New York Times Opinion
January 28, 2017
My mother has dozens of family pictures in her hallway, but not a single one of me. She keeps recent photos clustered in the spare room where I sleep when I visit. I turn them facedown when I’m there.
It took my mother two years to be able to look at me without crying after I transitioned. This was in 2004, and I had little hope that the world at large would ever regard me as a full human being. The first time she picked me up from the tiny regional airport she didn’t recognize me, and when she did, she looked away with tears brimming at her lashes.
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