Small thoughts on a big day

"Children born today will grow up in a world without DOMA."  -Edie Windsor, 6/26/13

It was upon hearing plaintiff Edie Windsor say these ten words, as I stood in a conference room filled with my exuberant, proud colleagues this morning, that I finally teared up.  The Defense of Marriage Act - DOMA - has been taken down.  I am feeling such a mix of emotions.  It has been a whirlwind of a week, politically - between the Supreme Court gutting the Voting Rights Act and blatantly disregarding the Indian Child Welfare Act, and the ever ongoing fight to defend reproductive rights in the state of Texas - and now the end of DOMA and Prop 8.  We are living in complicated times - simultaneously disappointing and inspiring.

People have been calling Edie a "shero" and comparing her to Rosa Parks, Harvey Milk, and Martin Luther King, Jr.  And to me, those are short-sighted (even offensive) comparisons. Edie is a privileged, white, wealthy woman with access to incredible resources who maybe just happened to be in the right place at the right time.  She was a palatable icon for the marriage equality movement and was strategically employed by a huge movement of people working toward marriage equality for many years.  Her case was based on the fact that she had to pay more than $350K in estate taxes.  She is a charming, thoughtful person, and a great activist; but she did not single-handedly take down DOMA.   

But these ten words moved me.  When I think about little Peanut, and the world in which she will now grow up, I have to say I'm incredibly grateful that she will not have to know DOMA, or have the experience in which her parents' marriage is sort-of-but-not-really recognized (well, at least on the federal level).

Today, I was so grateful for my colleagues and thousands of people who have been tirelessly working to secure equal rights and protections for queer folks who choose to get legally married.  I am feeling lucky to be alive at this moment in queer history.

Now more resources, energy and attention should be directed into the immense work for equality and justice that remains.  Radicals and leftists to whom I look up, and for whom I have a great deal of respect, have done right to remind me today that marriage is the wrong goal in movements for equality and justice, and that there is much, much work to be done on many different priorities that affect the most vulnerable among us. 

Nanny share

S and I recently began to come to terms with the fact that we will not be able to care for Peanut on our own forever.  Soon, we will both be back at work full-time, and will need to introduce another caregiver into our lives.  We've generally assumed the best scenario for our family would be a nanny share.  The idea is that two families hire a nanny to care for both kids at once.  It's good for each family, because it splits the cost (which can then end up being more affordable than daycare) and the kids have a chance to socialize with each other.  And it's good for a nanny, who ends up generally earning a higher salary than s/he would caring for one child.

We were recently excited to come across a neighborhood listserv posting from a family looking for a nanny share as well.  I reached out to them with a tentative email.  "We're looking for queer-friendly family to participate in a nanny share with us."  I held my breath and waited for a response.  Several hours later, they wrote back.  They passed the first test: feeling okay enough to have their kid around a queer couple.  Cool.  We had some back and forth about our general needs and expectations, and when it seemed we were all on the same page, we set up a time to meet.  It turned out, they lived pretty nearby and had a kid the same age as Peanut.  Cool again.

We spent a solid two hours feeling each other out at our first meeting.  On the surface, the family appeared to be very different from ours.  Us: an interracial, inter-religious-but-mostly-secular leftist vegetarian-leaning queer couple, both nonprofiteers who rent a run-down one-bedroom apartment.  Them: a white, Catholic, straight couple from the south, both reporters who own a well-maintained two-bedroom coop.  When I walked in the door to their apartment and saw that one of them was wearing an NYPD t-shirt, I had my guard up about their values and politics.  When we came out to them, it was clear from the language they used ("we're totally ok with homosexuality") they didn't have much experience with queers like us.  Ultimately, though, I was impressed and surprised with how open they were, and how much we seemed to share expectations about raising our kids.  They challenged my own assumptions and stereotypes.  I mean, let's be real, not everyone is going to be open to having their kid spend a lot of time around a transexual man and a queer Muslim woman - especially ones who are total strangers.  The fact that they were not only comfortable, but welcoming of us, to me, spoke volumes about their characters.  After the meeting, I remarked to S, "while I wouldn't have picked them off the street as friends, I think we have the potential to get along well."

From there, we moved quickly and optimistically forward.  We set up interviews with three different potential caregivers during the following week, to be conducted with both families simultaneously.  We were riding high, feeling pleasantly surprised that things seemed to be moving so smoothly and we'd have care set up for Peanut by the end of the month.  Then we had the first interview.  In short - it was not cool.  The caregiver had been recommended to the other family by a close friend, so they saw her through a lens of trust and familiarity.  To us, she was a total stranger.  While she clearly seemed to be comfortable with infants and was kind and approachable in her demeanor, we saw some big red flags.  She described herself as a Seventh Day Adventist who would sing bible songs to soothe the babies.  When we told her we were queer ("kind of like a gay couple" is how we explained it, I think) and didn't believe in gay people, but didn't think it was her place (it was God's place) to judge them.  While she said she would respect our wishes (not to sing religious songs, for example), her answers to other questions demonstrated that this would not actually be the case.  We communicated to the other family that we felt pretty strongly that this nanny was not a good fit for us. 

They, on the other hand, felt very comfortable with her.  We all went ahead and interviewed the two other candidates, but it was clear they had decided the first candidate was the best match for them.  The tension built between our families for a few days.  Were we now locked into an uncomfortable partnership?  Were our needs just too different to make this work?  Was this a sign of differences and disagreements to come down the road?  Should we initiate a break-up?

