Sometimes, a story takes more work than just the interviews and edits. It takes more than just reading books and looking through medical research.
For me, this was one of those stories.
I wanted to hear from kids. I wanted to understand what life is like for them. I was relieved when a youth leader agreed to allow me to come to a support group for young FTMs (females transitioning to being male). It would be only children, ages 12 to 19. No parents would be there.
As I walked up to the building where the support group was held, I noticed several boys playing outside the entrance of the clinic. I wondered if any of them were going to where I was headed.
I went up the steps, walking by people in the building for other reasons. There was a woman with a baby sitting on the steps. She smiled at me. I wondered if she was a mother of one of the kids I was about to meet.
At the top of the steps, I saw an open door. The room was full of mismatched chairs that looked to have been stored there for later use. There were plastic chairs, leather chairs, desk chairs with swivel bases, and wooden chairs of all kinds - even a rocking chair. There were shelves of books and boxes. One corner was full of excess furniture. It was clear this room had once been a spacious storage room. I would later learn this was a new meeting spot for them. They'd outgrown their last space.
The mismatched chairs were pushed into a make-shift oval. When I walked in, the man I assumed was the group's leader was sitting in a wheelchair. Since I'd only corresponded with him through email at this point, I wondered if it was his. It wasn't. It was just another seat stored away in the room. There was one other person in the room - a young boy, very cute. He clearly took his fashion seriously.
I said hello and picked my seat. I took a generic plastic one like you might find in a typical school classroom.
One by one, each boy entered the room. There wasn't much small talk. I forced myself to stay comfortable with the silence. Some of the boys chatted with the leader. Some said things like "what's up?" or "hey" to their friends.
A tall, thin boy walked in. He was wearing a ballcap and a plaid shirt. Another walked in wearing baggy sweatpants and a t-shirt. Then another. And another. Eventually there were 10 boys sitting in the room, all in their own unique chair. I know I keep bringing up the chairs, but it really was something that sticks out to me.
Some of the boys eyed me suspiciously, but it wasn't long after introductions I felt everyone in the room relax. All but one. The youngest boy – the one who’d been in the room when I’d first walked in – seemed shy throughout the meeting. I learned later it was only his second time there. This was all new to him.
The boys went around the room and took turns talking about themselves. They talked about parents who were helpful, and parents who were unsupportive. They talked about puberty blockers and testosterone (they call it "T" for short). They talked about who knew and when. They offered support to each other, too.
We discussed schools, bathroom visits, and gym class. A few described having to use an assigned restroom separate from the general student population’s. We discussed bullying, too.
A few boys in the room clearly had best friends sitting beside them. It was unclear if they'd been friends before transition or became friends because of transition.
Even though I'd come to the meeting with very few expectations, there was one word that kept coming up that I never anticipated. It seemed each boy said it when talking about his current situation. Each boy seemed to bring it up when talking about his family or friends.
The word was pronouns.
The boys kept saying things like "She uses the right pronouns" or "He refuses to use the right pronouns" or "the counselor's working with mom to get her to use the right pronouns".
When asked about pronouns being important, every boy in the room - in unison - proclaimed “YES!!!!!!!!!!” and nodded, some with so much emotion it was clear it had been a long-fought battle. It became very clear that two letters mean the world to these kids. Two letters: H and E. He! That the two-letter word means acknowledgement, maybe even acceptance.
I was in that room with those boys and their support group leader for nearly an hour and a half. I had to leave before it was over since I still had a newscast to anchor that night.
I still think about them. Like any person concerned for any child’s future, I worry about the challenges they face, their confidence and safety.
And again, I think of the chairs.
To me, the uniqueness of the chairs was somehow symbolic of the uniqueness of these boys - each with their own stories about a previous life. Each with a new future, not entirely certain.
If you are interested in learning more about a support group, you can email kansascitytransman@gmail.com.
