My Story Part 151 – The Question Never Asked

My Story is a weekly series of blog posts about my transition and observation of life as a trans-person.

I was reading an article in the New York Times on the ethics of transitioning but what struck me was a comment about the article…

Fair warning: I haven't read every comment, or even most of them.

Having "been there" - though without the kids - what I can say is that it's not just a tragedy for the person involved. For me, the last push to transition - after 5 years of depression, struggle and frustration that almost killed me (literally) - was when my grandfather died. For everyone else around at the funeral, it was about "He's gone, we'll never see him again, let's remember the good times not the bad". For me, it was "He's gone, he never got to know the real me, so we never really had good times". When a person does not transition - the world, including their family, doesn't get to see the "real person"; they see a shell, a simulacrum that is put forth, no more real than that of any actor. And THAT is the true tragedy.

Does that mean I feel that everyone should transition? Certainly not. But they should talk to their loved ones; some pain is better than never knowing the truth.

What caught my attention and punched me in the gut was…” For everyone else around at the funeral, it was about "He's gone, we'll never see him again, let's remember the good times not the bad". For me, it was "He's gone, he never got to know the real me, so we never really had good times". When a person does not transition - the world, including their family, doesn't get to see the "real person"; they see a shell, a simulacrum that is put forth, no more real than that of any actor. And THAT is the true tragedy.”

I do not know if my parents knew or if they knew then they never said anything about my crossdressing. I will never know what they would think of me now and they never got to see the real me. They never got to see me walk across the stage to get my Masters, they never saw me laughing and smiling. My brother and my family say that they would be proud of me but we will never know.

However, I am almost positive that my mother knew. I used to keep a stash of clothes and every once in awhile they would disappear. Also one time I was smoking pot wearing her blouse, a seed popped burning a hole in her blouse (I tried to make it look like the fabric got caught in a zipper and a couple of days later she asked me if I know anything about the burn). So I think she knew about my crossdressing but she never said anything out right about it, it was always the elephant in the room.

When she was dying she said to me, “I’m worried about you.” Which I thought was a strange thing to say because by then I was financially well off, owned my own house with only a small mortgage left on the house and I was a supervisor at work in a stable job that I had for over 25 years.

I never knew if my father knew about me, did my mother ever tell him?

Upon her death I wrote this poem…
~~The Question~~
You never asked.
I always wondered.
But, I never asked.
It was our little secret.
The question unasked.
Little things that let me know that you knew.
But never asked.
The little hints here and there.
But the question remained unasked.
Hints just loud enough for my ears.
Oh, I always wondered about the question unasked.
Would our love survived.
If asked.
What would it have been like with the question asked?
What might have been if you asked?
What might have been if I asked?
But now is too late for you or me to ask.
~~~~~
When you are reading this, I’ll be sitting in a courtroom waiting to see if I get picked for a jury.