Robin and I arrived late the night of the 24th. My father had "held on" and was waiting for me, though not totally coherent...in a lot of pain from pancreatic cancer. Shirley, his third wife, whom I would later come to honor and respect with hope, asked me to read some passages from the Bible that my father preferred.
I did
My father passed away a few hours later as Robin and I rested in another room.
At the wake that follows in in Catholic households I didn't know what really to expect, if anything. I didn't know how I would be listed in my father's obituary. I didn't know if Robin would be listed, I had many questions at this time of loss and mourning.
During the wake I stood at times at the entrance to the chapel area. As I was doing so an attractive woman in combat fatigues (my father worked civil service at Kelly Air Force Base in San Antonio) approached. She looked at me, I at her, and she asked my name. I introduced myself and she commented that Jimmy always talked about me.
My father always talked about me? Really? Over the years we had many disagreements. In many ways I was taught three things in the politics of divorced families - 1) He was evil 2) I was just like him. 3) He once dressed up in women's clothes. Some of these lessons stuck, enough that I opted to forego children (a choice I now regret) so that I would not pass along whatever evil or lack of whatever to another generation.
Something in me broke, some wall around my heart fell. My father talked about me, and from all indications it was not about how strange or weird I was or about my transness as much as it was his honor and pride in me.
My father talked about me.
I am like my father, one might say that I am my father's daughter. My leadership, my agility in mathematics, and...yes...my weakness to stress, my contrariness and tendency to argue...most with those I am closest to, and maybe a little bit of OCD over stupid things that mean nothing. ...
In the intervening years I have learned that me being "like my father" is a good thing (both positive and negative traits taken together), not a "bad thing" as often I was told. Moreso, I learned that my father loved me and was proud of me. Whatever our awkwardness over my transition, he still loved me.
I still struggle with my mother over these issues. Her faith....or rather her religion... is too often a wall to our communication and embrace....and all I have wanted from her from the time of being a child was her love, her acceptance, her pride...as I am also part her. Her intelligence, tenacity, and verbal acumen live within me. My being trans is often a gulf that often cannot be sailed.
My good friend Susana encourages me to build that bride between our borders one plank at a time...and she is right....and it is what family does...but it also needs to be reciprocal.
During this season of Thanksgiving, reach out to someone who is trans* or gender non-conforming...whether kinship of blood or kinship of the human family....make them one of your own. Take their story into your heart and share it with others to do the same.
Thanks for reading,
