Wearing a Skirt to Summer Camp
Clothes don’t have a gender
My daughter asked me one day when she was eleven if she could wear eyeliner, and so I got some eyeliner and she experimented with it. She proudly wore it to church that day while she served at the altar. Nobody had seen her in eyeliner before and she wanted everyone to see it.
She decided she wanted to wear other makeup, so I bought that and she liked wearing it, so she continued to do so. One day she wanted to try on a skirt, and then a dress, and then a girls t-shirt to see how they felt.
The day came, not long after that, where she asked if she could wear a skirt to summer camp.
“Sure, but I’d take a pair of jeans just in case you change your mind. You look really good in it, though.”
So she put on the skirt, skipped merrily out the front door to the car, and she wore it to summer camp.
I got a phone call from the camp director, because of course I did. She was not happy that I’d let my daughter wear a skirt, and the problem with it was that for the first twelve years of life, my daughter had been known as my son, and boys don’t wear skirts. At least, not according to the camp director.
“They aren’t a boy,” I said. “But even if they were a boy, it’s just a skirt.”
The day that everything changed forever was the day she wore a skirt to summer camp. She was “out” and there was no going back.
“What do you think?” the lady shopping in the Goodwill asked me. “Are these boy pants or girl pants?” I don’t know why she had asked me, I guess since I was browsing in the same section. She certainly got an answer she wasn’t looking for.
“I don’t know,” I said. “It depends on who is wearing the pants. Are they for a girl, or a boy, or a child with another gender?”
“I meant are these pants for a girl or a boy,” she said “I didn’t want some woke agenda.”
“Clothes don’t have a gender,” I replied, entirely disinterested in her dilemma.
The woman stormed off to ask somebody else, which was probably a good thing, as I was there specifically to find LulaRoe leggings for my son. He has sensory processing issues and hated most clothes, but these leggings fit just right. I had finally found pants he would wear without too much complaining.
My youngest daughter and I were snuggled up in bed, she had come in for a hug and to chat.
“Mom, when are they going to realize they are a girl?” she asked me.
“They will figure it out when they are ready.”
“So you think she’s a girl, too?”
“Yes, but it’s something they have to figure out for themselves. Nobody can do this for them.”
In another shopping trip to Goodwill several months later, I took my kids with me, as they all needed more clothes, and as a disabled single mother, I always tried the thrift stores first.
My youngest daughter had chosen some things, as had my son, but this child was looking around, unsure of themselves.
And then, right there, in the middle of the Goodwill, came the bombshell I had been waiting for.
“By the way, mom, I’m not a boy, and I’m not non-binary, I’m a girl.”
“I know,” I said. “What pronouns do you want to use?”
“She/her” my daughter said.
“Have you chosen a name you like, or do you want to keep the one you have?” Her birth name was unisex, at least her first name was.
“I really like Emily,” she said. “I want to try that.”/
Emily wasn’t a name I liked, and definitely not what I would have chosen, but at the same time, it actually suited her, and I would honor her choice regardless. She’s been Emily ever since.
We officially let the cat out of the bag by posting a thirty second video introducing her to the world with her new name on Facebook. The responses were mixed. Neither of us expected it to be any different.
Her father struggled with the idea, but said that he loved her and would support her even though he had always been taught it was wrong to be transgender. He used her name and respected her as a young woman.
Her grandparents threw a fit.
“I can’t call him a girl and play pretend. You need to get him off of social media and make him read his Bible. The Bible says that being transgender is a sin.”
“I don’t see anywhere in the Bible where being transgender is a sin,” I responded, “but I do see places in the Bible where Jesus calls out the assholes.”
Her aunts and uncles have gotten on board, even though they aren’t particularly comfortable with this. The grandparents, however, still hold out, and refuse to respect her as Emily. It’s a shame, because Emily doesn’t see her grandparents anymore, by her own choice which I support and would have done anyway.
Some parents of transgender children say they struggle with a new name and pronouns. That was not part of my experience because deep down I already knew, and I think I misgendered her accidentally one time since she came out. Her being a girl had been totally obvious, and so perhaps that made it easier for me.
There are parents that also grieve, that was also not my experience because I was glad she was now free to be who she had been all along. From what I understand, my experiences with this aren’t the norm.
I was, however, scared. Scared because I knew how transgender people are treated, scared because I knew violence towards trans women in particular is bad, scared because I was and am worried she will lose access to gender affirming healthcare, because after all, this is Mississippi.
I love her, and am incredibly proud of her.
Her public social transition began the day she wore a skirt to summer camp.
If you liked this story, you might like to try one of my other memoir pieces:
