Buried Alive: Digging Up My Gender Identity
By: Nia Chiaramonte
Tags: LGBTQ, Gender Identity, Family, Self Love, Transgender

Buried Alive: Digging Up My Gender Identity

I found myself a long time ago. I’ve known myself since I was young; I just kept putting her somewhere safe — while others tried to bury her. Nia Chiaramonte Follow Oct 18, 2020 · 5 min read

Photo by Michael Dziedzic on Unsplash

I have lost myself.

I thought, after finding myself through many years of self-work and self-love, it would be harder to lose myself — but I was wrong.

I have lost me. I came out as a transgender woman to my family two years ago this week. Firm in my knowing. Firm enough to tell my family who I am. I was confident. I had found myself and it was real. Two years ago, I told my family that they don’t see the real me; that what they saw on the outside was a mask that I was putting on to please others.

They didn’t understand. They still don’t. They were loving at first, telling me that nothing I could do would ever break their love for me. But then I asked them to call me by my name. Not a name they think I should go by, but my name, Nia.

First there was my sister. The last conversation we had ended with her telling me how sinful I was, how she hoped I would turn my life around, if not for myself then at least for the sake of my children. How she loved me, but “wouldn’t be moving forward in life with Nia.” The one and only time she ever used my name. That was almost 2 years ago. We haven’t spoken since.

Then my dad found out about my new name, thanks to some extended family social media snooping. We were meeting for just the second time in a year since I had come out, and the first thing out of his mouth wasn’t “I love you,” or even “how are you.” No, instead he said, “Who is Nia?”

I responded with a simple, “That’s me. I am Nia.” He said, “No you’re not, that’s not the name I gave you,” and then told me how I was insulting the family by changing my name. I still hadn’t even asked him to use my new name at that point, but no matter, he was telling me he wouldn’t. That was 2 years ago, and we’ve talked through email only twice since then.

He still won’t call me by my name.

Then there was my mom. A child and their mom are supposed to be bonded for life. A mom is supposed to love though all things. I’ve had four real conversations with my mom since I came out. The first one, the day after I came out. She came to my work first thing in the morning, asked me to get into her car, and drove me off of my work site to another building to tell me how much I was betraying her and God.

The second conversation she cornered me in the hospital. I was there because my middle child had the croup and had to be hospitalized overnight. My mom came to the room and talked at me for almost an hour about how wrong I was, how I was hurting my family, how I was hurting her family, and how much I was betraying God.

After that, I asked her not to talk about God with me anymore, and also to call me by my name, Nia. The next conversation we had, she told me she would never call me by my name, and she would take it to her grave.

It hurt. A lot.

The last conversation I had with her, she cornered me and a colleague at the airport, where she proceeded to deadname me and tell me she “loved me.”

Over time, these statements and many others by extended family, former friends, church members and leaders started to bury me. That confident me who came out, knowing who I was, started to become muted by statements like You’re going to hell for all of eternity, and You are leading so many people astray with your lifestyle.

Or, I’m not even going to tell you how much this hurts me (but I’ll tell you anyway).

“You are a terrible human being.”

“We can’t be friends anymore.”

“I wish it was how it used to be.”

“You used to be so handsome.”

“Why are you taking (Deadname) away from us?”

“You’ll never be a real woman.”

There were so many affirming voices, too. In fact, many more affirming voices than those like my family. But it didn’t matter. Hurtful words like these ring longer and louder than any other.

And in the midst of a global pandemic, where thoughts rattle around like a ping pong ball inside of a steel drum, the hurtful comments win out.

Honestly, looking back, and even now, I think my family truly believes they still love me. Or at least they love the person they thought I was on the outside. To me, it never did (and still doesn’t) feel like love.

Fortunately though, just writing this down makes me realize, I didn’t lose me. Yet, others have tried to bury me. Over and over again. But the thing about finding yourself in this way is that you never really forget it. You know the feeling of freedom that comes with telling people who you are. Your knowing is so strong, that even buried in other people’s shit, it gives off a resonance for only you to find your way back to it.

In fact, I have realized that I found myself a long time ago. I have known myself since I was young. I just kept putting her somewhere safe, sometimes people dumping their shit on her, but always coming back to her, over and over.

When I finally had the courage to dig her all the way out and realize that she and I are the same, I was free.

I now realize that I will never lose her again. And though people may try to bury me with their own emotional garbage, or their own lack of self-love and acceptance. or their view of God, they can’t. I will always know where I am, because I am me.

I have found Nia, and I am free.