What It’s Like to Transition in a Small Town

Amond Paul is a single father of two young girls who describes his parenting style as reminiscent of those 90s television, go-with-the-flow-type of dads like Tony Micelli and Danny Tanner. He cooks meals for his family from the vegetable garden that blooms behind the fence that he built with his ex-husband. The last time I interviewed Amond was 2011 when I worked for an arts-based nonprofit and he taught creative workshops for kids. We both had long hair and deep secrets back then.

Today, we sit together in his house on the Northside of Fredericton, New Brunswick. Fredericton is not exactly rural, but the city with a population hovering just over 55,000 is still struggling with LGBTQ rights. The floor of Amond's family room is decorated with baskets, stuffed animals, puzzles, and an assortment of toys. He is a textile artist, and I admire the half-human, half-unicorn doll that sits, in progress, on a nearby bookshelf. As I press record on my phone for the interview, Amond excuses himself to heat up a bottle for his youngest daughter, River, who is 18 months old. She is teething—a painful experience for any baby, but made especially so, in her case, due to a recent cleft palate repair surgery. River has Down syndrome and was born with a cleft lip and palate and heart defects. Although she can't walk, due to hypotonia, River's eyes follow her Pops everywhere. That's what his daughters call Amond: Pops. Periodically, River crawls toward the fountain that is concealed by plants. She rocks back and forth to the soothing waterfall sounds.

Amond returns and scoops up River for her feeding. I start to ask him about being a trans parent of two young kids when his other daughter, L., age 6, tiptoes into the room.

"Pops?" she asks. "Can you get Angry Birds playing on the computer?"

The interruptions are so incredibly regular that I forget that I'm here to tell a story about difference. Maybe that's not the real reason I'm here. As a trans person, I often feel like I'm living in two worlds at once. To the people who meet me for the first time I'm free to be myself. This self. For those who knew me before transitioning, their memory of my old form haunts our interactions. It's easier to learn than unlearn, I remind myself to justify insensitivities. But when you come out as trans with young kids—not babies or adult children—the unlearning and learning blend together. New memories eventually outpace old knowing, or at least that's a hunch I have. That's why I put myself at the centre of Amond's safe circle with his kids.

River's bottle has a slender tube attached to the nipple; it makes drinking easier. As Amond dotes about his kitchen, apologizing for dirty dishes while heating up her second bottle, he tells me about his own childhood. He was born and raised in rural southwest Ontario, on the Thames River. As a child, Amond attended a Catholic school, although he mentions that only his father was a devout Roman Catholic. Given the recent statements from Pope Francis about trans people, I imagine his relationship with his family is strained.

"They love me, they just don't understand what to do about [my transition]."

Amond says he's always felt male from a young age despite having identified as agender or gender fluid for most of his adult life. In the 90s, when Amond was coming of age, the plethora of terms for gender identities and sexualities didn't exist. Nevertheless, his relationship to gender was complex.

"I've been out as queer forever, I feel like I've never ever been in. What I mean is anyone who has known me for years has seen my man come out. In 2010, when I was pregnant the first time, my doula was sitting there and she remembers me saying: 'I understand I'm growing this baby and everything, but I'm a man.' Sometimes you blurt out truths when you're pregnant."

Amond places River in a cloth carrier, snug to his chest, and reclines over a bolster on the floor. As the bottle cools on the coffee table, he explains how painful it's been to experience distance from his otherwise supportive family. Over the past six months, he's asked his family to use male pronouns. They haven't yet. Just this week, he changed his name. They've also made it known that they're not ready to use that. He chose the name Amond because that's what his mother had intended to call him if he was assigned male at birth.

"I thought the name choice might help her tune into the place where she was talking to that baby, Amond Paul, inside of her. I thought it would help my father flashback to how he'd lovingly place me on the bathroom counter, as a young child, and I'd pretend to shave my face alongside him."

I wonder: Is it still unlearning if that's how it's always been?

About two years ago, when he was pregnant with River, Amond asked people to use gender-neutral pronouns (they/them/theirs) when addressing him.

"This was an easier way for me to step into transition. After she was born, I was on a plane every week, for five months, travelling to the hospital. I wanted the attention to be on my child who needed assistance, not on me, or the fact that my ID didn't line up. I was androgynous and I was fine with the passing privilege that came along with being a cis, white woman during that time."

