Hailey and Jane are allowed to attend Hannah's baseball games. "At the ballpark, she loves my pink sandals," Hailey said. "She says, 'Mama, can I wear those to the picnic table?' I want to just sit there and scream, 'What's it going to hurt for my child to put my flip-flops on and wear them to where she can get her own shoes on?' But they told me no. So I have to abide by that." Following these rules seems like the best way to get Hannah back and may help Hannah get by in Wichita. But it teaches troubling lessons. "In therapy, she said she was tired of the double life," Hailey said. "Then she said, 'But I have to do it because I'm a bad person.'" Mia Huntsman diagnosed her with situational depression. At that point, Hailey said that she was ready to give up, that maybe she and Jane should just have another child and stop trying to get Bryan and Hannah back. It was despair talking, but it was frightening to everyone.

When I met Hailey and Jane, Hannah had been away for seven months. The women saw their child for an hour of therapy and one two-hour supervised home visit each week. They were not allowed to call Hannah, and she was not allowed to call them. It was Hannah's eighth birthday, and Hailey and Jane had done their best to make it festive. "I had a little present," Hailey said, "and I gave it to Hannah and said, 'Here you go, baby boy.' She just looked at me like, 'Mama, do you not accept me anymore?' So the social worker walked out for a second, and Hannah looked at me real quick and said, 'You mean "baby girl"?' I said, 'When these people are around, I can't say that.' I felt so low." Jane said, "How can you just tell this child, 'Okay, here and here you can be yourself, but out here you can't be yourself'? What kind of confusing message are you sending?" Hailey said, "I don't know what I'm supposed to say and what I'm not. My biggest fear is of getting her back and then just losing her again. It will definitely be very dangerous for her and for us if she's herself." confusing message are you sending?" Hailey said, "I don't know what I'm supposed to say and what I'm not. My biggest fear is of getting her back and then just losing her again. It will definitely be very dangerous for her and for us if she's herself."

Parents are right to fear for their transgender children. The level of prejudice against them is unimaginable for those who have not encountered the problem. In 2009, the National Center for Transgender Equality and the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force published a large survey of transgender people from every state and territory of the United States, with ethnic distribution roughly comparable to that of the general population. The online distribution of the questionnaire meant that it was skewed toward relatively privileged subjects. Four out of five people surveyed had been harassed or physically or sexually attacked in school, almost half by teachers. Although almost 90 percent had completed at least some college, compared to less than half of the general population, they were twice as likely to be unemployed. One out of ten had been sexually assaulted at work, and almost as many had been physically assaulted at work. A quarter had been fired for gender nonconformity. They experienced poverty at twice the national rate. One out of five had been homeless; a third of that group had been refused entry to a shelter because of their gender. A third had postponed or avoided medical care due to disrespect or discrimination by providers. More than half of trans youth have made a suicide attempt, as opposed to 2 percent of the general population. The rates of substance abuse and depression are staggering. Some 20 to 40 percent of homeless youth are gay or trans, and more than half of trans people of color have supported themselves by streetwalking. One sex worker in a shelter for trans kids in Queens, New York, said, "I like the attention; it makes me feel loved."

Albert Cannon and Roxanne Green knew early on that their son Moses wasn't boyish. At two, he wanted dolls and was much more interested in picking out clothes that would look good on his sister, Shakona, than in toys for himself. In the inner city in Syracuse where they lived, the streets could be tough; Albert worried about his son, but never tried to change him. "God got my kids confused," Albert said. "Shakona more manly than Moses was." Moses insisted on wearing patent leather shoes to school every day and was called a faggot and beaten up all the time. "He could throw a football and could run," Albert said. "Oh my God, could he ever! But he wasn't interested in it." By the time Moses was fourteen, Albert knew what was going on. "I've been sleeping in the living room, and he was in the back with his girlfriends, learning how to tuck it in and seeing if he could look like a woman." living room, and he was in the back with his girlfriends, learning how to tuck it in and seeing if he could look like a woman."

At sixteen, Moses wrote to his parents, "I'm going to buy all girls' clothes and I'm going to become a woman. If you can't accept it, I'm going to kill myself." Roxanne knocked on Moses's bedroom door. "I said, 'Are you sure this is what you want to do? There's a lot of gay-hating people.' He said, 'Mommy, if I'm going to be an embarrassment, I'll just leave.' I said, 'You never can embarrass me.'" Albert was not pleased, but after a few days, he relented. "Ain't no man can tell me they ain't got no feminine in them," he commented. "If they do, they're lying to themselves. But I said, 'Are you sure you're ready for how the world is going to react?' Moses said, 'The question is, is the world ready for me!' I said, 'I'm not even ready for you, babe.'"

Moses took the name Lateisha Latoya Kyesha Green, Teish for short. The girls at school loved the way she dressed; she was suddenly popular. A week after she started dressing, she was jumped and badly beaten, but her determination did not flag. One of the hall monitors told Lateisha that she was going straight to hell because the Bible said so; Roxanne called the principal and reminded him that you cannot preach religion in school. It eventually got to be too much, and Lateisha dropped out. She did hair and got a job as a housekeeper at Motel 7. She was spirited and joyful, but longed for one thing. "Dad," she said to Albert, "I'll never be happy until I become a complete woman." Albert said, "You'll never become a complete woman. But if you mean you want a sex change, I'll help you when I can." Albert began setting money aside and wrote into his will that it was for the surgery. As a bridesmaid in her sister's wedding, Teish wore a red taffeta dress. Albert said, "My sister warned her girls, who were the other bridesmaids, 'You are all in trouble, because Teish is going to outdress you all.'"

At seventeen, Teish liked to "talk to" (in Roxanne's euphemistic phrase) a man who was closeted; when he heard that she had boasted of their relationship, he slashed her face with a knife. "Wow, she was so tough," Albert said. "She wanted to kill him." At home, Teish would sleep between her parents in their bed. "I could keep an eye on her," Roxanne said. "Know she wasn't out with that bastard getting her face cut up." Roxanne and Teish argued constantly, but they also fought for each other fiercely. The Cannon house became the unofficial gathering place for local trans kids. "They tell me they is using drugs to ease the pain," Albert said. "I said, 'The pain ain't going nowhere.' Not that Lateisha didn't try drugs, but she didn't use drugs to escape reality. She had friends who could live here. I never would turn them away. They want to sit down and talk? I'll listen."

Teish had been involved with a number of men, but she didn't fall in love until, at nineteen, she met Dante Haynes, a devastatingly handsome gang member. She soon began referring to him as her fiance. Dante and Lateisha were together for two and a half years. "So he did experience love as a woman," Albert said. "At least he got that." Roxanne said, "This one wasn't no hush-hush thing. They went everywhere together. Dante always said she she." Teish had dreams for Dante. "She changed me from doing stupid stuff that I'd probably be in jail for," Dante told me. "I thought I could sell drugs for the rest of my life to get by. She showed me how to feel like you're somebody." Lateisha and Dante broke up; she stayed with her parents. Then on Friday, November 14, 2008, they decided to move back in together. "She was so happy that day," Roxanne said. "It was going to be for the long term."

That evening, Teish's friend Alissa Davis invited her to a party across town. Alissa had said she was pregnant and didn't want the child. She told Teish that she could have it, and Teish was hoping that this plan would work out; she'd already asked Roxanne to help her raise the baby. When Teish got the invitation, she and her brother, Mark, jumped in their father's van and headed over. They didn't know many people at the party. A young man named Dwight DeLee, who had attended school with Teish and Mark, approached the van, saying, "We don't want faggots here." DeLee shot Mark and Teish point-blank as they sat in the van. Mark took a bullet to his shoulder; Teish's bullet went into her chest, then hit the aorta.

"We just skated off," Mark explained to me. "Lateisha's like, her chest hurt, chest hurt. She was like, 'I love you,' then saying to bring her back home, don't take her to the hospital." When the van drove up, Albert was on the porch, and Mark said, "Moses been shot." Albert ran toward the street, calling 911 as he went. He pulled back Teish's shirt, saw no exit wound, and knew it was bad. "She looked at me, smiled," he said. "I knew she wasn't going to make it." Roxanne came running out. "The look she gave me was 'I'm sorry, Mommy. I'm going,'" Roxanne said.

Dante got the call at work. We were talking almost a year after it happened, but Dante took his large head in his hands, and his shoulders bowed. "I seen her that day," he said, "but I didn't get to say good-bye. When they say it gets easier, that's a lie." Albert put an arm around him. Dante picked up his head. "She was an openhearted person," he said. "She loved who she was. She was who she was." Dante remains close to Albert and Roxanne. "That's forever," Dante said. "She would want to see me bettering myself. Working, going to school. She wouldn't want to see me feeling the way I really feel. Someone can shoot me, stab me. I don't care. I mean, I'd be up there with her in heaven. I'd be able to see her again." Albert held out his rough hands as though there were something in them and said, "And I still have the money I was saving for her operation." to see me feeling the way I really feel. Someone can shoot me, stab me. I don't care. I mean, I'd be up there with her in heaven. I'd be able to see her again." Albert held out his rough hands as though there were something in them and said, "And I still have the money I was saving for her operation."

DeLee's murder trial was emotionally devastating for everyone. While the rough facts of the case were clear, first-person accounts varied, with witnesses contradicting each other, some recanting under what appeared to be pressure from peers. "There were witnesses who I thought were going to have heart attacks, they were under so much strain and stress," said Michael Silverman, executive director of the Transgender Legal Defense & Education Fund, who worked on the trial. Because DeLee's intent to kill could not be proved, he was found guilty of manslaughter in the first degree rather than murder, but it was manslaughter as a hate crime and he received a twenty-five-year sentence, the maximum for manslaughter. It was the second conviction in the country and the first in New York State to treat the murder of a transgender person as a hate crime.

