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Tiptoeing in

I have great parents. Dad’s passed away, but I’ll write about them both in the present tense here, since this is about both of them as continuing presences in my interior life. They love my siblings and me, and raised us with a love of learning and desire for justice. We had privileges many don’t, and Mom in particular wanted us to know that we did and that it made obligations for us to see that others got a chance at a decent life too.

They’re not perfect, of course. Dad was more than a little homophobic, not to the extent of ever opposing equal treatment under the law but really not liking to be around them. Mom is much better about it, partly because of having had a lot more LGBTQ friends and colleagues over the years. Nonetheless, she’s a product of her times – she grew up in a small city on the Pacific coast during the Great Depression, and she has borne her share of griefs and shocks and then quite a bit more.

We have this delicate little dance going on. She really, truly doesn’t want to hear about having a transgendered child. But her love for us has always come with a lot of trust, and she genuinely does want the best for us and has been willing to support our best judgments even when she’s not sure we’re right. I wish to live honestly around her. But I also don’t want to add one scrap of unnecessary grief to her life, either. Things have been hard for her since Dad died, and I really don’t know how many more years I have with her, and I want them to be as happy and comfortable as may be. The American scene gives her enough horror and misery at is – for the wife of a World War II pilot proud of his part in fighting fascism, and a woman who’s always been committed to social justice, the Bush years were horrific, and the new depression gives her a lot of occasion for unhappy memories. I feel I owe her every consideration that’s compatible with my needs now.

So there’s this funny dynamic at work. She doesn’t want to deal with a lot of the big-scale issues associated with my self-realization. But when I can isolate something and talk about its contribution to my well-being in other terms, then she will accept its feminizing benefits as well. This has been true when it comes to my appearance, and some thoughts about wardrobe changes, and even (thanks to my history with unusual internal chemistry along with the systemic illness and thanks to male relatives on Dad’s side turning out to have problems with over-production of testosterone) thoughts about whether an anti-androgen regimen of some sort might help.

I remind myself that I didn’t come to my own realization in just a couple of weeks, and that whatever suspicions or questions she may have had about me in the past, this will take her at least as long and probably a lot longer. In the meantime, I’m glad that I can share pieces with her and get good reception.

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