A Trans Rights Sticker in an Unlikely Town: Guest Writer Djuna Donne

By unlikely I mean towns that vote Republican, have lots of churches, sell racist, sexist T-shirts at cheesy souvenir shops (souvenir shops in San Francisco and New York City do this too, so it probably shouldn’t be in my criteria). Towns I feel weird driving my be-stickered mom mobile in.

Having lots of bumper stickers, even if they read “My Isopod is an Honor Student,” signals not-right-wing, not-Christian nationalist. But my one Protect Trans Kids sticker screams it.

Unlikely-to-have-trans-rights-stickers-on-utility-boxes towns are places where my trans teenager would feel awkward. Adam would sense an unwelcoming vibe buying a stuffed seagull at a gift shop or walking to a roadside ice cream stand. (To be unwelcome with money in your hands has always been a confusing look, America.) I’d sense that vibe, too, but I could swat it off like a biting fly, while the poison would course through Adam, hot in his blood.

I could swat off an unwelcoming vibe like a biting fly, while the poison would course through Adam, hot in his blood.

Obviously

I was driving to one of these unlikely towns recently on a solo trip to the beach. I had a rare few days on my own while Adam was on three-day class field trip with his teacher Mrs. Harris. I wanted to write, and I wanted to be surrounded by water. Meanwhile the kids would be touring a big city, visiting museums, eating gelato, riding the metro.

They were staying in a hostel-like dorm. Leading up to the trip, I had asked Adam twice where he was going to sleep, specifically. The first time he said, In the boys’ room. His tone said, Because I am a boy obviously. I had hoped he would follow In the boys’ room with Because Mrs. Harris said so.

Yes. You are a boy. You and I know this. Some of our loved ones know this. Millions of people all over the world understand this. And I was pretty sure Mrs. Harris knew this, too. Adam came out to her two years ago and she was immediately understanding, full of respect and love. But does Mrs. Harris really know this?

“Really knowing,” I’ve found, is the difference between authentic love and love with conditions, between acceptance and a pandering, shallow acceptance.

Hopeful assumption?

I asked Adam the question again a few weeks before the trip. Mrs. Harris told me I’m in the boys’ room, mom.

Here was the “really knowing” I longed for: Mrs. Harris understood gender. She understood what it means to be trans. I thanked Mrs. Harris in my mind every night until they left. And then I drove to the beach.

As I drove, I felt myself preparing for a panicked text from Adam. Maybe he didn’t actually ask Mrs. Harris. Maybe saying he was staying in the boys’ room was just wish fulfillment, just a hopeful assumption. If I were the perfect mom of a trans kid, I would have double-checked with Mrs. Harris about which room Adam was staying in. Why didn’t I double-check with Mrs. Harris!? I berated myself.

Arriving

I trust my son, I trust Mrs. Harris, I reasoned to myself, there was no need to double-check. But those answers contained my own wish fulfillment. Why didn’t I check in with Mrs. Harris? Because I want to live in a society where transness is understood, where my son is understood. If I didn’t double-check, I could live in that world.

I want to live in a society where transness is understood, where my son is understood. If I didn’t double-check, I could live in that world.

I imagined the class arriving at the dorms, running to claim their beds, and as Adam throws his backpack on a bed in the boys’ room, Mrs. Harris pulls him aside and says: No. You are with the girls. You aren’t what you are.

But then I got a text that interrupted my mother-of-an-American-trans-kid catastrophizing: a photo of Adam’s bed and the words TOP BUNK MOM SO EXCITED!!!

The project

Raising a trans person has made me feel things I didn’t know were possible. I’ve cried in all sorts of ways; some of my tears are not the same tears parents of cis kids cry, some are. When I read Adam’s bunk text, I cried and felt something I find hard to explain.

It was like I was glimpsing the mechanics of the world, but not just the mechanics, the whole project of the world, the point and trajectory of its existence, and seeing that love is animating all of it.

I cried because I could trust the world. I could let my guard down. My child was safe and about to have a great adventure, and I could focus on my own.

Cormorants

I checked into my room. Wandered the streets looking for good coffee. Watched herons, gulls, cormorants. Played bingo at the dive bar where the announcer made fun of Chinese people. Slapped at mosquitos. Ate six amazing oysters. Found an incredible used bookstore. Wrote 10 pages.

I walked past the cheesy souvenir shop selling racist T-shirts. Saw two openly queer people, dozens of Don’t Tread on Me license plates and right-wing political signs, and, on a utility box, one trans rights sticker. If you count the one on my car, that brought the number to two in this unlikely town.

Not much, but not nothing either.

— D.D.

Djuna Donne (she/her) is a writer, public servant, and parent of a trans son. She lives on the east coast.