Start spreadin' the news

When DJ came out to us, it was a family affair.  She enlisted the help of two generations of family members for this endeavor.  The smart girl either knew where she could find support, or that there was safety in numbers.

The night before, she had asked if she could stay after school for a meeting followed by the football game.  She had blown us off for a number of days about following through with some chores so I told her she was to come home right after school, take care of her chores and then I would take her back for the game.  At this time, we still thought DJ was JD, our son, and Bulldog's approach was his typical "be hard on the boy so he won't slack off" in rearing JD.  He wasn't thrilled that I had compromised with JD, thinking that he should not be allowed to take part in any of his activities since he had failed to take part in our activities. I was feeling a bit tense about JD's return from school, as a result, because I knew there would be some friction in the house.

I sat on the front porch awaiting JD's return and for some strange reason, JD's brother, who we will call Romeo, joined me on the front porch to wait for JD to get off of the school bus. This was unusual but I only took note of the fact that Romeo was furiously texting someone.  But kids are always furiously texting each other, so it wasn't that notable, and besides, where the heck was JD?  Was the bus late or had he deliberately disobeyed me and stayed after school?  The little turd, he better not have!!!

Then I could make out bodies making their way toward our house.  Who was that?  Why, it was JD, and my sister, and my other sister, and her baby.  Wow, they sure were walking fast....the sister with the baby in particular.  "Maybe she has to pee or something," I thought.  I was excited to see the baby and ran to meet them half way.  "What are you doing here?" I asked my sister with the baby.  (My other sister was my neighbor so seeing her was not that unusual.)  "We're here to support JD," she replied. (Oh, so that's who Romeo was furiously texting.)

Huh?

"Where's Bulldog?"

"He's napping."

"Wake him up."

Oh crap, this can't be good.  Bulldog wakes from his nap to see his living room filled with three additional people, which does not please him.  Then, when I inform him that they have something to tell us, he gets the same "oh crap" look on his face that I'm sure I had not two minutes prior.  Is someone pregnant?  Is someone on drugs?  Has someone been expelled?  We're the parents of teenagers, of course this is our thought process. Not that we asked, mind you, it's just what we were thinking, but not for long because then, as JD paused, and I got impatient, and my sister basically told JD, "Go ahead-you're on," JD said what, until then, I'd only ever heard on TV, "I'm a girl trapped in a boy's body."

JD had told Romeo, who told my sister Bean, who is lesbian and would likely be supportive.  Bean thought my other sister, Flying Pig, who specializes in dealing with children, would be the perfect advocate.  Together, they informed Bulldog and me.  He and I were about the 14th and 15th people, respectively, that knew of JD's  news.  She had already informed 10 of her closest friends at school.  I started getting images in my head of people storming our castle, a la "Shrek" or "Beauty and the Beast."  Because everyone knows, if you tell two friends, they'll tell two friends, and before you know it, an angry mob will be bearing down on you, carrying pitchforks.

But my very first utterances were, "Are you serious? Because if this is a joke, it's not funny." Bulldog was characteristically silent at this point, as he always is when the $--- first hits the fan.  However, on finding out that we had lost control of the situation even before we were aware it existed since, as stated previously we were the 14th and 15th people, respectively, to hear of the situation, THAT propelled him to speak.

"You told your closest friends?  Ten people?!"

Romeo, ready to kick Bulldog's @$$, states, "I don't think there's anything to be angry about here!"

I reply, "Hold on a second. We are on the same team. What you think is anger is abject fear."

Pretty dramatic stuff, yet, less than 12 hours later, Romeo, DJ and I are watching a movie together when Bulldog practically bursts out of his office, voice quaking, hugging us fiercely as a group, stating to DJ, "I hope I can be as brave as you are."  Equally as dramatic, but at least accepting.

But we have still not told the other remaining member of our nuclear family, our oldest son, Goodwrench.  We invite him to dinner and prepare surf n' turf, his favorite meal.  It's a lovely evening and we're going to eat on the deck overlooking our charming pond with the Canada geese landing at sunset.  Bulldog is grabbing condiments, and coming out of the house, Romeo is on his way in to get some ice, when Goodwrench looks at DJ and says, "JD, dude, you have got to change your clothes and your hair.  You're lookin' like a chick."

