I Give You A Name (& this is my blessing)
By: Aisling, Ash
Tags: Faithfullylgbt, Nonbinary, Latter Day Saints, Transgender

Lights shone down onto the concrete stage, music chirped to life, and all — except one — of the tutu-adorned toddlers began their ungraceful dance.

In full view of a captive audience of beaming adults, I plopped myself belly-down onto the floor. My little round face rested in my cupped hands as I kicked one leg and then the other, back and forth, and watched the rest of my class perform.

This non-conformity was no isolated incident. In kindergarten, I went through a phase of signing all my papers as “Robert.” (I don’t remember why; I don’t feel like a Robert.) Soon after, I fell in love with the idea of a character like Disney’s version of Mulan, who faced the role that had been chosen for her, and replied with every one of her actions: no thanks. And as a vainglorious adolescent, with a kind of pluck I seem to have since misplaced, I enlisted all my friends — and several long-suffering teachers — in referring to me, exclusively, as Platypus.

As I’m typing these anecdotes out, in my cobbled-together “working from home” area (which was formed under the threat of pandemic!), it’s easy to play office-chair psychologist. And I’m horrified to see now how much I didn’t know then. At the time, I could only perceive myself and my world as if through a mirror, darkly.

And that’s because I still had Something to meet.

•••

My siblings and I adored PBS shows, and one late afternoon when our cartoons rolled into the adult stuff, nobody felt motivated to go turn the TV off. So, the narrator of NOVA went on uninterrupted while explaining the science of sex — a word I still blushed to hear, even though in this context I knew it didn’t mean reproduction.

I should change the channel, I thought — this seemed like something I shouldn’t be watching.

But… I stalled.

Something lingered there with me, looking on in rapt and silent interest.

The program went on, detailing the lives of some people who were “transgender,” which apparently meant that they changed their bodies to try and be the other sex. To my young mind, they ended up… just looking somewhat off, like someone in a costume. And now, out of a fascinated revulsion, I couldn’t look away.

When Mom came in to say our screen time was up, I startled and tried to scramble for the remote — but she only frowned at the TV with genuine sympathy.

“Those people are confused,” she said sadly. (You had to be, right? To do something so drastic?)

But, luckily, transgender people are a rare anomaly.

And as I wandered out of the room, I reassured myself that I didn’t really need to stress over something so abstract and far away.

•••

At my 12th birthday party, in our family living room, the other kids all circled up around me. They chattered with excitement as I eagerly reached for the next gift. My fingers fumbled with the wrapping paper before revealing a small zippered bag.

“Oohh!” I grinned at its beachy vinyl print. “Super cute pencil pouch! Thank you.”

“It’s a PURSE,” corrected the gift-giver immediately, as if it should have been obvious. Maybe it was to everyone else.

Then she scoffed. “What kind of girl ARE you?”

Inside, I yelled. I’m not like you! I’m no good at being a girl, and I never will be! I don’t get it! I don’t know what’s wrong with me! I’m doing it wrong!! wrong, wrong, wrong, WRONG….!!

I set the purse down to the side, swallowed back my anger, and forced a smile before replying. “I’m just a weird one, I guess.”

The Something stirred and grumbled softly, but had nothing more to say.

•••

Seated on the floor of my brother’s room, I rolled his pocket knife idly in my palm. He and my parents had heard — many, many times — my thoughts on the matter. They’d seen my glower as he selected it off the shelf.

“Girls can have pocket knives too,” I muttered. “And I’m older! It’s not fair.”

As far as I could tell, no good reason kept us from copying the “cooler” boys’ activities, like knots and car repairs, and going on treks and hikes and campout adventures. To be fair, I did also enjoy learning to knead warm dough in our leader’s kitchen; cutting and pasting patterned paper shapes; and yes, even trying on outfits at Kohl’s for a cheesy “modesty fashion show.” I liked most of our activities, but I still wanted all of it. Not just the half I’d been shoved into, for… some reason.

It seemed as if everyone around me had a silent agreement about arbitrary Rules like this, and I hadn’t been informed or consulted.

Girls like clothes and scrapbooks, the Rules say. Boys like camping and hiking.

“And what about me?” I wanted to say. “I like all of it.”

But Rules are Rules. You are a “girl.” Your best friend is a “boy.” So everyone on the bus and playground — even your 6th grade teacher — will insist you’re “in love.” On Tuesday nights, your friend will be dragged to the other side of the church while you trail behind the Young Women like a dog with its tail tucked.

