Trans Parental

I come by it honestly. That's how my mother would phrase it, or my grandmother would have done. I come to this place of comfort in the domestic through hard work and close observation, both of which have been mostly honest. I do. I come by it honestly.

Plates can be an occasion on their own. When I was barely taller than the table, the hutch full of china looked like a cherrywood cathedral and felt no less reverent. The glass dishes with the tiny balls on the sides were candlewick, very fragile, handwash only. Never in the dishwasher. The pink china with the roses and gold edging was flown back from Germany after WWII by a friend of the family. No dishwasher for those either. There were wooden cases for the good silverware, actually silver, that had to be polished before each use. Bone china cups so fragile that sunlight made them glow, each with their matching saucer. I knew the mysteries of pickle forks, dessert spoons, butter knives, salt cellars, and water glasses. I learned fold a napkin several different ways, according to the solemnity of the occasion. In every instance, the more there was to celebrate, the more work there was to prepare and clean up. At a very young age, I understood that asking to use the good china meant that someone had to wash it, and that someone was most likely going to be me.

Home and hearth weren't just about things, though. I learned the finer points of etiquette: who gets introduced to whom, when to wear white, the importance of hostess gifts, always send a thank-you note, remember the preferences of frequent guests, always have the liquor cabinet well stocked. Always treat your elders with respect and never, ever, ever call anyone your parents' age or older by their first name.

I learned the art of baking, the care of hardwood floors, the secrets of laundry, several different ways to wash windows, and how to find likely places for wild berries and fiddleheads. I can make pie crust without a recipe or measuring cups, judging solely by decades of experience. I gut my own fish. I knit, I sew, I maintain a fantastic sourdough culture.

I'm quite sure that a boy child would have learned different things. My father wanted to teach me about fighting and motorcycles and the pursuit of cheerleaders, all sorts of aggressive manly activities. My uncles received their own folksy knowledge, but theirs was more in the line of hunting, car repair, bartending, how to make money mowing lawns. Unlike me, they were never expected to wash dishes after dinner, and they were never invited to gossip around the kitchen table with the ladies after dinner. They retired to the living room with the rest of the menfolk.

My family always made sure to tell me in words that I was welcome to do anything I wanted to do. I could be a teacher, an author, a lady doctor, a physicist - anything that requried a college degree. I could certainly aspire to marriage and motherhood. I was welcome to be a bookkeeper in the family auto body business, to tally up the receipts amidst the snap-on bikini calendars and sexist jokes, but I was certainly not encouraged to lay hands upon a vehicle. In retrospect, it was the most slyly traditional free-to-be-you-and-me upbringing ever.

It's fair to say that I was well prepared to be a wife and mother. Perhaps unsurprisingly, it's been a very easy role to slip into. In both of my marriages, when push came to shove and someone needed to be a full-time parent, I have stepped up to the plate. I already know how to cook and calm a hysterical baby and make a guest list. I can put together a dinner party for 20 on a few days' notice. Let's not kid ourselves: none of those things are simple. They all require hard, honest practice and long, close observation.

What is the word that describes the intersection of my gendered upbringing and domestic choices? Sexism is a clear choice. I was a messy and haphazard child. There was no way that my family took my constitution and proclivities into consideration and thought, "now THERE is a future home economist." What they saw, and what they reinforced, was my gender. They assumed that someday, I would be in a heterosexual relationship. When one is in that sort of arrangement, someone needs to do the dirty work and it sure as hell isn't going to be a man. I remember my grandmother telling me that I was certainly free to date whomever I chose, but that I should keep in mind that it was as easy to fall in love with a rich man as it was a poor one. Would she have said something similar to a boy child? I leave the answering of that question as an exercise to the reader.

Times have changed, somewhat, but these things still happen. As anyone who has experienced pregnancy is aware, as soon as you get a little bulge in the belly, gender is the first thing people ask. Is it a boy or a girl? Why do you ask, Imre used to respond. Do you think they would tell us this early? Anyway, he would say, we don't much care. We're just hoping for human. In hospitals, media, clothing stores, books, schools, children are sorted and color coded. We hear messages of sexism everywhere we turn. Girls are bad at math, terrible drivers, overly emotional, passive-aggressive, the weaker sex. Women have lower pay, less prestigious job titles, mommy-tracking, and are inappropriately sexualized at every turn. Their bodies belong more to a Republican congress than to themselves. Sexism is everywhere, it's real, and it's so ingrained that we have a hard time seeing it as anything other than Just The Way Things Are. Really, honestly, is there another word that describes that better than misogyny?

