On Chicken Coops and Transgender Kids
By: Jane Adora Mitchell
Tags: Family, Coming Out, LGBTQ, Acceptance, Transgender

This is a letter I composed, printed and mailed to my estranged father. He and I haven’t spoken since I came out as a trans woman. I sent him this in an effort to break more than one year of silence between us. To date, I haven’t gotten a response from him and have been told he has refused to read it. I hope someone else finds it helpful, relatable or meaningful in some way.

Dad,

I built a chicken coop in the backyard. The city only allows us to have three chickens on a property our size, but I wanted to be able to accommodate more. We now have six growing chicks running around in their new coop and run. I installed a small wireless security camera and I’m watching them from on my phone on the porch of a cabin overlooking Bayou Pierre just outside Natchitoches right now. I check in on them several times a day; Izzi calls the live stream “Chicken TV.” I could watch them for hours and sometimes I do. They seem content pecking and scratching in the morning light.

We decided we wanted chickens sometime in late March. We’d been isolated in our home for a couple of weeks, and I’d just started recovering from a pretty nasty unidentified respiratory illness. We’re still unclear if we were infected with COVID-19, but everyone in our house had all the symptoms in mid-March. We hadn’t left the house in weeks, and we’d been getting all of our groceries delivered. It also may or may not be worth mentioning that we have been getting most of our groceries delivered for a few years now and when we went through a couple of orders without being able to get any eggs, the bakers (Rina and Mary Ellen) in our house were not pleased.

Our chicks are still a few weeks away from laying eggs and one of them might be a rooster. The experiences of building the coop and raising newly hatched chickens (hopefully) to adulthood have left me reflecting on a lot of things in my life, and I decided I’d like to make an effort to share some of my thoughts with you. So many of the things we learn about the world, from our family of origin and those who look after us as children, shape the way we process and make sense of our experiences. I know you’ve experienced this in ways that I cannot imagine, and I know I certainly have too. Sometimes people are able to assimilate new ideas, information and perspectives into their understanding of the world; other times, they’re not. I’ve met a number of reasonably intelligent, high-functioning people in the world today who refuse to believe that chickens will lay eggs in the absence of a rooster. Despite being told otherwise by people who know better, they continue to believe something they were taught as children — that hens need a rooster around to lay eggs.

The coop is about 7 feet tall on the eastern-facing roof. It’s about 4 feet by 4 feet. The hanging floor is about two feet off the ground. It has four removable nest boxes and plenty of space to perch. It has a total of 8 doors on three sides for accessing the coop. It also has panels at the bottom that pop out so that you can shovel the droppings and bedding that fall to the ground below. It’s attached to a 5-foot-by-9-foot run that is screened in on all sides. It has four panels at the top to keep the birds in and predators out. The run is 4 feet tall and gives the birds plenty of room to move around and is tall enough for me to duck under and go in if I need to without removing the top panels. I didn’t work from existing plans, but when I was designing it, I wanted to make it as modular as possible so that I could access it for cleaning and maintenance. I’ve been pleased with the way it’s turned out.

I’ve described the coop in this level of detail for a couple of reasons. First, I thought it might be interesting to you. I remember us having chickens for a bit when I was a kid, and you didn’t seem to hate it. I remember the coop and run you built for them out of a large wooden shipping crate and other salvaged materials. I also know you’re a handy person and always seemed interested in any carpentry and outdoor projects. The second reason is that I’d like you to get some understanding of the scale of this project. I put eight 4x4s in the ground with concrete around them — four for the coop and four for the run. I used almost three whole sheets of ½ inch treated plywood. I used about 100 combined feet of chicken wire, turkey wire, welded wire and hardware wire. I went through more than 1,200 staples, countless screws, dozens of hinges, knobs, pulls, and latches, and I spent more money on treated lumber than I’m willing to admit to Mary Ellen (or even myself). I’ve built a chicken fortress.

