Breaking Down Gender Stereotypes... Or Not

Almost a week ago a friend shared this video on Facebook with the assurance that the incredible story portrayed would have me "ugly crying...and then cheering".  The seven minute video tells the "inspiring" story of the Whittington family and their transgender child.  The video was shared by the family at the Harvey Milk Diversity Breakfast, where the Whittingtons accepted this year's Inspiration Award.

Ryland Whittington

The Cliff's Notes version of this fairy tale happy-ending story goes something like this:  Jeff and Hillary Whittington welcomed their first baby in 2007, a daughter (by all observable biological evidence) they named Ryland (Interestingly, although arguably irrelevant, I know 3 people named Ryland...and all of them are male).  As Ryland grew up, she seemed to go through a tomboy phase, rejecting things girly and embracing superheroes and boy's clothing.  Realizing that this wasn't "just a phase" they sought professional help and their suspicions were confirmed...Ryland, although plagued with the biology of a little girl,  identifies as a boy.  Faced with the staggering suicide rates among transgender people, the Whittingtons refused to let their child become another statistic.  So they let Ryland be "his true self".  Five year-old Ryland got a make-over, close-cut boy's hair, bow ties and boys swim trunks, and a whole new bedroom (out with the sissy-girl pink and lace).  They sent word out to friends and family that Ryland would be raised as a boy and switched masculine pronouns for the feminine ones they had been using.  And according to Ryland's parents, he's never been happier.

My friend's promise of a good long ugly cry were not met (although I don't cry easily.  I'm kind of a soulless thick-skinned person with no heart.  I did cry at the end of Ol' Yeller, though, if that makes me seem more human in anyone's eyes).  In fact, I walked away from the "inspiring" video kind of shocked.

I'm all about embracing our authentic selves, and the Whittington's sentiment that parents should love their children "with no strings attached" is one I applaud.  But I've tossed around this whole gender identity thing in my head rather obsessively for several days now, and the Whittington's decision to raise their biological daughter as if she were a son seems extreme.

I freely admit to not understanding the concept of transgender people, and even after doing some thorough research on the internet, I don't think I understand it one bit better.  The information is confusing and contradictory and often incredibly vague.  The transgender classification is a fairly recent addition to gender and sexual issues, so there isn't a whole lot of research out there.  Some experts classify transgender as a psychological issue.  Others as a physical one.  And suggested treatments vary from simple counseling to hyper-invasive hormonal treatments and body mutilation to achieve "gender reassignment".

The symptoms of gender dysphoria (the distress a person feels when they perceive a mismatch between their biological gender and their perceived gender) are not physical.  There is no blood test or MRI to confirm diagnoses.  There are only vague psychological symptoms.  Most parents of transgender children report that the first clue to their child's transgender condition is that their children severely dislike playing with toys or otherwise engaging in activities that would typically be associated with their gender,  while simultaneously being attracted to toys and activities that would typically be associated with the opposite gender.  And it doesn't seem to go away, so it is more than "just a phase".  This is in fact, the first thing that clued in the Whittingtons to the notion that their daughter might actually be their son.

And here is where I have a huge, huge, HUGE problem.  Because we are constantly encouraging our daughters to bust through gender stereotypes.  We tell them that it's okay to play with trucks and to get their hands dirty and to be bossy (Oops.  Sorry I mean, "assertive").  We tell them there is more to life than raising children and cooking and cleaning and making men happy, and so encourage them to pursue higher education and fast-paced careers.  We even push them toward careers in fields that are traditionally masculine like science, technology, and engineering just because there don't seem to be enough women there (What is wrong with women these days?).  On the other side of the coin, we are pushing our boys to be more sensitive and emotional and creative.  We allow our boys to paint their toenails and carry My Little Pony backpacks to school...because they should be allowed to express themselves in whatever way they want, no matter their gender.  Let's break down these confining gender stereotypes and the world will be a better place!

And yet...when a little girl hates the color pink, and frilly dresses, and long hair...and instead craves pants and sports and superhero costumes...we begin to suspect that there must be something seriously wrong with her...she might just be a boy.  So much for breaking down those confining gender stereotypes.  It makes me want to spit (and that would certainly not be very ladylike).

Before you pounce on me and start screaming vitriolic hate about my closed-mindedness and accuse me of missing the bigger picture, insisting that there was much more than just a tomboy phase going on here,  let me confess that there were apparently (at least by the parent's accounts) more distressing signs of Ryland's gender dysphoria.  Yes, I do realize that I am over-simplifying Ryland's condition.  But across the board, parent's claim this as the first clue to their child's identity issues.  And, having been a child who was an extreme tomboy, who refused dolls and dresses and instead loved Tonka trucks and StarWars storm troopers...and being a woman today who abhors pink and Nicholas Spark's novels while engaging in stereotypical male leisure activities (like hunting and fishing and karate and weight training)...I have to wonder what might have happened to me if my parents had been the more liberal open-minded activists that Ryland's parents are.

I can't say what I would do if I found myself in the Whittington's shoes.  I've thankfully never been there.  But I am a mother through and through with a fiercely protective all-consuming love for my children.  And while I don't know how I might react to my child's insistence to being the opposite gender, I can assure you that if I decided, with the help of professionals, that my child needed to switch his or her gender identity, I know from a deep place of mother bear conviction, that my child would most certainly NOT be plastered all over the internet as the newest LGBT poster child for tolerance and acceptance.  Unlike my friend who promised ugly crying over the "touching" video, who lauded the Whittingtons as "fantastic" and "amazing" parents, most of the world isn't so accepting.  In fact, violence and discrimination is the norm.