Let's say that a hypothetical woman works as hard, but for less job security and less money than her male partner. Let's say that she still does a vast majority of the domestic work, and is considered to be the primary caretaker of her children. Let's say, like myself for many years, that it's a choice made in accord with her partner, after long and earnest discussion. Or maybe, the woman chooses to stay home with hypothetical children. Let's say they're uncomfortable with how much their relationship mirrors patriarchal gender roles. What are they supposed to do about it? Should the husband stay home, with no preparation or taste for running the domestic sphere? Should the wife head out to work for less pay? Why would this hypothetical couple go against the grain, against everything that's comfortable, just to prove a point? What kind of idiot would do that?

This kind of idiot. I would. In fact, I did. I put my ideals into action, and our relationship became the change I wished to see in the world. Was it an empty gesture based on appearances? Maybe, but it did more to change our collective consciousness than anything else that happened in our marriage.

A few weeks ago, I went for a haircut. It turned out very well, but the haircut, for once, isn't the part that needs telling.

The younger child went with me to the hair salon, but the older child went across the street to a coffeeshop to loiter and do some homework. When we were done at the hair salon, Younger and I did a small errand and then went to the coffeeshop to pick up Older.

We went in and found her and she said that she had been watching someone's laptop for a few minutes and needed to wait for her to come back. Younger asked for a drink and a snack, so I went in search of a bagel and some Orangina.

While I was at the register, the laptop owner came back. When I got back to the table, she was crouched down next to Younger showing her something. Naturally, I was curious, so I asked what was in her hand. She drew herself back up to her full height, gave me a challenging glare, and said "Excuse me, but I was talking to that little girl."

No one has ever assumed that I was a dangerous predator, especially in relation to my own children. I wasn't at all sure how to respond, so I did the only thing I could: I froze in place and waited for her to move out of the way so I could sit down and think about it.

Right then, with perfect timing, Younger called me Mama. The woman, flustered and mortified, retreated back to her table. She assiduously refused to even make eye contact for the rest of the time that we were there.

Sometimes I have male privilege, sometimes I'm Schroedinger's Rapist. I never know ahead of time which it's going to be.

When I told this story to several friends, they came up with some interesting solutions: change body language and attentiveness around children to make the relationship clear, always greet a child immediately by name to establish the relationship, etc. I think they're all good ideas, it just makes me sad that a woman around a child is assumed to be a mom and a man around a child is assumed to be a predator.

Kicked Out
by Sassafras Lowrey
review by Michel Fitos

There is no One True Way to raise children, particularly as a queer parent. A large percentage of the time, I feel like the parenting choices I make are a direct reaction to my childhood, an effort to keep my kids from having to live through the same heartbreaks and setbacks. As I creep ever-closer to middle age, the harsh reality of what it was like to live as a queer youth has more or less faded to the dull roar of "it sucked, but I lived through it." This past weekend, I sat down to read Kicked Out by Sassafras Lowrey and was reminded what a long road it was to get here, to this house, these kids, this family, these steadfast and loyal friends.

It's impossible for me to discuss queer youth without talking about the friends of my 20s. There were three in particular, all around the same age. From the moment we met, we knew that we had large things in common: our friends were few, our families didn't know what do with us, and our kids were all around the same age. Although our children lent us a thin veneer of heteronormativity, we were all as queer as the proverbial three dollar bill. We were an undeniably strange quartet. All of us were imprecisely Goth, rail-thin, and right up in your face. Other young mothers could smell our queerness a mile away; other young queers were allergic to our kids. They all circled the wagons at our approach. Whether by choice or by necessity, we kept to ourselves, we became family.

My friends nowadays, earnest people in their 30s, talk about waiting until they're ready to have children. Ready? When they're born, then you start to know what you need to be ready for. We were certainly not ready for children back then, not a single one of us. We just woke up one day, already parents.

I was lucky: I had a husband, a solidly middle class boy who was mostly done with college. We married two days before our daughter was born, just weeks after I turned 21. The relative certainty of financial solvency gave me unheard-of freedom: I was able to explore what kind of person I wanted to be. My friends had no such opportunity. Even with the meager cushion of welfare, their survival depended on their wits and cunning.