S and I carried the anxiety and questions in our bellies for days.  We talked and processed late into every night, barely able to sleep.  We quickly learned that not only was working with another family very (and probably almost too) challenging for us given the care of  our little one was at stake, but we weren't quite comfortable with a nanny arrangement at all.  While we certainly know and trust there are many loving, amazing and nurturing paid caregivers in the world, we realized since we don't have a recommendation or personal experience with someone who would generally share our values and respect our family, we felt incredibly vulnerable and protective of Peanut.
 
We are proud of who we are, and we want Peanut to feel proud of herself and her family, too.  We want her to know she is worthy of love and belonging, that she is a part of a family with a rich, beautiful and diverse history, that has a unique story to tell.  We want her spirit to be cared for and nurtured by a caregiver with whom she can explore her own creativity and desires, whatever they may be.  We are especially conscious that we want to find a caregiver who will respect her self-determination around gender identity and expression as she grows up.

The other family finally wrote us an email to say, very kindly and respectfully, that they didn't think the nanny share situation would work out.  We were relieved and let them know we agreed.  We were  grateful, not only that we wouldn't ultimately be pressured to work with a caregiver that didn't feel right for us, but also that we were able to retain a good relationship with the other family despite our differences.

The experience ultimately was an unexpected but incredibly powerful test for us as parents.  It helped us clarify our needs, where we will stretch, and where we will set boundaries for our family.  It brought me and S closer together, and reminded us why we click and love one another.  And taught us, very concretely, that we are going to have to be willing to fight for what we feel is right for Peanut.  We are now beginning to explore other options for Peanut's care, hopefully with more clarity and assurance that we know where we stand and what she deserves.

Angels

Today is the four year anniversary of my beloved grandmother's death. I thought about her today, often. I called my mother to see how she was doing. I texted my uncle, aunt and cousins to let me know I was thinking of them on my grandmother's "angel anniversary," (a term coined by my uncle). My aunt texted me back:

"Thinking of you, too. Just got back from jk [the prayer hall]. Prayed for her and took some sufro [a food offering] for her. The show must go on...with new angels like Peanut coming in. Love ya loads."

My heart was in my throat. Even now, a couple years after my extended family has come around and (sort of) welcomed S into their lives, it surprises me to hear such warmth and validation from people who at one time said such ugly and queerphobic/transphobic words to me. It helps to heal my heart just a little bit. It makes me hope that maybe my grandmother might be giving little Peanut her love and blessings, too.

Becoming a Trans Dad

Post by S

Sing along...
"I am a boyish tranny
Getting ready 2 b a daddy
A little scared of getting a nanny
And once I had dreams of becoming a mommy"
LOL.

I am in the process of getting ready to become a parent ...a dad
And it's such a transforming experience ...I will be a transdad!
And I will share w my kid my memories of childhood
You know... when I was around 7 yr old... I used to play divorced mama! 
I don't deny my history as a woman...as a little girl who loved playing with dolls. 

I look forward to this experience of being a dad 
and my experience as a dad will be informed by my experiences in the world 
as a woman as a lesbian as a feminist as a transman as a man who knows what it means to have had menstruation, fear of breast cancer, or experiences of sexual harassment and sexism... 
a man who knows what it means to have my representation of masculinity questioned... 
a man who knows what it feels... 
how sad it feels and the responsibility that it implies to have the instant impact of causing fear when sharing the bus with a woman late at night...
and it all informs the kind of dad I will be. 

I am so looking forward to sharing with my child. 
To guiding them....
to supporting them...
to share in love, tenderness and compassion the amazing complexities of life and the lessons of gender and power and the importance of self-acceptance and gentleness towards ourselves and others! 
Oh my, I am so excited to be a dad!

Childbirth Class

S and I spent the weekend attending an intensive childbirth education class run by the hospital at which we were originally planning to give birth.  Walking into the room, the first thing we were struck by was that the class was composed entirely of couples.  Heterosexual, cisgender, mostly white couples (identities we assumed based on cursory observation).  No single people, no identifiable queer couples, few other POCs.  I took a deep breath and tried to remain open.

The nurse leading the class asked us to introduce ourselves, our due dates, and "what we are having" (side note: can I rant here about why so many nice, well-intentioned people ask "what I'm having" when they're really inquiring about whether or not I know the sex of the baby?  It's such a weird question!  I'm too polite to answer, "well, I hope I'm not having an elephant!"  But that's what I'm thinking.  The question irks me.)  Every woman in the room introduced herself, her husband (in the style of "we are Jane and John Smith") and identified the "gender" of their baby.  I introduced myself, my "partner" S (with a different last name than mine), and said we didn't know the sex of the baby.  Simple semantic differences that immediately marked us as the weirdos in the room.  Or so I hoped.  It's rare that we are in such a homogeneous, heterosexist space, and it was heavy and uncomfortable, especially since we pass as straight and folks tend to assume that the homogeneity means we're all on the same page (in this case, that we all identify as "moms" and "dads.")  Yet short of wearing t-shirts that say "we're here, we're queer," or a real opportunity to engage in meaningful conversation, it's sometimes hard to figure out how to out ourselves and our politics in such a setting.  So we rely on little cues.  Or I should say, I do.  At the end of the class, S, who is more direct and intentional than I, went to the instructor and straight up said, "I'm transsexual and really appreciate that you used the term "partner" rather than "husband" throughout the weekend.  Because you never know who is sitting in the room."

