Coming Out at Thanksgiving

My hands shake as I sit with my new therapist who questions me about how I am feeling about coming out to my extended family this upcoming Thanksgiving. She looks at me expectantly, trying to piece together the stories that spill out of my mouth as I explain to her (my cisgender, straight therapist with not nearly enough training in this area) why the fear of their reactions still clings to my heart and why I know that, after this Thanksgiving, nothing will be the same during our family dinners.

I came out to my parents on my birthday, the only day they weren’t allowed to hate me even if they hated who I admitted I was. In my head, there was no option of being kicked out of the streets. I told myself either it would go well enough for me to get by in the house or I wouldn’t wake up tomorrow – it was up to my parents to decide.

We sat in their bedroom as I told them who I was and that I was their son. My mom’s face reeled in disgust as my father simply kept repeating that he didn’t understand. He’d further push to find cracks in my knowledge in an attempt to prove to me that I couldn’t possibly understand what I claim to be if he couldn’t understand it. My mother said various phrases, all of which I had read about online beforehand in preparation for the criticism I knew I would receive that night: “But you’re a girl”, “God gave you this body”, “You can’t ruin this body”, “You’re too young to know”, “You always liked your chest”, “You never hated wearing dresses and skirts”, “You never thought about this before”, “Where did you get this idea from? Is it from one of your friends?”, “Maybe you’ll grow out of it”, “You’ll think differently when you get older”, “Don’t make any life choices that you’ll regret later”, “You’re nothing like boys”, “You don’t want to be a boy”, “You hate boys”, “Why did you want to go to an all-girls school then?”, “You don’t even know what boys are like so how can you want to be one?”, “You’ll think differently when you actually talk to boys”, “No one will see you as a boy”, “You’ll always be my little girl”, “No one will love you if you choose this”, “No one will ever love who you are now”, “No one will ever understand you”, “I hope you change your mind”, “Being transgender is just a recent trend; it didn’t exist until 20 years ago”, “You will confuse everyone”, “How do you know you want to be a boy?”, “Are you sure you want to choose this?”, “Do you know the life you are choosing?”, “Who even are you anymore?” and on and on until they both ran out of conservative phrases to say and opted to say they still loved me, but they do not understand me. Two years have passed since I came out to them and they still do not understand me. My father is quiet in his lack of understanding, whereas my mother, despite two years of having to adjust, still slips up and claims she needs more time. Four months ago, she lectured me on why I should not live in a male dorm even though I am a man. One month ago, I received a package from her with my dead name written on it for all my friends to see. Last week, my mother tried to encourage me to take some feminine clothes with me back to my dorm. I said I’ll consider, and I left all the clothes with her when I flew back to my college dorm (my home-away-from-home that feels more comfortable for me than my real home).

What I try to tell my therapist, and what she doesn’t seem to understand, is that for my own protection, my family had decided to tell my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, and extended family about me while I was away. The therapist thought it would be better to say it in person. I agree to some extent but, with a family as conservative as mine and my mental state that is currently balancing on a thread, my mom argued that it would be better for them to find out before I arrive and have time to cool down before seeing me again in person.

Another subject that my therapist doesn’t quite grasp is that people generally do not want to acknowledge I am transgender. It’s easier to slip up and call me she, a daughter, a woman, and my deadname than to view me as the “abomination” that I am. If there is no one to correct them while I am away, they do not bother to try to correct themselves. If there is no one to push them to tell others about the fact that I am transgender, they will not bother to push themselves to say it. My mom has had almost three months to tell my extended family about me. Despite constant reminders from me in the form of texts and calls, she doesn’t fulfill her promise to tell them while I am away. Instead, she pushes the burden onto my father. He tells them the week before Thanksgiving.

This past month, I heard someone say they don’t want others to assume they are gay. My face twists in muted disgust and offense. Why would it bother someone if they are assumed to be something that is not an insult? If they aren’t gay, they can always say that outright without any consequences, whereas if you are gay, you know deep in your heart the fear that comes with first admitting you are and the tension of waiting to know the other person’s response. You can always correct people and say that you are straight, and nothing will be said against you. When you correct someone and say you’re gay, you always have to prepare yourself for the chance that you’re about to be bombarded with hatred and assaults of various kinds.

I returned to my family the week before Thanksgiving for a weekend trip. I attend a carnival at my old middle school, wearing a hat with my name clearly spray-painted on it while parents, teachers, and students alike ignore it and call me my dead name. Even the teachers that were told about me do not comment on me being transgender, nor do they even say my name as if the subject itself terrifies them.

My uncle comes up to me and says hello without any further comment. I’m told by my dad later that my uncle was alerted about me being transgender before that day, yet he still said nothing to me about it even though it was the first time I had seen him in months – even though he knew about me; even though he must have known that I know he knows about me. My father claims my uncle will tell the rest of his family before I arrive for Thanksgiving. My only questions are if he really will and when.

I have breakfast with my partner who asks if I am nervous about Thanksgiving and my extended family's reactions. Chewing my food slowly to provide me more time to think, I answer by simply saying I think everything will go alright. I don’t tell them that if something goes wrong, I might fall down a never-ending black hole that leads to a dark place I no longer want to go back to. I don’t tell them that I expect to disappear into the bathroom that day to cry and hide from the world because I know I won’t be able to handle the pressure. I don’t tell them that, although I am eternally grateful they are joining me on my trip down to my family for Thanksgiving, it will crush me to hear my family call me something I am not and for my partner to be there to witness it.

My therapist asks me if I am nervous too. I say I am fine and that I don’t care what others will think of me. She nods, that being the only thing she fully understands, and ignores the way I hollow out as I leave her office and walk back into the real world.