Within the now despised month of Pride is a silver lining—today is the last day of school. For two glorious months Miss Miller will not be steeped in the odious alphabet soup, floating around with all the other letters, getting soaked.
Aside from the theater club, Miss Miller isn’t jazzed about school. She’s smart enough but hates the work. She also prefers to not show up on time. Sleep is so much more valuable. When the load lightens she lightens, which means I may get a hug.
Miss Miller knows how much I love hugs. I even have a motto: Hugs Are Important. Of course she retches whenever I approach, arms outstretched. Yes, it’s age-appropriate, blah blah. But now, when she wants me to do something for her—wash her dirty dish for instance, she offers a hug—as payment. As currency. Do I jump at the chance? I make that dish gleam.
These are not stiff elbow-less pats either. We’re talking soft, lingering embraces. Just enough time to sigh. Well worth the effort. She thinks I’m a sucker, but I know the truth. She wants the hug, but she’ll never admit it, clever girl.
Last June feels like a lifetime ago. Way back then Miss Miller requested a “misgender jar” for Pride month. A year later it still sits on the kitchen windowsill untouched, forgotten, the same eight dollars within gathering dust.
My husband and I were babies then—confused, conflicted. We tried to appease, but the made-up names and pronouns stuck in our throats.
Now we tell the truth. Miss Miller knows we don’t agree with her identity. Her dad keeps his head down while Mama rages. My daughter knows I despise her gender identity. I’ve screamed it at the top of my lungs. I’ve made her so mad she’s sobbed, slammed doors, stormed from the house, Tweeted about me, torn up a photo of us. And still. Here we are.
In fact, this year for my birthday, on the cusp of Pride, Miss Miller bought me a present. With her own money, with no reminder from Dad (or so I’m told) she gave me a stuffed animal—a mother elephant hugging her baby elephant. I curl up with them in my arms every night, whispering, thank you.
🐘🐘
Beautiful, heart-wrenching, vulnerable. The stuffed animal reminds me of the love in Disney’s Dumbo. The mom’s trunk cradling her baby while mom was in chains just tears me apart even thinking about it. You are MOTHER. The alphabet mafia can obstruct, but they cannot erase that FACT. Stay brave momma. Hold onto hope. The women in the resistance hear you and see you. We will not capitulate to the dark forces.
This is beautiful. What a testimony to the love you two have for each other. The fierce, messy and oh so deep bonds that tie you and your daughter juxtaposed with softness. Beautiful.