Overall, though, the class was good.  Very good.  The nurse was very much an advocate for the fact that nature is perfect, that our bodies are designed to know what to do during pregnancy and birth, that we can and should trust ourselves, and that non-pregnant partners are capable of supporting us through the birthing process.  I learned so much from her about the stages of labor, pain management options, what to expect from the process of giving birth in a hospital, postpartum self-care, and newborn care.  At times, it was disappointing for me to hear about the differences between the approaches of our first-choice hospital (for example, providing birthing balls in the labor room and allowing for the consumption of clear food and liquids during labor) and that of other hospitals in the city (bring your own birthing ball... maybe.  and consume nothing but ice chips throughout labor).  But I tried to keep in mind that ultimately, a hospital is a hospital, and even our first-choice hospital has as high of a c-section rate (29% - or 1 in 3 births!) as many others in the city.  No hospital setting - even a supposedly "baby-friendly" one - is going to allow me a huge degree of agency or self-determination in the process, no matter how much the nurse tried to portray the experience otherwise.

I came away from the weekend feeling much more informed, confident and prepared to ask my OB specific questions and to think concretely about what I want from my labor and birth experience.  The class was exactly the catalyst I needed to shift my mind into a place of focusing on my desires.  I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all since.

In fact, I've been feeling some serious urgency to perhaps flip our current birth plan on its head and maybe take an entirely different approach to bringing our little one into the world.  My mind is spinning, spinning, spinning.  I've made some phone calls.  Perhaps the fact that our hospital is closed is actually opening up more of an opportunity in our journey to parenthood than I originally thought.

Channeling Grandma

This past week, I visited my extended family in the Southwestern U.S. - namely, my maternal grandfather, uncle, aunt, and two cousins.  The last time I had visited their home was in 2009 to attend my grandmother's funeral.  Needless to say, walking into their house was a charged event for me, namely because I could feel my grandmother's presence everywhere.  When she was dying from uterine cancer, I had the opportunity to visit her and say goodbye as she sat on the recliner in the living room.  Years prior, I had come out to her over chai at the kitchen counter.  In visits prior to that, she had taught me to cook mung dal and bhindi masala, watched old Hindi films with me, allowed me to record her life stories on a tape recorder, massaged coconut oil into my scalp and channa flour with turmeric and yogurt into my skin, and lectured me about the importance of praying regularly and attending services at the mosque.  Her spirit still nests in the house.

While we always lived quite a distance apart, the impact my grandmother had on me as a fierce, opinionated, wise female role model was significant.  One of the many things I loved about her was her extensive knowledge of home remedies.  She regularly read Gujarati newspapers and would store away the anecdotes she found like a squirrel.  Then she would offer frequent suggestions for even the smallest of ailments - apply breast milk on the face for acne, drink a few drops of peppermint oil in water for a stomach ache, a little of this for mosquito bites and some of that to make your skin glow.  I remember being annoyed by (and sometimes grossed out by) her directions as a kid, and yet loving the fact that she was caring for me and my wellness by spreading egg whites all over my face.

It was the absence of this wisdom that I was feeling so deeply during this visit.  I had always wanted her to be a part of my pregnancy experience.  Even though my coming out as queer created an emotional wedge between us, she still loved me and I trust she would have shared her advice, prepared concoctions, and pampered me in her stern, tough-love kind of way. 

One night, I asked my aunt if she remembered any of the tips my grandmother had shared while she was pregnant with my cousins.  She gave it some thought but couldn't remember much.  Then she pulled out a notebook.  "I forgot I had written some things down," she said.  We pored over the notes together:

• Kesar, badam and pista in warm milk 
• Papaya 
• During the third trimester methi paak to prepare the body for delivery; also after delivery to cleanse the body   

The notes went on.  With her memory jogged, my aunt eagerly began to share with me her recollections, and even stories about her own pregnancy and deliveries.  The next day, she ran some errands and showed up back at the house with bags of almonds, cashews, pistachios, dates, apricots and raisins for me to take home.  "Just eat a few nuts and dried fruits every day," she said.  "It's good for you and the baby."  Later she ground up a badam-pista mixture.  "You can add this to your soymilk," she said.  It felt so good to be taken care of, to be nurtured and supported.

It was significant to me that the first time I returned to my grandmother's house after her death was while carrying her great-grandchild.  I felt her energy surround me.  While I missed her, I was grateful for the opportunity to spend a few days remembering what a remarkable person she was.  Hopefully, our little one will reap the benefits of her wisdom in spirit. 

Choosing family

S and I both grew up in small, tightly knit families and, with our siblings, witnessed our parents facing their day-to-day struggles largely on their own, without the daily support of family - biological or chosen.  While the circumstances were different for each of us, neither had godparents, grandparents, aunts, cousins, or close family friends around to guide or teach us, to tell us that we were loved and supported by more than just our immediate bio family.  "We've only got each other," was a lesson we both learned from our parents early in life.  And while we've held on to that sense of loyalty and dedication to our families into adulthood, it's also something we've both worked to - and had to - unlearn, out of necessity and survival.

When I was coming out as queer over ten years ago, it wasn't my bio family that was there for me.  It was my chosen family - those wonderful, wise and loving friends with whom I came of age, found my political voice, and explored my identity in the world.  When the ties between me and my bio family were strained and unraveling, when I faced the threat of being disowned, my friends became the people who knew me best.  They held me through some of the toughest, scariest, most painful and most challenging moments of my early 20's, without judgment or criticism, without rejection or abandonment.  My chosen family made it truly easy for me to play with labels and gender expressions, to date women and men, and from them, I experienced only understanding and freedom.  And I have continued to build an amazing, supportive chosen family throughout my adulthood.  I've learned that it's not only by birth and blood that I can experience fierce, unconditional love and loyalty in my life.  That I have choices about with whom I can build a family, that I can surround myself with people who will be there for me and love me unconditionally.

