MOTHER–DAUGHTER DRESSES48 | July• 2019I
am a trans woman. I would
like she/her pronouns and
my name is Hannah.”
This is the sentence my
son blurted out to me over
the phone three years ago.
Despite its bluntness, the
statement wasn’t callous or even ill-
timed. Truth be told, I had forced
the declaration. My child had called
with something important to say and
wanted to talk to my husband, Colin,
and me at the same time, but Colin
was out of town. Given that I possess
a not-insignificant panic strain in my
genetic makeup, I found myself, well,
panicking. Was my child injured? Ill?
Dying?
I conjured the thin thread of
authority I had over my then 25-year-
old and said, “No, you have to tell me
now!”
“I would rather wait,” was the
measured response.
I could feel all the saliva I pos-
sessed leaving my body for damper
pastures. I couldn’t have this matter
hanging, so I pushed and pleaded,
cajoled and begged. It was a shame-
less display – clearly, I wasn’t above
that.
After more back-and-forthing,
out it came: “I am a trans woman. I
would like she/her pronouns, and my
name is Hannah.”
I paused to take in the situation- or at least lie to myself that I was
taking it in. Then, relentlessly up-
beat, I exclaimed: “I’m so happy for
you, very happy. You know that your
father and I will support you 100 per
cent, and it’s wonderful and I’m not
super surprised and you are such
a wonderful person and we really
don’t care what you do with your life
as long as —”
Dear God, I had to find a way to
shut up. I was exhausting myself.
I’m what I call an emotional first
responder – when a loved one is shar-
ing something difficult or complex, I
put on my support cape and swoop in
to distribute accolades and platitudes
willy-nilly.Breathe, I urged myself.
Breathe.
“So, um, why ‘Hannah’?” I heard
myself ask.
There it was. Apparently my take-
away from this huge moment in my
child’s life was a name. “Hannah”
seemed to be my issue. Shallow wa-
ters run deep.
She responded to my question in a
very calm manner.
“Mum, you know how much I loved
Cheryl’s dog.”
“You are naming yourself after
Hannah the dog? Really?”
“I thought the name was soft and
pretty, and I needed my name to
be soft and pretty. Does that make
sense?”
Of course it made sense. My heart
ached with shame. I was officially a
bad person.
Because it had been a few moments
since I’d launched into a breakneck
run-on sentence, I said, “Well, if you“