At that moment, my eyes alight on Bulldog and Romeo crossing paths and see an expression on Romeo's face that says, "The S--- is on."  It's pretty hilarious.  At this point, DJ actually says, "Well Goodwrench, funny you should say that...." and then she proceeds to inform him that she is, in fact a girl.

Goodwrench puts his arms on the armrests of the deckchair,  and simultaneously cocks his head to one side and says, "Really?"  Not as in, "Are you serious?!" but as in "You're shittin' me."  Then he kind of lifts both hands in the air, shrugs and says, "OK."

Huh?  This kid has borderline Tea Party leanings, much to my horror, yet he has rolled with this like a true tree hugger.  I can't believe this has gone so well thus far.  This gives me great hope because after all, if DJ has the parents on board, the brothers on board, and the aunts on board, maybe, just maybe, she can take on the world.

The Lemonade Stand

I langorously slept till 15 minutes before I had to take DJ and her friend to school.  I've been running around all week and had decided today would be the day I would goof off at home, tidying, puttering, and the like, before I go back to my 24 hour shift tomorrow.  I threw on a t-shirt and jeans and sauntered over to DJ's room where I could detect no sign of activity.  Did she oversleep?  No, she was having a mini-meltdown.  She had been up since 6:20 trying to decide what to wear.  She had been standing in her towel for over an hour trying to decide what to wear.

I about blew a gasket.  I summoned my most "I mean business" tone of voice and informed her she was to put something on, immediately, grab her make-up and head to the car.  She trumped me by informing me in the calmest voice that she was simply not going to school today. She was like one of those protesters who fights the cops by simply going limp.  Hands down, she won this round.  Oh, but I was going to make her pay; however, I couched it in acceptable parent-speak:  "You will suffer the consequences of your decision when I get back," because I still had to get her friend to school.

DJ has never pulled a stunt like this, except for the one time I wouldn't let her bring the toy of her choice to a friend's house when she was about 8 years old.  That time, she screamed with such fury that a "Y" shaped formation of veins stood out on her little forehead.  It was actually kind of hilarious and has become one of those family stories that never die.  But that was about 8 years ago, and I certainly didn't think I'd see the peaceful form of the same resistance after such a lull in fringe behavior.  I was stymied.

I walked (stomped) my way out of the house to get her friend to school.  The poor girl was tardy because of DJ, yet, on giving her the abbreviated version of what had taken place at our house, she could only offer sympathy for DJ, and none, I noted, for me.  Hmmmm, perhaps I was too hasty in chalking her behavior up to merely teenage angst when in fact, there was more to it.

She had subtly indicated that her wardrobe issues were a result of her having the wrong plumbing.  In my haste to get her to school on time and to have the day to myself that I had planned, I didn't pay much heed to her explanation.  Her mild surprise at my lack of understanding should have brought me back to reality, but I was still on my trajectory to the stratosphere where being on time for school and having time to myself were the priorities.  The drive to school and the chat with her best friend brought me back down to earth, thank goodness, so that I could pick up a caffe mocha for her (as well as the biggest latte that Starbucks makes for me) and use it as a peace offering on my return home.

Of course her concerns were valid.  Damn it, just when I get the notion that I shouldn't put too much emphasis on her being transgendered and just treat her like a regular teenage girl, a transgender issue peaks its little head up and trips me up completely.  I have GOT to get used to thinking on two fronts! On the other hand, she might have to get better at being more direct when she has an issue like this come up.  I know that teenagers like to keep some distance between themselves and their parents when it comes to issues regarding their bodies, but we are not in a typical situation here.  And seven months from now, after her surgery, who does she think is going to be up close and personal with her new plumbing until she can adequately care for herself again?

Fodder for another conversation I never thought I'd have with one of my kids, but I write that with a smirk on my face.  Because really, this is good stuff.  Frustrating as hell at first, rife with misunderstanding initially, but I'm getting to know my kid in a way that many parents don't, even if it is due to necessity and kind of against both our wills, at first.  You know that, "if life hands you lemons" perspective?  Yeah, well, we be makin' lots of lemonade in this house. 