During the past two weeks, S and I finally - finally! - shared the news of our pregnancy with  our chosen family.  The response has been sweet and overwhelmingly loving.  It has gotten me excited about the pregnancy all over again, but this time, in a way that fills up my heart with confidence and reassurance.  Any bit of doubt I've been carrying that our little one will have enough love, guidance and support to navigate this world and to know that he or she matters has evaporated with every excited text message, email, phone call and hug I received in this past week.  I am grateful to our chosen family for supporting our choices and our dreams, for being so ready to welcome our little one into the world.

Also in the past two weeks, this blog went "live" and is now open to friends known and unknown all over the world wide web.  Again, I want to say thank you to those who are reading about and supporting our journey toward parenthood.  While I think going public induced a bit of anxiety and writer's block for me (hence the week-long silence), I'm determined to keep on documenting and sharing our experience here.

Thanks for reminding us that we've got more than just each other.  We are not alone, and in fact, we are connected to and loved by gracious, generous people from all over the country.  Thanks for the encouragement and blessings.

Closets

This week, S and I have begun sharing the news that we're going to be parents with our colleagues.  For me, it has been an experience that again brings up the question of closets in my life as a cigender femme in a heteroqueer relationship.  The lines are blurred between keeping secrets and maintaining personal privacy, between being really, really out and hanging out passively in the closet.

I am out to the majority of my coworkers.  And then there are those with whom I have never worked very closely, and the opportunity to really discuss my identity and personal life haven't really come up - so I haven't pushed the envelope.  Even in a very queer-friendly workplace, I've often found it hard in a professional context, where I'm not a "gay for pay," to be explicit about the fact that I'm a queer woman.  That's partly because I'm an intensely private person - I don't really talk about my personal life at work.  And it's partly because I don't think I have the energy or courage to come out constantly in my life- over and over and over again.  It is exhausting, and painful, and hard.  At 32, I'm simply too cowardly to keep doing it.

I have many contradictions about this, and often think I'm simply too comfortable with the privilege of passing to do much to challenge the assumptions folks make about me.  Because of how I represent myself, I have the choice to come out or not in every context of my life.  I'm working on examining this, especially now that I'm becoming more visibly pregnant and thinking constantly about how I want to represent myself as a queer mama. 

Colleagues have reacted to the news that I'm pregnant in very generous and positive ways.  Folks have asked when we're due, if we're planning to stay in our apartment (such a New York-type question), and if we know the sex of the baby yet.  And many have asked - much to my surprise - how long we've "known" we're pregnant.  Even the folks who know I'm queer and S is trans.  As if it could have been a surprise.

I wasn't really expecting the question, so I've reacted by saying, "oh, we knew right away, it was a very planned process."  Vague enough not to disclose that we used donor sperm/IUIs to get pregnant, to maintain for me, what feels like a necessary amount of privacy about our process.  After all, straight folks don't often have to talk about the steps and emotional process involved in getting pregnant.  But it always leaves me feeling really unsettled to not have folks understand our experience.  There again is a layer of painful invisibility around my queerness.  To alleviate that invisibility, I need to speak up and say instead, "well, since we're a queer couple, we planned every step of the process and went through a timed insemination using donor sperm."  Is that okay to say to a colleague?  Is it necessary for my own wellness? 

I'm not ashamed to be queer.  It is a core part of my identity.  And yet, I can't decide at this juncture how I'll reconcile all these feelings I've been having about how I live in the world, represent myself in the world, and talk in the world.  I feel discomfort in my chest. But I'm not yet ready to make a change.

Pride Sunday

S and I were with my family this weekend for a wedding – we planned on breaking the news to them on Saturday at some point between the morning wedding and the nighttime reception.  Somehow, the day came and went, and we didn’t find the space to have a private conversation.  But neither S nor I wanted to leave without sharing the news, so in the few minutes before we left the house for my parents to drop us off at the train station, we decided to just do it.  Just like ripping off a band-aid. 

They were sitting at the kitchen table watching the morning news when I announced, “before we leave, we have something we want to give you.”  I turned off the TV.  Then I handed them a card that S and I had prepared.  It said “Congratulations!” on the outside.  Inside, it had a photo of our positive pregnancy test, followed by the words: “You’re going to be grandparents!  Baby X due on January 24, 2013.”

Mom and Pop looked at the card.

“Seriously?!” Pop said with confusion.  “When is it due?”

“It’s on the card!” I said.  “January 24^th.” 

They kept looking at the card, and then back at us.  The news seemed to take them more by surprise than either S or I were expecting.  I guess we had never really had a conversation with them – ever – about the fact that we wanted a family and would be trying soon after our wedding.  While family planning has consumed me for two years, this was really the first they were hearing about it.

S walked over to Pop.  “Give me a hug!” he said.  Pop gave him some kind of awkward pat on the back, still in a daze.  Mom got up and gave me a hug with tears in her eyes.  “Congratulations,” she said.    

As the news sunk in over the next few minutes, Pop began to ask questions.  “Do you know if it’s a boy or a girl?  Are you having any morning sickness?  Have you thought about names?  Are you taking sufficient iron?”  We piled into the car to rush to the train station.  “Are you going to stay in your apartment?  Do you know if you have lead paint?  When can I put the news on Facebook?”  Mom was quiet during the whole drive.

We arrived at the train station.  Pop gave me a big hug.  Mom did too.  She said, “if you get any cravings, let me know and I can make some home-cooked food for you.” 

