Thanksgiving Family Tradition
While sitting table after gorging on the offerings of Thanksgiving, it was time to fulfill a family tradition reminiscent of my mother’s 90’s new-age phase, we all take a moment to awkwardly attempt to put to all we are thankful for into a thirty-second monolog. When the warmth of the spotlight focused on me, I let the estrogen flow, disregard the patience of the less sensitive family seated at the table, and started in on this long-winded exposé on how each of the women before me gives me all that I’m thankful for. It was upon the conclusion of my verbose explanation on all my mother does for me, that she took this opportunity to tell of how she shares with every mother she encounters the story of, if it wasn’t for her, I might not be sitting with us today.
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From the checkout woman at Target, to her seamstress, to random women at the mall with strollers with which she feels inclined to approach and offer her unsolicited motherly wisdom. This is the woman who when discussing her children with new acquaintances, she, in what I suspect is her own personal crusade to convert everyone into an ally of the transgender cause one person at a time, shows them a photo of me looking glamorous at some recent event, and then, in a quick swipe with the statement, “she was my son,” shows them my photo from
From the checkout woman at Target, to her seamstress, to random women at the mall with strollers with which she feels inclined to approach and offer her unsolicited motherly wisdom. This is the woman who when discussing her children with new acquaintances, she, in what I suspect is her own personal crusade to convert everyone into an ally of the transgender cause one person at a time, shows them a photo of me looking glamorous at some recent event, and then, in a quick swipe with the statement, “she was my son,” shows them my photo from