The spice of life

I'd like to start today by giving a shout out and a big "thank you" to my readers in Russia.  There are 14 of you now, and that thrills me.  No less important are the readers in Germany, the U.K., Japan, China, India and Malaysia.  Thank you for taking the time to read my blog and I hope that it has offered you some manner of support knowing that there is some crazy American lady on the other side of the world who is trying to do her part to foster acceptance.

That word, acceptance, has become all encompassing to me.  I had nagging little thoughts of it in my twenties when my mother-in-law from my first marriage tried my patience on a regular basis.  "Just accept that she is a strange lady who can be incredibly mean because you married her son," was what I kept trying to tell myself, to no avail.  I simply could not accept her snide remarks, no matter how hard I tried.  I knew, somehow, that if I could accept her, even in her mean-ness that I would be doing myself a favor, but it was just beyond my ability back then.  And acceptance of someone else's abuse, perhaps, is ill advised anyhow.

Acceptance of each other's quirks and differences, now that is a whole other deal.  This blog has addressed that very quality many, many times largely because it's a character trait I am trying desperately to cultivate in myself, and one I hope this blog inspires in others because my daughter's life and happiness may, at least partially, depend on acceptance from the other folks who coexist on this planet.  Last night, I had the pleasure of spending many hours in the company of folks who helped me have an even deeper acceptance, nay, appreciation of our differences as people.

The ocean, or lakes, hell even a man-made pool: most of us love the water.  Maybe we don't want to swim in it, but perhaps we like to boat in the water, or simply observe the water from a stationary vantage point.  Either way, the variations depend on the time of day, the wind, the plant life growing within it, whether or not there are schools of fishing swimming beneath the surface, if it rained last night, or if there was a hurricane 500 miles away; all these factors, and more, can change its very appearance and nature on a daily, or hourly basis.  Some of us appreciate the calm, aqua blue of the Carribean, others the dark, moodiness found in New England.  There is no way in hell I'll swim in the frigid waters off the coast of California, but the balmy tides of North Caroline suit me perfectly.  I'm picking a rather trite way of explaining acceptance, but I'm proposing more than that.

We glory and revel in the spectacular variation in the waters that our Creator has sprinkled over the face of our shared home.  We don't even attempt to make broad comments about any one type of body of water because no sooner do we try to describe it when it changes, or resists our categorization.  And isn't it wondrous, truly?  I would wager that most of us can recall an image right now of a body of water that inspired awe within us.  And we would all agree that you couldn't talk me into liking your image better than I like mine no matter what. I can, however, appreciate what you like about your image, even if it's not my favorite image.

And that is what my evening at a drag show inspired in me last night.  This drag show took place at a bar that would be known to most as a "gay" bar.    This is not the first time I've frequented a gay bar and won't be my last.   I think most homosexual people are way more interesting than straight people anyway, but that's probably because I find people with challenging lives more interesting than people who have had little challenge in their lives.  Simple can sometimes be boring.  Anyway, as I waited for the show to begin, I indulged in my favorite athletic activity:  people watching.

I had the most glorious epiphany-the spectrum of human gender, sexuality and orientation is wondrous.  It's not something merely to be put up with like swallowing a very large pill so that you can get over your case of strep throat.  Some of us are middle of the road in all aspects of life, and that deserves celebration.  But others provide a variety that is not only beautiful but can teach the rest of us to rethink the definitions of masculine, feminine, straight, gay, bisexual, transgender, etc., etc., etc.  We keep trying to define it and we simply can't.  Tell my husband, on bringing flowers home to his new daughter, that mothers are primarily the tender caretakers.  Try to convince me that I am not strong as hell, fierce even, when I don my work gear and haul myself up onto a fire engine.  And if you think that I'm not feminine because I enjoy my typical "male" work, well, we can have a hot discussion about it, name the time and place.  I find the female form stunningly beautiful and on some of my worst days, I just wish I could rest my head on a warm, soft bosom, but that doesn't mean I'm a lesbian, nor does it mean a lesbian who does, or doesn't, share that sentiment isn't a lesbian.  We simply cannot adequately define what is male, or female, or gay, or bi, so let's call a truce-let's just say we stop trying to define it, even for a day, or an hour, and see how it feels.