Months later, the local trans kids were still coming around to see Albert and Roxanne; during the day I spent in Syracuse, two dropped by in a few hours. Albert said, "I'm going to help other kids. Her life maybe was in vain; at least her death won't go in vain." In the corner of their modest living room stood a shrine with Teish's ashes in an urn inscribed with her dates-July 4, 1986November 14, 2008-and her favorite photo of herself, dressed in red taffeta for her sister's wedding. Every day Roxanne lights two candles and leaves them to burn down. "She wanted to come home to die with us," Albert said. "So she's going to stay at home." Roxanne said, "When I went to get the ashes, I asked, could I look at them? I wanted to see if they'd cremated her with her boots on. Because if so, there would have been some gold stuff in there. She'd have liked that."

Shakona was pregnant when Teish was killed. She named the baby Lateisha.

Severely disabled children, autistic children, schizophrenic children, criminal children-many of these are at greater risk of death than a conventionally healthy child, but parents of trans kids are uniquely poised between two equally terrifying possibilities: if the child is not able to transition, he or she may commit suicide; if the child transitions, he or she may be killed for having done so. The murders of trans people often go unreported; even when a murder is reported, its status as a hate crime often remains unacknowledged. Since 1999, more than four hundred trans people have been murdered in the United States, and Transgender Day of Remembrance puts the rate of fatal hate crimes at more than one a month. Worldwide, a transgender person is murdered every three days. hundred trans people have been murdered in the United States, and Transgender Day of Remembrance puts the rate of fatal hate crimes at more than one a month. Worldwide, a transgender person is murdered every three days.

Commentators have observed that the problem is ubiquitous. The German trans activist Carsten Balzer wrote that such murders "occur in countries with high general murder statistics, such as Brazil, Colombia or Iraq as well as in countries/states with low general murder statistics such as Australia, Germany, Portugal, New Zealand, Singapore, or Spain." Thomas Hammarberg, the Council of Europe's commissioner for human rights, wrote movingly about the murder of a transwoman in Portugal, Gisberta Salce Junior, who was gang-raped and then dumped in a well to die. Data from the first six months of 2009 indicate that about 7 percent of the trans victims murdered worldwide that year were minors. Professionals who support transition are also under attack. Norman Spack told me he had received death threats.

Looking just in the United States in the year 2011, and considering only attacks that were specifically reported as transphobic, the catalog of completed murders is alarming. Krissy Bates was stabbed to death at forty-five in Minneapolis on January 10. Tyra Trent was strangled at twenty-five in Baltimore on February 19. Marcal Camero Tye was shot and then dragged until dead at twenty-five in Forrest City, Arkansas, on March 8. Miss Nate Nate (or Nee) Eugene Davis was shot at forty-four in Houston on June 13. Lashai Mclean was shot at twenty-three in Washington, DC, on July 20. Camila Guzman was stabbed repeatedly in the back and neck at thirty-eight in New York City on August 1. Gaurav Gopalan had a subarachnoid hemorrhage due to blunt-impact head trauma at thirty-five in Washington, DC, on September 10. Shelley Hilliard was decapitated, dismembered, and then burned at nineteen in Detroit on November 10. Her mother had to identify her by examining her charred torso at the medical examiner's office.

Anne O'Hara grew up in a small town in Mississippi. Both her parents were addicts, and Anne stole food to feed her sister and brother. "We were dirty," she recalled. "People didn't talk to us." The first person on either side of her family to finish high school, Anne graduated as class salutatorian, then attended Mississippi State University in Starkville. She lived in her car for a year, working at Subway and washing in their bathroom; it took her eight years to get through college, but she made it. She earned a certificate in special education. Anne moved back home, found a job at a school just across the border in Tennessee, and married Clay, a man she'd know all her life who worked in a local plastics factory. When she showed me pictures of their house, she said, "It doesn't look like a lot, but my daddy built it with his own hands, and he built it just for me." Anne set out to change how special education was delivered in rural Tennessee. By the end of a decade, she had succeeded in mainstreaming all of her students from second to fourth grade for science and social studies; some were being invited to parties by nondisabled students. plastics factory. When she showed me pictures of their house, she said, "It doesn't look like a lot, but my daddy built it with his own hands, and he built it just for me." Anne set out to change how special education was delivered in rural Tennessee. By the end of a decade, she had succeeded in mainstreaming all of her students from second to fourth grade for science and social studies; some were being invited to parties by nondisabled students.

Anne and Clay, unable to conceive, signed up to adopt. On the day Anne's father died, three boys unknown to Anne were taken into state custody several hundred miles away. Marshall Camacho, Glenn Stevens, and Kerry Adahy had lived with their mother until she was arrested for child abuse. The police had found the children-then age three, four, and five-drugged with their mother's antipsychotics, which she used to sedate them rather than herself; she kept them tied to a pole and fed them nothing but cereal. The state placed the boys with a foster family and enrolled Marshall in the school where Anne taught. "I had Marshall in my classroom for six weeks before he showed his first sign of promise," Anne said. "He told me the name of a letter and its sound, so we threw a popcorn-and-Coke party." A week after the popcorn, Marshall named three letters, then came out with his first coherent sentence: "Where's my party?" Anne assumed that while some of his problems were biological, others were the result of abuse, and she was determined to sort them out. She argued against medication until every behavior management strategy had been tried. "He went from having a fifty-five IQ and being extremely violent and not talking, to a first-grade boy who could read and write with an average IQ," she said. "But he still had horrible moods. So he was diagnosed with bipolar disorder and ADHD and is now medicated for both."

Marshall had been in Anne's class only a few weeks when the social worker in charge of his case told her that the three brothers were to be separated, because Marshall, half Mexican, and Kerry, half Cherokee, looked dark and wouldn't interest white families. Anne said, "What would I need to do to keep them together?" The next day, Friday, she found out she'd need to move to Tennessee, because the foster-care system would not allow the kids to move out of state. The social worker expected Anne to balk; instead, Monday afternoon, Anne and Clay found a new house. They moved in two weeks later, were given the kids, and started adoption proceedings. "A two-year-old will grab everything and rip it in half or drop it or roll it," Anne said. "Nothing is safe. Marshall was doing that at six, but he was angry. So it was just a matter of letting him lick and touch and drop and tear until he got all of that out of his system. It took a year. Glenn had a fascination with putting things in different holes of his body." Kerry had a feminine manner, which was the least of Anne's worries. "Food issues, discipline issues, hygiene issues. I just thought this was one of those. But the other stuff cleared up and this never did. So I just thought, 'Kerry's going to be gay,' which was fine with me. Kerry said, 'I have a girl voice, girl feet, girl hands. Mommy, doesn't my smile look as pretty as a girl's?'" putting things in different holes of his body." Kerry had a feminine manner, which was the least of Anne's worries. "Food issues, discipline issues, hygiene issues. I just thought this was one of those. But the other stuff cleared up and this never did. So I just thought, 'Kerry's going to be gay,' which was fine with me. Kerry said, 'I have a girl voice, girl feet, girl hands. Mommy, doesn't my smile look as pretty as a girl's?'"

The boys hid things under their beds and mattresses. If Anne was missing fried chicken or macaroni and cheese, she would go into their room and retrieve it, but objects she would just leave alone. She noticed that Kerry was often hiding girl things, lifted from the houses of his cousins. "You can't attack a child who's taken something like that," Anne said. "I'd say, 'Oh, Alicia lost her such and such, and she would love to have it back.' A few days later, it would be back at Alicia's house. Kerry didn't want to make anyone else sad; he just wanted pretty things." The other kids at school tormented him. In second grade, he stopped doing homework. "Nothing I could do mattered," Anne said. "About a month before the end of school last year, he was sitting on the front porch, with his little knee propped up under his chin, looking out across the field. He said, 'I wish I was a girl.'"

Anne called several local psychologists before finding Darlene Fink in Knoxville, a transgender activist and therapist. After Darlene diagnosed Kerry with GID, Anne spent two solid days researching the subject. "Then we went to Walmart and bought clothes, purses, fake jewelry, and a Barbie doll," Anne said. "Different colors of lip gloss. She was so excited. Then it was 'I want to change my name.' Her first choice was Pearl, from SpongeBob SpongeBob. I killed that one. So we went with Kelly." The change was palpable. "She was the child I wanted to raise, the happy one who's comfortable in her own skin."

Clay was angry, and for a couple of weeks he refused Kelly's hugs. Then he told his father, eighty years old, what was going on. Clay's father said, "Don't blame Kelly, or Anne, or yourself. These things happen. I saw it on TV." Clay hugged Kelly that night. Anne's mother, however, said not to think of bringing this child back to Mississippi, and Anne's sister stopped speaking to her. "But it's more complicated," Anne said. "My sister's had to work really hard to have respect in our town and not have people say, 'You were that dirty, poor kid.' Kelly could have made her a topic of gossip and ridicule."

Anne went to tell the principal at school. "I had already talked to two teachers, and after I'd explained for half an hour, they were fine," she said. Anne felt confident; Anne felt beloved. "In our town, people would come over for dinner; they'd invite my kids to birthday parties; I made friends with people on the block. I had a church. I really thought that we were part of the fabric of that community. Well, it turns out, I really didn't even know what that fabric was made out of." that we were part of the fabric of that community. Well, it turns out, I really didn't even know what that fabric was made out of."

