READER’S DIGEST
July• 2019 | 51At some point, the conversation
moved into more familiar topics: her
work and social life, Japanese films.
It was as if nothing had changed. And
nothing had, really. It had always
been the three of us, our tight little
unit, and today was no different. We
ate her favourite meal and then our
lovely daughter went home to her
apartment.
Since that day, we have sometimes
slipped up on pronouns, and she has
always patiently, gently corrected us.
We’ve gone out in public, and people
have been mostly supportive, but
there have been looks. Stares. Our
daughter says she’s often fine with
that – people are just trying to figure
her out.
She’s a more generous soul than
me.
As time passed, I realised that I was
somehow still stuck on the name.
“Hannah” was lovely, yes, but not
nearly unique or powerful enough for
my girl. But I knew I had to let it go.
Then, in a surprise turn of events,
our daughter told us that many trans
people come out using a name they
don’t end up keeping. She said she
had been thinking about it and she
wanted a new name and would love
for us to be part of that process. She
asked us to pitch names from our
Scottish and Irish backgrounds.
I was elated and set to the task as
soon as she was out of our sight.
What a glorious privilege to get to
help name her! I know it sounds silly,
but it was like she was being born all
over again.
After copious research, Colin
and I presented our daughter with
40 names. She decided on Kinley,
from the Irish side. Kin for short. It
fits her. It belongs to her.
What is more difficult is figuring
out how to move through the world
such as it is. One day a year or so ago,
Kinley and I were at a local fair. As we
passed by a woman and her 20-some-
thing daughter, they shot a look of
such hate and disgust that it left me
breathless. The object of their ire was
Kinley. The daughter, mouth agape,
had exclaimed, “There’s a transves-
tite!” and the mother then wheeled
around to spew, “Where is it?”
“It .”
She said “it’. I was gutted.
The younger woman circled my
daughter, looking her up and down.
We were stunned, frozen in place. As
she walked away, I stumbled over to
her on legs suddenly made of rubber.
Circling her the same way she had
circled Kinley, I looked her up and
down, then moved close to her face,
uttered “uh-huh” and stalked away.
In an attempt to recover, I said
to Kinley, “This must make you so
a ng r y.”
Her reply: “Mum, I can’t afford to
be angry. I just get frightened.”
Frightened for just living her life.
Frightened for existing.
I came home and, weeping, told
Colin what had taken place. But after