Taking place in his elementary, middle and high school years, Trent Swanson has battled with the internal and external struggle of coming out and living as a transgender boy. "Through The Window" is an autobiography about the turning points in not...
One of the most heartbreaking things about coming out is that people don't necessarily get to choose when it happens. They may be outed by a person they trusted or confided in, or they may just have a situation thrust upon them that leaves them no choice. I was dealt the latter.
In the sixth grade, I lived with my mother and sister at my grandma's house until we could find a good place to live that was reasonable in price. In hindsight, that moment in time had to have been a stressful period for my mom as well as my grandma since my grandpa had just recently passed away. If I had a say in how things happened, I would have waited a while longer for my mom to know. However, I had no say. By that point, I had already cut my hair short, began wearing men's clothing and binding my chest in attempt to alleviate my dysphoria and ease the uncomfortable feelings I had inside.
Saturday March 2nd, 2013 was the day I came out to my mom. I was eleven years old. I know the specific date because that night I'd written a journal entry about the experience. I spent the evening playing video games and recording things on my camcorder with my best friend, Jacob, a boy who lived down the street, and I was having a great night. I remember Jacob suggesting we ask my mom if he could sleep over so we could keep horsing around and having fun instead of having to cut it short. It was a simple and innocent idea that every child with a best friend asks at least once in their lives. So, I made my way down the creaky wooden stairs that led me to the kitchen while Jacob waited in my room. My mom was standing near the doorway and some family members were seated across the room at the kitchen table, though I can't recall who exactly was there other than my grandma. The people in the room were irrelevant to me anyways, I just wanted to speak to my mom. I asked her if Jacob could sleep over and she reluctantly refused. I must have kept pushing and repeatedly asking her because I remember she eventually snapped at me.
"Boys don't sleep over at girls' houses!" she yelled.
Silence. Everyone in the room could have heard a pin drop. The heads of the faces I can't remember all turned to my direction in tense shock. In my head I could hear a million different flustering feelings and words circling my mind, but in the room everyone and everything went still. In my journal entry from that night I wrote:
"I stood there with a feeling in me that made me want to run away and never come back."
I don't think I'd ever felt so much raw anger and embarrassment than I did in that kitchen, and I can't ever perfectly describe the horrible sinking feeling I get when someone reminds me that I'm not cisgender. I'm not a boy by natural birth. The only comparisons I can associate that feeling with is when you hear news stories of horrendous things that have happened to people, or when you hear that someone you love has just died. That horrible, dreadful sinking feeling that starts in your stomach and travels through your body, that you have no control over. That is the feeling I get when I hear my birth name, when someone refers to me as a girl or I'm fully reminded that I have to live in this outcasted minority for the rest of my life. I don't have a choice, just like I didn't have a choice when I came out. If I had just kept my mouth shut after my mom said that and went upstairs and brushed it off, it would have eaten away at my mental state for days upon weeks until another person said something similar in nature.
At the top of my lungs I screamed "That's not fair!" A poor word choice in the moment, maybe, but I simply said the first thing that came to mind. I had a habit of leaving tense situations in a huff, and went back up to my room before my mom could argue back. She quickly took Jacob home and had me go with her as she dropped him off. As we pulled back into the driveway of my grandma's house I hopped out of the car as soon as the engine was off and made my way to my room, slamming the door behind me. My intent as an eleven year old was not anywhere near what was likely going through my mom's head when she made her comment about boys not sleeping over at girl's houses. Boy, girl, whatever I was at the moment, all I wanted was to have fun. Jacob was one of my only friends in sixth grade for obvious reasons. I was a freak, a topic of discussion in the cafeteria, some sort of mythological creature that you told your friends about if you saw me in the hallway. If I could somehow find an escape from feeling isolated, I took that opportunity. Jacob was a buddy, another boy that shared my interests and that I felt accepted me as the boy I was inside, and I simply wanted to stay up until midnight with him playing video games and throwing pillows at each other's faces. To have a reminder of my differences from my mom and get that sinking feeling in what I considered my home - it hurt too much. I laid in my bed and began to cry, wishing I could turn into someone else. Anyone else.
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It was fully dark outside and my lights were off, but the light from the streetlamp came glimmering up through my window and the muted TV gave the room a blue glow. I let my pillow absorb as many of my tears as I possibly could before I heard my mom's familiar footsteps climbing the stairs. When she reached the top, there was no knock or statement from the other side of the door. She walked right in, and I knew she was upset with me and wanted answers. I was scared, however, because I didn't know if I was ready to give her those answers. I obviously can't remember exactly how our conversation went, but I remember my mom's tone of voice was different. She seemed flustered and confused, which was a juxtaposition to her regular friendly tone or her angry tone when I was in trouble. The entire room gave me a sense of irregularity. It was a moment when the typical setting of my bedroom felt as if it wasn't my room, but a carbon copy. Everything was the same, but you knew something life changing was happening simply by the feeling in the air.
I never had that picture perfect movie moment where I sit down with my mom and give a long pause before telling her I'm transgender. She came into my room to get answers and that's what she got. She asked me question after question trying to make sense of the situation, knowing I couldn't correlate my thoughts well enough to just explain it to her. I can't say this absolutely happened, but I believe I recall her asking flat out if I thought I was transgender, and I said yes. She did know the term since she worked as a bartender and met many different types of people. However it happened, she got the answer out of me and told me I'd be seeing someone professional to determine if I was right.
By the time she left my room, all my tears were out and my body felt drained of all its energy. Life had just beat me senseless again and left me in a paralytic state on the foot of my bed. It never even occurred to me that I'd come out to my mom that night until months later. My focus on the evening of March 2nd was on the isolation and dysphoria I felt. It stung, and it still stings as I write this and am transported back to that day.
In every storm cloud there's a silver lining. That's what I learned and that's what I wrote about in my journal after I found the strength to pick myself up and go downstairs to my Xbox where I was able to talk to Jacob. I told him everything that happened after my mom and I got home and he did a good job sympathizing and making me feel better. As I spoke with Jacob and wrote about the night in my journal, I remember using the word "mean" countless times to describe my mom. In the moment, my eleven year old mind felt that was appropriate, but now I realize the struggle that comes with parents of transgender kids.
My grandma explained it in an understandable manner during a recent conversation about coming out. She said it's so difficult because these kids are finally finding out who they are and feeling as if they've found the right identity after years of feeling lost, and are in a period of celebration and happiness. Meanwhile their parents are mourning the loss of the child they've known and raised since birth. It seems ridiculous since their children haven't died - they're still the same human being as they were five years ago. However, I can understand it. They've become a different person. The parents of transgender kids are just expected to throw away the thought of talking about boys with their daughter and helping them pick out a wedding dress one day, and suddenly accept and give their love to this boy that has taken their place. Or vice versa. Even though no one has died, it is truly a mourning process. The mourning process and period of celebration clash so terribly in some families. Luckily, my clash wasn't catastrophic. Many aren't so lucky.
Even though I now know my mom wasn't being "mean" that night, I felt a lack of understanding. Jacob tried his best to fill in the support I needed and he did a wonderful job, as I remember getting off of my Xbox feeling as if I could weather the storm. Before I went to sleep and ended that eventful day, I wrote one more thing in my journal:
"If you ever get yourself into something painful, just look at the bright side of it. I'm sure it'll help."