It was basically the only thing she said about the news.  And it the most moving, validating experience for me to hear it.  The look in her eyes told me that she was thinking deeply about her own experience with pregnancy.  She wanted to share it with me.  I felt joy and relief.

When S and I got home, we rushed out to celebrate Pride 2012.  We happened to be standing next to a queer couple with an adorable 8-month old baby at the Pride parade.  “Next year,” said S, “that could be us.  Celebrating with our little queer family.”  We grinned at each other, imagining our future.

It was such a full, beautiful, emotional day.  While I know my parents will likely not ever march in a Pride parade with PFLAG like other parents, or publicly embrace our status as a queer couple, they have done SO MUCH work to be able to be a part my life, a life that they never even imagined possible when they were raising me.  Even if they can't say it directly, I know they are genuinely happy for us and for themselves; they will love and support their grandchild in brave and powerful ways.  To hold that knowledge in my heart while cheering on equally brave, out queer folks and families was an incredible feeling.  S and I are blessed beyond words.  And so, too, will be our beautiful baby.

Sharing the News

This weekend, S and I plan to tell my parents that we are expecting.  I’m nervous and excited.  While I know my parents are eager to be grandparents, I’m not sure how they will take the news.  Will they be happy?  Will they have questions about how we got pregnant?  Once they know we used donor sperm, will they accept our child as “legitimate?”  Will they honor S as the father of the child?  Will they be warm and loving, or cold and distant? 

This is just the beginning of our journey to create a queer family – I have so many other questions and fears about how our child will navigate a world with parents who are out except around this set of grandparents, who are still struggling with their own queer/transphobia.  At the moment, I’m trying to just hope that they will respond in a somewhat positive manner.  To receive anything less might be too devastating for me to handle.

OB Meet n' Greet

I've been spending a lot of time perusing various websites trying to decide on an OB and where it is we want to give birth.  There has been one practice - two doctors running a small, personalized pre-natal shop - that has been on my radar since before we were even pregnant.  They were recommended by a local LGBT website, and every time I review their services and look at their baby blog, I get a good feeling about them.

So this evening, S and I traveled far uptown in the pouring rain to attend a no-charge "meet n' greet" with the two doctors.  I arrived before S, so I sat down in the cozy, well-appointed waiting room and tried to get a feel for the place.  After a few minutes, Doctor One joined me in the waiting room.  She started with, "so what brings you to our practice?"

"Well, I'm pregnant," I began.  "And I came across your website on a local LGBT website."  She looked pleased.

"Yes," she said, "we work with all kinds of people here."  We talked a little bit about my work and how old I am, and then she asked me about my partner.  "So tell me about your partner," she said.  "What does she do?"

"Um, well... uh... my partner is a transgender man,"I stumbled.  "He should actually be here shortly."  I studied her face.  I told her about his work.

"So, tell me about that.  He was a woman and is now a man?"

"Yes, female to male," I affirmed.

"And how long has he been living as a man?"

"Over ten years."

"And did you meet before or after that time?"

"After," I said, feeling put-off by her line of inquiry. There was something about the look in her eyes, the high-pitched tone of her voice, the fact that we had already spent more time talking about S being trans than about me being pregnant that just wasn't sitting right with me.

"Well, here at our practice, we are like a big tent," she said.  "We work with transgender people, conservative Christians, people in their 50's... all kinds of people come here."

At that moment, S came running in the door, apologizing for being late.  He gave me a kiss, sat down, and squeezed my hand.  The doctor continued.  "I was just telling your partner here that we are like a big tent here," she told S.  "We work with transgender people, conservative Christians, people in their 50's..."

Doctor Two walked into the room, shook our hands, and sat down.

"So this is a transgender couple," said Doctor One," and I was just telling them that we are like a big tent here."  She reiterated the list of "unique" populations they serve.  She then began to check her Blackberry.  Doctor Two began to talk with us and asked us what questions we had about their practice.  He was much more at ease with us, relaxed and casual.  Doctor One excused herself to make a phone call.  Doctor Two addressed our concerns about the fact that the clinic and hospital are pretty far away from where we live, and encouraged us to think about having a doula present at the birth.  We talked for fifteen or twenty minutes.  Doctor One never came back.

After the visit, S and I agreed that this was not the practice for us.  "If she said that line about the tent one more time..." I said.

"A CIRCUS tent, is what she meant!" S laughed.  "Don't worry, we're used to freak shows here!"

We realized it really isn't important to us that the doctors with whom we work see themselves as allies to queer folks.  We don't want to become anyone's diversity case.  We want competent doctors who are kind, knowledgable, supportive, and are focused on our pregnancy, not our identities.  Tomorrow, we'll be going back to the drawing board.  Tonight, we're still laughing, albeit somewhat uncomfortably, about the big top performance we witnessed uptown.

Grief

I am utterly exhausted.  Emotionally drained.  It has been a rough two days.  A roller coaster of feelings have coursed their way through my body. I am simultaneously able to understand that my irrational thoughts are normal at a time like this, and ashamed to be having the thoughts in the first place. 

I've been looking at happy couples with babies and toddlers with resentment.  I've been feeling bitter about how easy it is for straight people to keep trying to get pregnant with an unlimited supply of fresh eggs and sperm.  I've been frustrated with the process of having to take medication that makes my boobs extra sore, my cramps extra persistent, and my mood swings even swingy-er.  I've been annoyed that with every two week wait, I've been eating more greens and avoiding alcohol, as if something were actually happening.  I've been irritated that I've been taking prenatal vitamins for over two years and stopped drinking caffeine for nothing.  I've been hearing every announcement of a friend or acquaintance's pregnancy (or second pregnancy, or third pregnancy) as a personal attack.  Every newborn I've seen on Facebook has been another moment the universe is wagging it's nasty finger at me, saying, "see, your parents are right, it isn't normal to be queer!"