The day after Anne went to the school, the phone calls began. "I didn't recognize the voices," Anne said. "They were going to gut her. They were going to cut off her genitals and treat her like the woman she wanted to be. They were going to snatch her from school or in a parking lot, and I would never see her again. Some of them were going to raise her up right. Some of them were going to kill her." Anne was at a loss. "She's eight," Anne said. "She's the tiniest kid in class." Anne had never thought about the Klan much; they had a rally on the main square once a year that was like a big parade. "I thought they were just a bunch of fools who dressed up in their costumes. It turns out, they're in charge of things." When Anne tried to go to the school the next day, the janitor she'd known ten years wouldn't let her in the building. Her pediatrician asked her to see him in his office. "He had been sitting around the country-club pool, with the other people from the Baptist church. He said, 'People are not talking about if if they're going to hurt you and Kelly. They're planning they're going to hurt you and Kelly. They're planning when when and and how how and and what they're going to use what they're going to use to do it. You have to put your child in a foster home somewhere else, or he's not going to live till the next school year.'" Anne was reeling. She went home, loaded the shotgun, and slept in front of the door. "I'm getting cell phone calls from neighbors saying, 'Anne, there are people parked in front of your house, and they're peeking over the fence.' Of course, they didn't know yet. Those phone calls stopped when the gossip reached them." to do it. You have to put your child in a foster home somewhere else, or he's not going to live till the next school year.'" Anne was reeling. She went home, loaded the shotgun, and slept in front of the door. "I'm getting cell phone calls from neighbors saying, 'Anne, there are people parked in front of your house, and they're peeking over the fence.' Of course, they didn't know yet. Those phone calls stopped when the gossip reached them."

Anne met a mother online, Maureen, who said that things were better in the big Southern city where she lived. Anne decided it was as good a destination as any. She sold whatever she could online; Maureen offered to put down the deposit on a trailer for her to rent. "I let it be known I was armed," Anne said, "and that I would kill anyone who stepped on my porch. The phone calls continued and I told them, 'We're no threat to you. We're leaving.' I put the kids in the van with as much stuff as I could and left. Everything fit except the dog." Clay stayed behind because he needed to keep his job. A few days later, he came home to find that a crowd had disemboweled the dog and nailed its remains to a fence. "It was just a message to us not to ever come back," Anne said. "We never will. I'll never see the town I grew up in again. I'll never see my mother or my sister."

Anne began to cry as she recounted all this. Shaking slightly, she said, "I knew I was a lesbian when I was fourteen years old, and I kept that to myself for twenty-one years. I married to fit in and be wanted and keep my home and family and church and everything that was important to me. It wasn't worth it to give all that up to be myself; I preferred to live a lie. I gave it all up in a month for Kelly. That's how important she is. I came out to Clay two days ago." Anne's fear was that Clay would say she and her lesbian ways had done this to Kelly; Clay's fear, as it turned out, was that Anne would think this had happened because he wasn't a good father. "It boiled down to, neither of us is guilty," Anne said. "He just said, 'Well, that explains a lot.' We're better friends now than we've ever been." Anne looked out the window. "It's funny how your priorities change. I've got this happy little girl. All of a sudden, the house my daddy built me doesn't matter. Don't get me wrong. I miss it. But when she gets off that bus and you see this happy little face, you've got the whole world right there. I haven't given up one thing that's worth that." important to me. It wasn't worth it to give all that up to be myself; I preferred to live a lie. I gave it all up in a month for Kelly. That's how important she is. I came out to Clay two days ago." Anne's fear was that Clay would say she and her lesbian ways had done this to Kelly; Clay's fear, as it turned out, was that Anne would think this had happened because he wasn't a good father. "It boiled down to, neither of us is guilty," Anne said. "He just said, 'Well, that explains a lot.' We're better friends now than we've ever been." Anne looked out the window. "It's funny how your priorities change. I've got this happy little girl. All of a sudden, the house my daddy built me doesn't matter. Don't get me wrong. I miss it. But when she gets off that bus and you see this happy little face, you've got the whole world right there. I haven't given up one thing that's worth that."

Daily life remains difficult. For the first week, Anne didn't let the kids outside, in case they'd been followed, and even when we met she wouldn't let them out of viewing distance. Teaching jobs require references, and she didn't want anyone from her new town to be in touch with anyone from the old one, so she couldn't work in her field. Anne had to work with the kids on not blowing Kelly's cover. Marshall and Glenn both complained that they didn't know how they could keep it all a secret, and what if people asked them? So Anne said she was going to do an exercise with them. She told them all to sit together right inside the trailer door while she went outside for a few minutes. Then she walked in, flung open the door, and said, "Hi, kids. I'm Anne O'Hara, and I have a vagina." They all ran away screaming, as she'd known they would. "No one wants to hear that," she said. "It's not secret. It's private. Kelly's anatomy is private, too."

As long as Clay keeps his factory job, they have insurance to pay for the kids' medications. Other than that, his salary pays for his life in Tennessee. Anne is living on the money from selling the lawn mower and the four-wheeler, and on the assistance check she receives for having adopted special-needs children. "We get about nineteen hundred dollars per month," she said. "Living in this trailer, rent and utilities, is nine hundred dollars per month. I spend about a hundred dollars a week on groceries and about twenty-five a week on gas. We have a lot of Tuna Helper, pea soup, bagels, and yogurt. At first, I'd get up in the morning, get them ready for school, and they'd get on the bus, and I'd go to sleep. I'd get up in time to take a shower before they got home. I'd play with them until bed, do their homework, and go back to sleep. I'm awake more than I was. But I haven't put up curtains, and I haven't decorated anything. I don't have the energy."

Anne has another safe place in mind if things fall apart where she is. She's figured out exactly how she'll move and what she'll do. When I suggested that she talk to school administrators about why she couldn't provide references for a new teaching job, she replied, "I will work at a gas station before I tell anyone my child is transgender." We walked up through the trailer park to meet the school bus. Three exuberant children bounded out and ran to hug Anne. She stood there, so soon after our long, tearful talk, wrapped in all those young arms, and she burst out laughing. She's figured out exactly how she'll move and what she'll do. When I suggested that she talk to school administrators about why she couldn't provide references for a new teaching job, she replied, "I will work at a gas station before I tell anyone my child is transgender." We walked up through the trailer park to meet the school bus. Three exuberant children bounded out and ran to hug Anne. She stood there, so soon after our long, tearful talk, wrapped in all those young arms, and she burst out laughing.

"I don't love my daughter less for mourning over this," she said that evening. "But I miss my mom. I miss my sister. My daddy's grave is back there, and I just have to hope other people are putting flowers on it. I miss my dog. I miss my students. I feel really guilty because I'm still hung up on all this stuff that we left behind. I should just let that go. But it makes me so angry that these people have taken our lives from us." Then Anne smiled again, as though she couldn't really help herself. "You can't grieve all the time when you've got your kids. You see how far they've come, and they reach you right in your heart. That moment when they come off the bus is one of my best moments. My other is when they get up in the morning, and they collide on top of me. So, regret? No. I miss the things that were in the old life. But if I knew this was going to happen, I would still adopt Kelly. I'm the lucky one. Because, honestly, if it weren't for Kelly coming into my life, I would never have entered this bigger, more beautiful world, where I've met you and so many other wonderful people. I would still be married to a man for the next twenty years. I mean, if you just look at it, Kelly has brought more blessings into my life than I could possibly give back to her."

In 1990, Judith Butler published Gender Trouble, Gender Trouble, a book that rocked the idea of the gender binary. In 1999, in a new introduction, she wrote, "One might wonder what use 'opening up possibilities' finally is, but no one who has understood what it is to live in the social world as what is 'impossible,' illegible, unrealizable, unreal, and illegitimate is likely to pose that question." Two decades after the book's publication, those possibilities are open wider even than Butler hoped. When a friend of mine, a professor at a Midwestern university, was pregnant with my goddaughter, one of her students volunteered that she was planning to name her first child Avery because "I just thought Avery is a nice, ungendered name that my kid could keep if he or she ended up a different gender from the one he or she got born as." Norman Spack described similar conversations, calling them "a new era of 'no variant person left behind.'" Playfulness about gender is much more a book that rocked the idea of the gender binary. In 1999, in a new introduction, she wrote, "One might wonder what use 'opening up possibilities' finally is, but no one who has understood what it is to live in the social world as what is 'impossible,' illegible, unrealizable, unreal, and illegitimate is likely to pose that question." Two decades after the book's publication, those possibilities are open wider even than Butler hoped. When a friend of mine, a professor at a Midwestern university, was pregnant with my goddaughter, one of her students volunteered that she was planning to name her first child Avery because "I just thought Avery is a nice, ungendered name that my kid could keep if he or she ended up a different gender from the one he or she got born as." Norman Spack described similar conversations, calling them "a new era of 'no variant person left behind.'" Playfulness about gender is much more commonplace than it used to be. "To some extent, transgenderism has become a fad," Meyer-Bahlburg said. This observation conformed with my experience. I met people on college campuses who were defining themselves as genderqueer to express revolutionary feelings, or to communicate their individuality; they were gender fluid without being gender dysphoric. This phenomenon may be culturally significant, but it has only a little bit in common with the people who feel they can have no authentic self in their birth gender. commonplace than it used to be. "To some extent, transgenderism has become a fad," Meyer-Bahlburg said. This observation conformed with my experience. I met people on college campuses who were defining themselves as genderqueer to express revolutionary feelings, or to communicate their individuality; they were gender fluid without being gender dysphoric. This phenomenon may be culturally significant, but it has only a little bit in common with the people who feel they can have no authentic self in their birth gender.

Michele Angello explained that one of her ten-year-old clients says, "I know I'm a boy, but I don't want boy toys. I don't want boy clothes except to go to school." Most of his friends are girls. Angello asked, "What do you imagine for yourself as an adult?" He said, "I'll probably be a dad who sometimes likes to be a girl and sometimes likes to be a boy." Angello explained, "That's drastically different from the nine-year-old male-bodied kid who comes in and says, 'I want to be a mommy when I grow up.'" Such children imagine themselves past convention. The imagining would once have been questioned; now, it is often the convention that is reassessed.

Belonging is one of the things that makes life bearable, and it can be tough to look at a binary world and choose against both sides. A therapist who works with children with various challenges told me that it's much harder to be ambidextrous than it is to be left-handed. Sometimes, idiosyncrasy can be a pose, membership in the smaller club of the anticlub, but often it is a marooned consciousness that occurs not because genderqueer is a cool thing to be, but because neither the duality nor the spectrum fits. Such experiences express the wide vision that lies outside of belonging.