Most of us have seen the movie, "Mrs. Doubtfire" or perhaps, "Tootsie."  In both films, there are men who dress as women to achieve a purpose, not because they felt like they were women.  In both films, the male character became a better man in observing his more womanly attributes.  And as viewers, didn't we all just love Mrs. Doubfire?  I wanted Tootsie for my best friend.  It was almost disappointing when they returned to their less dimensional male counterparts. Why is that?  Because we are our best versions of ourselves when we can be fully who we are, honoring the traditional male and female qualities no matter in whose body they dwell in or in what proportion.  In fact, in some Native American cultures, transgender people are referred to as "Two spirits" since they often are a beautiful melding of the finest of both genders. And to traffic in stereotypes for a moment, this is why I frequently am most comfortable with somewhat "effeminate"  straight or gay men, or "masculine"  women, and lesbians, because they often seem to have many of the best male and female qualities:  protectiveness,  assertiveness, forthrightness, directness, passion, tenderness, gentleness, emotional forthcomingness;  and fewer of my least favorite male and female qualities:  dominance, cattiness, aggression and subversiveness.  I am aware that I am skating on a dangerously thin line in assigning traits by gender, but my intentions are benign, and let's face it there are some differences between the genders, we just can't figure out how to label them and maybe we shouldn't even try.

I read somewhere about opposite "energies" attracting and working well in creating a healthy couple or relationship, and I decided I like that word best of all in describing people.  They are neither male, nor female, or not even homo- or heterosexual energies, just that they are opposite and therefore attract, like magnets- a natural occurrence in the natural world where there is endless variety in all species of humans, animals, plant life, sea life, weather, you name it.  And isn't it glorious?

Quoting the Beatles

So I was pondering on acceptance earlier today.  And you know what I realized?  Once again, I caught myself throwing stones at people in glass houses.  The person that has been subject to my non-acceptance is Bulldog.

Now, what the heck is that all about?  And I actually posed that question to myself in my head.  Because one would think that acceptance of a transgendered child would be infinitely more difficult than accepting one's spouse whose body and mind agree on gender, and whose only mind/body issues are comprised of high cholesterol, dyslexia and bossiness. Yet, I find life with DJ much easier than life with Bulldog on many days.  Why is that?  After all,  he's a good man so why can't I readily accept him as well as I readily accept DJ?  When I say I don't accept, I don't mean I reject him outright, rather I get readily frustrated and put out when he fails to understand me.  Or when he fails to be perfect.  Or when he fails to read my mind.  Man, Bulldog really has a lot of issues, doesn't he?  Because it can't be that I have the issues, right?

Oh for cripes sake (quoting my mother....does anyone know what "cripe" means, anyway? And is it singular or plural?  cripes or cripe's or cripes'?) we all know the answer here. The issue(s) is (are) mine.  Now, in fairness to me, Bulldog doesn't "get" me on many, many days.  He judges me occasionally, and some days it seems like he doesn't accept me, but if we use that as a defense, we can do the "I know you are, but what am I?" routine indefinitely. Besides, wasn't I the one who publicly decried, "Let peace begin with me?"  So what is my conundrum (quoting a dear friend who loves that word) anyway?

I have expectations of Bulldog, lots of 'em.  In contrast, I have a very finite number of expectations for DJ.  And the expectations I have of DJ are easy:  wake up in time for school, do your homework, clean your room occasionally.  The list of Bulldog's expectations is significantly longer, more ambiguous and more complicated.  That isn't good because:  Expectations kill.  They can kill spontaneity, love, passion, excitement, surprise and unexpectedness, practically the exact opposite of expectations.  When I catch myself having expectations, and subsequently make myself stop having expectations, even momentarily, everything about Bulldog, and my life for that matter, tickles me pink.  It's amazing actually.