After months of care, River was finally ready for her cleft palate repair surgery. Amond was also ready to transition into his forever identity as a trans man. He recalls the hospital staff having a difficult time adapting. Every morning, he'd take a sharpie marker to the whiteboard in his daughter's hospital room. In careful print, he'd scrawl his name, pronouns, and parenting name: Pops.

River's doctor rolled with Amond's transition and kept an open mind, but despite Amond's efforts, most of the hospital staff misgendered him intentionally. They asked inappropriate questions about his ability to birth more kids. They refused to use his name, instead citing a nonexistent hospital policy about having to address people by the name on their birth certificate. Amond wanted to fight back, but more than that he wanted to be present and energized for River.

"I was dealing with enough at the hospital with my sick child. As soon as someone threw in transphobia it was like they lopped off a limb as I was trying to carry my child to safety."

In addition to ignorance and transphobia, Amond believes a lot of the reticence to accept his gender identity from the hospital staff, and world at large, exists because of how we view fathers' roles.

"When I'm by myself, I often pass [as male]. When my children are with me, I'm mommed and ma'amed. This means society doesn't see men as capable of physically nurturing their kids. It's true, in my travels, I don't see a lot of men carrying their kids."

Parenting small children is a physical task, especially for Amond because of River's inability to walk. At any moment, he may need to carry her. As a result, Amond must put his desire for both top and bottom surgeries on hold for at least two years. Gender dysphoria is a daily struggle for Amond but he doesn't have many safe places to express this pain. Given the stigma attached the mental health diagnoses, he doesn't want people to use his dysphoria against him to question his ability to parent.

"I stopped researching gender-confirming surgeries. I'm shocked every single time when I get out of the shower and realize I don't have a penis. It's like phantom limb syndrome. When I go to bed and my kids are sleeping the wave of dysphoria just takes over. I feel like I don't have a place in society. Those are the times when I remember the hatred directed toward me and the futility kicks in."

L. is Amond's six year old child. She dressed as the red Power Ranger for Halloween and slides into her Batman suit when inspired. Flipping upside down to let her younger sister play and pull at her long brown hair is a regular activity for L. She also spends a lot of time inventing her own language and drawing rainbows and unicorns.

"There was no shift from being a mom to a dad with L. I was never really a mom. When she was only two or three years old, she'd draw pictures of me with a beard. I'm Pops but I also never took Mama away from her. She knows she can use that name for me if she needs to, if her heart is hurting. She seems to understand that Mama is still a man and has always been."

When Amond first moved into his new house with his children, he invited the neighbours to cook outs and campfires. Like every parent, he wanted his children to face as little resistance as possible. Whenever neighbours misgendered Amond in conversation, L. would unapologetically correct them and explain: Pops is a man. After L. explained to a persistent neighbour that men can have babies because gender identity is on the inside, the neighbour approached Amond and volunteered to take L. with their family to a Christian summer camp. At that point, Amond realized that their social time with the neighbours would be limited.

"Ninety percent of our family's experiences are with allies. The other ten per cent is a crapshoot. Sure, I worry: Who are we going to run into? Is the R word going to get flung out around River? Is someone going to call me a faggot? Is someone going to attack my child or tell her that she doesn't know what she's talking about because men can't birth? But the bulk of our day is so silly, so sweet, so fun, and that's what I want the world to take away from my parenting experience."

Amond told me he started transitioning later in life, in his mid-thirties, because that's when the time was right. He has a job waiting for him in his field, a house, and support from his children's other parent. He worries that many young trans people feel the pressure to come out, but he wants them to know there is no shame in staying in too. Recently, he's begun sharing his family life on Instagram.

"I want to remind people, if and when they're ready, it's okay to transition with alongside their kids. It doesn't harm or confuse children the way you are told it does. They love you and work with you."

At the close of our interview, L. pops her head into the room again. Above her, on the white wall, hangs a poster with bursts of colour and the words: Share Joy. Spread Hope. I realize that more than learning or unlearning, that's what we need to start doing for ourselves and each other.

"Pops, did you mean I could have two more marshmallows for dessert or two in total?" L. asks with a slight grin like a cool negotiator.

Amond returns the same grin in her direction. "Two, altogether."