Last weekend. We sat at the table, at dinner. The boys, my dearest, and I. The daughter was still in the dormitory. At a certain point, we were talking about everyone’s special qualities, including the negative ones. We were allowed to give our opinion unvarnished (our family’s trademark: lack of varnish).
It was my turn. The familiar little details came up. No surprises.
“Your dad’s a little transgender, too.”
She said it. I was surprised, but I didn’t say anything. I just smiled a little. I tried to pretend like nothing special was said. From the corners of my eyes, I tried to see how they would react.
My children know me as a feminine man, who shaves his legs, and often wears a skirt at home. A man who doesn’t eat meat, and is almost maniacally devoted to healthy eating. A man who is not strong, and is quickly moved.
The lack of reactions didn’t surprise me. I was surprised that she said it. She used the term. And she applied it to me. It’s special because I know she’s still worried about where I’m going. It’s special because she doesn’t want to face Louise yet.
But by saying those few words, she’s showing that she can accept it. And that she’s not ashamed of it. She’s normalizing it this way. Not only for herself, but also for the children.
I can’t say anymore that they don’t know anything about it. They know a little bit now.
I’m glad she said it.