In sum, this process of trying to get pregnant - and failing - is bringing forth all my horrible demons.  It is feeding into my tendency to catastrophize, to try to control and plan things, to compare myself and my self worth to others, to be a perfectionist.  It is bringing up my internalized homophobia.  It is tickling my sense of fear and urgency about S's age and his heart condition.  It is playing into my frustration with New York City, and how our quality of life is deeply affected by the cost of living here, both economic and emotional. 

I've been having a hard time getting out of bed in the morning.  I've been walking like a zombie throughout my days.  I've been bottling things up.  I've been crying. 

I am tired. And angry that because of homophobia and transphobia, because of racism and classism, because I've been trying to live my life by other people's timelines and rules and expectations, we didn't try getting pregnant any sooner, even though we were ready. 

 I'm having a hard time trusting that this is all in the universe's grand plan for me, for us.  Even though S has been diligently and patiently reminding me, every single day, that in fact, it is. 

On intimacy

The other day I was on the phone with a friend, talking about trying to get pregnant.  And she mentioned to me that another friend of ours, who is currently in a heterosexual relationship, is also trying to get pregnant.  "She was supposed to ovulate on the third of the month," she said, "so they made sure to have sex on the second."

The first thought that crossed my mind was, "sex?" 

The process of TTC for me, at this point, has become so far removed from sex that I actually forgot that some people can get pregnant that way.  By turning to their partner, getting close, and being intimate.  In bed.  And maybe even having fun and finding pleasure in the process. 

TTC has rendered my relationship with intimacy and my body into something kind of uncomfortable and awkward.  In general, TTC has actually meant not having sex.  When S and I tried to get physical during the first IUI cycle, I kind of freaked out.  My body had been examined and touched and poked so many times that it was hard to erase the medicalized feelings I was having about my body.  Fertility drugs made me constantly feel run down and crampy and just constantly conscious of my hardworking reproductive system.   And during the 2WW, a part of me was concerned that being physical might cause something to "disrupt" the process of implantation (which I knew, rationally, was not going to happen, but I couldn't help feeling it). 

To hear that our friend was having the opportunity to try to get pregnant with a body that ovulates regularly, with access to fresh sperm that belongs to her partner, and in a way that involves closeness and connection and safety and privacy and fun made me feel... resentful.  Bitter.  Frustrated about the challenges being queer and dealing with infertility bring to our lives.  Frustrated that others have it so "easy." 

The Cryobank, and Open vs. Anonymous Donor

I called our potential cryobank today to ask some basic questions about storage and shipping, and about a potential donor.  We have until December 31st to purchase the vials we'd like to use if we want to get in on the 2011 rates.  Because we are nearing the time of our first insemination, this is important to us.  We've mostly settled on a donor and still feels good/right to us, and we're about ready to purchase the specimen.  The only challenge is that it's an open donor, meaning our child would have the option to try to potentially contact the donor through the cryobank once he/she turns 18.  S and I want use an anonymous (closed) donor with no option to contact.  I called the cryobank to ask about this concern and what our options might be.  The conversation went something like this:

Me:  "My partner and I have decided on a donor, but it's an open donor and we were hoping to use an anonymous donor.  Is there anything the cryobank can do to change the status or remove the option to contact on our behalf?"

Staff:  "Well, it's totally up to you.  If you choose not to tell your child how they were conceived, that's up to you."

I was in shock.  Implicit in that statement was so much judgement, so much assumption.  My mind raced as I struggled to rephrase my question.

Me:  "The issue is, we don't want to have the option to contact the donor.  Can you convert an open donor to an anonymous donor?  Is it possible to just seal the records or something?"

Staff:  "Again, that's totally up to you.  You can just not share the information about conception with the child."

I was hitting a wall.

Me:  "That is not the issue.  We are a queer couple, and we do plan to disclose information about conception with our child.  The issue is that we do not want to have the option to contact the donor, and would prefer for him to remain anonymous.  Are you telling me there is nothing you can do?"

Staff: "No," she said.  "We cannot change the status."

I told her I understood, thanked her, and tried to end the conversation.  She realized I was put-off and tried to say something "counselor-like."  But her comments were still based on judgement, still based on assumptions about who we are and how we will choose to parent our future child(ren).  I thanked her again and hung up the phone, shaken and angry.  That she assumed choosing an anonymous donor meant we would deceive or lie to the child, or that she was promoting that as an option at all, was just so surprising, irresponsible, and ignorant to me.

The truth is, we are a heteroqueer couple.  And as such, our experience resembles that of an infertile heterosexual couple more than it does that of a same-sex couple.  While we are proud queer folks who are out within our community and most of our lives, and we will be out to our children and raise them with love and honesty and with a fierce, loving queer family, we at the same time live in the world being perceived ("passing") as a straight couple.  We live with that privilege, we mostly relate to each other and to the world in straight, gender-conforming roles.  Our reality is different than that of a same-sex couple or a single parent where it is a given that to conceive a child there had to be another party involved.  In those family contexts, choosing an open or known donor may make sense.