When I met Bridget McCourt in 2009, her son, Matt, was seven and a half and had been dressing as a girl for three years. He had long, beautiful, blond hair and a distinctly boyish manner. When Bridget first agreed to buy him some dresses at Goodwill, she thought they would be just for dress-up, but that was not what Matt had in mind. A few weeks later, it was time to pick out fall clothes. "I let him decide what clothes he wanted," Bridget said. "He went to the girls department and was consistent about wanting girl clothes. I just thought, 'We'll take this day by day.' He pretty clearly says that he is a boy. He's comfortable with his body, but he likes girl things. He's irked by the labeling. I have told him, 'Matt, if I were told I couldn't wear pants, that would feel so limiting to me. So I can understand that you would feel the same way about dresses.'"

Someone who doesn't conform to the stereotypes of his gender, but who identifies with it nonetheless, has no clear path. When I met Matt, he looked like a long-haired boy in a dress. Older trans people who don't appear to inhabit their gender look sad; whenever I saw someone who looked like a middle-aged man in a dress, I felt an ache. In a child, the effect was curiously transfixing, as though he had just imagined himself into being. "For a long while, it was important to him for people to know he was a boy," Bridget said. "At the park, he would come over to me with a kid and say, 'Mom, tell them.' He now realizes that it's just easier to let someone who meets him for five minutes refer to him as who identifies with it nonetheless, has no clear path. When I met Matt, he looked like a long-haired boy in a dress. Older trans people who don't appear to inhabit their gender look sad; whenever I saw someone who looked like a middle-aged man in a dress, I felt an ache. In a child, the effect was curiously transfixing, as though he had just imagined himself into being. "For a long while, it was important to him for people to know he was a boy," Bridget said. "At the park, he would come over to me with a kid and say, 'Mom, tell them.' He now realizes that it's just easier to let someone who meets him for five minutes refer to him as she she." I wondered if Bridget feared for his physical safety. "I worry more about his losing the confidence to be himself," she said. "It would pain me to see him fold inward."

An almost constant tension exists between the accommodations a trans child will make to the norms of the world, and the accommodations the world will make to the norms of a trans child. When Nicole Osman took her daughter, Anneke, to see Santa Claus at a local mall, she was worried that Santa would either look at Anneke and call her a boy, which would be upsetting, or would look at her name and promise her girlish toys, which would be even worse. She tried to explain the possible problem to Anneke, but Anneke said, "Santa knows who I am, and Santa knows what I like." Nicole saw Christmas falling apart. Then she spotted an elf who was keeping the crowd amused while they waited. She took him aside and asked him to get the message to the big guy: Anneke was a girl, and she wanted boy-type toys. Nicole asked me wryly, "Has anyone else you've interviewed had to bribe the elf?"

At four, Anneke said she wanted a short haircut. Nicole suggested a bob, but Anneke wanted a crew cut like her father's. People started mistaking her for a boy. Nicole worried that this would upset Anneke, but Nicole's correcting people was what upset Anneke. At school, Anneke was marginalized by the girls because she wanted to play with trucks and was into soccer, and by the boys because she was a girl. Her father, Ben, was worried. "Since nobody would play with her, I'd show up with a soccer ball at recess, and we would start a game," he said. "One by one, people would join the game. I would slowly pull out, and pretty soon everyone wanted to play with her." Nicole said, "I told her, 'I don't shave my legs; I don't wear makeup; I'm not this princess girl. There's some really amazing, cool girls that are athletic and they like soccer. Then there's a few girls who feel like there's just been a really, really big mistake, that they really should have been born a boy.' There was this long pause, and I was totally expecting her to say, 'Well, I'm one of those cool girls.' She said, 'I think there's been a big mistake.'"

I met Anneke when she was twelve and a half. Her presentation was masculine but she regarded herself as female. Anneke had discovered herself in ice hockey. "At hockey, I'm more masculine," she said. "But sometimes I do feel more of a girl at school, because the boys are weird. I want to pick things from each gender. Lately, I've been thinking about taking testosterone, but still playing hockey with girls and being a girl, but having the deeper voice. It's just a thought." Although Anneke did not want to transition or live as a man, she also didn't want to develop breasts, and she was taking Lupron. "I'm very open to my friends that I am taking a shot, and that's why I'm not going into puberty and all that."

Nicole and Ben had always had somewhat unorthodox arrangements. Nicole worked full-time, while Ben stayed home with Anneke and her little sister. "We've played with those roles a lot," Nicole said. "But the fluidity is challenging. Some days, Anneke goes in the girls' bathroom, some days in the boys' bathroom. That is still so outside the norm." Anneke said, "Everyone's different, right? Other people's way of being different could be being able to skateboard across America or being able to swim for half an hour without stopping. My thing is being different in a gender-fluid way. On the soccer field of life, I'm just not a goalie; I'm a midfielder. I'm me, and that's who I am."

When Vicky and Chet Pearsall took their son out, people usually thought he was a girl. "His dad was an all-American soccer player and professional skier," said Vicky. "Hugh never liked balls. At two, his favorite thing was to wear my red high heels, a towel on his head for hair, and anything he could drape as a sari." As Hugh grew up, Chet tried to set limits. He would tell Hugh that he couldn't go out dressed in girlish clothes, and when Hugh asked why not, Chet said, "You've got a penis." Hugh said, "Well, let's get rid of that." Chet was appalled. Vicky read that most children who want to change gender don't like themselves. Not Hugh. "Hugh thought he was the cat's meow," she said. Vicky and Chet joined a monthly support group. "You'd have a father break down and cry and tell the story of ripping the Barbie doll out of his son's hand, tearing the head off. Everybody came into this group and thought they had this really unique experience with their child, and it was so textbook. The kids did the same exact things." Vicky's concern was how to prevent her child from being traumatized. "I would always ask the trans people who came in to speak to us, 'What did you want to hear from your mom and dad?' They'd start sobbing. I was amazed by the cruelty."

When Hugh was eight, he began to be conscious of other people's take on him. "He started to edit his behavior a lot more," Vicky said. "He's been a happy kid, but there have been times where he has felt really alone, particularly from fourth to sixth grade." At ten, Hugh set up shop as a jeweler, working with semiprecious stones, and quickly found an online market for his creations. Within two years, he had started a business designing handbags as well. "Since about twelve, he's been very conscious of the signals he's sending," Vicky said. "It's not 'Bring it on,' but it's 'I know what I'm doing.' My husband was concerned about his getting beaten up. We enrolled him in tae kwon do classes when he was ten, and this May, he's going to have his black belt." When Hugh was applying to switch schools in ninth grade, before each interview he'd discuss with his mother which bag he should take for his papers-it could be a bag that looked like a briefcase, or it could be something wild. Before one interview, he chose a pink Prada document bag. He was admitted to the school. take on him. "He started to edit his behavior a lot more," Vicky said. "He's been a happy kid, but there have been times where he has felt really alone, particularly from fourth to sixth grade." At ten, Hugh set up shop as a jeweler, working with semiprecious stones, and quickly found an online market for his creations. Within two years, he had started a business designing handbags as well. "Since about twelve, he's been very conscious of the signals he's sending," Vicky said. "It's not 'Bring it on,' but it's 'I know what I'm doing.' My husband was concerned about his getting beaten up. We enrolled him in tae kwon do classes when he was ten, and this May, he's going to have his black belt." When Hugh was applying to switch schools in ninth grade, before each interview he'd discuss with his mother which bag he should take for his papers-it could be a bag that looked like a briefcase, or it could be something wild. Before one interview, he chose a pink Prada document bag. He was admitted to the school.

By the time I met Vicky, Hugh was fourteen and almost six feet tall, and he was still being mistaken for a girl; it was in his body language and the tilt of his head. Vicky found the idea of surgery upsetting, but would have supported him if he'd gone that way; but he had shown no interest in it. His parents' acceptance of his gender play had not pushed him into transition, any more than their playing ball with him would have turned him into a jock. "When he was little, I just couldn't figure it out," Vicky said. "All we really had to figure out was how to get to the point where we were no longer self-conscious about what who he is says about who we are."

Emmy Werner, one of the founders of the field of positive psychology, has written a great deal about gender roles and their relationship to resilience and has found that resilient children overcome traditional gender roles altogether. "The males can be very assertive, but they're also willing to cry when crying is called for. The women can be very nurturant, but they're also very independent and autonomous. Rearing children in very traditional sex-roles may not be very helpful when it comes to meeting life's emergencies."

In the world of gender, what was progressive two years ago is conservative today; Brill cites as an example a mother in Oakland who filed a complaint alleging that the school's embracing policy toward transgender students didn't specifically address the concerns of gender-fluid children. Some trans people are disturbed by this evolution. Renee Richards, who fought for the right to play professional women's tennis after transitioning in the 1970s, said, "God didn't put us on this earth to have gender diversity. I don't like the kids that are experimenting," and then, "I didn't want to be a trans in the middle of something, a third sex or something that's crazy and freakish and not real." Richards's certainty that God did intend people to be trans the way she is trans, but not the way some other people want to be trans, suggests an intimacy with the Creator that strains credulity. In 2011, the performer Justin Vivian Bond spoke of transitioning without surgery. "I like my penis, and I am keeping it, but I am creating a transbody-a physical record on my body and a medical record that I am a transgender person. I am turned on by people who are genuinely themselves. It's not nature versus nurture. It's nurturing your nature." then, "I didn't want to be a trans in the middle of something, a third sex or something that's crazy and freakish and not real." Richards's certainty that God did intend people to be trans the way she is trans, but not the way some other people want to be trans, suggests an intimacy with the Creator that strains credulity. In 2011, the performer Justin Vivian Bond spoke of transitioning without surgery. "I like my penis, and I am keeping it, but I am creating a transbody-a physical record on my body and a medical record that I am a transgender person. I am turned on by people who are genuinely themselves. It's not nature versus nurture. It's nurturing your nature."

