Finding Dad

When I was very little, I thought my daddy was a bit like God.

And I felt very special because he was my daddy.

He was just daddy to me, whether he was preaching from the platform at church, teaching me how to grow stuff in one of his gardens, or coming in from work and sticking his cold hands down my neck.

He had stories about Jesus, and stories about himself, and I knew them all. How Jesus raised the dead, turned water into wine, and then the things he expected of us.

How he himself was in the RAF for a while, eating green bread and having a laugh with the guys, and how Jesus saved him one time when he woke up with a demon sitting on his chest.

Then I was older, and noticing things other people said about daddy.

That he was like Hitler because he stated his views so strongly, and would not broach any argument or discussion – it was his way or the highway. These days he would probably be described as a hardline fundamentalist. This to me seemed like both a good thing and a bad thing, because having a strong minded parent made me feel protected and secure, and in general he was well respected for his opinions, but it was also a bad thing, in that I could not discuss my own thoughts with him if they differed from his beleifs.

Yet also that he was an excellent Bible teacher, confirmed by him being in demand for itinerant preaching. For a long time this made me proud to be his daughter, but as I became a young woman, I felt stuck in the mould of being just his daughter in the eyes of most people I knew, and if I hadn’t been his daughter, nobody would have wanted to know me. Which was entirely reasonable, because I didn’t know me, in a sense there wasn’t really a ‘me’ to know, because I was so busy being who everyone around me wanted me to be.

So when I was 16, I set out on a voyage of self discovery, on a mission to get myself some opinions of my own, and become a proper person, rather than just an extension of my father.

There followed differences of opinion, as I began to assert myself in ways that he did not agree with, and he saw me in a different and less favourable light.

I felt let down by him, and I’m sure he also felt let down by me.

Then he was taken ill, and I became very aware of his mortality. Remembering his love of all things botanical, herbal and scented, I bought bags and boxes of smellies, unusual and interesting houseplants, and gift sets of herbal teas and infusions at every present buying opportunity, and started taking him out every week to a garden centre, where we would walk around looking at the plants before having coffee and cake and a long chat, almost always theological in nature.

Dad was a very educated man; he was born in East Africa where his father was a station master, brought up by his Ayah to the age of 5, and speaking Swahili as a first language. Then he was brought back to Scotland, and left here in the care of his aunt and uncle, in a house bought for them by his father, so he could benefit from a private education.

After finishing school he became an apprentice to a well known Dundee printer, but before completing this he converted to Evangelical Christianity, and moved to England to attend Bible college. There he studied Divinity and Theology, and went on to become a Pentecostal Pastor.

He was always interesting to talk to on these subjects, because he was so knowledgable and passionate about them, and to this day I adore interacting with anyone who is educated and passionate about what they do.

Language and communication was his thing; he read Hebrew and Greek, often translating original remnants of scripture for his sermons, extrapolating angles others couldn’t see. He had a lifetime of his own knowledge and Biblical research, both in his head, written down in his and other people’s notes, and also recorded.

Dad was artistic; he had an excellent eye for colour, indicating that he is tetrachromatic, as am I. He enjoyed oil painting for a few years in his spare time, and produced a few peices of excellent work, but it was never his passion.

Dad is very musical; he was a self taught pianist, and I spent many happy hours as a child lying on the front room rug in front of the fire, listening to him playing the piano. As well as preaching in the church, he would often accompany or lead the worship from the piano, or later the hammond organ. Again he was self taught, and he taught me to play. Both of us enjoyed the opportunity to play the pipe organ at another local church from time to time as well.

There was always music playing in the house, usually either classical or religious, but sometimes Bing Crosby or Johnny Cash would sneak in!

So these were the things he did and enjoyed, but who actually is my dad?

Since his dementia has progressed, he has become less and less communicative, and for some years he has only spoken on rare occasions. He can go days or weeks without uttering a word. Yet occasionally he will be seemingly completely normal, chatty and compus mentus, for several hours at a time. I guess this is part of the nature of the illness, and we as his family just take each day as it comes.