And what are expectations anyway?  An example or translation of expectation could include the following thoughts:  "But I want you to be like I want you to be" or   "I want you to act like I want." or  "I want you to present in the manner that makes me comfortable."  Wow.....I, I, I.   There is an "I" in expectation, but there isn't one in acceptance.

The first time I ever went to a party with both boy and girl invitees, I was super excited. I had great expectations of having a fabulous time.  Dad encouraged me to lower the bar a bit.  My father, for the first of many times over the decades quoted his old friend Cornelius Crowley ( I swear that's his real name):  Don't have expectations, you'll only be disappointed.  Or, put another way, let it be.

The Pronoun shift

I was ruminating on the first few weeks when my husband and I, as well as DJ's aunts, brothers and grandma were all trying to make the pronoun shift, not to mention calling our new female relative by her new name.  As I lay awake in my bed before dawn today, (why the hell was I up so early after getting my butt kicked at work the day before?  Oops, that's another separate issue and violates my "one issue at a time" rule. Sorry.) I was trying to remember what led to that transition become easier.  All I can come up with is sheer repetition.

I can only liken it to muscle memory.  You know how when you do something often enough, your brain doesn't have to think about it anymore?  Your body just goes on auto pilot and does what it needs to do, responds as it needs to respond, says what it needs to say? For instance, most of us have had enough lousy days that we can no longer keep track on any of our phalanges (that would be fingers and toes for those of you who don't know and don't feel like surfing through Webster's).  And the majority of us have enough social experience to know that most people don't necessarily want to hear about our lousy day, so we can answer, by rote, "I'm doing great.  How are you?", when someone says, "Hey, how's it going?" ( I live in a small town in the south.  "Hey" is an accepted greeting, even among the educated.  And no, we don't have a piece of straw hanging out of our mouths that we must try to speak around when we say, "Hey".)

The first few months, as we were trying to use the appropriate pronoun of "she" instead of "he" it seemed like making the switch would never come readily.  Using DJ's new name wasn't too terribly difficult since it was a derivative of her given name, thank goodness.  If she'd gone from say, "Eric" to "Penelope" that would have been quite an uphill climb for my limited faculties.  But the pronouns were especially difficult because they are so blessed similar sounding and only slightly different to say; and yet, the addition, or subtraction, of the "s" to the "he" means all the difference in the world to the person to whom you are referring.

So this just popped into my head.  Almost all of us under the age of 40 have taken a keyboarding class.  Remember the first time you set eyes on a keyboard and wondered how the heck you would ever make your left index finger remember that it was responsible for typing "f", "g", "t", "r" and "b"?  Now, my body has it so memorized that I had to look at the keyboard just now to remember which letters my left index finger was able to recall, all by itself, without my thinking about it. That's muscle memory.  I'll bet within one or two months of your keyboarding class, your left index finger was able to find all of the abovementioned letters, without thinking, which even now I can't think of without having to look at the keyboard, in spite of having written about it not 30 words, or seconds ago.

That is the process that will occur when you're trying to make the pronoun shift.  And it will occur because of simple repetition. If you're worried that your transgendered loved one will be offended when you slip up, because you will slip up, don't.  If you have let the person know that you want to make the change, he or she will know that you're making your best effort;  that, in itself, is more important than anything else because it signifies your acceptance.  And there is almost nothing that a quick, but sincere apology with a rueful smile can't remedy.  If, for some reason your transgendered relative does become sensitive when you slip up, gently remind him or her that this is new for you too and that half the time you call everyone you know by the wrong name because it's part of the aging, parenting, and human process.  We've talked about having a sense of humor before.  It's integral, in this extremely fallible person's opinion.  The transgendered person must attempt to have a sense of humor, as well.  It's ok to gently and lovingly remind the person to lighten up, that you're doing your best and that you're all in this together.

Playing the hand that's dealt you

So, I've learned a couple of things this afternoon about myself, my daughter and the world. Wow-what a productive day, and it's just nearing dinnertime.

DJ and I started the day with college discussions.  She's set her sights pretty darn high and is thinking of shooting for Juilliard, of all places.  I told her we support her if she can get a scholarship, because otherwise, it may be out of our budget.  That led, in due course, to analyzing what would make her competitive with other applicants.  Her grades, standardized test scores and talent all seem pretty phenomenal to us, but we're her parents.  DJ and I talked about the advisability of mentioning her status as a transgender person, how it's affected, and even enhanced her talents, and how it makes her a unique person.  We figured, right or wrong, that it might serve as a clincher in an application process.

