In an effort to avoid appearing to be doing that, I followed my child Asher around the traditional art fair. After days of warmth, dust, and water, people move everywhere with the worn-out, contented ennui that settles into a system. I was hyperalert, anxious, and watchful while Asher seemed at ease as she meandered from hall to hall wearing her sundress. I looked around the crowd, observing each side glance and second look. I kept my composure on the outside, but as people approached who appeared to be potential threats, I watched closely and ran through scenarios in my mind.
As soon as Asher cast a glance my way, I immediately pretended to be looking at some painted seascape or painted wooden sign. She walked into a hall where an older-looking girl was selling handmade jewelry. The young lady was dressed in a prairie dress that I believed might go well with the cottage-core aesthetic I had heard on NPR. Her kiosk appeared to be safe.
I moved a little further down the path and stepped to the side where I could make out her under the canopy just in case. She engaged in conversation with the other lady. She reached out to look at a pair of earrings while hooking her long hair behind her ears with her hands.
My family and I were strolling through a folk art fair at the North Carolina shore on our last day together. Alongside a sea with its own tiny piers, the place was lovely. For the trip, we had gathered around a month earlier — brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins.
My anxiety increased earlier this week when I lost sight of her after we boarded a bridge that crossed the harbor and arrived in tucked-away shops and eateries. Evan, her older brother, informed me that she had gone to use the room. After attempting to appear at ease, I paced in the direction of the communal facilities, scanning the onlookers on the street for angry voices, feeling angry that this was what Asher had to deal with every day, and angry at myself for not being able to keep her safe.
What is undeniable is the overwhelming majority of peer-reviewed research, which supports the need for gender-affirming children’s care in medicine, according to the American Medical Association, American Psychological Association, and American Academy of Pediatrics, among other medical organizations.
These conservatives reject the obvious conclusions of clinical research because they disagree with their specific interpretation of old spiritual texts, just as the church placed Galileo under house arrest for pointing out that the Earth was not the center of the solar system. They attack vulnerable youth and their parents with a phalanx of anti-LGBT bills that are sweeping across the country after rejecting the best medical science. These bills, such as the “Youth Health Protection Act” and “Children Deserve Help Not Harm Act,” are names that belie the bills’ demonstrably detrimental effects on these children’s mental and emotional health.
They attack gender-affirming care with sporting restrictions, which is one cunning red herring tactic they use. These two problems may be handled separately because they are two distinct problems. People can be categorized in a variety of ways for sporting competition. With younger kids, it’s just about time. Biological sex is added during puberty. That’s reasonable, right? Imagine middle school kids competing against one another. Some of the boys have reached puberty and grown bodily into strong young men, while others who are the same age have pubescent bodies. With a little creativity, it seems to me that we could organize activities of all kinds in ways that are as equitable as feasible for everyone involved. The right of transgender youth and their parents to receive the necessary care shouldn’t be discussed in that conversation.
We reside in a mid-sized Southern city that has an incredibly large proportion of traditional white evangelicals. Big-nosed bully trucks with snake license plates, assault-rifle stickers, and occasionally even full-sized flags flapping in the back, indicating the driver’s approval of violence against humans that don’t fit into their John Wayne world, are common in Target and Kroger parking lots. I don’t know, but I assume that the atmosphere here feels that way to LGBTQ+ people in general. It feels increasingly uncomfortable and potentially dangerous for Asher to come and visit.
The day after our art-fair move, as I was driving her to the airport, she related how, that week while we were eating in the shopping village, a man had glared at her with daggers. Throughout the entire meal, he had caused her anxiety and fear, but she had maintained her composure, and I hadn’t even noticed. She told me she puts up with everything from little rudeness to demeaning remarks to situations that force her to grab her pepper spray as she tries to move through the world as I sat mad at myself for missing it fully. This is how she lives.
My love for Asher shows as a desire to stand between her and the jerks, to chase them away, but there are seven hundred miles separating
us for all but holidays and vacations. She only desires what we all desire: to love and be loved, to carry out important work, and to be herself and live a fulfilling life. To just proceed fearlessly down the damned street. As her father, I have a visceral, profound desire to protect her, but I am powerless to do so. Furthermore, the conservative evangelicals, among whom I was raised, are funding and promoting the attack on her, so my worry is accompanied by a bubbling rage. I suppose I’m expressing the impression that parents in underprivileged neighborhoods are fully aware of their children’s plight. I’m not saying that Asher’s situation and ours are identical in every way, but for the time being, they are very similar in that loving my child makes me afraid.
