On Not Grieving For My Daughter

This one is for you @graygender. Thank you for giving me permission to write and publish it.

I have a daughter person who is non binary. Their pronoun is they.

I thought I had a daughter. When they were born they presented as female, they continued to present as female and to be honest with you, if you didn't know they were non binary you would continue to think they were female.

But they are not.

And, not that they need my validation for it, that is fine.

I thought I gave birth to a daughter. Turns out I was wrong. It happens, I am not omnipotent and I make mistakes.

The one mistake I didn't make though was to grieve for the daughter I lost.

I see my friends come out as Trans* and hear stories about how their parents are devastated. They mourn and grieve for their loss of a son, loss of a daughter. They weep and wail at the grandchildren they think they will never have, the weddings that they will never be able to plan, the dress they will never buy.

(Completely ignoring that none of that is true. It might just not be in the way you invisaged.)

It makes me really, really sad for them.

If only they would realise that they never lost a son. They never had a son.

If only they would realise that they never lost a daughter. They never had one.

If only they would stop treating their children like possessions just because they raised them.

If only they would spend the energy they use on rending their clothes and covering the mirrors rejoicing that this person they raised was raised with enough confidence to say 'No, actually, this is not my gender.'

If only they could see that by their coming out they are being honoured as parents.

Once upon a time I thought I had a little girl. Gorgeous and beautiful and funny and clever and loving and amazing.

Now I know I have a non binary daughter person. Guess what? They are still gorgeous and beautiful and funny and clever and loving and amazing.

And brave. And stronger than they think. And I am honoured to be their mother.

I do not grieve for my long lost daughter. I can't. She never existed. It is energy wasted. And I would rather spend the energy getting to know the person they always were.

So, I say this to the to parents of Trans* people everywhere.

When you grieve for what you have lost you invalidate your child. You devalue them. You tell them that they are not good enough. You tell them that what they could bring in terms of weddings and grandchildren means more to you than they do.

Society will already tell them that they are freaks and not normal and different. You should be the place that reassures them that they are the wonderful human beings that they always were.

Don't make a half assed attempt at using their pronouns. Getting it right isn't even a fraction as difficult as the dysphoria they will feel when you misgender them.

If they choose a new name, then honour it. Saying you will always think of them as their birth name denies their agency and they will already get enough of that.

Don't out them without asking permission. As interesting as your child is, as proud of them as you are IT IS NOT YOUR STORY TO TELL. They will tell it in their own way and in their own time. Or not. Their choice.

If your child is a trans woman, please don't try to make her conform to your idea of womanhood. She will have her own and she should be allowed to explore that.

If your child is a trans man please don't expect him to suddenly be into football if he wasn't before.

If your child is non binary then welcome to the club. You might not be able to work out exactly what gender if any they see themselves as. You know what, you don't have to. As long as they are happy and comfortable then your job is just to accept and support.

It is as easy as that.

And anyone pretending it is hard, anyone grieving for the child they lost is missing both out on a lot and the fucking point.

On Reclaiming The Night

Last night myself and my daughter person @graygender went to the Reclaim The Night march in Bristol.

I had been on pro choice marches, anti fash marches, the lovely A to B ones that the TUC kindly arrange. I have been to Burston School, Tolpuddle and save the NHS marches. You would think I could call myself a veteran.

I wasn't ready for this.

Having made our placards, we headed into town. Grace wrapped up as if ready for an Arctic winter and me hobbling on my broken toe. We grabbed burritos and were still the first ones there apart from the marshals.

So we sat. Waiting for the others to arrive. Waiting for the chance to get together with other women who are sick of the slut shaming. Sick of the victim blaming. Sick of not feeling like we can walk the streets safely at night.

And arrive they did. Women, men, families. Dad's wanting to let their daughters know that they stood by them and their right to autonomy and safety.

And in the middle of all these people. A sad looking woman with a black eye. Wandering round looking confused and bemused and like she felt slightly out of place.

I didn't take a picture of her because sometimes dignity and privacy trumps an iconic photo.

I watched her for most of the night. This woman with a visible reminder of violence. Most of us have hidden our scars and you wouldn't know we were survivors unless we told you. And here, in the midst of us was a woman with a black eye.

I am not sure I have the words to describe how I felt looking at her. The memories of my own black eyes and broken bones assailed me but I felt supported by my sisters and they wouldn't drown me. More on this woman later.

We started off the event with a minutes silence round some candles to remember the women who have been killed by male violence. Didn't realise it was going to be so emotional.

Grace and I cried all the way through it. Then all the way through the poem that was read by an amazing woman about how she was finding a new pride in being able to live and laugh again.

Then Grace turned to me and whispered 'they're all here.'

And they were. We felt them. All the women that could have been us. The ones who didn't survive. The ones who shouldn't have died.

We felt them.

And we marched for them.

We shouted for them.

We honoured them.

We stopped the traffic. We carried our placards high and proud. We blew whistles. We basked in the glow of sisterhood.

I heard very young women crying because it was the first march they had ever been on and it was the first time they had felt proud to be women.

I saw old women on the pavement applaud us in tears and shout 'THANK YOU' as we went past.

I heard an 11 year old girl scream 'I HAVE A BRAIN AND YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO SEXUALISE ME!' defiantly into the night.

And I was proud. I was proud of every single woman who was there. I was proud of who I was. I was proud to see a transgender flag with us. I was proud to see most of the men who marched with us do so from the back, recognising that this was a moment for women to scream and shout and demand an end to catcalling, to blaming us for our own rapes because we dare to go outside after dark, an end to killing us because they can, because we will be reduced to someone's wife, girlfriend, mother, daughter.

So what of the woman with the black eye.

I caught sight of her again during the march. She was crying and she was smiling. She was walking with her head held high. She was alive.

Who knows what she went home to that night. Who knows how long her very visible euphoria lasted.

I don't. I only know that in that moment she looked free. And that made the marching on a broken toe worth it.

There was a rally and after party, but we didn't stay for that. PTSD being what it is, we can't all always stay for that kind of thing. Too loud, too busy.

It looked like fun though.

So we took our placards and went home. Where we ended up having a conversation about victim blaming on the bus with a woman who said 'I agree with what you just said, but...'

This happens a LOT. People who say they agree then go right on to say something really victim blaming like women shouldn't get drunk if they don't want to get raped.

*sigh*

Also in this category of truly unhelpful are those who try and derail with the what about teh menz argument.

Yes, men sometimes get catcalled too. Does it make it ok? No. Does it give men free reign to do it? No. Are men in danger of their lives if they don't respond or do respond? No.

This is a world where we have Julien Blanc telling men how to choke women into sex. Am I going to die in a ditch over a woman shouting nice arse at a man. No.

So, despite the men who wouldn't go to the back of the march, despite the twitter trolls who tried to start a row on the #reclaimthenight hashtag, despite everything, for that night it was ours. We reclaimed it. We felt safe with our sisters.

Tonight, tomorrow and all the other nights?

Well we still have work to do. Much work.

But we are up to the job, and we will win.

Solidarity sisters

Deeva xxx