No, even if I decided to raise my daughter as my son (a stretch for me to imagine), there would be no mass announcement to friends and family.  There would be no fanfare.  There would be no Youtube videos or national awards acceptance.  I would quietly and privately raise my child, protecting them from the cruelties of a harshly opinionated world, while lavishing them with all of the love and acceptance I could muster.  Call me crazy.

But maybe the Whittington's have an agenda to push.  I hope it's worth it.  Because for every word of praise and encouragement for the family that I've read online, there have been five negative comments of disgust and revulsion (mostly toward the parents).  This child will forever be in the public eye under the microscope of social scrutiny.  I hope it was worth it, Whittington's.  You just sacrificed your child on the altar of change, acceptance, and progressiveness.  Maybe you're the crazy ones.

On Child Abuse and Social Media Lynch Mobs

It's hard to keep things a secret in a small town.  So when someone does something particularly heinous (or weird or unusual or stupid...like the lady who dyed her male poodle bright pink...yeah, that made the front page of the local paper, too), everyone will most certainly be talking about it.  This is, of course, why the whole town is abuzz with gossipy ignominy over a local young man's vicious behavior that landed his two week-old infant in the hospital with traumatic brain injuries.

According to the local news media (which is always trustworthy and unbiased), 21 year-old Michael Banks slammed his two week-old daughter (one of twins) onto a bed during a domestic dispute with the baby's mother.  Later when the baby became listless and unresponsive, she was rushed to the emergency room.  Investigators report that baby Violet had bruises on her face and neck, and medical tests revealed the infant's brain had been bleeding in several locations.

Shocking.

Abhorrent.  Atrocious.  Despicable.  And any other nasty synonyms you can look up in Roget's thesaurus.

Words can not adequately describe the awfulness of this man's actions.  I am sick at heart that this baby girl has had to suffer so because her father could not control his temper.

And social media has lit up with a cyber mob carrying virtual torches and pitchforks rallying for a literal lynching.  Some quotes from the self-righteous:

".45 bullet between his eyes. End of story"

"Take a chainsaw and run it from head to toe right down the middle"

"Need to take to the closest tree near the courthouse and hang him."

"Someone should beat him until his brain bleeds."

This is just a sparse sampling.  There are many, many more...some of them worse.  But these individuals, righteous in their anger, don't realize that there are worse punishments than death.  To live with endless wracking guilt, to relive a moment of horrible carelessness and anger over and over and over again without end, that is worse.  He hurt his child in a moment of senseless violence and anger.  How do you ever forgive yourself?  How do you live with yourself each and every day?  Sounds like a pretty horrifying punishment to me.

I've cried tears for baby Violet.  She is an innocent and helpless victim here.  I pray for a full and speedy recovery, not just of her body, but also of her wounded trust in the world.  There are some things that children should be able to believe in long and hard, not the least of which is the unconditional love of their parents and the safety of their arms.

But I've also cried tears for Michael Banks.  Because I knew him, at least a little.  I knew him as quiet and shy and soft-spoken. He was friends with my son.  They often hung out in what amounted to junk food and video game marathon induced teenage care-free stupor.   But school and changing priorities and different friends took Michael and my son in different social directions.

Just a few weeks before the birth of the twins, I watched Michael very lovingly and patiently help his very pregnant girlfriend down the steep and slippery steps of the town post office.  He offered his arm and held an umbrella for her.  He very tenderly helped her into her side of their waiting vehicle.  There was such a strong display of warmth and affection that I could feel it from the bank parking lot across the street.  It hit me so keenly, that I shared my observation with my husband that afternoon in one of those, "Guess who I saw today" conversations.  I even commented on how he seemed to have matured with the approaching birth of his babies.

I suppose I was wrong.

But I have a very, very difficult time reconciling the video game-playing Michael...and the tender display from the post office...with the mug shots slapped on the front page of the paper (He is currently being held on first degree attempted murder charges), and the vile monster Michael that the social media mobs paint.  Is he the same person?  Is it even possible?  Should a person be completely defined by a fleeting lapse of judgement in a moment of stress and lack of sleep?

Whether or not it is fair, he will forever be defined by that one horrific act.

So my tears for Michael are shed because I am angry for his wasted youth.  And for his children losing their father.  And for their broken family.  For wasted potential.  For unrealized possibilities.

Just last week, my son and I ran into Michael at the grocery store (It's a small town. You run into everybody everywhere!), and congratulated him on his beautiful twins.  When my son asked him how he was enjoying fatherhood he replied, "I'm not getting much sleep."

I am not so old that I don't remember how drainingly difficult brand new parenthood is.  Infants have a way of sucking the sleep out of life.  It's exhausting.  And when you are stuck in the middle, bone-weary and beyond frazzled, there seems to be no end in sight.  I remember the frustration of sleepless nights and pacing the floor for hours on end with an infant that is crying for no apparent reason at record-setting decibels and pitches that curdle blood...well, the number of times I had to set a child down, shut the door, and walk to another room to curl up in the fetal position myself just so I wouldn't cause bodily harm...I can't number them.  Because I COULD have thrown a baby on the bed in frustration.  I often hovered over that fine line of anger and frustration and Oh God, just please make it STOP.

But thankfully no children were harmed in the creation of this family (at least not bodily...no guarantees on psychologically, but I'll let their future therapists sort that out), or I would be defined by one horrific act, just as Michael is now, with no attention paid to my more shining moments of love and patience and motherly compassion.  And maybe I was the only one who saw Michael's moment of tenderness on the post office steps.  But I saw it.  And I know that he is not thoroughly evil.  Because evil monsters are not capable of benevolent acts.

Perhaps there are monsters in this world, but they aren't hiding in our closets or under our beds, but inside of us.  Perhaps we are all just one hastily reckless act away from our own social media lynch mob.