They all had their various ways of making ends meet: sex work of various sorts, telemarketing, and other variously soul-sucking occupations. It was exhausting, it was demoralizing, it was utterly unsustainable. It quickly became apparent to each of them in turn that there is always a man out there, somewhere, who will want what you have to offer. They learned that by giving up your identity, sometimes you can ensure your survival.

It's very easy to portray queer youth homelessness solely as a number, because the numbers are, quite frankly, shocking: 40% of the nation's homeless youth are LGBTQ. There are other horrifying numbers, too: this book will tell you sobering numbers like what percentage of gay teens experienced a negative reaction from their families when they came out, what percentage of queer youth attempt suicide, and many more, all carefully and thoroughly footnoted. There are bleak discussions of terminology: runaway vs. throwaway vs. thrownaway. It is full of facts and numbers, and those things are important, especially for people who might not be aware of the enormity and severity of the issue.

From the vantage point of our comfy couches, it's easy to read even such shocking numbers as the ones above and dismiss them as statistics. Often, it takes personal experience to make an issue seem real. If you haven't faced this sort of terrifying uncertainty yourself, it's nearly impossible to grasp. The real strength of Kicked Out is how, by telling survivors' stories in their own voices, the stories feel viscerally real. The contributions all feel very soul-baring and Truthful-with-a-capital-T, particularly the incredible photos by Samantha Box. One photo in particular captures two people embracing, one kissing the other's shoulder, that wordlessly speaks volumes.

In the introduction, editor Sassafras Lowrey writes about being kicked out at the age of seventeen:

I needed a book about how to live through this more than I needed to know I had somewhere to stay, to know I had a way to get to school or to know what I would have for dinner. I needed a book to prove to me that survival was possible.

And this is, very clearly, a book about survival. It isn't a particularly uplifting or cheery book, nor should it be. It's not grammatically flawless (as is unapologetically explained in the publisher's note). It is, quite simply, a very honest and starkly beautiful collection of stories from people who have Been There.

There are so many people that would benefit greatly from reading this book: parents of queer youth, providers and advocates, members of the LGBTQ community-at-large, and most importantly, youth who have been kicked out. I would recommend it, in fact, to anyone who knows, is, has been, or might ever be or know someone who has, in Sassafras' words, "lost their friends, families and homes because of whom they love or how they define their gender."

If I were but a man, I would be moved -
that line's been with me now for 20 years.
Though Caesar's words, they ultimately proved
My own, articulating wordless fears.

Throughout my life, they oft came back to me
Unbidden, cresting on unconscious thought.
I puzzled over them but could not see
Why those should be the words my mind had wrought.

And now, the bitter irony is this:
Now that strangers finally call me "sir,"
Though I might wish for tears, for just a minute,
My emotions raw, but still, I can't begin it.

A few weeks ago, someone asked me about what I see as the difference between fathering and mothering.

In the vast majority of families, fathers perform The Five Ps:

-Participator/Problem-solver
-Playmate
-Principled Guide (wait until your father gets home)
-Provider
-Preparer (preparing children for life's challenges)

As the linked page explains, none of these are things that mothers can't do and do well. These are just things that society as a whole tends to think of when thinking of fathers' role in their children's lives.

Mothers, however, are a different story. In many cases, mothers are the ones that nurture their children from conception, through pregnancy and lactation. Even where this is not the case, the mother is often the one that pauses their career and turns their attention to the care of the family. Housewives and stay-at-home moms, although often considered traitors to feminism, are considered to have made valid choices. Men who choose to stay at home are often met with polite skepticism at best and outright hostility and ridicule at worst.

But really, society in general expects even less of fathers than the five Ps. Even a cursory overview of child custody proceedings will show that men are really expected to do only one thing for their families: earn money.

This is not to say that I think that fathers can't or don't do all of the same wonderful nurturing things that mothers do. My husband, in fact, just spent 2 1/2 hours putting our small daughter to sleep. My older daughter's dad was a fantastic stay-at-home parent for several months and was her sole caretaker for more than five years. I know several other men that have done amazing jobs of nurturing their children.

