In my late twenties my best friend and I were so desperate to hit the snowfields we decided to drive up to Mt Hotham in my hatchback for a weekend trip. We folded the back seats to fit our snowboards in, stocked up on chocolate bars and started the 6-hour drive after work one Friday afternoon. We had been up the mountain many times but neither of us had driven. I was feeling confident so offered to drive. We stayed off the mountain in a beautifully picturesque town that looks like a living oil painting. We had a blast and quenched our snow thirst after two days of snowboarding. Towards the end of the second day, feeling a little sore and tired, we noticed the weather starting to change and decided to start the long journey home.
The weather changes quickly at 1800 metres and by the time we completed our last run, changed into dry warm clothes and joined the queue to descend the mountain, we found ourselves in the middle of a white-out. While it was fascinating and a bit troubling being blinded by a blanket of white, not being able to see the bonnet of the car much less the horizon, what was more fascinating (in hindsight of course) was our starkly different reactions to the situation. In this moment of intense stress and fear, my friend could not stop talking; about everything and anything. I do not remember exactly what she was saying only that she was verbalising a never-ending stream of consciousness. My response was the complete opposite, I retreated to the safety and comfort of ‘silence’, using every joule of energy I had to focus on surviving. My car slid, fishtailed and at one point spun 360 degrees with my knuckles white from a futile attempt to control the car with the steering wheel and all to the melodic tune of my best friend’s verbal torrent.
I had not thought of that day until I recently recognised a similar repetition of the whiteout disparity of responses. It was during another meeting with my child’s school principal and the pastoral care officer from the Catholic Schools Office. What spun them into a fishtail causing the principal to white-knuckle her computer and the pastoral care officer to suffer logorrhoea? I explained to them my child is gender fluid, not transgender as previously thought. I felt the same intense discomfort and raw fear that I experienced sitting next to my friend as my car was spinning in circles. While the principal said very little and steadied her head with her tightly clenched hands to her chin, the pastoral care officer expressed concern for the other children in terms of toileting, preserving their ‘right’ to run with their (assumed) same-gendered peers, not disrupting ‘what has always been’ (binary athletics events, toilets, notions of gender), managing how the other parents and children may feel and respond to this development and staunchly defending her idea that the school had “met the needs” of my child once already with the inference that we have somehow acted dishonestly and changed the rules. What became blindingly obvious was the lack of consideration for my child.
The meeting concluded with the plan for several more in-depth meetings to carefully and critically map out ‘steps forward’ to ensure everyone is comfortable. Basically, how can we limit the impact of this on others? My child just wanted to let her teacher and friend’s parents know so they could talk to her friends enabling her to just ‘be’. Despite the requests to wait, to forward a draft copy of the letter to the principal first, to not let anyone know until a detailed plan was put in place, to seek further psychological support for my child to determine what has to be done about this new development, despite all of that, I decided to follow my intuition and my child’s request.
I penned a letter to her friend’s parents and sent it. After the overwhelming support and love that was returned back to us, I let the school know. The parents happily spoke to their children who responded with comments like, “yeah, I know mum, I knew them from pre-school”, “I thought she was a girl on the first day of school but now I know she is a boy too”, “[my child] always speaks of [them] in a kind and gentle manner and values their friendship”, and “I just love [them], I don’t care if [they] are a boy or a girl”. The parents responded with comments like, “you have our full support each and every day”, “like every human who comes across our path, respect and kindness will always be at the forefront”, and “thank you for your clarity, bravery and love. It is often more about us adults learning”, “thank you for including us on your journey so we may learn and grow with you, as friends do” and “kids are so understanding. It is lovely to meet you. We would love to support you in your amazing journey of self-discovery”.
As my friend and I drove (at a snail’s pace) down the mountain on that frightful day, I noticed the car behind us. The driver kept at a distance which allowed me to steadily roll down free from the pressure of the many cars backed up behind us. Once we had escaped the weather cloud I pulled over and the driver behind followed. I got out of my car to apologise and was met with some comforting words, “that was a bit hairy, are you ok? Do you need a warm drink because we have one in the car?” I was shocked and grateful for the kindness of this stranger who also helped remove the wheel chains and then proceeded to follow us down the mountain.
Similarly, the kindness offered to us by my child’s friends was gratefully received and has helped negate the fear and discomfort of the white-out meeting. The families in our school community have nourished us with warm drinks and willingly travel with us as we try to find our way and for that, I am both grateful and optimistic for future generations of gender-diverse children.
Leave a Reply