This narrative recounts a transgender individual's journey of self-discovery and transition, highlighting the profound and evolving relationship with their mother, from initial shock and fear to eventual acceptance and unwavering support.
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I was my mother's fourth daughter.
The first she had when she was 15 years
old. Years later, one of my sisters had
a baby at 15 years old. So when I was 15
and I sat my mother down at the kitchen
table, I knew exactly what she thought I
was going to tell her.
I said, "Mommy, I got to tell you
something." She said, "A shit." I said,
"Wait a minute. Wait a minute. Wait a
minute. I'm not pregnant. I'm gay."
She was shocked. She was shocked, but
she got over it quickly and she became
one of my fiercest allies. I remember
seeing her when I'd be marching in the
pride parade uh in my hometown of
Buffalo, New York. She'd be on the
sidelines, her and her younger sister,
Stella, waving their rainbow flags,
drinking their wine coolers, having a
good time.
We grew really close. Particularly when
I moved here to New York City in my 20s
to start my adult life. I really needed
her so much. I needed her for
everything. I called her every day and
twice on Saturdays to help me make
decisions about decorating my apartment,
to help me make decisions about school,
about my my beginnings of my career. I
would tell her all about the beautiful
women that I was meeting and I was
dating, but I didn't tell her that I was
their boyfriend.
My mother was a nurse for over 40 years.
So, I go I caught a case of the
sniffles. I'm calling her to ask her
what tablets to take, but I didn't call
and tell her that I was taking a half cc
of testosterone every two weeks. I
didn't tell her I was transgender,
but she knew something was up.
So, one day I'm at work and she calls
me. She said, "Tiku," that was her pet
name for me. She said, "Tiku, I hate to
call you at work, but I just got to ask
you this question. I just got to get
this off my chest." I said, "Mommy,
what's up?" She said, "Why you got to be
so mananish?
Why can't you be a soft butch like Ellen Degenerous?
I said, ' Because I'm not Ellen, ma.
Okay. She says, you know what? I should
have never allowed this. I should have
never accepted you. I should have never
accepted you. What would have happened
if I had never accepted you? I said,
well, ma, I still would have been me. I
just would have been me without a
mother. And she thought about it for a
minute and she said, "Well, you ain't
got enough good sense to do anything
without me, so I guess I'll stick
around." So, thank you.
So, we laughed and went on about our
conversation, but I didn't take that
opportunity to tell her because I was
scared. My mother had a really had high
expectations of me. And she used to say,
"I'm raising you to be better than me."
And I thought that me being trans meant
that I was failing at that.
And as a transgender person, one of the
things we risk is we risk losing
everybody in this life that we thought
loved us in order for us to find
ourselves. And I was not ready to lose
my mother. I just needed her too much
and I just loved her too much. So I kept
it a secret. I didn't tell her for years.
years.
And our relationship definitely took a
hit. It was a strain on our relationship
because I'm from Buffalo. So I would
just go back and forth just visit like
four or five times a year. I stay for a
week at a time. But during these years,
I would only go home maybe once for a
couple of days. And it wasn't
sustainable. It wasn't sustainable.
particularly because now my transition
is progressing and now it's time for me
to have surgery and I still had no plans
to tell her. And my girlfriend at the
time looked at me and she said, "You are
crazy. You and your mother are best
friends. You talk to her every day.
She's a nurse. She will never forgive
you if you don't tell her that you are
about to have major surgery." So I was
like, "All right, I'mma tell her." So
one day I call her. I said, "Mommy," she
said, "What's up?" I said, "I got
something to tell you." She said, "What
is it?" And this is exactly how it came
out to her. I said, "Ma,
I am having a double masectomy, a chest
reconstruction. I'm a man."
She said, "What the fuck?"
So, she's like hyperventilating on the
phone, right? So, I said, "Listen,
mommy, I'm having surgery and I'm having
surgery in 3 days and I would love for
you to be here for me, but if you can't,
I understand." And she said, "Just get
off my phone and let me think. Just get
off my phone." Click. And she hung up on
me. and she hung up and I didn't hear
from her.