When he was still Emma, Eli Rood didn't hate her female body, and she didn't feel that she'd have to kill herself if she couldn't gain access to hormones and surgery. Emma had a good life as a butch lesbian. When she became a man, he was not particularly masculine. Eli has both male and female virtues, and altering his body did not enormously change them. Eli Rood seemed to have transitioned simply because it felt logical; despite a mental health diagnosis of GID, he had taken his gender change as an occasion for clarity.

Emma and her fraternal twin, Kate, grew up in Portland, Oregon. Their mother, Joanna, had become pregnant during a casual relationship and kept her babies. Emma came out as a lesbian; she had a fondness for neckties; she kept a crew cut. She bound her breasts moderately but not tightly and, at five feet seven inches, was read as male about half the time. She started college at fifteen. Joanna said, "I knew she was looking for her tribe, but I missed her. It was harder in some ways to have a child who was so gifted than to have a child who was gender nonconformist."

At her college graduation, Emma came out to her mother and sister as trans. Reviewing it when we were all together, Joanna said, "It seemed like it hurt you, the process of thinking, 'Maybe I'm kind of a freak.' You were a great lesbian; you were good at it. You were very sad about this, and it was very scary." Eli recalled, "I kept wondering, 'Am I really trans?' There was this classic narrative of people who have felt miserable, miserable, miserable, and I wasn't. Finally my therapist said, 'You don't have to be totally miserable to pursue options to make yourself happier.'" In the summer of 2005, age twenty, Eli moved to New York and asked people to use his new name and pronouns. He found a job at the Columbia School of Social Work library, presenting as male. By April 2006, he wanted top surgery. His mother offered to pay half the costs, refinancing her car to do it. Eli grew a beard, as most transmen do to establish their gender beyond discussion. "There have been some testosterone-related emotional and mental changes, but it's hard to gauge what's totally endocrinology, and what's psychosomatic," he said. "I've lost some patience, and I get frustrated more easily. I have more trouble focusing, and my verbal fluency has declined. It took transitioning to realize how much I didn't like my body before. Transition is really a second adolescence. I feel very fortunate in coming at it right on the tail of my first one. I don't regret that first puberty. It contributed to the richness of my experience." He thought for a minute. "If I'd lived earlier, if it had been much, much harder to even think about transitioning, I might not have done it. I didn't choose to have the desire to change. But I did choose to act on it. People make a decision to have chemotherapy or not. People make a decision to take antidepressants or not. That doesn't mean they're not sick with cancer or dangerously sad." some testosterone-related emotional and mental changes, but it's hard to gauge what's totally endocrinology, and what's psychosomatic," he said. "I've lost some patience, and I get frustrated more easily. I have more trouble focusing, and my verbal fluency has declined. It took transitioning to realize how much I didn't like my body before. Transition is really a second adolescence. I feel very fortunate in coming at it right on the tail of my first one. I don't regret that first puberty. It contributed to the richness of my experience." He thought for a minute. "If I'd lived earlier, if it had been much, much harder to even think about transitioning, I might not have done it. I didn't choose to have the desire to change. But I did choose to act on it. People make a decision to have chemotherapy or not. People make a decision to take antidepressants or not. That doesn't mean they're not sick with cancer or dangerously sad."

Eli went to the New York City civil court for what should have been a straightforward name change. His request was denied by a judge who said he didn't want to "adjudicate gender." Legally, name changes can be denied only to those who are attempting to evade creditors or who want to dissociate themselves from a criminal record. "People come in all the time and change their name to Bunny Superstar," Eli said. "I was changing mine from Emma to Elliot." The judge wanted medical proof that Eli was changing his sex. He could have supplied it, but was outraged to be asked; the ACLU took the case, and the judge changed the name to Elliot.

Eli's father, absent when he was growing up, always related better to men and, in Eli's view, prefers having a son to a daughter. "He feels qualified to ladle out fatherly advice to a son like, 'Don't go out and get anyone pregnant,'" Eli said. "He actually said that. He was kidding. But it's still kind of weird." Joanna said, "My parents didn't help me much; I educated myself. I was lucky that somehow I had the strength to make myself, and I'm lucky to have produced a child who had the strength to make himself." Eli has struggled with whether to identify as trans or simply as male. "Some people say, 'I'm a man with a transsexual history.' That's a nice turn of phrase. I'm with a woman I've been with for two years. She has dated men and women in the past. There are elements of our relationship that she calls 'lesbionic,' and she says she feels very lucky to have a boyfriend who's familiar with the lesbian landscape. Both of us feel strongly that we're not straight, so we don't have a straight relationship even though I'm a guy and she's a girl." Later, Eli wrote, "I don't feel like my gender has changed much. I'm the same slightly effete masculine person I've been for ages."

The only regret-for all of them-has been Eli's loss of fertility. Joanna took the sea horse as a family symbol because the male sea horse holds his developing offspring in a brood pouch and then gives birth after a labor that can last several days. Kate wrote, "Eli is soon to be rendered infertile by the very treatment that has made possible his visions of himself as a father. So we wait for the day when science might make a sea horse of him." Infertility may be the steepest price of transition; many trans people I met spoke of the longing to have children, but transmen mostly disliked the idea of carrying a pregnancy, and transwomen mostly mourned their inability to do so. They wanted to be fertile in their affirmed gender, and our science is a long way from making that possible; this issue as much as any other defined the limitations of transition. horse holds his developing offspring in a brood pouch and then gives birth after a labor that can last several days. Kate wrote, "Eli is soon to be rendered infertile by the very treatment that has made possible his visions of himself as a father. So we wait for the day when science might make a sea horse of him." Infertility may be the steepest price of transition; many trans people I met spoke of the longing to have children, but transmen mostly disliked the idea of carrying a pregnancy, and transwomen mostly mourned their inability to do so. They wanted to be fertile in their affirmed gender, and our science is a long way from making that possible; this issue as much as any other defined the limitations of transition.

Early in his transition, Eli wrote on a blog, "I've felt sometimes that the guy who is me-this guy Eli-is out there somewhere, waiting for me to find him, waiting for me to figure out how to become myself. I worry because everything feels unsteady, and I don't know where to look for the guideposts, and I worry that I'll never find him. But someone really important to me once said, 'It's okay. You're strong. And Eli? He'll find you.'"

The International Olympic Committee (IOC) has long required that athletes be screened for gender. The original method was a physical examination; then measurement of hormone levels; then a scan of chromosomes. The reasoning behind such testing is clear. If men and women did not compete separately in athletics, almost all the champions would be men because testosterone strengthens the body. But the testing itself has been fraught with contradictions and problems.

In 2009, the South African runner Caster Semenya was subjected to gender testing after she won gold in the women's 800-meter race of the International Association of Athletics Federations (IAAF) World Championships. IAAF suggested she might have a "rare medical condition" that provided an unfair advantage. Tests revealed that Semenya had internal testes instead of a uterus and ovaries, and a testosterone level three times that of an average genetic female. In the wake of the controversy, the IOC said that women with hyperandrogenism might be disqualified from events. But the idea of a normal level of androgens for women is a fiction; individual levels vary widely. The IOC requires that any irregularities be reviewed by a panel of experts, who decide case by case and in strict confidence. Even before this recent controversy, Arne Ljungqvist, chair of the IOC Medical Commission, said, "There is no scientifically sound lab-based technique that can differentiate between man and woman." Of her humiliating ordeal, Semenya said, "God made me the way I am and I accept myself."

As a human-rights advocate, Shannon Minter spends most of his time in court avoiding ontological questions and focusing on the human stories of the people he represents. In Kantaras v. Kantaras, Kantaras v. Kantaras, Minter argued on behalf of a transman who was divorcing his wife. The wife was challenging his legal parenthood by attacking his legitimacy as a man-and therefore, by extension, their marriage; Florida does not allow same-sex marriage or adoption. When the case was broadcast on Court TV, Michael Kantaras, who had lived a fully assimilated life, was brutally exposed. An elderly, heterosexual, Republican-appointed judge was called out of retirement to hear the case. Minter called his client's parents as witnesses and saw the judge's thinking changing day by day. "Michael's mom said, 'It is so painful to me to hear anybody refer to Michael, even in the past, as Minter argued on behalf of a transman who was divorcing his wife. The wife was challenging his legal parenthood by attacking his legitimacy as a man-and therefore, by extension, their marriage; Florida does not allow same-sex marriage or adoption. When the case was broadcast on Court TV, Michael Kantaras, who had lived a fully assimilated life, was brutally exposed. An elderly, heterosexual, Republican-appointed judge was called out of retirement to hear the case. Minter called his client's parents as witnesses and saw the judge's thinking changing day by day. "Michael's mom said, 'It is so painful to me to hear anybody refer to Michael, even in the past, as she, she,'" Minter recalled. "Here's this woman that the judge could totally relate to. So he never did it again." The judge eventually wrote, "Transsexualism is a massively complex and difficult problem deserving of the highest respect and sympathy. Being further denied by the courts of the basic fundamental right to marry violates their Constitutional rights and degrades them as human beings."

Minter believes that the unifying challenge for gender activists is to create a society in which gender is disestablished as a legal concept. "Everything short of that is going to entail significant incoherence," he said. "There is no sensible, much less scientifically valid, way to classify people based on race. The Supreme Court has recognized that. We don't put race on birth certificates; race is no longer a legally relevant category except as a self-identification. That must also happen with gender." Minter added that this shouldn't be confused with the somewhat dated feminist ideal of abolishing gender. "People are very attached to their own gender. I certainly am. It's much more like religion. It would be shocking to think that the government could define somebody's religion. It needs to be just as shocking that the government could define someone's gender." Minter's determination comes out of personal history. A man in his fifties who has an extraordinary record of accomplishment and a wide circle of friends, he said, "A week before my father died, he introduced me for the first time to someone else as his son, son, and it meant more to me than anything else that ever happened to me." and it meant more to me than anything else that ever happened to me."