As he nears his final days, mum is talking about him more, and I feel I am getting to know him more.

Last week she told me a story that opened my eyes to something. Something that completely resonates with me.

She said dad used to drive his Elders mad because he would never be at the church in time to welcome the congregation as they came in; he would always arrive at the last minute; after everyone was seated, and either go to the vestry to pray, (and the congregation would have to wait) or go straight up to the platform to preach. Seems arrogant, but no, I don’t think so.

This to me is more than the MO of a gifted musician or entertainer; this is the hallmark of someone who has been shut in the study ‘downloading’ information from a spiritual source, and who then has to take that inspiration fresh and clear to his congregation, unsullied by small talk along the way. Someone who won’t settle for second best, who had to be in the ‘zone’, so to speak, in the Spirit as he would say, when he was delivering the Word of God.

When my dad preached, the hairs on the back of people’s necks stood up. His best sermons were delivered to silent congregations who were focused on his every word, because he spoke into their souls, and every nuance was meaningful for them. I would go so far as to say he was a channel from the divine straight to the hearts and minds of his listeners. This I beleive was his life’s purpose and mission, and he had to be a particular kind of person to fulfill it – on a human level to have enough faillings to keep him humble, a sinner, and yet to not only be able to access the Spiritual realm, but to be able to bring that inspired word to others – a saint. Someone who could access that point in space and time where human can touch Divine.

Some may find it controversial and I know he would disagree with it, but having had my eyes opened by having moved in different circles, I beleive this gift my dad had and shared is something which is also carried by others whose practices he is strongly opposed to. I have seen this same energy at work through pratitioners of other beleif systems; going under the names of the Awen, or Reiki for example, and delivered by someone in a ‘state of Grace’ – I know that’s a Christian term, but I don’t know another that conveys it.

And yet; this common practice across different beleif systems speaks to me of the all encompassing Grace of God – whatever name you know God by, and whether you acknowledge one God, a Trinity or a many aspected God, that God wants to interact with us, help us, heal us, and lift us up every time we will allow it, and wants that enough, cares about us enough, that he/she/they will use the spiritual language we can understand, whatever our culture, to relate to us and heal us.

Across the world there are pastors, ministers, priests, druids, psychic mediums, magicians, witches, shamens and many others of countless religious persuasions and none, who facilitate this in the way that works for them – and this to me is a demonstration of the grace of God, to reach out to us through whatever means we can receive it through.

My daddy is a magic man!

Invisible

I don’t know if it’s just me, or if sometimes all of us have things we find hard to talk about, even when we want or need to talk about them, to the extent that years can go by and certain subjects are never addressed.

I am very guilty of this, and having had the kind of life that makes me occssionaly think of myself as a walking Jerry Springer show, I am very practised at the ‘I’m fine thanks’ thing. Because I always will be, I’m a survivor and that’s what I do.

Anyway last night I was at a social event, and the subject of family came up. I was talking to trusted friends round the campfire, and had had a couple of drinks, so I just came out with something I hadn’t mentioned to them before.

My elder son is now my daughter.

I’ve said this to other people in my life a few times over the past 6 or so years since my son told me he was considering gender reasignment, and it’s been ok, because by the time I chose to start mentioning it, I had sort of come to terms with what was happening. I have even been able to admit that I found it very difficult at the time, and it did feel initially like losing a son. Everyone has been very supportive, even people who don’t agree with gender reassignment, because suddenly they now have someone in their lives who has a family member who is transitioning, and I know some of the people I’ve told have had to rethink their opinions. One person has even gone as far as apologising to me for her preivous beleifs about the subject.

This is all ok, I can cope with this.

