My Queer Conversation With a Ninety-Year-Old

A conversation I had today reminded me yet again that age is not necessarily a good predictor of open-mindedness and compassion.

First, a bit of background. I met Luanne, a ninety-year-old woman, through a friend. This summer I am planting and maintaining Luanne's large vegetable garden and flower beds along with another friend of mine, Ana.

Today it was just me and my little boy, Jacob, weeding at the garden. Luanne opened her back door to say hello. I chatted with her for a few minutes and we both enjoyed watching Jacob crawling on the lawn. And then came the question: "Who is the baby's mother? Is it Ana?"

"No, he's my baby. Ana is my friend."

'"But who is his mother?"

"Ummm, well, my partner... well, we're a gay couple." I blurted it out and then looked at her, waiting.

"Gaaaaaaay...?"

"Yes."

"You mean, your wife is a man?"

"Yessss..." Close enough.

"So where did you get the baby from?"

I'd really been hoping she'd stop at gay. I couldn't bring myself to lie to her either though. "That's a bit complicated." I hesitated.

"Oh, I hope you don't mind my asking. It's not too personal, is it?"

"I hope you don't mind hearing the answer." I paused and looked at her. She looked back inquisitively. Ok, fine. "I'm transgender. I was born female but I transitioned to male. Have you heard of that before Luanne?"

"Well, on TV, yes, I suppose so."

"Ok, so, I took testosterone to transition, and had a chest surgery. But when my partner and I got together we decided we'd really like to have a family. We thought about adopting, but realized it might take a very long time. So, I talked to my doctors about it and asked if it would be safe for me to carry a child [I always emphasize the doctor/safety part of the story, especially around potential skeptics], and they said to stop taking the testosterone and it should be fine. I got pregnant, and had the baby. He's our biological child."

"Oh, wow, I've never heard of such a thing."

"It's a bit unusual, isn't it?"

"Well, as long as you have a baby, that's what's important."

I left the breastfeeding and milk sharing discussion for another time... And then we went back to talking about the geraniums. She didn't want white ones after all because they apparently turn brown when they get rained on. Too bad Ana probably already bought them this morning, following yesterday's instructions.

If Luanne, at ninety, born in 1922, can get all this, and simply be happy that we have a baby (and that we've pulled out an awful lot of grass and dandelions the last few days), what is anybody else's excuse?

He's Local

Sometimes I am pretty cavalier about my unusual family situation. I can find myself telling some stranger on the street, "oh, no, my partner is a man, my husband. I don't have a wife. I'm actually transgender. I birthed my baby myself, and I can even breastfeed him some. Great, isn't it?"

If I have plenty of time, and I feel safe, I'm pretty willing to explain what we've done. Most people respond very well, with mild curiosity or amusement. Sometimes though, it just isn't the right moment to get into explanations about how transgender folks give birth. One evening Jacob had just fallen asleep in a coffee shop and we needed to get going when somebody asked us if we used a surrogate. Neither Ian nor I like to lie about anything, so we kind of mumbled something confusing yet agreeable and walked away. "Ah, yes, isn't it wonderful that people can do that nowadays? Well, we have to go!"

On another occasion we were eating at our favourite restaurant in Winnipeg, a small, family-run Ethiopian joint downtown. We had our wedding dinner there, and we love the friendly staff. However, communication is a considerable challenge due to the language barrier. I thought I'd booked the dinner only to find out a week before our wedding that the restaurant had no record of the event. Luckily, they hadn't booked anything else either, so I simply booked again, this time in person. The actual day went well except for that there had been a misunderstanding over the number of guests, and there weren't enough chairs for everyone. Then the restaurant Momma forgot to include samosas on our bill and we didn't notice either. Weeks later, she mentioned it to us while her son pleaded with her to forget about it. We apologized and paid for what we'd had.

So, after all this, Ian and I both instinctively felt that there was no way we could successfully explain the origin of our child, even though I'm sure the well-meaning restaurant owner would have been delighted to hear all about it. She cooed over Jacob for a good five minutes. Then she asked, "So, you get him in Canada, then? Or international?"

She was assuming that Jacob was adopted. Ian responded quickly, saying, "yes, he is a local Winnipeg boy!"

The restaurant Momma approved heartily. "Very good, very good," she said. "Have a good night! See you again soon!"

I vowed that the next time I saw her son with his much better grasp of English, I'd explain everything to him and ask him to tell his mother in their language.