So, the day of my surgery comes around
and I'm all prepped and ready for
surgery, getting ready to get wheeled
in. The door opens up and guess who it
is? It's my mom, Miss Mary. And here she
comes and she has this plush Ralph
Lauren robe and she has a jar full of
chocolates covered in blue foil and she
has a little blue plush little teddy
bear for me. and she was there with me
the entire time I was in surgery and
during recovery. So I got discharged and
we go back to her favorite hotel which
is the Marriott Marquee here in Time Square
Square
and we're kind of just hanging out in
the hotel room and I look over and she's
crying and I said, "Mom, why are you
crying?" And she said, "Because it feels
like my daughter died."
And that was one of the hardest things
I've ever heard. But I understood it
because my transition wasn't just mine
alone. I went from being a daughter to a
son. I went from being the little sister
to the baby brother, from the favorite
auntie to the favorite uncle. So I
grabbed my mother's hand and I looked in
her eyes and I said, "Mommy, I'm yours
and you're still mine. And everything
that you've taught me and all the
memories that we have made as mother and
daughter have informed me and fortified
me as the man that I am today.
and we laughed and we cried and we
talked and I think it was in that moment
when she really started to understand me
and accept me as her son. But it wasn't
necessarily a smooth transition.
She kept messing up my name. She kept
messing up my pronouns. And so one day I
called and I said, "Mama, look, I'm not
coming home anymore. I'm not coming home
to visit if you can't get my pronouns
right and you can't get my name right."
Because not only is it humiliating,
okay, it's it's unsafe. if you could be
putting me in a really unsafe position
where you do this. She said, "Oh my god,
I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. I'll be
better." I said, "All right, get it together."
together."
So, a few days later, she calls me and
she said, "Oh, Tika, you'd be so proud
of your mother. You'd be so proud of
me." I said, "Why, mommy? What's going
on?" She said, "Because I've been practicing.
practicing.
Me and Stella been roleplaying,
practicing your name and your pronouns.
You'd be so proud of your mother."
And I said, "Mama, I'm always so proud
of you." and she said, "Oh, I just love
you." And I said, "I love you, too." And
we went on in conversation
the way we had always done.
So June 2014,
2014,
I get a phone call from my mom
and this time she is hysterical, crying, hysterical.
hysterical.
And I said, "Mommy, what's going on?"
And she said, "Baby, you got to come
home right now. You got to come home
right now." And I said, "Mama, I'm
coming home on the 19th." And she said,
"Baby, I'm not going to be here on the
19th because the cancer has mushroomed
throughout my entire body. The tumors in
my lungs and in my backs are bigger. The
initial tumor in my breast, you got to
get home right now." Now, we knew mommy
had a cancer diagnosis, but I don't
think we knew it was that bad.
So, I got on the first thing smoking
back home.
Now, by the time I get home, my mother's
in hospice, in and out of consciousness,
and one of my sisters is there, and she
sees me, and she says, "Tik is here.
Here she is. Tik is here. She finally
made it. Here she is. Tik is here." My
mother slowly opened up her eyes, and
And that was one of the last words she spoke.
spoke.
So over the ne next couple of days,
the family, we had it set up so that she
was never alone, right? We all took a
shift and I had the morning shift.
So one morning I come in and it's pretty
obvious that we're reaching the end now.
Every breath she take is so labored. her
and there's this loud gurgle with every
breath that just fills the room.
So I come up to her hospital bed and I
take the guardrail down and I get in bed
with her just like I used to when I was
a little kid and I put my head on my
shoulder on her shoulder and I put my
lips to her ear and I said, "Mama, you
could go." I said, "It is okay. I
promise you I'm going to be okay. You
did such a good job raising me. You can go."
go."
And then I fell asleep. Fell asleep
right there.
And when I woke up, the room was silent
and my champion had died right there in
my arms.
Tell you, I there are no words to
express how devastating that was for me.
the sun still still doesn't shine as
bright anymore. And I was really lost
cuz my mother, she was my moral compass.
She was my guiding light. She was the
only person in this world who could
check me. So I'm like, who's going to
check me now?
And as I processed my grief over time
and really self-reflected on this idea
that she was raising me to be better
than her, in actuality, it wasn't about
me being better than her. She was
raising me to live in this world without
her. And not only am I living, well, I
am thriving because I am the man that
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