Fast forward a number of hours, and I'm preparing to make a phone call to the driver's ed folks (see post earlier this day) to discuss the birth certificate, legal name change paperwork that we would have to provide to enroll her in class.  The conversation went well enough:  I adopted the "breezy" tone cited in the earlier blog and told some tiny white lies meant to make him think that DJ's birth certificate was incorrect because of a medical condition that I painted to look physical (which technically it is) and mentioned that the surgery required to correct the condition would be the only way to change the birth certificate by Virginia law (which is also true).  If he wants to draw the conclusion that she was born with a congenital genital defect, strictly speaking, like some of those folks who are born with incongruous genitals, so be it.  Some people can understand that more than gender dysphoria.  I mean, after all, if a person is born with genitals that cannot be readily identified, and then is accidentally raised as the wrong gender, folks get that because the genitals gave a mixed message.  What they don't get is when the genitals give a clear, but incorrect, message.  So, I played on what I (likely correctly) assumed would be his ignorance about my kid's condition.

But, just to be sure, I decided (shamefully, mostly, but not completely) to play the MILF card.  If you don't know what a MILF is, Google it.  Now, I do not think of myself as a MILF, but a few people have convinced me that if I put plenty of time, effort and cosmetics into it, I might could be a MILF candidate, if the planets are aligned and the moon is in the seventh hour.  So, I figured if the card is in the deck, and it may help the situation, why not play it.  How would it help? Because (most straight) men are hormonally affected goobers.  If they see a woman who made a point of blow drying her hair, actually putting on make-up and high heels to make her legs look longer (and hopefully thinner) in her jeans, they are likely to do whatever the woman asks because that surge of testosterone temporarily renders them unable to think, which, at times, can be a very good thing for those people who can parlay it to their advantage.

OK-that whole, superficial, rigamorol turned out to be totally unnecessary.  Why?  Because, in the end, sometimes the almighty dollar dictates the course of action a person takes.  I don't want to steal Mr. Driver's Ed guy's thunder-maybe he just didn't care what the birth certificate said regarding gender, as long as he could prove that DJ was legally DJ.  Truthfully, he was very nonchalant about the whole affair in person, after my preparatory phone call.  Almost too nonchalant, but so what?  Maybe he's more accepting than I thought, or maybe he's a savvy enough businessman to know that $275 is $275 even if it's paid by a "one eyed episcopalion kangaroo, if that happens to be (its) kinky inclination" (stole that from the movie "Goodbye Girl").  So, kudos to the almighty dollar, in this instance.  Anyone who knows me well knows that that statement would normally never emit from my verbose mouth.  But sometimes you just gotta accept another person's motivation to do the right thing, even if it might be, technically, for the wrong reasons.  It's still the right thing.  After all, this guy is running a business in a tight economy.  He can't be choosy about his customers and whether or not they meet his idea of "normal" or "acceptable." He, too, must play the hand he's given.

And, as long as nobody gets hurt, and no laws are broken, what the hell is wrong with that?  We are not born equal.  Let me explain-we are all born equally deserving of our civil rights, but no way in hell are we born equal.  Otherwise,  why would there be people who are born smart and beautiful, while the rest of us are kind of mediocre, or worse, in one or both areas.  For instance, I was born with a decent enough figure until my 3 children ruined me, but I have godawful huge feet.  One of my sisters is  slender, with no chest whatsoever, but has cute little feet, and my other sister has a cute figure and cute feet.  Now, try to convince me we were born equal, because it ain't gonna happen.  No one told my sisters their feet were "gunboats."  So, if someone were looking for a foot model, my sisters would have the advantage, and would be smart to play their "feet" card, because, let's face it, none of us is gonna get any other modeling contract until we grow at least 6 inches in height, and even that might not convince Vogue that we would look stunning on the cover of their magazine.  I, however, would be out of luck.  But, let's say some company was looking for a person who could express every single opinion about the world, and it didn't matter how she looked or how big her feet were?  Well, naturally, I would shamelessly optimize that quality and play that card.