I could spend a lot more time writing about my new hobby and how passionate I am about these six dumb birds, but as you’ve likely suspected, that’s not really why I’m writing this letter. One thing I’d like you to know is that in building that chicken fortress (mostly by myself but with the help of a few dear friends and Rina), I spent a lot of time thinking about you. This isn’t unusual for me, but this experience has helped me become aware of just how prevalent you are in my thoughts and really in everything I do.

It’s impossible for me to use a circular saw, drill or screwdriver without thinking of you. I felt like you were there with me every time I got in that old work truck I recently got rid of. The interior always smelled like sweat and grease, and I thought about riding in trucks you drove to work every time I was in it. I didn’t get rid of it because of you, by the way. It belongs to a friend now, and he still lets me borrow it when I need to pick up lumber, concrete or anything else I can’t fit in the Nissan.

I was only able to build this silly chicken coop because of things I learned from you. Things I learned while watching and working alongside you on projects around the house growing up. I’m completely aware that most of these projects were things you were doing for Krista and me just because you wanted to and because you wanted us to have things you didn’t have growing up. You built us forts and treehouses, toys, games, weapons, shelters for our pets, and even a house inside an old abandoned school bus. I grew up in awe of you and all you knew how to do. I wanted to be like you and spent much of my life trying to.

Sometime while I was building that coop, I realized I was talking to you. I haven’t gone crazy; I’m aware that I was really talking to myself. And I wasn’t talking at all, only in my head. My thoughts were about explaining to you what I was doing. I was essentially discussing with you how I’d planned on building the coop and why I was making specific decisions with its design and explaining the order of processes I would be using in its construction. This is admittedly a strange thing to talk about. I don’t know that people usually admit they have pretend conversations with other people, but that’s what I’m doing.

This is something I’ve done all my life, and in the year since I’ve last spoken with you, I’ve had just as many pretend conversations as I ever did. I’d never thought about why. I’ve never really suspected it’s all that unusual. I think the only real breakthrough here was that these fake chats with you are something I’ve done for as long as I remember.

I have memories of doing it at all phases of my life when I was a child, teen, young adult and right up to this moment. You’re not the only person I have these imaginary conversations with, but for some goddamn reason, you’re my default. You’re the person I talked to when I was trying to explain this new concept I’d just learned about in Anatomy & Physiology in college as I walked into the classroom on test day. You’re the person I explained why I thought there was a problem with a client’s financials before I was able to have that conversation with my boss. You were there to talk me through both mundane and extraordinary times. You’ve always been there, and now that I recognize that, I have to ask myself, “why?”

It’s more than just remembering the interactions that I’ve had with you and building off of them. Yes, the core of my understanding of so many things I do every day is rooted in things I’ve learned from you, either directly or indirectly. I can’t pick up a drill and not think of building cabinets for the bus with you when I was 16, but I also have you there with me when I’m trying to think of a creative way to incorporate a discussion of Judith Butler’s ideas on the performative nature of gender into a presentation I’m giving. You’d think I’d have no reason to have an internal dialogue on exotic derivatives, feminist theory, eyeshadow trends, or any of the other things that I’ve been interested in over the years with a representation of you (a person I have no reason to believe would at all be interested in these topics) conjured up in my mind, and yet here we are.

And there I was, in my backyard feeling like I needed to sit down after having just been struck with the realization that I’ve literally spent my whole life trying to explain myself to you. Trying to explain my experience and even my existence to you. That for whatever reason, I’ve needed to hear your voice and imagine your face whenever I integrate new ideas and concepts into my brain. If I hadn’t gone this last year without you in my life, I wonder if I’d ever have made this realization.

I’m still working on figuring out why, but I have some thoughts. One thought is that I’ve always wanted to please you. I don’t even know if you’re aware of that, but it’s a thing that dawned on me well before this latest realization. The most painful memories in my early life center around thinking I’d disappointed you. On more than one occasion, I know that I had, in fact, disappointed you, and I’ve spent a lot of time dwelling on those incidents.

This need to please you hasn’t always been a bad thing. During many times in my life, it’s served me well. After all, you’re not a bad person. You taught me values and principles that I stand by to this day, and earlier in my life, my aversion to displeasing you was more than enough to keep me aligned with those values.