And, the Rules go on, when girls go to church, they dress up nice and Do Their Hair. They wear dresses and skirts — only those. Pants are not allowed.

No pants, and no matter how dapper you think they look, absolutely no bow ties.

That jolted me back to my senses. Mom had just told us something about one of our cousins going through a phase of exploration, and how disappointing it was that our aunt encouraged it — wearing ties and all.

“She’s confused,” Mom had said, shaking her head. “Heavenly Father made us a certain way…”

My fingers curled tightly around the pocket knife. The Something fluttered back to life in my chest, but all it could do was breathe heavily. We both knew Mom was right.

And yet… The world wouldn’t end if I put on a bow tie. But why was I the only one who wanted to? What was wrong with me?

All the girls around me seemed to excel at following the Rules. I only seemed to excel at laying on the stage when someone told me to perform.

•••

My splotchy-faced reflection glared at me when I glanced at the mirror, so I pouted elsewhere while Mom reached for another strand of my hair to style. She brought the steaming curling rod startlingly close to my neck, and I instinctively winced away.

Boys don’t have to do this. It hurts!! And it’s not, well, me. That… isn’t me.

A little wide-eyed, I peered into the mirror again. The makeup looked… objectively nice. And like Mom had pointed out, makeup is basically drawing and painting on your face, and I do love art!

But seeing it on my own face, framed by golden spirals of long hair, made my stomach lurch. It felt the same as hearing two discordant notes being played together. It looked like someone doing their best to masquerade as a pretty girl — but still, always, coming up just a little short.

The Something lifted its head and gave a low, long, mournful bellow.

I know, I agreed, softly, cringing at another curl being tugged.

It hurts.

•••

One weird thing about years is that they can seem to pass quicker than the days that comprise them. In a whirlwind of research papers and exams, falling in love while cleaning toilets, and a thunderstorm-maelstrom of an engagement, all at once I’d graduated with a degree in illustration, and one cute dork of a spouse. We’d even managed to make two little sprogs of our own, but as it turns out, raising young offspring is no easy feat.

Tearful and aimless after another grueling evening, I wandered into the front room. It welcomed me in with its dark expanse and deafening quiet — something that had become totally foreign, and starkly contrasted with our rowdy daytimes.

As usual, I couldn’t sleep. Even while my body slowed and begged for rest, my mind continued to spin and whirl.

Earlier that day, the Spouse and I had watched an episode of “Adam Ruins Everything,” in which a character named Rhea shows up to give Adam some playful sibling grief. The Something perked up as I realized, with delight, that I couldn’t tell if this was meant to be Adam’s… sister? Brother? Sister? …Sibling?!

A scramble over to IMDb showed that Rhea Butcher — who has since come out as nonbinary! — also did stand-up, as well as co-starring in a series with fellow comic (and wife!) Cameron Esposito. Another win for the queer-radar.

Some slice-of-life queer comedy/romance sounded like exactly the light and fluffy antidote my heart needed, so I hit ‘play’ on the first episode of “Take My Wife.” And soon enough, I couldn’t stop smiling.

The “me” of not so long ago could never have imagined choosing something like this, let alone finding so much solace in it. But six years of being on Tumblr, and the Internet at large, had gradually changed my perception and understanding of being queer. I’d been introduced to a vibrant community of individuals, far different from the shameful myths I’d accumulated over a lifetime. Part of me even began to identify along with them, when I discovered the term “asexual” sometime in the early ’10s (though that will have to wait for another essay).

I’d been the most wrong about trans people. The more I learned, the more I loved. I found myself coming back to a particular subreddit which documents transitions, and I’d beam over the before-and-after photo comparisons. You can’t help but cheer someone on when you see how their whole persona has brightened, with confidence and contentment glimmering in their eyes. It’s a blessing to witness someone blooming into the person they were always meant to become.

And… it also filled me with longing. I kept returning to these transition stories, the YouTubed journeys of people like Ash Hardell, and the Something would always be right there, whining and groaning because I so badly wanted that to be me.

If only.

•••

One spring afternoon, in a recliner in a chapel’s mothers’ lounge, I scrolled through Tumblr on my phone while my son nursed. A post about gender identities popped up on the screen, a few paragraphs about various experiences that I absolutely resonated with. Things I had felt for as long as I could remember, even before I had enough words or awareness to notice. And at long last, something — I almost physically felt it — clicked into place.