So, if my daughter decides to play up the fact that she was born in the wrong body, overcame that terribly unfair inequity through her own strength and perseverance and managed to still do exceedingly well in spite of, and in some ways, because of that inequity, I support her.  She's taking a risk-and when the stakes are this high, that's what card playing is all about.

Don't make it complicated

So, we are at an exceedingly awkward spot today.  This evening DJ begins her driver's education, the classroom portion.  When I spoke with the instructor he asked about her having a photo ID, or in lieu of that, a birth certificate.  Great....another conversation where I get to "educate" someone.

Don't get me wrong, I will do anything at all for DJ, but, man, do I hate these conversations.  So far, every time I've had one, it's gone well, but I still don't like it.  Part of it is my make-up as a person-I intensely dislike awkward conversations of any kind because it puts me in the driver's seat (no pun intended) for managing the conversation.  Why is that?  Well, because I tend to have the lower threshold for awkwardness, I suppose, and so I work incredibly hard to have all my feelers at the ready so that I can manipulate or guide the conversation so that it remains civil, upbeat, positive, etc.  Maybe I'm just neurotic, over-reactionary and plain old trying too hard.  But there you have it, another idiosyncratic obstacle of mine that I have to heave myself over.  But since it's for DJ, I'll do it.  Thank goodness she provides me with inspiration because otherwise I might remain in any number of my innumerable ruts forever.

When I've had these conversations, I've found what works is for me to adopt a certain tone, if you will.  I have to come across as absolutely confidant and convey to the person with whom I'm speaking that I naturally assume he or she will completely understand the situation and do his or her best to accommodate us.  It's kind of a breezy quality that I don't have in my regular, everyday life.  Maybe if I did, I'd be the president of something by now.  But, in the spirit of remaining positive, at least I can say I'm able to fake it when necessary.

I've had this talk with her primary care physician, the office manager at the dental office, her guitar instructor, the principal of her school, other health care specialists who, believe it or not, are not necessarily well versed in the transgender condition in spite of it being a disorder that is recognized by the American Medical Association.  I have a family member who is very, very educated, and even she had a thing or two to learn, by her own reckoning, not mine.  Anyway, this "breezy" quality actually works.

I didn't come up with it.  I'm neither that brilliant, nor that confidant.  However, I do like to read a lot and that was a tip I picked up from somewhere (wish I could remember where).  Oftentimes, the people with whom we share this information will subconsciously and inadvertently look to us, the speaker, the de facto educator, if you will, for cues on how to respond to our news, pronouncement, call it what you want.  If we act like it's a big hairy deal, or something to be ashamed of, or embarrassed about, they will respond accordingly.  We all tend to sort of mirror each other like that, which is one of humanity's finer qualities, in my opinion, since it is a form of empathy.  So, if I were to say, "Look, I'm really sorry, but my son is now a daughter," with a tone of exasperation, the listener may be likely to respond with a supportive-of-my-exasperation comment of, "I'm so sorry Mrs. ----.  Of course we will try to make this easier for both of you."  Which might mean that they'll be nice to me, but continue to treat her like a him.

But, when I say something like, "I know our child has been coming to guitar lessons as "JD" but he is actually a she.  She has a gender identity disorder called Gender Dysphoria-the classic girl stuck in a boy's body scenario.  So, we are supporting her and just wanted to let you know that she goes by "DJ" now and will be presenting as DJ. We don't expect people to understand her condition, only to treat her respectfully by calling her by her name and using the correct pronoun. But please don't worry if you slip up, because what DJ, or we, care about is that you try."  And the trick is to sound as if you assume they will have no problem with accommodating your request.  Either they will be happy to do so because they think of themselves as cooperative, caring and educated people and want to convey that to you, or they will react completely inappropriately, at which point you sever the relationship.

Man, I made that sound so simple.  Well, it's not easy to do, but it is truly that simple.  Now, I just need to remember that because I've got a phone call to make to the driver's ed people.  Wish me luck :)