Knox - Love Lives Here

ITS NOON AND IM SITTING in a busy coffee shop, a decaf Americano and something called a protein box beside me: eggs and cheese and soft, depressing-looking grapes I wont eat. Im trying to write the introduction to my familys journey. Ive hit backspace more times than I can count, and now Im taking a moment between attempts to press down on one of the squishy grapes.

Who eats these? Who lives this?

Oh, right. I do. Live it, I mean. Not eat the grapes.

What do you do for a living? people often ask when they meet me. Its an easy question. I wish I had an easy answer.

Its complicated, I want to say, like a Facebook relationship status. And by complicated, I mean How do I even begin to tell you that my entire career is founded on an email from an eleven-year-old?

Somehow, the words writer and speaker dont quite cut italthough thats what I generally reply. But my work is deeper than that, because its fuelled by unconditional love for the people in my life who needed support. First one, then another, and now many.

Love is why I do the work I do. Love is why this book exists. Love for myself, love for my family, love for a whole community of people who dont get enough of it. Can I say I do love for a living, or will people give me a look more withering than the one Ive been giving these grapes?

Before you read this story, there are some things you should know. Everything in this book is written to the best of my recollection and the recollections of those around me. Memory is an imperfect tool, but the sentiment behind the events described is true. I tried not to embellish, and to recreate conversations as closely as I could. Some names have been changed or left out to protect privacy; I didnt want to throw anyone under the bus, even if some people werent as kind as they could have been. Finally, in order to keep the focus on the heart of this memoir, Ive included only those events relating to how we got here. There are plenty of other stories, but Ill save those for another time.

This book involved the continuous support and input of my family members. Its our collective journey, after all, not just mine. These words wouldnt be nearly as powerful or as meaningful without them.

When writing about trans issues, cisgender people like methose of us comfortable with the gender we were assigned at birthshould strive to make sure we write nothing that can damage an already marginalized community. Discussions surrounding gender are evolving rapidly, as is the language used. For this book, I consulted several trans people, but if I messed up anywhere, I apologize. I will strive to do better.

While I hope this book will uplift the reader, there are some tough issues covered, including mental illness, suicidal ideation, sexual assault, gender dysphoria, transphobia, homophobia and LGBTQ slurs. If you find yourself struggling through these pages, please reach out to someone you trust. If you feel alone, there are crisis lines (including LGBTQ-specific ones) and other community supports. Please get the help you need. You deserve to shine.

I use the term LGBTQ often in this book. I know our community is bigger than lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer/questioning people. I did this for brevity, and to avoid constantly referring to the queer community (a phrase that, while being reclaimed, has also been used as a weapon). But I see you, asexuals, pansexuals, two-spirit people, intersex people and everyone else who doesnt fit into the first five letters. You are not forgotten.

If you like our familys story, please consider supporting visibly trans and non-binary people. Read their books, blogs and articles. Watch their documentaries, movies and videos. Listen to their podcasts, radio shows and interviews. I promise youll learn a lot, and as a bonus, youll be supporting a group of historically marginalized folks who are working hard to turn the tide.

And with that, I will find a compost bin for these squishy grapes and see you on the other side of this book. Thanks for reading.

ONE

SHE TOLD ME in the car.

Or rather, she didnt tell me. Because its what wasnt said that gave it all awaythe space between our words leaving a silence where you could almost hear our hearts break.

Its funny how much we remember about important moments. That night, a warm summer rain was tapping lightly against the car windows and I could smell the air conditioner as it worked overtime to push out the mugginess of early July. I could hear the splash of puddles as we made our way down the road toward our suburban neighbourhood. I remember how a bright-green grocery store sign lit up the cars interior as I turned and asked that one pivotal question, and how our ten-minute ride home ended up taking well over an hour.

Whenever I think about the night my life changed forever, Im thrust backwards into sensory overload. The sights, the smells, the sounds are forever a part of the memory. Its only one piece of a much larger story, but I recall it as clearly as I do my childrens first breaths or my grandmothers last.

I suppose this makes sense, since that night was both the start of a new life and the end of an old one.

By any measure, it had been a terrible date night. Unbelievably so, even for us. And hey, we knew terrible. Back then, I had a mopey, moody partner. This made everythingincluding date nightsa lot less fun. How do you have a good time when someone is lugging around misery like a millstone? The person I married barely smiled, even at the best of times. But after more than two decades together, I had come to accept this as our reality. Some people are just not the smiley types, you know?