On that sweltering day, the kind that teases you with hints of summer before it fully arrives, I found myself reflecting on the heat—Wow, it’s so HOT, I thought. In a few weeks, I’d be longing for the cooler days of spring, much like the mother of a toddler who wishes for their child to walk and talk already, only to miss those simpler times when they grow into teenagers.
It’s always something.
The sounds of children playing filled the air, laughter and shouts mixing with the gentle breeze, creating a lively atmosphere that could only be described as summer.
“I am not! Shut up!”
Then came the silence, followed by mocking laughter that made the hairs on my arms stand on end. I could sense trouble brewing, and I knew this was going to end badly.
I heard the unmistakable sound of feet pounding on pavement, followed by the screen door slamming and the sound of muffled sobs.
“What happened? What’s wrong?” I asked, trying to sound calm but knowing deep down that something was amiss.
“He called me fat.” The words tumbled out, hollow and heavy, as they landed on the table, each one carrying the weight of a pain only a child could feel.
He called my son fat.
First came the anger. Who does that? How could someone dare to call another child fat? Don’t they understand how hurtful that is? Then came the shame. I recalled my own childhood, the hurtful nicknames like Little Piggy and Pammy Pumpkin Poop. The scars of being teased still lingered, as did my struggles with body image. I remembered sitting in the cafeteria, excitement turning to embarrassment when I realized my lunch was mocked instead of shared.
The laughter, the sharp, cutting laughter, still echoes in my mind decades later. I could picture myself, bright orange Cheez Whiz staining my jumper, tears of humiliation streaming down my face.
Rage bubbled up again, fierce and protective. No one would have the audacity to label my child fat. I wouldn’t allow anyone to inflict that kind of shame on another human being, not on my watch.
But then, I remembered the look in a friend’s eyes when I wore something that didn’t fit quite right—an expression that said, “I’m just trying to help you.” I felt inadequate, not good enough, never enough. And now, my sweet child—so far from fat—was being subjected to the same cruelty.
“You are not fat—you must know that,” I told him firmly, trying to shield him from the hurtful words of others. “No one should ever say that to another person.”
He nodded, his head still buried in his arms, but I could see the tears slowing.
Yet, amid the pain, something peculiar stirred within me—a mix of joy and relief. He called my son fat! A typical playground insult, similar to calling someone four-eyes or curly-haired. My heart swelled with a strange gladness. This boy, my brave child, had faced a taunt, and somehow, I felt happy.
What was wrong with me?
Six months prior, my child transitioned from being assigned female at birth, and since then, I’d been hyper-aware of every slight aimed his way. I’d heard the stories of bullies, the shoves and mockery. I’d learned how to discreetly notify school officials about any issues while ensuring my child’s safety. I’d even had to educate teachers on how to respond appropriately when my child used these strategies.
I often saw other parents pull their kids closer when we walked by, fearful that my son’s identity might somehow “affect” theirs. I’d heard rumors of kids being removed from activities without explanation, and my heart raced with anxiety each time I faced their scrutinizing gazes.
I’ve rushed my child to the doctor’s office countless times, each visit accompanied by debilitating pain that we could never quite pin down. Each time, the result was the same: everything was normal. I wanted something tangible to explain the distress, a name for the pain, something concrete to address.
Instead, I found myself lying awake at night, haunted by the names my son could face throughout his life. I wept at the thought that one day, he might not be able to run outside without fear of judgment or ridicule. I feared that when the time came, the name-calling would be far more damaging than “fat.”
The names he wasn’t called filled me with joy. That he was called fat, instead of some horrific transphobic slur, felt like a small victory. Soon, we would step back outside and demand the apology he deserved. Soon, he would return to playing with his friends, and the day would end as beautifully as it had begun.
But for now, the names he wasn’t called would have to wait.
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Summary
The author reflects on a painful childhood memory triggered by her transgender son being insulted. While feeling anger and shame for both herself and her child, she finds a surprising sense of relief in the simplicity of the taunt compared to what could have been said. The narrative explores the complexities of parenting a transgender child in a world filled with prejudice while ultimately focusing on the joy of small victories.
Keyphrase: transgender child bullying
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