Within our family structure, S will be the father of the baby, and I will be the mother.  S has expressed that to know there is a donor out there in the world with whom we and our child might someday have contact is at best, uncomfortable, and wost, very threatening.  As a trans man, his experience includes a desire to be able to produce sperm and conceive his child biologically.  To not have the capacity to do so is a profound struggle for him, and in many ways mirrors the experience of an infertile heterosexual cisgender man.  While I can't represent the depth of his thoughts and feelings about this myself, I had decided early on in this process that because I will be the biological parent of this child, S has the full right to examine his range of emotions and make a decision about the donor that feels right for him.

We have given this decision a lot of thought.  We have researched, we have read, we have talked with folks in a support group at the LGBT center.  And yes, we decided that we would be more comfortable with an anonymous donor.  We will continue to examine this decision with our whole hearts.  We are committed to honesty with ourselves, and honesty with our child, however challenging the journey may be.

Reconciling the Chart

With the beginning of 2010 came a moment of realization for me: this could be the Year I Get Pregnant.

I've been mostly feeling butterflies of excitement for the first week of the new year.  I love fresh starts and new beginnings, and I have many beautiful things to look forward to in 2010.  But for the past few days, I've been feeling resentful and mildly anxious.  To be blunt - I've been frustrated about the pregnancy challenges that come along with being queer. 

With the guidance of some helpful books I began charting my fertility in November 2009, and for the past few months have been diligently taking my temperature every morning before I roll out of bed. I figured I was getting a head-start on the process since I have a somewhat irregular cycle and want to better understand my body's fertility signs. Yet I haven't been able to quite pinpoint the day on which I was ovulating during the past three cycles. My chart is all over the place.

I picked up my go-to-guide and began reading the charting steps again. I found I have been making a few critical mistakes:

1. Not taking my temperature at exactly the same time every morning
2. Not charting CM changes. At all. (I'll admit, I've been a little squeamish about this one)
3. Not being detailed enough about documenting "life" factors that may affect my BBT

While assessing my mistakes, I suddenly began feeling annoyed that I have to do all this work to make sure I know exactly when I'm ovulating.  Because frozen sperm is less effective than fresh.  Because every insemination costs a lot of money.  Because no matter how much we try, no matter how much we want it, S and I can't get pregnant without a donor, or "by accident."

Of course there are many people who want to get pregnant, queer and not, who face challenges with bringing children into their lives.  There are people who don't have the privilege of planning pregnancy, people managing infertility, people who don't have the resources to engage in an alternative insemination process.  My life is filled with many blessings for which, on most days, I feel immensely grateful. 

But these factors do not erase the fact that for now, at this moment, I am resentful.  It doesn't help that last year I was working in an setting with heterosexual pregnant women, many of whom had unplanned pregnancies.  Or that S continues to work in a women's health clinic and bring home the stories of the clients whose sweet little babies he holds in his arms.  I look enviously at the pictures of straight friends on Facebook who are moving along in their family-building journeys.  When looking at the world through my "victim" lens, pregnancy seems to come easy to many straight people. 

I know I'll get back to a better emotional place soon enough.  If there's one thing I've learned from my fertility chart, it's that my emotions are definitely affected by my hormonal changes.  My irritation should only last so long.  I'll be back to the "optimistic" part of my cycle in T minus 2 days.

the swinging door

i came out to my family in two dramatic stages - once in 2003, and again in 2006.

in 2003, i was promptly shoved back into the closet. my queerness was never spoken of or acknowledged again - either by my family, or by me. it was swept under the rug, covered up, buried. and life went on.

in 2006, i forced the closet open again. this time, i kept my foot in the door - i spoke openly and regularly about my life, my needs, my fears and expectations. within the period of one month, i was threatened with eternal banishment from the family if i continued the conversation. so i didn't.

now again, in 2008, i'm fighting the swinging of the door. my long-lost cousin of 25years - and his mom, and my parents - are in town for the week. because this visit visit involves a lot of negotiating of logistical details (read: my parents refuse to stay at home i share with my partner... and they're opting for a hotel instead), i've been faced with the question of how to build a relationship with my much missed cousin with as much honesty and dignity as possible.

so i did it. i came out to him and begged his respect for the secrecy mandated by my parents. i told him all about my wonderful partner and the lives we're building together. i shared with him the important and intimate details of my life... two days before his arrival, through a desprate email longing for validation and soldiarity in my struggle.

what i got back was a tentative door prop. he thanked me for trusting him. he said he appreciated my honesty. and he said he wasn't "good" at communicating anything more.

i was left with fear, disappointment, resignment, and frustration. i was left with hope. now he's here, and i'm questioning every interaction we share in front of my parents- did the big hug he gave me mean he understands and accepts me? was his reaction to a homophobic comment... discomfort? because of my presence? or because he thinks it's inherently wrong? does he want to - or know how to - talk about his feelings about having a queer desi cousin? was that silence we shared as we waited on line for the bathroom meaningful?

am i putting too much faith in the process working through a generation of family secrets, distance, and pain?

super tuesday

it took me a full two minutes to figure out how to use the antiquated voting machine in my district. i pulled the red bar to the right - like a slot machine - and looked up at the green board. the only name i could see was "hillary clinton." i was paralyzed. i looked around through the gaps in the curtain that didn't quite close behind me. the room was filled entirely with people of color. i thought about the 15th amendment. and the 19th amendment. i wondered if they were voting democrat.

i took a deep breath, and looked again, trying to interpret the words on the board. hillary clinton. john edwards. (john edwards? i thought. there go the votes. this system is so f-ed up.) i continued to scan. barack obama. i found the directions, printed in tiny, capitalized, bureaucratic-looking letters: CHOOSE ONE CANDIDATE FOR PRESIDENT.