I can’t say that I spent every moment of my life worrying about what you’d think, and I certainly made decisions that I was sure you wouldn’t approve of. Know that, but also understand that doing that came with a certain amount of guilt. That guilt accumulated over time and turned into shame. There are more than a few things I’m ashamed of, but the person I’ve grown to be understands that some of the guilt and shame that I’ve carried around for years is misplaced.

Before I go further, I want you to know why I’m writing this letter. I’ve already mentioned it’s not to talk about the chicken coop and because I wanted you to know I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about you lately. And as I’ve revealed in the last few paragraphs, I’ve always spent a lot of time thinking about you. But I’m writing this for a few reasons.

One is because I want to get it out and move on. I want to say what I need to say to you, and I hope that you will read it and think about it, but I can’t control that part. I expect the act of me getting it out of my brain and typing it out will feel like a weight has been lifted, so even if you never read this, or never mention reading it, or never even acknowledge my existence again, I will still have gotten it out. I’ll also know that I’ve at least made an effort to convey my thoughts and feelings to you.

Another is because I still think of you as a parent who loves his children. I can empathize with unconditional love for my children, even though I haven’t had the experience of seeing them grow up. I’d want to know how my children are. I’d want to know how their life was going and that they were safe and healthy even when I couldn’t be there with them, even when they were adults. Even if they grew up to be people who do things I don’t understand or approve of. I’d still want to know.

I’ve titled the file on my computer where I’m saving this document “Dad Closure Letter,” but it doesn’t have to be the end. I’m prepared for this to be the last communication I ever have with you, but I sure hope that isn’t the case. In thinking of it that way, there are a few more things I’d like you to know.

When I was 16, I watched the World Trade Center burn and collapse on a projection screen at a special emergency assembly at LSMSA. I’ll never forget seeing those images for the first time, even though I wasn’t able to process what was going on that morning because the world had already stopped for me a few days before when I found out about your heart attack. I remember at 16 feeling like I needed to be closer to you because I didn’t feel like I knew you at all, and I didn’t want to lose you without ever feeling like I knew you.

I’m 35 now, and I don’t feel like I know you any better today, but at least I know I’ve made an effort to. And maybe this letter is my last, exasperated effort to do so. Maybe by opening up to you, I hope that you’ll in some way open up to me before it’s too late. I’m not optimistic this is going to happen, but if nothing else, maybe I’ll get a “Happy Birthday” text next year or something. I’d settle for that right now.

I spent most of my life hiding who I really am for a number of reasons. Safety and social stigmatization are clearly concerns for people like me. I didn’t understand who I was when I was a kid, but I understood that I was supposed to grow up to be a man. I wanted to grow up to be like the man I admired most. The person I think about every time I see Mary Ellen or one of the kids leave the front door open. The person I know would say they’re “letting the bugs in,” and the person I hear in myself when I tell them the same.

I’ve spent my whole life thinking about the ways we’re alike and the ways we’re different. I can’t help but notice how my attitudes towards things have shifted to be more like I remember yours being. I’m eager to go home after a little time away from the house. A sound I make when I clear my throat sounds exactly like the sound you make, and I think about it every time. When I’m angry, I hear your angry voice expressing my own thoughts. Even though I don’t feel like I know you at all, I do think you’re predictable.

I managed to make it to 30 before everything fell apart for me. I had a great job, an amazing wife and stepdaughter, an adorable home, and a beautiful new daughter. Realizing I couldn’t keep up the lie anymore, but that telling people who I really am might put my beautiful life in jeopardy felt like a prison. I was miserable, and I couldn’t talk about why.