Personally? I can't call myself a father, certainly not at this point, and most likely not ever. I hope that it's generational, but I considered pregnancy and childbirth to be the exclusive province of women. My perception has changed since then, along with my perception of how gender and bodies intersect, but I can't see myself as anything but a mom. It does make heads whip around when my small child calls for Mama and I answer, but it would feel wrong for me to do it any other way.

As with all other things, of course, your mileage may vary. I am extremely interested in other people's experiences or thoughts - please, don't hesitate to comment.

Every parent puts at least a little thought into what they teach their children about gender. Most parents teach their kids that boys have a penis and girls have a vagina. Some parents teach their children that princesses are for girls and sports are for boys. Babies R Us teaches us that girls are pink and boys are blue. I have received a few catalogs this holiday season that have caretaking toys for girls and action toys for boys. I have even heard a parent respond to their child's question about whether I was a boy or a girl. Her answer? "I don't know, sweetie, but everyone is either one or the other."

However much your average parent thinks about the gender beliefs that they pass on to their children, you can believe that a trans* parent thinks about it an order of magnitude more.

When I was a mere 21 years old and parenting my first daughter, I was immeasurably relieved that I had given birth to a girl. I didn't feel that I knew anything about successful models of masculinity, but I was quite sure I knew a lot about being a strong woman. I told her that women had vaginas and men had penises, and never thought twice about it. I tried to keep Barbies and princesses out of our house with varying degrees of success, chose as many pro-feminist books and movies as I could, and tried to instill a sense that her possibilities were not in any way restricted by her gender.

Although I thought I was Just Your Average Woman at that time, my daughter sometimes seemed to know otherwise. A couple of cute gender-aware moments from my older daughter's childhood were related to clothing. When she was about 3 years old, we were discussing what kind of winter boots she would like. "Tall black boots like yours, Mommy," she said, referring to my Doc Martens.

A few months later, that following spring, I dressed for work in a very proper pink linen dress. I walked out of the bedroom and she froze, staring at me in shock. "Are you all right, Mommy?" she asked in a querulous tone.

"Yes, why do you ask?" I said.

"Because...ummm...you're wearing PINK," she said accusatorially.

I am trying just as hard with my second daughter, but it's more fraught now. Every time I open my mouth to object to princesses or Barbies or some other bastion of childhood femininity, I wonder in the back of my mind if I'm going to make her turn out just like me, confused about her gender and miserable in her own skin. What if I don't expose her to enough healthy models of female femininity? God knows that in this household, my teenage daughter is our only hope. Is it enough for her to see other people's moms doing the girl thing and doing it well, autonomously, and powerfully? I hope so, but that little voice of self-doubt won't be silenced.

A few years ago, I realized that we needed some broader gender education in the family when my older daughter started gender policing my social circle. "But," she would ask in obvious frustration, "I know what pronoun they prefer, I JUST WANT TO KNOW WHAT BATHROOM THEY USE!"

Eventually, we moved past that. Our last moment of remedial gender education came while I was listening to her discuss Thomas Beatie with a friend of hers and hearing them try to discern if he was REALLY a woman. Well, what body parts did he have, they mused? A penis? Not born with one. A uterus? Yes? Really a woman. Clearly. I went quietly through the roof.

My younger daughter has grown up with a more nuanced view of gender from the start. There have been many people in our lives with complicated gender, and she was aware before the age of 3 that people's genitals did not necessarily match what you would expect from their outward gender presentation. Do boys have penises? Usually, but not always.

About a year ago, I remember having discussions with her about two friends of mine, a transman and a genderqueer male-assigned friend. She had overheard the conversation her sister was having about Thomas Beatie and was totally unable to figure out which of these people was a "real man." Eventually, I convinced her that no matter how people look or what body parts they have, self-identification was the only way to tell whether someone is a man or a woman. She now calls them both "special men." Her instinctive awareness that they are both doing non-mainstream versions of masculinity completely amazes me.

What do my kids think of my own gender? My older daughter, being a teenager, rolls her eyes when I froth at the mouth about gender topics. She's turning into as much of an activist as she can manage, though. I like to think that she thinks it's a positive change.