unexpectedly, a little shiver of excitement ran through my body. as cynical as i am, as tired as i am, my body still recognized the historical significance of the moment. i flipped the lever for my presidential candidate, as well for as seven other people running for various positions for which i did not know the relevance or meaning. i pushed the red bar to the left, and walked out of the booth.

i looked around and paused, as if waiting for something to happen. nothing did. i walked home. i thought: whether or not it mattered, whether or not it made a difference, whether or not it was counted, i voted. me. a queer muslim female POC.

wouldn't the ancestors be proud.

the meaning of stuff, part II

i wasn't just speculating when i guessed my parents decided they won't be having any grandkids. whether i happen to raise children or not.

in the spirit of my new year's resolution to confront my fears and communicate more directly with my family about my feelings, i wrote back. and i asked my father to save some of my most treasured items to pass on to my children.

it seems my father might have made a resolution to communicate with me more directly as well. because this was his one-sentence response:

"I guess you don't get it. The reason for getting rid of stuff is accepting that there will not be any grandkids to pass things onto."

hence, my latest new year's resolution. in the interest of my professional wellness, i resolve to no longer read my personal email at work.

the meaning of stuff

i received an email from my dad today stating that he and my mom have begun a process of cleaning out the house in which i grew up. the house in which they still live.

spring cleaning. in january.

he informed me that they've already given away all of the disney movies my brother and i watched over and over as kids - over 25 vhs tapes. they're getting rid of all our stuffed animals, our board games, our toys, and our childhood clothes. he wrote to ask me if there's anything i want them to keep.

i suppose it makes sense for them to engage in this ritual. my parents are essentially "empty nesters" with two grown children, living in a too-big house with too much stuff. they're swimming in the material goods that we, a middle class suburban family of 4, accumulated over the past 25 years.

yet the email hit me painfully hard. my stomach twisted into knots as i read the words, "we are cleaning house." rather than just noting that my parents are taking on this activity to de-clutter and organize their living space, i realized that they may actually be going through a process of mourning.

my parents are suddenly eradicating from their home the boxes of baby clothes, fisher price toys, and dr. seuss books they had been saving to pass on to their future grandchildren. perhaps candy land and the velveteen rabbit only serve now as reminders of the fact that their children, a queer social worker who left home at 18, and an "americanized" IT specialist who lives at home at 24, are not who they hoped they would be. that they will never bear them 3rd generation khoja kids like their heterosexual ismaili peers.

i don't know how to respond to my father's email. i don't know how to tell my parents that the throwing away the stuff of my youth feels like throwing away the stuff of my future. that i DO hope to have a family with my partner (albeit in a different way than they may have imagined). that i hope my parents will love my children wholeheartedly and welcome them into their lives. that i want for my children to know about the "fairy tale stories" LP i got on day my little brother was born, to see the cabbage patch doll i carried until i was 10, to play with the my little ponies my brother and i used to create our own make-believe worlds.

that it meant so much that for over 20 years, my parents invested the energy and space to carefully store those material memories away for my future, and for theirs.

this email was a message to me that they are moving on. perhaps i need to go through some spring cleaning of my own. perhaps it is finally time to release myself from the waning hope that someday, my parents will be able to reconcile their dreams for my adult life with my own.

my maaji

last week i found out maaji has been diagnosed with uterine cancer.

no, the irony of the situation has not escaped me. i found out one week to the day i experienced the ghost pains in my own body.

but she's my maaji. it only makes sense. we are connected, despite the distance between us. first there were continents. then states. and still, she has been my guiding light, my guardian angel, my hero throughout my life. she has been a powerful, inspiring source of strength for me since i was six years old.

maaji was a tomboy as a child. or as she says, a "fighter-cock." she's always been built tough, with muscular arms she used to climb trees and beat up anyone who bullied her siblings. she wore pants in the '40s. she didn't - and still doesn't - take no crap from no one. she is the matriarch of our family.

people tell me i have maaji's feet. strong. wide. grounded in the earth.

maaji was married at 16. there have been whispers that bapaji used to beat her. he probably still does. they don't sleep in the same bed.

every time i talk to maaji, she reminds me of two things. one, to practice my religion. allah is the most beneficient, the most merciful. two, that i can come to her for anything in life. that i am the diamond of the family. the eldest grandchild. the eldest daughter. the hope and pride of all the women who came before me.

growing up, she often gave me advice. "i want you to get a good education," she would say. "i don't want you to be like me. or your mother. i don't want you to be dependent on anyone. you must study well, earn your own money, and take care of yourself. you must be a strong woman, with no need to depend on a man."

maaji was diagnosed with breast cancer when i was 15. she had a mastectomy when i was 16. that summer, we bought her special bras and a prosthesis from the u.s. she didn't have access to one in nairobi. my mother hoped her INS application would come through someday so she would have access to many things she couldn't have in kenya.

the last real conversation i had with maaji was one year ago, while she prepared dinner in her kitchen in houston. i was 26. she told me about how sad she is, how she never imagined she would have to grow old in this lonely country. how life was harder in nairobi, but it was better, because she knew her neighbors. they looked after her. she didn't have many things, and there were potholes and riots in the streets. but at least she wasn't lonely.

during that last conversation, i told her that i am different from her and my mother. that i have always been different, in many ways. i am independent. i have a college degree. i am queer.

the distance between us grew wider than the biggest oceans.

when she finally spoke, maaji said, "i know what you want. i can't give it to you." i looked at her with tears streaming down my face. she continued, "your mother has had a hard life. you're making it harder for her. i cannot support you." she wouldn't meet my eyes.

we haven't spoken since.

and now she has cancer. she is growing older in this lonely country.

and so am i.