Navigating the Gender Non-Conforming Landscape

The destination is unknown and the journey is no joyride

My daughter was three or four years old when she dramatically displayed herself as a non-conformist.

It was Christmas morning, and she joyously pulled presents from under the tree. She dug into a box layered with small gifts sent from her grandmother, my mother-in-law. I don’t recall what the first presents were, but when my daughter reached her tiny paw into the box for the next surprise, she withdrew it with haste and with a horrific look, exclaimed her disgust.

“Princess panties??!!! Gross!!” She flung the small plastic package sailing into the corner behind the couch where things stay lost and forgotten forever.

My wife, always dutiful in capturing moments on special occasions, got the whole thing on video and sent it to her mother. Grammie got a great kick out of it and laughed until she had to wipe the tears from her eyes.

Little did we know this was the child’s first rebel yell.

When we enrolled our daughter in Montessori preschool, she went wearing cute girly clothes, her wild mop of thick bronze hair wrangled into pigtails. She rarely made it home looking the same. One morning, she decided she’d had enough of this “looking girly business.”

Pink was out.

Pink was not to be touched, looked upon, or even discussed, and an unexpected pink surprise, say being handed pink paint at school to finish an art project or a slash of pink on a pair of runners, would result in a cataclysmic meltdown. Dresses were next.

Then there was the great hair battle.

Poor Mom would meet her at the bottom of the stairs, block her escape routes, and proceed to pin, wrestle, scold, then beg for the child to sit still so she could manage a few elastics into the girl’s hair so it didn’t look like she lived under the stairs. I was impressed by the girl’s strength and stamina to resist; she never cried or had much of a tantrum, but her cute face twisted with defiance, and her small brown eyes blazed with fury — I was proud of her fight — her mother was not amused.

Persecution from peers

It’s interesting to reflect on the concessions a parent will make for their child’s happiness and peace of mind. For us, it began with the clothes, moving from bright and playful pastels to subdued oranges, browns, and greens. Fancy and frilly were out; denim and camo were in. Only boys’ shoes were acceptable since every decent pair of girls’ shoes inevitably had something pink or sparkly somewhere, and those were going nowhere near her feet. The haircuts got shorter, and she became more comfortable.

Then the big school came calling, and with it, trauma.

Anytime the teacher divided the class according to gender, it confused and angered her. In sports, being sent to the girls’ team embarrassed her. Her best pals in class and the playground were boys. If it was fine to be with them in those situations, why wasn’t it in gym class?

If she’d had a good day, we’d hear about it the moment we buckled her in the car. She wouldn’t give out a peep if it were a bad day. Instead, she’d turn her head, mouth in a tight line, looking aimlessly out the window while trying to unravel the conflicts in her soul and mind.

On those days, when she hadn’t said a word or touched her after-school snack by the first intersection, Mom would power up the gentle voice of interrogation and coax the child to begin her tale. By the time we’d made it through the seven stoplights in town and back home, we’d park, sit, and wait until her great wind-down of the day was complete.

One of her experiences broke my heart.

Needing to use the washroom, she left class, darted down the hall as the call was urgent, and naturally, without thought, entered the girls’ bathroom. Two girls were already there, wasting as much time as they could washing hands and gabbing, and when they saw my daughter — in her camo pants, boys’ shoes, and short hair, jumping toward a stall. The girls screamed, “You can’t come in here! You’re a boy! This is the girls’ washroom!”

“I’m not a boy. I’m a girl!”

They didn’t believe her, and they attacked; pushing, poking, making fun, and accusing, they chased her out. Scared, hurt, embarrassed, angry, and confused, she walked down the hall to the boys’ washroom. Then, knowing she shouldn’t use the boys’ room and too terrified to go back to the girls’ room, she stood there in the hall, alone, confused and not knowing what to do until nature decided for her.

After that episode, she returned to using the girls’ facilities, but only after first checking to ensure no other girls were already there. If girls were in the bathroom, she would walk away, look for another bathroom, or squeeze and wait it out.