In looking at disability, I ran up repeatedly against Peter Singer's eugenic idea that not all human beings are persons; in trans studies, the progressive idea that not all males have male bodies. Though Singer and the trans advocates appear to be at opposite ends of the spectrum, at some level they present the same argument: that changing social mores and advancing science have caused us to question the basic structuring principles of human society. Genesis describes a world born in categories: God made grasses and trees, then whales and fish, then fowl and birds, then cattle and creeping things and beasts, then human beings to have dominion over all the rest. "Male and female he created them," says the verse. In the great creation story, humans and animals occupy categories that can never cross, as do men and women. In the twenty-first century, new arguments are afloat that some human beings are not persons, that some persons are not human beings, that some men are women, that some women are men, that some human beings are persons but are neither women nor men. Globalization has blurred national identity, and intermarriage has compromised racial identity. We like categories and clubs as much as we ever have; it's only that the ones we thought were inviolable turn out not to be, and others that we never imagined are taking their place. and advancing science have caused us to question the basic structuring principles of human society. Genesis describes a world born in categories: God made grasses and trees, then whales and fish, then fowl and birds, then cattle and creeping things and beasts, then human beings to have dominion over all the rest. "Male and female he created them," says the verse. In the great creation story, humans and animals occupy categories that can never cross, as do men and women. In the twenty-first century, new arguments are afloat that some human beings are not persons, that some persons are not human beings, that some men are women, that some women are men, that some human beings are persons but are neither women nor men. Globalization has blurred national identity, and intermarriage has compromised racial identity. We like categories and clubs as much as we ever have; it's only that the ones we thought were inviolable turn out not to be, and others that we never imagined are taking their place.

When Carol and Loren McKerrow met, she was runner-up for Miss Texas, and he was completing his training in ophthalmology outside Fort Worth. When they married, he took her home to Helena, Montana. They adopted their son Marc because they thought they were unable to conceive. However, Carol became pregnant with Paul, later Kim, about the time they brought Marc home; Carol gave birth to another son, Todd, a couple of years later. Marc had behavior problems. "Whenever school called," Carol recalled, "it was an awards ceremony, academic or athletic, for Paul, or to tell me Marc had been suspended." While all the anxiety was focused around Marc, Paul was secretly struggling with gender. "I had a paper route when I was ten," Kim remembered. "It was very early. I used to cross-dress because I didn't think anyone would see me. Then I would throw away the clothes and pray that some power could dispel this thing that was making me unlike anyone else I knew of."

Paul became a great athlete and was quarterback on his high school football team. "That was the recipe to be normal, and a way to shut off your brain," Kim said. "If you're uncomfortable with your body, you want to control that body, and sports are a really good way to do it." Paul was valedictorian and class president at Helena High, where he was voted most likely to succeed. "I knew the word manque, manque, as in as in artiste manque, artiste manque," Kim said. "That was my word, because it just meant, 'Oh, if only you knew.'"

Paul went on to Berkeley and spent his junior year, 1988, abroad. "Everybody else is going to Florence or Paris," Kim said. "I'm going to Norway because I'm just going to hide in a long, dark winter, read Beckett, drink blackberry tea, and starve. I went thinking, 'I'm going to stop this.' A couple months into it, it was like, 'I can't stop this.'" Some people give a single date for their transition; Kim described hers as happening from 1989 to 1996. She moved to San Francisco and saw old friends and family as little as possible; the only person from her previous life who knew was her brother Todd, who was openly gay. He was easygoing and had come out without much drama, but she kept even him at arm's length. Beckett, drink blackberry tea, and starve. I went thinking, 'I'm going to stop this.' A couple months into it, it was like, 'I can't stop this.'" Some people give a single date for their transition; Kim described hers as happening from 1989 to 1996. She moved to San Francisco and saw old friends and family as little as possible; the only person from her previous life who knew was her brother Todd, who was openly gay. He was easygoing and had come out without much drama, but she kept even him at arm's length. Kim Kim was the most generic name she could think of, and she changed her last name to Reed, her old middle name, to make a fresh start. Even so, Kim felt awkward and artificial; it took five years for her to start hormones. "I wasn't sure who I was," Kim said. "I wasn't even sure gender was the gateway. It's awfully complicated, awfully expensive, awfully isolating, and the practical angle alone is very difficult." Today, however, Kim has an unaffected femininity. Once when I was out with her, someone came up to her and said, "My friend is struggling with transitioning. You're so relaxed; how did you learn all these gestures?" Kim said, "When I was making the switch, I was too conscious of how I moved, and it wasn't until I began to forget about it that who I really was started to take over." was the most generic name she could think of, and she changed her last name to Reed, her old middle name, to make a fresh start. Even so, Kim felt awkward and artificial; it took five years for her to start hormones. "I wasn't sure who I was," Kim said. "I wasn't even sure gender was the gateway. It's awfully complicated, awfully expensive, awfully isolating, and the practical angle alone is very difficult." Today, however, Kim has an unaffected femininity. Once when I was out with her, someone came up to her and said, "My friend is struggling with transitioning. You're so relaxed; how did you learn all these gestures?" Kim said, "When I was making the switch, I was too conscious of how I moved, and it wasn't until I began to forget about it that who I really was started to take over."

In the winter of 1995, Carol's younger sister, Nan, was diagnosed with colon cancer. When Kim, still Paul to the family, would call her aunt, she would talk to her mother, too, but for almost five years, they didn't see each other. When Nan died, however, Carol expected Paul to attend the funeral. Kim, who had been on hormones for over a year, was a pallbearer, with only a ponytail to attract comment. Carol said, "It was a funeral. But he looked so so sad, and I still had no clue. A month later, Paul called and said, 'Did you ever wonder as I was growing up whether I was comfortable with my own sexual identity?' I said, 'I thought you were the golden child.' He said, 'Well, I've been dressing as a woman.'" Carol was bewildered. "I felt sad, and I still had no clue. A month later, Paul called and said, 'Did you ever wonder as I was growing up whether I was comfortable with my own sexual identity?' I said, 'I thought you were the golden child.' He said, 'Well, I've been dressing as a woman.'" Carol was bewildered. "I felt very very sad, for all that anguish he'd been going through that I didn't even suspect," she said. Kim sent her mother a stack of medical information. "I didn't need to read any pamphlets," Carol said. "For me, it was, 'I love my child; the intelligent, caring, humorous person is still there.' All I wanted to know was, 'Are you happy now? Are you comfortable?'" But she worried about telling Loren. sad, for all that anguish he'd been going through that I didn't even suspect," she said. Kim sent her mother a stack of medical information. "I didn't need to read any pamphlets," Carol said. "For me, it was, 'I love my child; the intelligent, caring, humorous person is still there.' All I wanted to know was, 'Are you happy now? Are you comfortable?'" But she worried about telling Loren.

Kim once said, "When I transitioned, I felt like I had climbed out of a wet suit I had been wearing my entire life. Imagine that magnificent rush, the tactile sensations, as though your body had just woken up. But I also felt like this new person couldn't go home, and I began to dismantle all my connections to Montana. At the time I didn't know how thoroughly all of this saddened me, and to compensate for that, I started to turn my hometown into a place that I didn't really need to go back to." That exile continued even after Loren had been told the news; no one else in the family was to know. Marc had been in a car accident and suffered a traumatic brain injury, which led to even more erratic behavior than he'd previously exhibited, and Kim was afraid of his response. "I felt like I owed it to Marc to tell him, but I thought he would hurt me, and I felt too vulnerable," Kim said. Carol said, "Marc is saying, 'Am I ever going to hear from Paul again?' and it was getting worse and worse. But Kim said, 'When Marc knows, all of Montana knows, and I'm just not ready for it yet.' Kim was right, because Marc wanted something on Paul. Marc wanted to say, 'Well, at least I'm more normal than you turned out to be.'" started to turn my hometown into a place that I didn't really need to go back to." That exile continued even after Loren had been told the news; no one else in the family was to know. Marc had been in a car accident and suffered a traumatic brain injury, which led to even more erratic behavior than he'd previously exhibited, and Kim was afraid of his response. "I felt like I owed it to Marc to tell him, but I thought he would hurt me, and I felt too vulnerable," Kim said. Carol said, "Marc is saying, 'Am I ever going to hear from Paul again?' and it was getting worse and worse. But Kim said, 'When Marc knows, all of Montana knows, and I'm just not ready for it yet.' Kim was right, because Marc wanted something on Paul. Marc wanted to say, 'Well, at least I'm more normal than you turned out to be.'"

Loren had contracted hepatitis in medical school; while Kim was growing into herself, his condition was worsening. He was on a waiting list for a liver transplant, but at sixty-two, he was not given priority. In the summer of 2003, he decided to visit each of his children. Kim had moved to New York, told her parents that she was a lesbian, and started seeing a woman named Claire Jones. Carol and Loren had dinner with Kim and Claire the night they arrived. "I started feeling better about everything," Carol said. "I loved Claire the minute I met her. I was so worried Kim was going to be alone. Claire walked around the corner, and I just breathed a sigh of relief."

Several months later, Loren collapsed and was taken on an emergency flight for treatment in Denver. Kim flew immediately to join her parents. She arrived at the hospital a few hours before her father died, while her brothers were still arranging transport to Colorado. Kim reached Marc on the phone as he was boarding his flight and said, "I've been out of touch. I didn't know how to handle it; but now because of Dad's death, we're all going to be together, and you need to know about me." At the Denver airport, Kim gave Marc her card and said, "Here are my phone numbers. You can call me anytime." At that point, Carol burst into tears-not about Loren, but because Kim and Marc were speaking again. There they all were, displaced in a strange city, bereft of the reason that had brought them there but also more united than they'd been in years. Later that day, Carol, Kim, Marc, and Todd set out for Montana by car. During the long trip, Kim reaffirmed her connection to Marc and tried to answer his many questions. He was bewildered, but not unkind. Whenever there was cell phone reception across the plains of Wyoming, Kim made calls to uncles, aunts, and cousins. "My father has died," Kim recalled. "They're reeling. They're hearing the news about me. And they respond with 'We're just glad to have you back.'"

