My Dad, Eileen

When I was 16 years old, a sophomore in high school, my mom sat me down at the dinner table to talk. It was the middle of September, my brother was at work, mom and I were starting dinner, and dad was out of town.

“What do you know about Transgenders?” she started the conversation with that question.

“My friend Livvy is trans. She started high school as Ivan.” That was about all I knew. I was confused as to why she was asking me this. My first thought went to my brothers. Had I missed something? Patrick did always take longer on his hair than I did….

Mom took a deep breath, she was shaking a little. I got nervous. My dog came over and started to nuzzle my hand.

“Well, you know your father has been having…difficulties, while y’all grew up. And part of the reason he has been acting out the way he has your whole life is because he has been suppressing who he really is… A woman.”

“I thought dad acted out because the catholic priest raped him growing up?”

“That’s part of it, yes. But your dad has been very confused his whole life. He feels like a woman on the inside.”

“Oh. So I have to start calling him, “her”?”

“At your own pace. He loves you and your brothers very much, and wants you to be happy no matter what. But he can’t live as a boy anymore.”

“So, when he was in the hospital for attempting suicide again, it was because he, I mean she, was miserable as a boy?”

“Yes.”

I still remember everything about my mom telling me how my dad was transgender. After our conversation, she called my dad, who was actually at a hotel hiding, to let her know how it went and that I was willing to help her with her make up. Apparently my brothers and I all had the same reactions, as long as she stayed our dad we didn’t really care what she wore. As it turns out, there was more to it than that.

My initial reaction to finding out about my father was, I want her to be happy. Maybe if she starts living as a woman, she’ll start being happy and involved in our lives. Dad had always been incredibly withdrawn. There was no mistaking her love for my mother, and my siblings and I, but she battled her own demons. And those demons took my father away from me a lot.

I still remember the first time I saw dad dressed. She was wearing a golden blonde wig. Her eye make up was dark and heavy. She wore a pink lipstick that was not her shade at all. A loose white blouse, and a plaid knee length skirt, with black flats. I felt my heart pounding away as I got shaky. There was a stranger standing in my kitchen. But I smiled and hugged her. I just wanted my father, and if this is how I got that, then so be it.

I took my dad shopping for clothes, jewelry, and shoes. I helped her do her make up. I helped her do her hair. I was trying to be the supportive perfect daughter. But I was losing my father. A common misconception about transgenders is that they’re the only ones transitioning. But all I had heard about being trans was that it was incredibly hard for that individual. So I buried my own insecurities.

I would tell my friends about my dad only when necessary. And I would tell them in a similar fashion as my mother told me. I have yet to get a negative reaction to it all. But the most popular question, “How’s your mom dealing with it all?” Well, when mom was finally able to come to terms about this is how it was, and after a complete meltdown from me about them possibly separating, she responded with, “She was my best friend before we were married. She’s still my best friend. I can’t imagine my life without her.”

They had decided to wait until I finished high school and moved out of the house before making any decisions about possibly separating, but in those years of me staying at home, mom realized that she couldn’t live without my father, which is why they got married in the first place.

My mother was a saint through it all. She never let dad leave the house in anything inappropriate, and she set boundaries. Something we quickly learned about people transitioning, they go through all the developmental stages they missed very quickly. Dad started dressing like a little girl, then very quickly as a teenage girl. I had a

hard time with this. Then while on hormones, my father was essentially a teenage girl. At the same time, I was also going through my teenage years. While my father was discovering her new identity, I was still trying to find my own identity.

And you don’t know the meaning of awkward until you and your father’s hormone cycles sync up. Mom always made sure there was plenty of chocolate and went to movies by herself quite a bit. Bless her heart.

After the initial anger of the whole situation finally dissipated, we realized there was really only one way to handle the whole situation. We had to have a sense of humor about it all. My father is a six foot-four inch woman with broad shoulders and a square jaw who wears short skirts and heels. She’s far more feminine than my mother and I. My friends would gush over her purses, before realizing what they said, thinking they had crossed a line. When coming home from a trip, and seeing his pick-up truck parked sideways, Patrick asked if mom had driven his truck. When I mentioned it was dad, he yelled about dad driving in heels. And I never, in my 16 years, thought dad would have newer equipment then me.

While there were plenty of laughs, there was also lots of anger and tears. Eileen had never gone through the typical stages that girls go through as they become women. Dad would often demand to know if she would have looked cuter in my clothes then I did. In one instance, she had gotten a beautiful gold gown for an event that she was attending in New Orleans. She wanted to know what I would look like in it. To her it was completely innocent, to me it was crossing boundaries. But again, I just wanted to make her happy; I wanted my father to know she was loved and accepted. She would buy me over-the-top feminine clothing, that just wasn’t my style, and she would want to get our nails done together. Well the nail salon was always for my mom and me. So sharing that with my dad was confusing. And I still never felt very comfortable with it. My father had become my sister, instead of my parent. As all this was going on, I realized something. While I was trying to help my father discover her own identity, I had stopped forming my own.

There is much more to this story, so I will be continuing updates to this blog. For questions or comments, email me at: mcmonte1@buffs.wtamu.edu.