In the summer of 2013, as we prepare for Ryland to start kindergarten, Jeff and I feel strongly that within his school environment, it will be important for us to foster a sense of understanding and compassion toward him (and any other child who may be living with aspects of their identities that make them anything other than what the school, and our education system at large, consider “normal”). We’re well aware that we can’t control everything in Ryland’s galaxy, but we feel compelled to do what we can.
We also find it crucial to do all we can to preserve Ryland’s anonymity—for as many people in our community who know what we’ve been through or who have received the letter, we don’t want word to get out that Ryland is the odd kid out at school whose presence demands this training or who needs special treatment. It’s a balance that we need to strike between preparing the adults and kids around Ryland, and preventing stigma. We feel that if we can approach this with as much “normalness” as possible, then this will set the tone for how Ryland will be received at school.
There aren’t many professional resources to execute this in any “right” way, and we want it to be done as expertly as we can possibly make it. Assembly Bill 1266 recently passed in California, permitting transgender kids to participate in school-related activities, sports teams, programs, and facilities. (This means Ryland can now use the restroom according to his gender identity, if he so chooses.) It’s positive progress for transgender people in the state of California, but for most everyone else, this subject is very new and very scary.
Joel Baum at the Gender Spectrum Conference and his team specialize in the type of training that’s necessary, as far as Jeff and I are concerned, for schools to be inclusive of transgender children. After a brief thread of email exchanges with Joel and Ryland’s principal, we’re under the impression that Joel has arranged to make the trip to San Diego to train Ryland’s teachers within the next month—just in time for the kindergarten year to start in late August.
I’m elated that both the school and Joel are so open and willing to make this happen, and Jeff and I offer to pay half of Joel’s costs to ensure that it does, but two days before Joel’s trip to San Diego, I learn that the school has made a change of plans—a big one. The training has been canceled.
I’m fuming: we’ve seen in our support group, and we heard it reiterated at the Gender Spectrum Conference in July, that the school setting is one of the most influential factors in a transgender child’s life experience, and it’s sometimes harassment at school, compounded by a lack of support from school staff, that leads to suicide attempts. This subject matter is potentially life-or-death. It warrants a loving, real person to deliver the importance of the message.
The week before school starts, we realize just how critical the training is when Ryland’s new teacher for the upcoming kindergarten year, Mrs. Dodds, emails Jeff to set up a time for Ryland to come see his kindergarten classroom. Holding his breath as he tries to respond in the right way—what is the right way?—Jeff writes:
Mrs. Dodds,
Hopefully next Tuesday afternoon is going to work for you as far as our meeting is concerned. Before we do so, though, my wife and I wanted to share something with you about Ryland. For the most part, we keep this matter relatively private, yet there are many students who will be attending the school who know our situation. If you get a free moment, please read the attached letter, and please do not feel obligated to respond right away.
We have heard great things about you and we look forward to Ryland’s time within your class, and to meeting you on Tuesday.
Please take care,
Jeff
That same day, Jeff reads her response to me out loud:
Jeff,
Thank you so much for sharing this letter with me. I am so impressed with the way Hillary was able to share your experience and share Ryland’s story. He is very lucky to be so loved and supported and to have the two of you as champions dedicated to advocating for him. I will do everything in my power to support, encourage, and advocate for him as well this next school year. If at any time there is a situation or experience that has made Ryland feel uncomfortable or upset, please do not hesitate to contact me. I will be dedicated to his academic, social, and emotional growth over the course of the upcoming year and look forward to working with you and Hillary in making Ryland’s kindergarten experience fun and successful.
Stephanie
It’s a great relief, and if there’s any chance that all the adults Ryland will encounter at school could feel the same way, then we want to do all we can to optimize that.
Still upset about the canceled training, I phone the superintendent, Dr. David Miyashiro. He invites Jeff and me to come in for a meeting on the Friday of the first week of school. I hate to wait that long, but Jeff reminds me that if we want to make progress, then we have to play by the school’s rules.
As we drive over the hill to the Cajon Valley School District office building in downtown El Cajon, I’m on a mission. Jeff always laughs and likes to state that I come out of the house each day with my gloves on and laced up, while he keeps his in a bag beside him for when they’re necessary. This morning, I’m definitely ready for a fight. I want to know why they canceled the training, and what they’re going to do to protect my child from possible bullying. Half of the girls in his upcoming kindergarten class played on his girls’ soccer team last year! Kids will find out eventually, and how will the teachers address it with confused classmates and unsupportive parents?