Carol decided to host a tea party for friends in Helena who could help get the word out about Kim, so she wouldn't need to discuss the matter at the funeral. "My mom, God bless her, just owned it," Kim said. "People couldn't really throw a fit because everyone had the emotional meat tenderizer of my dad's passing forcing them into kindness." Kim was at the airport picking up Claire when the tea party took place. Carol had invited nineteen women and the male pastor from her church. She explained Kim's transition in brief, then said, "I'm not responsible for for my child and who she's become, but I am responsible my child and who she's become, but I am responsible to to her, and she is a wonderful person. I love her. I don't know if you need to know anything else, but that's all I need to know." After a moment of silence as the guests absorbed this information, somebody said, "Amen." Then Carol said, "I'm telling you this now, and I'm not going to speak about it again the rest of the weekend. I'm concentrating on Loren's service, and celebrating his life." When I asked Carol why she hadn't encountered the kind of community hatred that I had seen so many other families battle, she said, "I think it's because of how we had lived our lives up until then." Kim added, "My dad wouldn't grab the bull by the horns like my mom did. A tea party was the last thing he would do. But he would somehow cause things to be such that a tea party would happen. He would delight in the fact that his little nudge had caused everything to fall into place." her, and she is a wonderful person. I love her. I don't know if you need to know anything else, but that's all I need to know." After a moment of silence as the guests absorbed this information, somebody said, "Amen." Then Carol said, "I'm telling you this now, and I'm not going to speak about it again the rest of the weekend. I'm concentrating on Loren's service, and celebrating his life." When I asked Carol why she hadn't encountered the kind of community hatred that I had seen so many other families battle, she said, "I think it's because of how we had lived our lives up until then." Kim added, "My dad wouldn't grab the bull by the horns like my mom did. A tea party was the last thing he would do. But he would somehow cause things to be such that a tea party would happen. He would delight in the fact that his little nudge had caused everything to fall into place."

Sue O'Leary was one of the guests at the tea party; her son, Tim O'Leary, who had been Paul's closest friend, was in town for the funeral. "There's a viewing of my father's body at the funeral home, and all of my friends who have heard the news are there," Kim said. "I've said I'm not going because I want to keep it about my dad, but I'm really chickening out. Before I know it, Tim and all these guys I knew in high school, essentially the football team, open our front door, and they've got cases of beer under their arms, and Frank Mayo's saying, 'Yeah, I had this dream that we were all fat, bald, and old, and you were a girl.' It was the living room I grew up in, and Claire's sitting on the couch, knocking back cheap beer, and there's a couple more cases outside in a snowbank to keep them cold. This guy has his arm around Claire, and they're laughing, and I was just like, 'This is going to work out just fine.'"

The next day was the funeral. Carol recalled, "I'm not a Bible student at all, but there is one verse everybody knows, John 3:16, and it says, 'God so loved the world that whosoever believeth in Him shall not perish and have everlasting life.' I just really caught on to that whosoever whosoever and I held on to it that day of the funeral. When people said, 'I see Marc, I see Todd, but I don't see Paul,' I referred them to the friends who had come to my tea party." and I held on to it that day of the funeral. When people said, 'I see Marc, I see Todd, but I don't see Paul,' I referred them to the friends who had come to my tea party."

As Kim and Claire traveled home from Helena a few days later, Kim decided to make a documentary that would begin with her twentieth high school reunion that fall; Marc had been held back a grade in elementary school, so they graduated in the same class, and both planned to attend. Prodigal Sons Prodigal Sons charts Kim's departure from her geographic community to her identity community, Marc's deterioration and the enormous stress it placed on the family, and Kim's complicated, ambivalent love for her brother. The film is full of the childhood Kim shared with Marc and Todd, including footage shot by her father when she was still Paul, the quarterback. At the film's start, Marc's head injury has fossilized his sense of the past, so that he looks only behind, while Kim's transition has meant that she looks only ahead. As her changing identity and his unchanging identity collide, she enshrines the very history she long wished to abrogate. When Kim appeared on charts Kim's departure from her geographic community to her identity community, Marc's deterioration and the enormous stress it placed on the family, and Kim's complicated, ambivalent love for her brother. The film is full of the childhood Kim shared with Marc and Todd, including footage shot by her father when she was still Paul, the quarterback. At the film's start, Marc's head injury has fossilized his sense of the past, so that he looks only behind, while Kim's transition has meant that she looks only ahead. As her changing identity and his unchanging identity collide, she enshrines the very history she long wished to abrogate. When Kim appeared on Oprah Oprah with her mother to promote the film, Oprah played a clip in which Marc accused his mother of trampling the Bible by welcoming Kim. Oprah said, "Well? Do you believe in the Bible?" Carol said, "I believe in my with her mother to promote the film, Oprah played a clip in which Marc accused his mother of trampling the Bible by welcoming Kim. Oprah said, "Well? Do you believe in the Bible?" Carol said, "I believe in my child child."

Six months after I met her, Kim called me one night, excitedly, with an invitation. The pastor from her church in Helena was organizing a Prodigal Sons Prodigal Sons weekend: a screening on Friday night, seminars on Saturday to discuss issues raised by the film, and a sermon by Kim on Sunday-all, coincidentally, the weekend of Carol's birthday. I traveled to Montana a few days early. A year earlier, Carol had invited twenty-six people to her house to see the film. "I worried about some of those people, so I told their spouses that I was concerned," she explained. "Since I'd done that, they all felt very proud of saying at the end of the evening, 'See? Everything is fine, Carol. You needn't have worried.'" One of those people was an old friend who had recently lost his wife, and at the end of the screening, he seemed disturbed. Carol asked if he was okay, and he said he was not. "My heart sank," Carol told me. "Then he told me that he had just had no idea that it was so serious with Marc, and how much I had been shouldering." Carol and Don bonded through the conversation, and when I went out to Helena, they had become a couple; two years later, they invited me to their wedding. weekend: a screening on Friday night, seminars on Saturday to discuss issues raised by the film, and a sermon by Kim on Sunday-all, coincidentally, the weekend of Carol's birthday. I traveled to Montana a few days early. A year earlier, Carol had invited twenty-six people to her house to see the film. "I worried about some of those people, so I told their spouses that I was concerned," she explained. "Since I'd done that, they all felt very proud of saying at the end of the evening, 'See? Everything is fine, Carol. You needn't have worried.'" One of those people was an old friend who had recently lost his wife, and at the end of the screening, he seemed disturbed. Carol asked if he was okay, and he said he was not. "My heart sank," Carol told me. "Then he told me that he had just had no idea that it was so serious with Marc, and how much I had been shouldering." Carol and Don bonded through the conversation, and when I went out to Helena, they had become a couple; two years later, they invited me to their wedding.

At breakfast on the morning of Carol's birthday, I found her furious and mournful. She handed me the Helena Independent Record, Helena Independent Record, where a banner headline across the front page blared, "Helena Prodigal Son Returning as Woman," and, below, "Former QB at HHS to present film telling story of sex change." Kim was at a festival in Iceland and wouldn't be arriving until the following day. When Carol and I went to the church to decorate for the festivities, the pastor said she had been in where a banner headline across the front page blared, "Helena Prodigal Son Returning as Woman," and, below, "Former QB at HHS to present film telling story of sex change." Kim was at a festival in Iceland and wouldn't be arriving until the following day. When Carol and I went to the church to decorate for the festivities, the pastor said she had been in touch with the police to arrange safeguards in case of rioting or attacks. Carol threw up her hands. "The film was going to come here sooner or later, and I didn't want it to just get booked into our local movie house, the Myrna Loy, and have no control over it," she said. "This is the way it should come, at my church, where there is love. But those headlines cheapen it." It is stressful to be stripped bare in front of a small town where you've lived your whole adulthood. Carol is not a show-off, or a lonely person, or a born activist, so she didn't need to tell her story for the reasons that motivate many people. She said, "I know people who have had to look at accounts of their sons being arrested for child pornography, or embezzlement, and Kim has not hurt anyone; in fact, she has helped many people." Nonetheless, she was visibly shaken. touch with the police to arrange safeguards in case of rioting or attacks. Carol threw up her hands. "The film was going to come here sooner or later, and I didn't want it to just get booked into our local movie house, the Myrna Loy, and have no control over it," she said. "This is the way it should come, at my church, where there is love. But those headlines cheapen it." It is stressful to be stripped bare in front of a small town where you've lived your whole adulthood. Carol is not a show-off, or a lonely person, or a born activist, so she didn't need to tell her story for the reasons that motivate many people. She said, "I know people who have had to look at accounts of their sons being arrested for child pornography, or embezzlement, and Kim has not hurt anyone; in fact, she has helped many people." Nonetheless, she was visibly shaken.

The night of the screening, Plymouth Congregational was packed, with a long waiting list for tickets. I sat next to Carol in the back row, and she cried through much of the film and had to leave the sanctuary twice. When the film ended, Kim stood at the front of the church, and the audience began to applaud. A few people stood up, then a few more, and then it became a standing ovation. When it ended, Kim invited her mother up; Carol had composed her face into a smile by then, and as she walked briskly down the aisle, everyone stood up again, and when Carol arrived at the altar, she and Kim stood with their arms around each other's shoulders while the audience continued cheering. Carol's bravado had transformed the screening into an occasion of triumph. Now, Kim was the one crying. At the reception afterward, I told one of the church ladies that Kim had worried about the conversation the film would provoke, and the lady said, "Our hardest conversations aren't with other people; they're with ourselves. Once she had settled who she was in herself, we were ready to have whatever conversations we needed to make sure she knew this was always home."