My younger daughter? I have no idea either. She used to tell me delightedly that when I went out, I made a boy with my hair. When I first spoke to her about my transition, she told me once, and only once, that she wanted me to stay a girl. I held her while she sobbed and asked her if she was worried that I would not be her mom anymore and she said yes. I asked if it would be OK if I didn't stay a girl if I would always be her mom, and she tearfully nodded, dried her eyes, and gave me a strangling hug.

She's stayed true to her word. She fascinatedly watches my weekly shots and considers it her sacred duty to hand me a band-aid for my leg. Lately, when she sits on my lap while I read her stories, she absently reaches back to rub my chin and see how scratchy it is. She likes to wear a tie with her dresses, like her mom and dad. She still calls me Mommy, even though these days it makes passersby very uncomfortable, and I don't see her ever calling me anything else.

I don't think it matters too much to either of them, though. As long as I'm still around and present and doing the hard work of parenting, what I call myself only matters to me and everyone else.

I hear a lot of conversation around me lately about pronouns. With the exception of the past few years, I have never thought of them as particularly punitive or rewarding, but that has certainly changed. These days, I more and more frequently hear of them being doled out to reward or punish people for their ability to pass.

I wonder how many people think about passing from the perspective of the person being judged. Most people think about passing in a binary way - someone either passes or they don't. They don't give a lot of thought, though, to the things that make it work.

What would it take to a actually pass? For example, what would it take for a female-bodied person to pass as a man? The list is long, and also hard to implement. Trying to pass is a very insecure feeling, very tenuous and vulnerable. Here is an excerpt from The Velveteen FTM by N. D. Hailey:

Passing is such an intricate matter. Does the shirt hide the binding? Do these shorts sit low enough to hide the waist? Is my hair cut short enough? The crash course in masculinity never ends. That used to bother me, until I found out that many genetic guys have similar thoughts. Sometimes I think we are all trying to pass for men.

Maybe we are. I remember more than a decade ago, when I went with my then-boyfriend to a general store in a tiny rural Maine town. He had a ponytail at the time. We were sitting together in the booth, having coffee and a donut, and the owner of the store came up behind him and mistook him for a girl. No harm done, he turned and showed his beard and spoke in his tenor voice and his maleness was no longer in question.

Knowing he was male, and that everyone in their right mind would agree, made it easy for the story to enter our shared lexicon as an amusing anecdote. If he had been new to his role as a male, that would have been devastating.

That right there, that devastation, it's mysterious to a lot of people. Why are transgendered people so fucking ANGRY all the time? Why are they touchy? Why don't they let missteps slide like normal people with thick skins? Why is it so hard for people in gender transition to hear bungled pronouns or outright refusal to honor their chosen gender? Shouldn't people in transition expect that, when they are not passing well yet, mistakes will frequently be made? Well, they do expect it, but the mistakes are still devastating.

Here is the thing about life transitions in general, and I think that everyone will agree: they are hard. No joke. Whether you are divorcing, losing custody of a child, losing a job, leaving the priesthood, or changing your gender, they are rough. You are giving up a role that is essential to your self-image, either by choice or by circumstance. You are remaking a whole new self from the same parts you always had.

When people make these sorts of choices of their own accord, it's a long and shaky process. They realize that something isn't right. They put their finger on it and decide whether it's worth the pain to change it. They tell people that their life is wrong and that they have to make a tectonic shift. They grab their metaphorical package, clear their throat, and say "Today I am a divorcee/ex-nun/woman/man."

And then, the scary part. They go out there and live it as if everyone accepted their consensual reality, because scarily enough, that's the only way for the process to start. They go out there and start living as if it were all true, and then with varying degrees of rapidity, other people stand behind them and say "yes, they are exactly what they say they are." Time passes, and through the lens of others' perception, they start to feel Real.

Think about that, please. If you notice that you repeatedly mess up someone's chosen pronoun, if you make snide comments about a gangly woman with a five o'clock shadow or a short statured man with wide hips or confess, in a hushed voice, that it's easier to think of someone in their new role when they are able to visually pass, give it some thought. Why not give them the benefit of the doubt and encourage other people to do the same? It's like clapping if you believe in fairies: it's only real if you believe too.

She gets her blanket
Settles in and stops wiggling
Eyelids need toothpicks

"90%," the man next to me said to his friend. "90% of people are satisfied with their health insurance. The other 10%, those low income people, they think they can just do without. Besides, it's only people like me who are in that 90% who bother to go out and vote."

