March ‘25
T & Q: A Tribute
I’m having empathy pangs toward my neighbors on this earth. To marginalize someone means they are on the periphery. But dropping the T and Q is an official attempt not just to push to the side, but to fully deport the identity of the trans and queer lights in our world. This twist in culture takes us back, and it’s reminding me of an era past in which I struggled through my own identity.
I grew up in an era that romanticized the erasure of my identity.
As a 19 year old in the 1980’s, falling in love and imagining my cisgender future, I even practiced disappearing by scribbling me out:
Mr. & Mrs. (His First Name) (His Last Name).
And since I knew his goal was to go to seminary, I also tried my hand at
The Rev. & Mrs. (His First Name) (His Last Name).
My falling-in-love heart fluttered at the thought.
But once officially his wife, I was deeply confused. A miserable newlywed. I could not compute the effect of being erased.
My body could not process the dissonance between my fully present reality, and what had been my only role model of marriage: a socially acceptable, fit-snug-as-a-bug-in-a-rug product of standard practice.
My father worked hard running his own business to provide for his family (thank you, Dad). My mother was a part-time secretary, cleaned the house every Saturday, washed and ironed clothes on Tuesday, cooked all the meals, and sewed all our dresses and dance recital costumes (thank you, Mom).
No one ever questioned that all the mail that was in Dad’s name.
God bless all the married women before me who found ways to be fully recognized humans in their many leagues, societies, guilds and various clubs. You got things done in the world where you could, however you could. Even though society dropped your name from every piece of mail.
Without being given a seat at the table, you managed to find a card table, set it up with a lovely lace tablecloth – covering the burn marks left by the men’s cigars on poker night – and took care of all the leftover business in the world which the Misters believed was beneath their paygrade. It was beneath their pay grade, since you did your good, hard work for free.
For 14 years I also did good hard work for free as a stay-at-home mom. Never once got paid.
I did however have to pay 100% out of pocket to birth my baby on my terms – in my own bed at home with a midwife. Even though my husband’s nice job paid for our medical insurance.
On our one-income budget I was unable to pay babysitters what I knew they were worth. I knew the work babysitting entailed. I provided the same service 24/7. I had no doubt they deserved three times what I paid them. Yeah, I know they just watched TV after the children went to bed. So did I.
Once my kids were all in grade school, the boring silence in the house made me stir crazy. Miserable and confused again. With my empty resume (because apparently my 24/7 duties and tasks were not worth listing - or put another way - were worthless), I managed to get a job. My former babysitter’s older sister was starting her own business in finance. In her name. And she hired me. She paid me much better than I paid her sister for babysitting my kids.
In between these lines here, there was a long, difficult journey I managed to push through. Like that healthy birth on my bed in my home. There have been three business licenses issued by the state of Washington in my name. They even included all three letters of my middle name! None of the mail from the Secretary of State or the Department of Revenue have ever listed my husband’s name on them.
To my beautiful, competent, contributing, valuable trans and queer co-sojourners:
They may drop the T and Q, erase them. But believe me, I KNOW, you exist as you are, with the letters that represent who you are. You are worth more than they will ever know.
Carry on. Keep on. Live on. If you have any questions – or rage – about not being acknowledged, hit me up for coffee. I’ll buy you an expensive latte with my credit card. I know it’s mine because the bill has my name on it.