On Sunday, the pastor commented that she had never seen more congregants except at Christmas and Easter. The entire McKerrow clan was there; some had had to drive many hours from their farms. The service opened, "We pray today for your blessings on those who are abused for being who they are, and for those who are abusers." Hymns were sung, the parable of the Prodigal Son was read, then Kim came forward. Although the parable is usually interpreted as a story about the father, she said, it is also a story about a son who receives a welcome he would never have dared to expect. She said, "The night before last, when our film was playing in here, I went outside to the columbarium where my father's ashes rest. As I was kneeling there by what I call 'Dad's spot,' I thought of the hours and hours of videotape that he shot lovingly of me during my football games, and how much of the same footage was now being shown inside this sanctuary. Now, it's certainly not the context that any of us expected. But I knew Dad would be proud. And just then, the dusk breeze blew in this waft of sound, and it was strangely familiar to me, and I realized it was the crosstown football game coming from the stadium. The band was playing, and the announcer was bellowing, and all of these old tapes were playing inside here, on the screen, and I knew that new ones were being recorded just a few blocks away. Those recording their new memories to tape should be only so lucky as to be surprised by the last thing that they expected from their loved ones, only so fortunate as to get a chance to welcome them home with radical love. I thought about how all these cycles of lives would continue on, and so many aspects of my life coalesced in that one moment, that one beautiful, stunning, blessed moment, the past and the present, parent and child, male and female: the pain that life sometimes brings, and the soothing love that welcomes it with open arms, after its exhausting journey into a distant country." of the same footage was now being shown inside this sanctuary. Now, it's certainly not the context that any of us expected. But I knew Dad would be proud. And just then, the dusk breeze blew in this waft of sound, and it was strangely familiar to me, and I realized it was the crosstown football game coming from the stadium. The band was playing, and the announcer was bellowing, and all of these old tapes were playing inside here, on the screen, and I knew that new ones were being recorded just a few blocks away. Those recording their new memories to tape should be only so lucky as to be surprised by the last thing that they expected from their loved ones, only so fortunate as to get a chance to welcome them home with radical love. I thought about how all these cycles of lives would continue on, and so many aspects of my life coalesced in that one moment, that one beautiful, stunning, blessed moment, the past and the present, parent and child, male and female: the pain that life sometimes brings, and the soothing love that welcomes it with open arms, after its exhausting journey into a distant country."

That afternoon after the service, Carol and I went for a long walk. I said, "Do you wish that Paul had just been happy to be Paul and had stayed that way?" Carol said, "Well, of course I do. It would have been easier for Paul, and for the rest of us. But the key phrase in there is 'happy to be Paul.' He wasn't, and I am just so glad that he had the courage to do something about it. No, if he had been happy to be Paul, anybody would wish for that, but since he wasn't-I can't imagine the courage that it took. I had somebody say this weekend, 'Carol, Paul died, and I haven't finished mourning that.' I don't feel that. Kim is much more present to people than Paul ever was. Paul was never rude, he just wasn't totally present. We didn't quite have his attention." She laughed, then said with adoring emphasis, "And look what we got! Kim!" And grace seemed to be both the cause and the consequence of her happiness in that emphatic declaration.

As I worked on this chapter, I kept returning in my mind to Tennyson's beautiful tribute to Arthur Henry Hallam, in which he wrote, "And manhood fused with female grace / In such a sort, the child would twine / A trustful hand, unask'd, in thine, / And find his comfort in thy face." Our received notions of masculinity and femininity are a modern conceit. Though Hallam was neither trans nor gay, his magnetism inhered in this blending of strength and gentleness, boldness and compassion. I remember first reading Tennyson's lines when I was a teenager, thinking that he celebrated this friend for the very qualities that most troubled me in myself. I wanted to be something noble, not just a boy who had failed at real masculinity and was making do. I wanted to emulate what was best in my father and mother, in the life of the mind, to which men often stake first claim, and that of the heart, in which women usually have the upper hand. I saw in Tennyson's bracing words an encomium not to an androgynous face, but to the intricate nature of beauty. Masculinity and femininity here seemed not locked in binary competition, but fused in collaboration. Anyone with an open heart should know that the world would have ended long ago without the translators who convey male and female meanings across gender's fierce boundaries. It may be a recent phenomenon for that to be an identity, but what has changed is the characterization of such people-not their eternal merit, not their uncanny, necessary splendor. just a boy who had failed at real masculinity and was making do. I wanted to emulate what was best in my father and mother, in the life of the mind, to which men often stake first claim, and that of the heart, in which women usually have the upper hand. I saw in Tennyson's bracing words an encomium not to an androgynous face, but to the intricate nature of beauty. Masculinity and femininity here seemed not locked in binary competition, but fused in collaboration. Anyone with an open heart should know that the world would have ended long ago without the translators who convey male and female meanings across gender's fierce boundaries. It may be a recent phenomenon for that to be an identity, but what has changed is the characterization of such people-not their eternal merit, not their uncanny, necessary splendor.

I have a great life as a man and have made it all work, but I know that at twelve I'd have chosen to be a woman if it had been an easy and complete transformation. Perhaps that is only because being a woman looked more respectable to me than being a gay man, and twelve is a conformist age. I don't regret not being a woman, any more than I regret not being a tough and easy football hero, or not being born into the British royal family; trans children usually believe they are already members of a different gender, and I never did. Being gay has worked out happily for me in the end, and since one lives in a continuous present, I don't feel the afflictions I have resolved as permanent losses (though my last book was, after all, about depression; my path has had its challenges).

Yet I like to imagine a science-fiction future when gender-bending will not entail surgical procedures, hormone injections, and social disapprobation-a society in which everyone is able to choose his or her own gender at any time. Without physical trauma, such people would be fully of their affirmed gender, with an entirely functioning reproductive system and mind and heart of the self they believe is rightly theirs. If they wish to linger at the middle of a gender spectrum-physically, psychologically, or both-that, too, would be possible. In such a dreamtime, I believe that many people would opt to experience another gender. I've always loved travel, and if someone offered me a trip to the moon, I'd be there in an instant. What trip could be more fascinating and exotic than to know what it truly is to be your own opposite? Or, indeed, to live in some elusive territory to which there is no opposite? I'd plunk down my fortune if there were a round-trip ticket.

At the same time, I know that choice can be burdensome and exhausting and frightening-especially unaccustomed choice. My first book was about a group of Soviet artists, and I was with those artists when they came to the West. I remember one of them bursting into tears in a German supermarket that stocked twenty brands of butter because he couldn't stomach all the decisions the West asked of him. A piece of me thinks that people are not good at choosing, that people who cannot do a competent job of voting in an electoral democracy, who have a record-high divorce rate, who fail to love children born because they didn't organize birth control, would collapse if given full leeway to choose their gender. I likewise believe that choice is the only true luxury, that the striving inherent in decision-making gives decisions value. In modern America, choice is the aspirational currency, and even knowing the weariness selection entails, I like to imagine a future in which we would be able to choose everything. I'd quite possibly choose what I have now-and would love it even more for having done so. because he couldn't stomach all the decisions the West asked of him. A piece of me thinks that people are not good at choosing, that people who cannot do a competent job of voting in an electoral democracy, who have a record-high divorce rate, who fail to love children born because they didn't organize birth control, would collapse if given full leeway to choose their gender. I likewise believe that choice is the only true luxury, that the striving inherent in decision-making gives decisions value. In modern America, choice is the aspirational currency, and even knowing the weariness selection entails, I like to imagine a future in which we would be able to choose everything. I'd quite possibly choose what I have now-and would love it even more for having done so.

XII

Father

I started this book to forgive my parents and ended it by becoming a parent. Understanding backward liberated me to live forward. I wanted to find out why I had experienced so much pain in my childhood, to understand what was my doing, what was my parents', and what was the world's. I felt I owed it to both my parents and myself to prove that we had been less than half the problem. In retrospect, it seems obvious that my research about parenting was also a means to subdue my anxieties about becoming a parent. But the mind works in mysterious ways, and if this was my secret purpose, it revealed itself only gradually. started this book to forgive my parents and ended it by becoming a parent. Understanding backward liberated me to live forward. I wanted to find out why I had experienced so much pain in my childhood, to understand what was my doing, what was my parents', and what was the world's. I felt I owed it to both my parents and myself to prove that we had been less than half the problem. In retrospect, it seems obvious that my research about parenting was also a means to subdue my anxieties about becoming a parent. But the mind works in mysterious ways, and if this was my secret purpose, it revealed itself only gradually.

I grew up afraid of illness and disability, inclined to avert my gaze from anyone who was too different-despite all the ways I knew myself to be different. This book helped me kill that bigoted impulse, which I had always known to be ugly. The obvious melancholy in the stories I heard should, perhaps, have made me shy away from paternity, but it had the opposite effect. Parenting had challenged these families, but almost none regretted it; they demonstrated that with enough emotional discipline and affective will, one could love anyone. I was comforted by this tutelage in acceptance, the reassurance that difficult love is no less a thing than easy love.

For a long time, children used to make me sad. The origin of my sadness was somewhat obscure to me, but I think it came most from how the absence of children in the lives of gay people had repeatedly been held up to me as my tragedy. Children were the most important thing in the world, and so they were mascots for my failure. My parents had encouraged me to marry a woman and have a family, and the world echoed that imperative. I spent years drifting between relationships with men and relationships with women. I loved some of the women with whom I was intimate, but if children hadn't been part of the equation, I wouldn't have bothered with the other half. The recognition that I was really gay came only when I understood that gayness was a matter not of behavior, but of identity. I wouldn't have bothered with the other half. The recognition that I was really gay came only when I understood that gayness was a matter not of behavior, but of identity.