Just one provider.
Hourly fortune, and for what -
Gilded therapists?

There are only two places in the state that can teach me how to give my small child what she needs to be a happy human being. One of them only takes one variety of insurance and costs a couple hundred per hour uninsured. The other one, understandably, has an interminable waiting list.

Almighty google,
I am grateful for the links -
Give up the info.

Sometimes, I have to laugh at my life. I sit on my living room floor, cutting animal fabric and weighing poly beads with a kitchen scale to portion into 70 equally sized pockets. I have carefully researched the things to do for volatile children, until that mysterious occupational therapy comes through. A weighted blanket seems to be the thing, so there I sit, cutting and weighing and pouring and stitching. How did I parent my older child through early childhood, without the internet to help me along? God only knows.

After dinner, bath.
Then we read three nightly books
under the blanket.

We snuggle up tight
Deconstructing Mother Goose
Then, she hops in bed.

Every night I cringe
Anticipating struggle
But it doesn't come.

I got lucky. One blanket later, our largest struggles have smoothed over, but I can't help but think that this would have been easier with professional help. I can't help but think that professional help would have been easier with the excellent insurance that, clearly, I must possess.

I'm an outlier?
Somehow, I think that's not it.
At least, not this time.

Everyone needs allies. It's hard to go through life without someone in your corner. It's even harder to do without allies when something about you makes you a particularly delicious target. Gender, for example, can be a great big bullseye.

If your gender has always been pretty unquestioned, there are questions that people probably don't ask you. Do people regularly tell you that you're wrong about your own gender? Probably not. Do they ask appalling questions about your genitals? No. Have you ever been denied health insurance because of your gender? Unlikely. Do you avoid bathrooms if they aren't locking single stalls out of fear for your physical safety? Unlikely.

Did these questions surprise you? How many more questions like this do you think there are? Let me tell you: there are a lot. How many assumptions about gender do you have that you have never, ever considered? Most likely, a ton. In my position, how appreciative would you be if someone spoke up on your behalf so that you didn't have to spend yet another multitude of your waking hours educating people who haven't educated themselves? In a word: very.

This is your opportunity to help me in a very real way, by educating yourself and speaking up when you see these things happening. Please take some time to read the cisgender privilege checklist. If you have a heart, that list will make it ache when you realize how it feels to be so outside the perceived norm. Please click and read.

There are undoubtedly things about the transition process that pique your curiosity. Curiosity about body modifications that I might be considering, possible physical changes, medical treatments, and the like are absolutely understandable. My reluctance to discuss my answers with people that I do not have an extremely intimate relationship with should be understandable, as well. If you would like some information about the transition process either to satisfy your curiosity or to be an educated ally, please look here.

Another thing you might consider is attending the Boston Transgender Day of Remembrance on November 20. From the site:

The annual Day of Remembrance memorializes individuals who have been killed throughout the world in the previous year because of anti-transgender hatred. Since last year's event, 18 people are known to have been murdered because of their gender identity or gender expression.

At some point in everyone's transition, there will be a social situation involving questions that people are not equipped to answer. The process of being a walking teachable moment will be more exhausting than they anticipate, and sometimes they will not have the emotional resources to speak up and educate right at the moment that someone needs it. Offer to help educate their families and social circle, perhaps by handling forwarded emails with questions that need further processing or explanation. Like this: "Dear X: I know that you are curious about the ongoing status of my genitals, but that is a question that I will not discuss further with you. If you would like to discuss why that is an unanswerably invasive question, please feel free to email my Helpful Friend, who has kindly volunteered to answer questions in my stead."

Most of all, speak up when you see something that isn't right, no matter whether it's someone you know or a complete stranger. I would do it for you, and I would hope that you care enough to do it for me. Educate yourself, and go out there and do good things with that knowledge. If my children can do it, so can you.

In May of 2009, I started the process of gender transition. I hesitate to use the word transition, since that implies a clearly gendered starting and ending point, but I can think of no better phrasing. The fact remains, though, that I was unhappy with my perspective on the gender landscape and found it necessary to stand somewhere new. Maybe you could call it "standing on the other side of the same ambiguous chasm."

