you is to at least humor me. Address me as Byron, your son. Use male pronouns. Because to know you’re aware of how much it bothers me to be addressed as “her” and as a daughter and for you to go on and refer to me as that regardless frankly feels like a slap in the face. You want your family to stick together? Then don’t push me away. I don’t want to lose you or the family and yet what am I supposed to do if I feel so unwelcome that to earn your approval I have to dress, act a certain way?

When I realized who I was, it felt like for the first time I woke up. Up until this point, my life’s felt like a dream. My body barely felt like my own, the face in the mirror, in photographs, was one I could barely recognize as myself. Sure, I lost weight. Got compliments. I would’ve dated a girl who looked like me. I didn’t hate who I was and don’t even now.

That girl in the choir? He sat in the back of the room, speaking with no one, using a voice he had to mentally distance himself from. That girl who spun around in a prom dress and heels, giggling and tittering? He looked in the mirror in the fitting room, sighing, and he bought the cheapest dress he could get away with, worrying he’d let you down if he wasn’t enough of a “princess”. He spent nights while the rest of the family slept, duct-taping his chest, pulling back his hair, marveling at normal he felt for the first time.

That girl who dreamed of becoming a chef? He didn’t know what to do with his life. He almost gave up at making his writing a career. He figured it was steady work, the one thing he knew he was good at. And if he heightened his voice, if he squealed about saffron and sherry vinegar, then he was feminine and womanly and finally had something people appreciated him for.

When I wrote, I felt like myself. I could sit back behind the laptop, imagining a future as a best-selling author. Creating characters people would speak about for years. Plots that’d still hold people to the page years after publication. I nearly gave it up. Didn’t think I was good enough. Began to think it was a waste of time. It’d be something I did in my spare time, I’d lock my manuscripts in a nightstand and forget about them and do something productive with my time.

When I realized who I was, I began to dream of being a writer once again. And you know what? I felt, for the first time, I had a real future. I could be a journalist, a writer. Travel, fall in love. Build a legacy and, yes, raise a family.

Years from now, what kind of stories am I to tell my kids? That, no, Ben, grandma’s never come around. Let him wonder why he’s never gotten to see daddy’s side of the family? Because that’s what’s going to happen if you continue to push me away, if you continue to deny and reject the person I’m telling you I am.

I’ve said a lot of things I regret and wish I could take back. I’ve hurt you in my anger but by that same token, while you don’t come from a place of malice, we’ve traded wounds both ways.

I’m including my coming out letter, which I’d written months back, in the envelope, along with an e-book and a PFLAG booklet for your reading. I don’t want to speak of anything in this letter until all materials have been read and we’ve both had a chance to calm down and can calmly discuss this as two rational adults.

How can I believe you love me unless you can look me in the eyes and tell me that wouldn’t change regardless of whether I’m ___ or Byron? When to earn your approval and trust, I have to be one person for your benefit?

Allow me to be who I perceive myself to be.

Your son,
Byron

 

Thanks. Here's hoping she is receptive. Will admit my timing couldn't have been any worse. Her birthday's this Monday, wedding anniversary about a week or so after that. So I'm hoping I can give this to her a while after all that's blown over.

Hex, yeah. The hope is, with this letter and with the materials I'm planning on including, it'll send the message that I want her to take me seriously. I've got a printed PDF copy of a book tailored for parents of recently out trans children, which addresses a lot of concerns I've heard her voice and people seem to have in general, and a PFLAG pamphlet along the same lines, with more general information about gender identity and transition.