I hated him, hated his stubbornness, hated myself for being like him, for refusing to let go of this argument even though I knew his stubbornness about gendering me correctly was rooted in the same refusal of society’s expectations that allowed him to accept me for who I am. “I will do it if I remember,” he said, his eyes on the road.Īt a stoplight, I opened the car door, got out and walked, clutching my too-thin tweed coat for warmth. He said he calls men “she” and women “he” all the time he gets confused because it’s just one word in Tagalog. I told him the waiter looked at me funny after Papa gendered me incorrectly. In the car on the way home, I told him he needed to stop calling me by my deadname, and that he needed to remember to use “she.”
The waiter smirked as he filled my glass. The waiter passed by my father raised his hand and said, “He needs more water,” pointing to me. “, if only I had your opportunities, I’d be much better off than you are.” “, you should come to New York for grad school.” He was in one of his obsessive fits about what I should do with my life, which was fine, I was used to that, but he kept using my deadname. Then he picked me up from the bus station in Manhattan the week of Thanksgiving, and we stopped at a diner on the way home. But the more psychologically distanced I became from the person I was before, the harder it became to hear my old name - and the worse it felt that he had the power to make me feel bad just by saying it. Thankfully, Tagalog doesn’t have gendered pronouns so that didn’t come up so often. I tried to argue less, but the fact that he kept calling me by my old name, my deadname as trans people call it, nagged at me and I tried to get him to stop. I tried my best to adjust, since this was something I needed to do to make my way in the world anyway. You shouldn’t be so aggressive,” I realized his acceptance came with a new set of expectations of me. After he told me during an argument over dinner, “You’re a woman now. I was too grateful for his support to push him much on the details, so I spent the next few weeks gently reminding him to use my new name. In the Philippines there were lots of feminine gay men who wore makeup and women’s clothes out in public without changing their names. This is the part of being trans in America that Papa didn’t get, that effeminate men are targets in a way they weren’t back home. “I don’t think it matters that much,” Papa said.
300 x 300 sleeping with sirens gossip cd tv#
Nothing was ever particularly formal in our family, so I just mentioned over dinner, while the TV was on, that they should call me Meredith and refer to me as “she.” I was in town because I wanted to tell them in person that I had legally changed my name and gender. When I asked Papa about it, he said that his attitude towards me was none of their business, and that he didn’t need to see them if they were going to say bad things about his child. When I came back down to New York from Boston for the weekend a few weeks later, my stepmom told me during one of her bouts of obsessive housecleaning that there were friends and relatives who disapproved. He simply nodded his approval and introduced me to everyone as his child. I arrived at my sister’s party, in front of 200 people, in tight black clothing and makeup more elaborate than hers. His stubborn confidence worked to my benefit when I transitioned. He didn’t raise me, since he spent most of my childhood in the Philippines as a drunk, but he could claim genetic credit. Papa’s insistence on his intelligence was his way of taking responsibility for my success. That’s what it was like between us he always wanted to prove he was better than me because it was his natural place as a father, and I didn’t let him because he wasn’t. He bragged about his straight A’s while I rolled my eyes about how easy his classes were, not like at Harvard where I went.
But I didn’t expect him to be so unconcerned when the queer in question was his child - his first-born son.īefore he was a social worker, Papa was a taxi driver, going to night school to get his degree. Papa was a social worker for homeless people with AIDS, so he’d been around a lot of queers.
I didn’t realize how much of an act my indifference was until the wave of relief from his acceptance made it hard to speak, so I quickly said goodbye. “Just make sure to be beautiful,” Papa replied. If I acted as though it wasn’t a big deal, maybe it wouldn’t be. I just want to let you know so you’re not surprised. “I’ll be wearing makeup and women’s clothes. “I’m coming in on the bus around five,” I said. I called Papa in June 2001, the night before my sister Juno’s sweet sixteen party.