I’m really thankful for Mary Ellen. She’s the most amazing partner I could ever ask for, and I’m forever grateful to her for helping me break out of that prison. I can’t imagine ever having the ability to tell someone other than her who I really am for the first time. She was the perfect person for it, and after years of her watching me suffer, I finally told her that thing I’d known about myself since at least preschool but never been able to talk about. And thank Goddess I did! My life is so much richer and happier than it’s ever been, and I’m so much more comfortable with myself and within the most important relationships in my life. Every moment now is better than any moment before. My biggest regret in life is not being myself sooner. I understand that within the context of my life and the world around me, I would not have the same experience I’m having now if I’d come out sooner. Because people’s general understanding and acceptance of queer people like me wasn’t nearly as favorable as it is today, I would have likely experienced some shitty, painful, and traumatic moments, but I still think I would have benefited from breaking out of that prison sooner.

As hard as it was to come out to my wife and the person I love most, I knew that the hardest part in all of this would be facing how you reacted to this information. I predicted that you would have a hard time accepting that you have a transgender kid. I expected you to be in denial about it, and I expected avoidance and silence. I once told my therapist that I expected you might “literally die mad about it.” I also expected that you’d keep loving me because I believed you when you told me you’d love me no matter what as a kid. I still believe that now. I’ve experienced unconditional love for both my parents and my children in this lifetime, and I have no doubt that you have too.

What I wasn’t prepared for was not having you be a part of your grandkids’ lives. I wouldn’t have put that on my transition bingo card. I’m hoping that’s not going to be a permanent thing. Both of my girls miss you. Mary Ellen misses you, too.

I also wasn’t prepared for having to unpack why it was so important to me that I consistently spent 30 years sacrificing my happiness and wellbeing so as not to disappoint or make you uncomfortable. I wasn’t prepared for realizing that every decision in my life is tied to how I’d explain it to you. I wasn’t prepared to know that the voice that has been guiding my thoughts and narrating as I read or mentally rehearse what I’m going to say to someone for as long as I can remember is your voice. It’s me thinking about what you’d say and how you’d say it. It’s me constantly questioning whether or not I’m good enough for you.

I wasn’t prepared to learn that every serious relationship I’ve ever had was based around me trying in vain to please someone the way I’ve wanted to please you. I wasn’t prepared to know that my insecurities in those relationships stemmed from feeling vulnerable and like I was never good enough or doing enough for them either. I wasn’t prepared to learn that my attraction to the people I had those relationships with was largely based on my preference for people who guarded their feelings carefully and were as mysterious and emotionally distant as you. I never felt like I could please them, and I’ve never felt like I’ve been able to please you. I’ve never felt like I was enough the way I am, but that’s something I’m working on these days.

Last week when I was painting the coop, I thought about you. If you’ve been paying attention, this shouldn’t be surprising. I had been dreading painting for weeks because I hate painting. Rina painted a good bit of it, but then she got hot and moody and argumentative and didn’t finish. Someone once told me we get the children we deserve. I finally decided to paint what I had left alone because it made more sense to paint before putting on the remaining hardware.

While I was painting a piece of plywood that would be used for the roof, I was thinking about a conversation I had with you and John when I was a kid. Y’all were talking about painting one of the rooms of our house. I said something about it sounding like fun, and you told John and me how much you hated painting. I had been focused on painting for well over an hour and was noticing how tedious it was. I kept having to go back and cover the areas I missed and fix mistakes. I needed precise movements, patience and close attention to details. I was having a great time. I found it cathartic and soothing. It was satisfying seeing every bit of wood covered in paint. I don’t hate painting, you do. I like painting. What else have I convinced myself of in order to be like or please you?

I hope you’re also able to break out of whatever prison you’re locked away in. In breaking out of my prison, I wasn’t prepared to lose you. I don’t mean lose you in the sense that I’ve lost contact with you or that our relationship has become distant and strained. I mean that I’m having to lose you in the sense that I have to unbundle so much of who I am from my understanding and who you’d want me to be. My concept of self is so intrinsically tied to living up to your expectations that I’m having to start from scratch in figuring out who I really am. As scary as this has been, I’m now OK with it, and I’m excited about where being myself will take me next. The freedom and peace I’ve already found have made me ready to continue with the challenge of finding my own voice. I’ve already learned a lot about the real me. I’m hoping one day you’ll get to learn who I really am, too.

With all my love,

Jane