My Mum is Trans
Anyone who even vaguely pays attention to the news recently, knows how badly transgender people are being targeted. With rights on multiple continents being stripped away as if they never existed, and trans people being demonised simply because the right wing believe there always has to be an “’us’ and ‘them’” fight, no matter how vulnerable “they” are.
Trans women are usually the focus of a lot of hate in the media, and are being delegitimised, constantly, for many things, which I find abhorrent.
One of the more absurd things I remember seeing, was a specific tweet by some extreme right wing person, claiming that trans women could never be “real women”, or “mothers” because they don’t understand what it “truly takes”, to be a woman. You know, running the kids around, budgeting household money, putting a washing load on etc.
It made me angry. My Mum is transgender, and I truly don’t think many people have any concept of how supremely ‘normal’ our life is, regardless of that one detail. Bad word choice using normal, I know, but I want to try to explain what I mean, but this time, instead from a cis child’s perspective.
My Mum always wanted to have a family. From being very young, it was the one thing she knew that she wanted out of life. She took home economics and child development classes as a teenager in a British high school in the 90s. She babysat for years as a teen, while all her friends were off partying, and she helped her mum run a childminding business. She always wanted children, and always wanted to be a parent.
She and I have always been close. Even before she transitioned, we were always together. I have memories as a kid of us lagging behind the rest of our family on long walks so we could talk more, and be silly together. She was always my first choice when going for bike rides, and our bond has always been very strong. She was my best friend, even when she wasn’t happy, but she would have never intentionally let me see it, though.
She came out to me when I was 6. I had noticed, I think, that she wasn’t happy somehow, but I didn’t understand why. When she came out, she sat me down, and said this to me. “Imagine you woke up one day, and you looked like a boy. You went to school and had to wear a boy’s uniform, and the friends you wanted to play with didn’t want to hang around with you any more, not even recognising you. You had to sit and play with people you could not understand. What if the teacher called you by a different name, and used he, instead of her. What if you were not allowed to play the sports that you loved, and had to play rugby, and football, but despite all this, you knew your name was Cerys, and you knew you were a girl. What would you want to do?” I answered with the only reply that made sense;
“Well, I’d want to fix it”.
She let a large, relieved smile spill out across her face, as she relaxed.
“That’s all I’m doing,” she said, “I’m fixing it”. I was content in the knowledge that she was going to fix what was making her unhappy.
Our bond and the activities we did together stayed the same, but she let herself change over time, becoming happier and more vibrant than I’d ever seen her be before. She was still happy to stick her head underneath a bonnet and play with turbos that shouldn’t be there (an old joke), or fiddle with woodwork she was adamant she hated, but somehow always found her way back to. She was still her, but happier, less depressed, and began enjoying life properly for the first time.
She did school runs all my life, made our packed lunches, was always the first one to react when either me or my brother had injured ourselves/needed help, did all the housework, and never failed to turn around and give us attention when we wanted/needed it. Basic things, sure, but it’s some things our cis Mum not only failed to do, but often outright refused to do.
My trans Mum, became a single Mum when I was 13, when my cis Mum ditched us for a “better life”. Fending off attacks that they were sending with the help of my Mum’s own transphobic parent. She remained honest with me about what was happening throughout all of it, and while she struggled, she never faltered. She did everything in her power to keep us safe, and with a roof over our head.
She held down multiple jobs when we were struggling, never once making me or my brother feel like it was something we had to be burdened with fixing ourselves. When we were really struggling, she went without food, regularly telling us that she’d “eaten earlier”, or she “just wasn’t that hungry”, while making sure me and my brother got three meals, every day, without fail.
She went without new clothing for years, often going out in shoes that were hanging on by mere threads, and in cold winters without a coat, trying to pretend she wasn’t shivering. While making sure that any extra money we had spare (when that rare occurrence happened), went towards making sure me and my brother had what we needed. It has taken me years to get her to unlearn that behaviour. Teaching her to realise we’re okay now, and that she can buy herself something new and warm, and that it’s okay to spend money on herself.
There was a specific time we were out shopping, in one of these cold winters, roughly around December. Ice on every surface, and snow was predicted, if it hadn’t already happened. I think I was about 16, and my brother and I were wrapped up in thick, warm coats that she’d recently bought brand new for us, all while she was wearing a thin top, and an even thinner cardigan.
While she shivered, we passed by a shop as we were trying to convince her to buy herself something. She eagerly protested that she’d be fine without one. Thankfully, we were successful, pointing out that we had only been out of the car for about 20 minutes, and her hands were going numb with cold. We couldn’t convince her to buy herself new shoes at the same time, but she did get herself a lovely, thick, yellow coat that day.
All while this was happening, her health was declining. She ended up in a wheelchair eventually, and her health conditions getting worse meant that she couldn’t breathe well enough to be able to walk more than a few steps at a time. Very often, she collapsed if she pushed herself too far. She was in a wheelchair in the story I’ve just told about the yellow coat.
Throughout all of this she remained happy, smiley, giggly, and silly, just as she’d always been, all while carrying the world on her shoulders, and protecting us from it.
I’m 25 in less than a week, and she is still my best friend. I still hang back when walking with her, to talk and act silly together. We now both spend our time doing DIY, water sports, and various other hobbies we enjoy doing together. We can spend hours talking the world into making sense, and her presence is comforting. She’s my Mum.
She washed, cleaned, drove us about, made us food, did the shopping, bought, washed, and ironed clothes, did packed lunches, did the school run, ironed curtains, scrubbed carpets, budgeted to keep us safe, and protected us from anything. She was given a chance to be the Mum she knew she was, and she took it. Given cis Mum vanished when I was 13, I’d say I’m lucky to have had the Mum I have now. What the heck does it matter, if she’s trans?
Tweets like the one above are based on outdated gender norms, for sure, but if that’s the stick cis gender-critical women are going to beat trans women with, well they are going to need to up their game. Because my cis mum failed, and left, while the person who filled her shoes perfectly, is trans.
I remember the first time I called her Mum. The cis Mum, being as transphobic as they were, didn’t like the idea of her being given the title ‘Mum’, and fought against it at every turn. Didn’t even budge at us using a variant of the word instead. She insisted that divine biology meant she had an innate right to the title, despite not being interested in parenting.
The protests didn’t work with me, though, because at 12 I just defiantly started calling both of them by their first names instead. It didn’t feel fair to me that the woman who has gone above and beyond for me throughout my life wasn’t ‘allowed’ any recognition for it. While the cis Mum who did the bare minimum got to latch onto the word, as if she owned it.
The first time I called my Mum, Mum; I was about 14-15, and we were in a McDonald’s drive through, and the lady at the window was trying to get her attention, and without thinking, my first instinct was to use the word. The pure shock and joy in her eyes is something I will never forget, and thinking about it brings tears to my eyes even now. It was natural. She’s my Mum, and she always has been, even when she didn’t have the title.
Trans women are not only capable of being mothers, but some (just like cis women) are born to be. In my case, she was always my Mum, even before I gave her the title, and she has that title because she deserves it. She stayed, she fought, she cared (she did the bloody washing), she put her kids first in everything, and made sure she was victorious in every fight to protect us. Just like any mother should.
The media is outright lying to you. There is nothing different about my Mum, and the Mum that lives next door to us. Certain extremists who have no idea what they’re talking about would love to have you convinced otherwise. But regardless of what the internet, the media, the governments of any country, or even the comments and replies to this very article say; my Mum is my Mum, and I wouldn’t change her for the world.
She’s perfect, she’s transgender, and she’s mine.
A Wipe Out Transphobia Member Article
Written and submitted by Cerys Bailey
