I’m feeling quite elated at the moment; I seem to have successfully persuaded my mother (by means of that rather lengthy auto–biographical memoir I wrote last week) to accept the fact of my transgenderism.
I had been dreading her phone call for days, but it finally came this afternoon: “I got your letter,” she told me. “It was very well written; actually pretty entertaining. And I think you actually raised quite a few good points.”
Prior to this time, she had only grudgingly acknowledged the possibility of what I was going through, and always took pains to insist that I had ‘never seemed particularly feminine’ to her, and insinuate that I was wrong for only consulting one therapist. I think I addressed these concerns quite satisfactorily, though, so she didn’t raise them at all this time. In fact, the one bone that she had left to pick with me was that of my name.
“I don’t think I can ever call you ‘Jaime:'” she told me “that’s what we called you when you were, like, four years old.”
I agreed that I personally didn’t much care for it, but that it was the best in a bad bunch of feminine cognates for James.
She made the cringworthy suggestion of “Jamez” (“you know, with a ‘z'”), which I politely rebuffed. I need a better name.
All that remains now is to bring my father onside; mom informed me that he has not yet read my letter, but that he will probably have time during the next week or so. I anticipate that he will be a much tougher nut to crack; I also expect that he, being a meritocrat, will be more persuaded by my five-year plan than by my memoirs.
In any case, I cannot stress just how happy this makes me. I regard estrangement from my family as being the only thing that I truly regret about coming out; and the fear of hurting my parents was causing me a great deal of anxiety about my transition. But if I can lay these things to rest, I can move confidently on with my life.