However last night I was a bit caught out, because one of my friends asked how I felt about that. My initial response was to field the question with an honest but dismissive ‘it was difficult for the first couple of years’

Perhaps I should have stopped talking there, changed the subject or sidestepped it a bit, but there was a short silence which was begging to be filled, so I followed it up with saying I felt as if I’d lost a son, which was ok, I’ve spoken about that before, but then I said I felt like there was no support available for me as a mother. This was much closer to home for me, and I immediately felt myself getting emotional, so I pulled back to the subject of my child, by saying how much harder it is for the person having the gender reassignment, and how I am worried about the statistics which report post op transexual suicide rates as higher than pre op. And then some easier to talk about stuff.

But this afternoon I fell to bits.

My son was a much wanted child, born to me in the midst of a violent marriage which I had left and gone back to twice by that point. I truly beleived at that time that the relationship would get better if I could be a better wife.

I had just suffered two consecutive miscarriages, and spent the first 3 months of my son’s pregnancy on tenterhooks. It was classed as a high risk pregnancy due to complications with my first, his older sister.

He was a difficult birth, a big baby delivered by emergency C section, and I remember the words of the nurse as she placed him into my arms when I was out of theatre – ‘Here’s your beautiful baby boy’

I left my husband for the third and final time when my baby was around four months old, and for most of his childhood I was a single mother. I worked hard to give my kids the best life I could, and had laid down my dreams of travelling the world, going to university and having a career in favour of bringing up my family.

I worked nights for years, surviving on 4 or 5 hours sleep a night, to spend as much of my day as possible with the children, and when they were older I worked in kitchens, working anti social hours to make ends meet while still having time with the kids.

My son was a quiet and gentle child, very kind hearted and generous to a fault. He was blonde with big blue eyes and tall for his age.

He was a sensitive little boy, but not one for expressing emotions verbally. He struggled with school, and was misunderstood by his teachers, until I got the opportunity of a house in the catchment of a small village school, with excellent teachers, who made a huge difference in his life. When my son was diagnosed with motor skills problems, the head teacher went and got his SFA coaching quaification, so he could form a football team, to help my son with his issues.

That year the kids in the school were football mad; every night after school they met up to play football; one of the mothers who could sew made strips for them all, and I bought more pairs of goalie gloves than I can remember! The team competed in the local and then the regional kids five a side championships, and they went on to win the national championship, and have a coaching session from the well known player and manager Kenny Dalgleish! I can never thank that teacher and that school enough for what they did.

As a teenager there were some issues, as there are with most teenagers, but we worked through them, and were generally able to resolve things. My son remained a quiet, sensitive, kind, polite and generous boy, he volunteered for a local Youth Club where he was popular with the kids, and was active with the princes trust. He had a small group of close friends, and was part of a bigger online social community. He enjoyed collecting and painting warhammer figures, and was in the school warhammer club, and later he became interested in animation.

He was accepted into college, and started the course, but unfortunately there were some difficult events in his life around this time so he didn’t manage to finish the course.

He moved away for a couple of years before moving back to live with myself, my partner and his younger brother.

It was during this time that he told me he was having counselling in preparation for gender re assignment surgery. He stated it in a very matter of fact way, and I felt utterly shocked, but I responded in a kind and supportive manner, because I am and will always be his mother first, everything else is secondary.

From my point of view the timing could hardly have been worse, as it was on the anniversary of my first marriage, which used to hit me hard every year, and also at a time when my partner and I had been trying for some years for a child, and had just found out again that it hadn’t happened. I ended up going back onto the antidepressants I’d been off for quite some time, and going through a very dark patch. I was put on the local crisis team watchlist, and there were days when I had to battle with myself not to walk out into the sea and end it all.

I had found myself in the unique and upsetting situation of having been refused IVF on the NHS, so we were trying (and repeatedly failing) to conceive a baby naturally against the odds, whilst also trying to feel ok about the NHS willingly funding gender reassignment surgery for my son.

I also had to deal with comments and gossip directed at me for being a parent of a transgender child, as well as critisism from other quarters for not being supportive enough of her.