When David invites us to sit down in his office, thank heaven it’s clear that he is a very empathic man. I feel myself relax a bit into the chair. I pour my heart out to him, and he tells us that he understands our struggles and he feels a sincere need to help us protect Ryland. As I glance around his office, I see why: in a frame on his desk, there’s a portrait of him and his wife, with their new baby. It makes me realize that he relates to us as parents. “It was a budget issue for us to host an after-hours training for all the teachers at the school,” he explains. “But there may be a way around that.”
“What’s that?” Jeff asks.
“I was thinking that we could present this at a staff meeting. This early in the year, there aren’t usually a great deal of pressing matters to discuss.”
This is pressing, I want to tell him.
“So we should be able to make time on the agenda. If you’re agreeable to that, then there’s something I want to ask you,” David says. “Would the two of you be willing to present the teacher training? I just feel it would be more effective than bringing in a stranger from out of town. Does that make sense?”
Jeff and I have heard from some of the transgender people we know that conducting the training ourselves could be risky, as the confidentiality of the family and child is then compromised, not to mention that with so much on our plates at home, we have such little time to prepare. We weigh it out: if we decide to go forward and do the training ourselves, there will never be a way to conceal our identity. However, we determine that at this point, it’s hardly an issue: half the neighborhood knows about our family anyway.
Deep down, I’ve wanted to do the training all along—I feel as though it’s the only way we can be sure that Ryland’s story will come across as sensitively as we’ve lived it. Jeff and I agree: if this is our only way to convey the necessary ideas of the training and help ensure Ryland’s security, then we’ll gladly present it.
David is pleased. He tells us he believes the teachers will be able to humanly connect with Ryland as a child if they can connect to us as people and parents. He says he’ll make sure the training happens as soon as possible.
By the end of our conversation, David has committed to scheduling the training for the staff’s next meeting, exactly one month from now, in October. He says he will allot thirty minutes for our presentation. Jeff was right: I walked into his office with my gloves on, but when we leave, it’s with hugs and tears. I feel safe that the school’s superintendent is on our side.
The meeting gives me hope that our situation can touch the hearts and open the minds of the teachers at Ryland’s school. How could it not? When you hear our son’s story, it’s hard to feel anything but love for him. With all that he’s been through, why would anyone want to make it harder?
But we also know that by agreeing to do this training ourselves, we have just one chance to win the teachers’ hearts. The only way I can envision sharing Ry’s experience, and ours, is to create a video that goes back to the beginning of his life. I think of including voice-over sections from my letter, images of Ryland’s artwork from over the years, Darlene Tando’s gender lesson plan, pictures of Ryland doing “boy things.”
My idea continues to develop and evolve. With every free minute I have over the next three weeks, after the kids are in bed, I pull photos and video footage off the computer to illustrate the journey—the ups and downs, the questions, the answers that have gotten us this far, our faith in our child’s knowledge of himself, the strength of our family’s love to get through all this together.
I compile the video very openly, from my heart, and I decide to do it in the organic way that Ryland first experienced his life: without the sound of words or Jeff’s and my voices. I use subtitles to tell the story, mostly because this is Ryland’s narrative more than it is ours.
I think of using the Macklemore & Ryan Lewis song “Same Love,” which calls for gay and lesbian equality, but then one morning on the radio during Ryland’s drive to school, I hear the OneRepublic song “Good Life.” We are living the good life—there’s nothing about my child or my family that I’d change, even if I could! The song’s beat is strong but joyous, and victorious. It’s perfect.
As I watch the video splice by splice, I’m certain that this was the best way to create it—it comes across as though even Jeff and I have stood by as witnesses to Ryland’s life experience, which, when I think about it, is very true.
As I complete the video, I sit down with Ryland to show him my creation. “Oh, Mom . . .” He cringes a bit as photos stream by, showing his life before transition, but as the video concludes, I can see the understanding on his face. Though he doesn’t like to reflect back on the early part of his story, he knows that this video will help other people to understand both him and others on his same journey.