It was one of those early summer days, the kind that reminds you of heat after a long, cold winter. The air was thick with warmth, and I found myself thinking, “Wow! It’s so HOT.” In a couple of months, I would look back on this moment and chuckle, similar to how a mother of a toddler might regret wishing for their child to walk or talk sooner—or how a mother of a teenager might long for those simpler toddler days. It seems there’s always something to navigate.
The sounds of children playing filled the air with shouts, laughter, and the occasional shriek that drifted through the screen door, creating an atmosphere alive with summer energy.
“I am not! Shut up!” came a voice.
Silence followed, then mocking laughter. That sharp sound raised my instincts as a mother. I knew something unfortunate had happened.
Suddenly, I heard the telltale sound of feet pounding on the pavement, followed by the screen door slamming shut and the muffled sobs of my child, who had buried his face in his arms on the table.
“What happened? What’s wrong?” I asked, my tone suggesting that I already knew something was amiss.
“He called me fat.” The words echoed hollowly against the wooden surface, each syllable heavy with the kind of pain that only a 7-year-old can truly understand.
He called my son fat.
First came the anger. Who does that? How could someone say such a thing? What kind of upbringing leads to such cruelty? Don’t they realize that calling someone fat is never acceptable? Then came the wave of shame. I recalled my own childhood experiences of being teased—names like “Little Piggy” and “Fatso” still stung. I remembered the feeling of being the last picked for teams, the groans when the teams realized I was part of them. I could still see the vivid image of sitting at a lunch table with a Cheez Whiz sandwich, only to discover that it was the subject of ridicule for everyone but me.
The laughter still echoed in my ears three decades later. I walked to my office, the bright orange Cheez Whiz staining my blue plaid dress, tears of humiliation streaming down my face.
Again, the anger rose—a fierce instinct to protect my child from feeling the shame I had once felt. No one would ever call my child fat again.
But my resolve faltered. I remembered the disappointed glances from friends when I wore clothes that were a bit too tight, the unspoken judgments I perceived in their “concern.” That feeling of inadequacy was now being projected onto my child, who was anything but what that bully had called him.
“You are not fat—you must know that,” I reassured him, my voice firm with conviction. “It’s wrong for anyone to say that to another person.” He nodded, still hiding his face in his arms, but his tears began to subside.
Then an unexpected feeling surged within me—was it joy? Relief? A typical playground insult—calling someone fat—had somehow brought me a sense of happiness.
What was happening?
My son had been assigned female at birth and transitioned six months ago. Ever since, I’ve been acutely aware of every slight aimed at him. I’ve listened to tales of bullies pushing him, mocking him, labeling him as “weird.” I’ve learned how to address these situations discreetly with school officials and how to guide teachers in supporting him.
I’ve seen other parents pull their kids closer, fearful of the unknown—afraid their children might ask questions or, even worse, discover they too might be transgender. I’ve heard whispers of children being pulled from activities he enjoyed, often without any explanation.
The anxiety of being outed, of accidentally revealing his identity, has been a constant worry. I have rushed him to doctors repeatedly, for what often felt like unending cycles of fear and uncertainty. Each time, the tests returned with results that were “normal,” which any parent would want to hear, yet I longed for something concrete, something we could address directly—like being called fat on the playground.
I have spent sleepless nights contemplating the names my son might face throughout his life. I’ve cried at the thought of a day when he can’t simply run out the door like any other boy and play with friends without fear. I dread the inevitable moment when he might face a name that cuts deeper than “fat.”
And then, the realization hit me—the names he wasn’t called filled me with a strange sense of joy.
He was called fat, instead.
Soon, we would step outside, and he would return to playing as if nothing happened. The sun would set, fireflies would emerge, and the day would end beautifully, just as it began.
But for now, I knew he had escaped the worst of it.