The poor thing was terrified to go pee.

What made it feel even worse is that my child is not meek or weak in spirit or confidence. When this occurred, she’d already been in Jujitsu for a few seasons and had zero tolerance for bullies. I’ve witnessed her stand up to a boy a few years older and much bigger on the rope bridge of a playpark as he bullied and chased her friend away. I’ve watched her shoulder-throw and pin an aggressive boy to the ground in the schoolyard when his push turned to shove.

She’s a hockey player and a dependable and fearless outdoor adventurer when she joins me for week-long excursions into the high alpine, no amenities or cell service. She’s good with an axe, fly rod, and gold pan and can start a fire without a match or lighter. I am constantly impressed by the well of courage and determination packed in her small frame. She may be small, but she is mighty.

But those girls in the washroom broke something.

And that sort of event happened more than once. She faced a similar incident at a local hockey game with older girls being vicious to her in the washroom. Luckily my wife walked in, wondering why our child was taking so long, and she caught the girl bullies harassing my daughter while she sat terrified, furious, and crying in the stall. Mom gave those girls a long lecture while another mom walked in and, upon witnessing, said she would have done far worse to them and praised my wife for her restraint.

Then it happened again at a girls’ elite summer hockey camp. Those girls mocked, ridiculed, accused, and why? Because her short hair made her look like a boy.

The aftermath, as parents, is trying to piece together a precious spirit that has been attacked and shattered merely for existing as she is.

Gender assumptions, and assuming gender confusion

Over the past years, my wife and I talked about our daughter possibly being gay. Her traits, tastes, and some alignments seemed masculine leaning. Neither of us has an issue with sexuality, straight, gay, or otherwise. We grew up having gay friends, and our niece recently wed a lovely young lady. Our principles reside in the progressive conservative range within the shade of liberalism (the old “shade,” not the new “throwing shade,” the definition of which, to me, remains unclear), and we are Catholic. While each plays a factor in our perspective, neither prevents us from actively engaging, supporting, and loving our child, but our beliefs have been tested ever since.

From the next many years to now, my daughter has often been assumed to be a boy. Each time this happened, we, as parents, bristled and corrected the misnomer. Yet while we felt embarrassed, our child rather enjoyed being identified as a male, and she told us so. Further, she went on to say the only embarrassment she felt was when we corrected the mistaken party.

As she grew and began to enter puberty, she struggled mightily. Depression and anxiety began to change her personality. Having established strong communication with her on all topics without judgment or consequence, we had many frank and often emotional discussions. We knew we needed help, and it wasn’t long until we found her a child psychologist who specializes in this age group and situation.

After a few appointments, I checked in with the good doctor on our child’s mental health —and the report shook me to my core and made my priorities crystal clear.

My tender, innocent child, not yet a teen, was actively thinking about and planning self-harm.

Our daughter has been speaking with her psychologist for a few years now.

It’s not an over-exaggeration to say the doctor may have saved us from the worst outcome imaginable. The doctor’s job is to keep my child mentally and emotionally aware and in check, with sound and proven knowledge.

My job is to provide protection and safety. I communicate my love, constantly. Unconditional and non-judgmental. No harsh or rash decisions are allowed, not by her or me. I am her father, and she is my child.

There isn’t a force, flavor, declaration, or transition that could change that.

I am her shelter against all storms, big or small — from wherever they may call. I am her safe place.

And most important of all, especially in these already difficult adolescent years, I know my child trusts me. When I sense she has something to discuss and she’s holding back, or she’s upset and runs the gauntlet of impossible and terrible things a teenager endures, then I stop, ignore everything, lie on her bed, and listen.

It’s almost always difficult — at first. But I try my best to put aside what I feel and listen to what she’s feeling. With her words and heart placed in my care, I begin to see with her eyes.

The roadmap for gender non-conforming children and their parents is a tangle of colored lines, learning where borders exist and the many directions available, all while heading toward a destination that remains unclear.

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