I've learned a lot of things about myself since then. Up until recently, I would say that I've changed a lot, but I am increasingly certain that I've just thrown off layers and uncovered the essential bits. The funny thing about making the decision to make such a radical change to my physical body is that it has made me closely examine all the other parts of myself as well. There's not a word I speak, a thought I entertain, a reaction that I experience that I don't turn over and examine from all sides in order to ensure that I don't unintentionally become someone I don't like.

This week saw Maine's decision to define marriage as a solely heterosexual institution. I grew up in Maine and my older daughter's dad still lives there, so the state's politics still have some relevance to my life. My reaction, however, was way out of proportion to the effect that the decision has on my life.

So, what is it about a vote on marriage that got my knickers in a twist? In a word, guilt.

I loathe the concept of marriage as a bureaucratic tourniquet. When I hear arguments for marriage equality, they generally speak to the benefits of marriage such as health insurance, simplification of legal issues such as next of kin and power of attorney, tax breaks, and the like. Of course, the immigration issue is nearest and dearest to my heart, since that is in fact a relevant issue in my own marriage. I hate it, though. I hate knowing that because of the way the world works, I was essentially forced to enter into a relationship structure that I adamantly oppose.

I get ragingly furious about the deeply encoded gender roles that go with marriage. Men inhabit the provider sphere, women inhabit the domestic sphere, and exceptions are generally met with a lack of comprehension. Sure, women have been working for generations now, but that doesn't mean that stay-at-home dads are treated with anything but patronization. It also doesn't mean that stay-at-home moms are read as anything but Good Traditional Women.

We all know that one of the first questions unenlightened straight people ask about queer relationships is who is the man and who is the woman. We know that they're not asking even necessarily about prurient sexual details, although that's part of it, but rather who is fulfilling the whole gendered package that goes with each heavily loaded word. Why oh why do I want to fight to have queers be able to force themselves into the narrow boxes that marriage provides? I can't convince myself.

Hear this: I deeply resent knowing that it's my duty to argue for marriage on behalf of queers-in-general.

Why is it my duty? It's my duty because at its very core, this isn't about marriage, really. It's not even really about civil rights, although as much as it makes me angry and frustrated to think it, marriage is undeniably a civil right. It's about recognition.

As has been so eloquently and brilliantly stated by Richard Juang in his essay "Transgendering the Politics of Recognition," recognition is vital. He writes:

Being recognized within a liberal democracy means being valued, having one's dignity protected, and possessing some access to public self-expression. The struggle for recognition's key components - value, dignity, and self-expression - is a cornerstone of modern U.S. political, social, and cultural activity. Despite its unquantifiability, recognition's importance can be measured by the consequences of its absence: an unvalued person readily becomes a target or scapegoat for the hatred of others and begins to see himself or herself only through the lens of such hatred. An existence restricted to purely private expressions of the self, to the closet, becomes corrosive.

To me, this whole fight is about recognition. People want to be considered worthy, to be recognized, to be truly seen as they are. They want it for themselves and they want it, perhaps more urgently, for their families.

Recognition is why I transitioned. Prior to transition, I couldn't explain myself very coherently to very many people. Trying to map my female outward gender to my inner self was nearly impossible, especially within the context of a marriage and family. My oldest daughter Got It, though: see here.

I wanted to be seen as I am, not as the sum of my gender and relationships. So, I made the only change that I could effect to make it all coherent. I can't change the way people think about women who are knitters, wives, breadmakers, stay-at-home moms, homeschoolers, or anything else. I couldn't change that women with a masculine appearance are assumed to be dykes. I couldn't change anything except to perform alphabet alchemy and change the F to M.

When I announced my transition to my family, more than one concerned person accused me of making radical changes without understanding their far-reaching effects. I told them then and I tell you now, this is the biggest change that's no change at all. I've always had these views about men and women and the rest of us, about marriage, about families. I haven't always known how to articulate them and haven't always been in the right company to discuss them without censure, but this has always been who I am.

You can call me whatever you want - male, female, tranny, confused, angry, husband, wife, person, human, queer, faggot, deluded, brilliant, insightful, obtuse, beloved, reviled - and they will all be true at one time or another. I don't need to be accepted, I just need to be Seen. We all need to be Seen.

If marriage is the battlefield on which we are fighting for recognition, then I will stand up and fight for it. I was lucky enough to get the kind of recognition that I needed, and I will do my best to make sure that there's a way for my beloved friends in Maine to get the same.