A Girl Named Parker

Over morning coffee I read a newspaper article about a couple who bought an oceanfront property in France. It seems the shells on their new beach were rather boring. So the wife/mother had a servant go out every day to place dazzling seashells along the route she’d later walk with her children.

I almost did a spit take. But as ridiculous as that shell game sounds, I do understand a mother’s desire to see her babies happy. It’s a desire hardwired to our hearts.

If I had the power to rig the outside world so that my kid might find unexpected treasures in surprising places I wouldn’t plant mother-of-pearl or conch, I’d seed Parker's path with kind words and smiles, because she is often the recipient of the opposite.

When Parker was in grade nine, a latticework of scratches appeared on her left forearm one day. It was a self-inflicted crisscross pattern embellished with swirls and letters: FU. When I asked her about it, she shrugged it off, then gave me a glimpse of deeper cuts hidden beneath t-shirt sleeves: older horizontal scars that had turned white, surrounded by fresher cuts, red as raw meat.

The sight hit me like a bolt of emotional lightning. I could hardly breathe.

The next day I made an appointment with our doctor, who ended up prescribing ointment for the cuts and that was all. The day after that, I sat in the fluorescent-lit office of the school's social worker. She informed me that October is when sadness overtakes many high school students:“Honeymoon’s over. Hard work begins. Last hint of summer disappears.”

She talked in bullet points and handed me a book about cutting. I leafed through it while she talked. It had cartoony illustrations and a prayer on the back. Proudly, she informed me that when the stress gets too much for her students, she tells them: “Breathe deep. Think positive. Go for a walk.”

Parker followed at least one of her bullets: with highest stress times occurring during school hours, my complicated child regularly took walks instead of going to class. As a result, I'd get phone calls in the evening, a recorded voice telling me what I already knew: “The following student was absent today…”

Casual as fallen leaves outside her window, Bandaid wrappers littered Parker’s bedroom floor. Regularly, I swept them up. One day I took a discarded bandage out of the wastebasket and stared at the line of blood that marked the gauze. It seemed an encrypted message meant specially for me. But I didn’t know how to decipher it.

Vermillion lips kissed my cheek, emerald eyelids closed on a glistening tear, and I hadn’t guessed that the cosmetics meant anything more than a fashion statement/teenage rebellion/rock star emulation. David Bowie, Lou Reed, Marc Bolan. And despite the makeup, Parker still slouched around in tees and jeans and stuck with her birth-assigned pronouns.

By Christmas, I had a pretty good idea of who she was and I bought her a dress, her first. After the holidays she started a new school. Canada’s only 2SLGBTQ+ high school is - remarkably - just down the road from us. It’s an alternative school devoted to letting the uniqueness of each student shine through.

On her first day, she wore the dress, a lime-green frock that set off her ginger curls. I watched from my window as with every swish of her hem she stepped more wholly into who she really was and is and always has been.

Right then and there I invented the Magic Sparkle Bubble Kiss: a kiss blown at someone that surrounds them with a bubble of golden light or silver sparkles or whatever else you imagine representing love and protection.

I sent many to her on that inaugural walk. And I watched until that sweet vulnerable wisp of youthful innocence disappeared into the snowy distance. But I understood then that kisses alone would not protect her. Magic doesn't happen all by itself or with a few sparkly incantations or hopeful prayers.

By spring I was wielding my pen in aid of the cause. It would be the first of many writings devoted to shedding light on the issues Parker and her community face -

Dear Neighbour,

My daughter’s name is Parker. That’s her name. Her name is not some transphobic slur you choose to yell as she walks by your house on her way to school.

You will not be seeing her these days, as she has refused to come out of her room since some particularly nasty taunts you slung from your porch. Was that your intention? That she not venture out into the world, not go to school, not enjoy the sights and sounds and fragrances of the world as you do?

If so, then I have to wonder why. She isn’t hurting you or anyone else by being her authentic self. But you are hurting her. Do a little research to understand the full impact you and other haters have on trans folks. And if you’re at all curious as to what can change some of those dismal statistics, it is acceptance.

Signed,

The Mother of a Girl Named Parker

Awake in the wee hours with our cat to keep me company I composed a list: “Things to Help Parker Flourish”. For it seemed we were living in a world that didn't want her to blossom like other kids her age. But, aside from my love and support, nothing I listed was affordable - not a piano, not a studio, not the private island where we could live away from hate.

Then, our next door neighbour gave us a keyboard he no longer wanted. Soon after, a friend of a friend gave us a dog she couldn't keep. Music and puppies are guaranteed to encourage flourishing and loving and grounding. Inspired by this generosity I sought out an underused storage room in our apartment building, opened it up to the light, then got permission to turn it into a studio where Parker and her friends (and others) could play music.

When Parker ventured out of her room to go back to school, she told me that the slur-slinging neighbour was no longer on her stoop as she'd pass by. Maybe it was the weather that kept her indoors or some other reason, but I couldn’t help wondering if my letter had brought about that change. That thought led to the birth of a newsletter, a wholly positive publication with LGBTQ+ info, tips, resources. Presented with an intent to foster understanding, I began my first edition with this:

“To understand you have to go beyond a desire to have the world’s complexities explained to you in a paint-by-numbers way. There is no understanding-by-numbers with some things, in fact, most things. Don’t think too hard about why transgender people are transgender. Trans people are, just as cisgender people are. Just as we all are. Don’t jump to conclusions; rather, take a leap of faith. Facilitate that leap by listening to trans folk, reading their books and blogs, watching their youtube testimonies.”

I called this little sheet the "Magic Sparkle Bubble Kiss". The first edition included a Glossary of Terms from GLAAD, a Guide to Being an Ally, an ISO for a drum kit for our studio, a list of trans people in history and a link to Lana Wachowski’s HRC speech. The newsletter concluded with a quote by Langston Hughes: “Help me to shatter this darkness, to smash this night, to break this shadow, into a thousand lights of sun, into a thousand whirling dreams of sun!”

Approaching her life in entirely unique ways, brilliant and wholly her own, Parker began to thrive and excel in her music and other studies. She tested as gifted and she got a part time job. She entered into a relationship with a loving partner. We stopped buying Bandaids and we rejoiced when Bill C-16 was passed, giving Gender Identity protection under the Canadian Human Rights Code.

Yet, with anti-trans hatred on the rise, Parker continues to lead a guarded life, with some days spent in despair. But we are constantly reminded to keep fighting the good fight - until we shatter this darkness into a thousand whirling dreams of sun.

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Thanks for reading.