Through all this I put on a smile in public, was as supportive as I could be of my new daughter, doing her make up, going shopping for ladies clothes, buying her jewellery and make up, and all the things that go with mothering a young woman.

It was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.

I had lost my son, and not only was I not allowed to be sad about it, there was this young woman in his place who I felt I hardly knew. It crossed my mind to try and find support, and I did have quick search online which turned up nothing helpful, but then something really terrible happened that made me stop in my tracks, and make a huge effort to push all my own greif, and thoughts of the son I had lost to the back of my mind.

I was at a neighbours farm in the course of my day, and while I was there they received a phone call to say that their only son had commited suicide. I could not imagine anything worse, and it made my own woes about my son seem very minor, so I cried for them, and thanked my lucky stars I still had my child.

And life goes on. I started to try and heal, get over it, whatever, and soon I was able to tell people outside my immediate circle about my new daughter. People would say well meaning things like ‘you haven’t lost a son, you’ve gained a daughter’ and I would usually smile politely and agree, and try to force my heart to look on the bright side and agree as well, pushing down my own pain about having lost a son. My place as a mother is to be supportive, and there was no place for my own feelings within that at that time.

Gender reassignment is a hard path of confusion, counselling, hormone therapy, living as a woman and dealing with predjudice and sometimes related violence, and I think it’s essential that people going through this have the support they need, and that means from their families, friends, partners, doctor and other medical professionals, as well as the world outside their window. That’s not the way it is at the moment, but I beleive if we speak out where we can and work to change it, it will be in the future, and transgender people will not have to feel they are in danger every time they leave their home.

I have fought her corner with other family members who have not accepted her choices, at risk of alienating myself from people I care about, and I have stood up for her whenever anyone has said anything negative.

My daughter was assaulted a year ago in the street with a weapon, and then a few months later she was seriously assaulted outside her home by a gang of men and women, and left for dead in an alleyway.

She has been though months of hell since this, as have we as her family, but perhaps especially me as her mother, who had the difficult and traumatic task of getting her physically out of an unsafe situation and into a better place (at her request), whilst still dealing with critisism and negativity from other family members about my lack of support and concern for her, yet who themselves did not provide any help or support.

Thankfully she is still with us, but she still suffers mentally, emotionally and physically because of this. Friends and most family members have been nothing but helpful and supportive, with concern, and assistance with practical tasks and money, and she is now in a safer place.

But nobody thinks twice about the effect any of this has on the mother. Nobody loved my son more than me. I nurtured him in my womb, gave him birth and a name. I brought up my baby boy, and I knew him and loved him more than anyone else in the world loved him. I was the one working hard to give him the best childhood I could, whilst still being there for the day to day everything. I fought for him, to protect him and keep him safe and the family together. I was a single parent, so no one else did any of that stuff, apart from a family member who would often look after the children at weekends when I was at work, so I guess this is why no one else around me understands how it feels to lose that little boy, apart from the one family member who was more closely involved with his upbringing. If I hadn’t loved him so much perhaps it wouldn’t have hurt so much to lose him. But still, to learn to bond with the woman he is becoming, a woman I didn’t bring up or know until the past few years, because this is his choice and who he wants to be. I want him to be happy, and if this is what it takes, then so be it. To then see that person who I am learning to love be treated like dirt and abused by others, to see her suffer and be unable to make it better. To be forced to let go of my son, without any understanding or ackowledgement of my feelings. To be made to feel that my greif at losing the son I created, nurtured and loved is not a thing, is not appropriate, is not real and does not matter.

But it does matter. If I was not heartbroken over this then how can I say I ever loved my son?

I loved him for who he was. I am learning to love her for who she is. But beleive me they are very different. I will never not love him for who he was, and although he will never be invisible to me, I see no end to the pain of him not being any more, and the pain of this greif being incomprehensibe and therefore invisible to the rest of the world.

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