“I think I’m nonbinary,” I thought placidly, as I tapped to reblog the post. Then I looked up at the Something.

The Something stared, unblinking, back at me.

•••

My prayers have never felt right as a formal affair. The most meaningful discussion I’ve ever had with God happened in two words and a feeling, tucked into bed in a pitch-black hotel room. The air conditioner whirred like sacred droning, and with sudden insistence, Something in me coalesced to proclaim:

I’m trans!

A warmth of assurance spread through my entire figure, like sunlight spilling to fill a room. It felt good. And every time I think back on it, the same phrase comes to me: I know it, and I know God knows it, and I cannot deny it.

Then, just as quickly, a shadow crept into my gut.

“This must be a warning, right?” I asked the ceiling. “You’re only telling me this so clearly because I’m gonna need to really know it. Something’s going down tomorrow.”

With a frown, and then a small nod to myself, I burrowed under the covers and slipped into uneasy dreaming.

[ ⚠️ content note: the next section contains direct quotes from a conference address by Dallin H. Oaks. ]

All throughout the next morning’s session of general conference, I fidgeted atop the disheveled bedsheets — and not just because Elder Cook had dropped a bombshell about church services transitioning to a two-hour block. Every word buzzed right by me, as if the TV were broadcasting static instead of prophetic counsel.

The final speaker took his place. My stomach lurched.

As Elder Oaks’ face appeared on-screen, the Something charged into the room and bared its teeth.

“Gender is eternal,” Elder Oaks said directly to me, with his usual grim finality — like a judge delivering a sentence. “We all lived as male or female spirits in the presence of God.”

I desperately wished that static would save me now, but every sonorous statement (“ — suffer from self-inflicted spiritual blindness — ”) sent a shuddering shockwave through my skull (“ — put their eternal soul at risk“ — ) until I couldn’t tell which beat harder — the apostle’s declarations, or my own racing heart.

I need to run. I felt the flight instinct viscerally, and yet I couldn’t tear myself away, as if my nerves had stopped taking any advice from upstairs. And so I stared. And listened. And trembled.

The moment he finally stopped talking, I raced into the bathroom and collapsed, heaving, in front of the toilet. The cheery sounds of the Tabernacle Choir echoed distantly behind me.

But I’m trans! I thought, putting clammy hands to cold porcelain. You told me I’m nonbinary, and that felt so right and good. How can one of Your servants — one of Your prophets! — say otherwise?

No answer came. Beneath the ringing in my ears, I thought back to that instant of clarity, and realized I’d been given a choice. Which voice would I listen to — the one that made me feel like… this?

Still shaking, I met my own green-tinged gaze in the steely mirror.

Or, would I hold tight to that halcyon whisper in the eye of a hurricane?

•••

Through the courthouse’s large windows, muted sunlight pours over the floor. I breathe in deeply, and walk forward with purpose and a smile. My chest fills with a bright certainty and, looking down on the traffic flowing down a snowy State Street, I’m reminded of the early years when I called this city home.

This is for you, I think. Little me.

I’m also wearing a Doctor Who patterned bow tie, and I look pretty damn great.

A few minutes before the hearing is due to start, I enter the courtroom and take my seat quietly, still unsure of what to expect.

Firstly, I’d imagined someone austere, but the judge who enters the room — while he definitely has a commanding presence — speaks kindly, and with warmth. He asks us all to be seated, then asks if the name listed before him is the right one. I’m prepared to fight tooth and nail for it, but moments after my affirmation, His Honor is already signing his own name at the end of my petition.

The whole thing has taken maybe three minutes. I blink.

…That’s it?

The gentle judge congratulates me and leaves me alone with the court clerks, who finish their important-sounding typing and then direct me downstairs.

Downstairs, to get the official paperwork documenting my new name.

My name! The name that fits me, that I chose and I get to be called by. My parents aren’t with me — and it feels like they should be, though I hadn’t even told them this would happen — but as my chest expands with a joy I can’t contain, I know my Heavenly Parents are looking on, proudly.

“And you…!” Coming back out into the hallway, I stand before the Something that has been with me all these years. It quirks its head sideways.

“I name you too,” I say. “You were my shame and my fear. You wanted to keep me safe, so you followed me and questioned me — made me question — and I still made it this far. With you, and in spite of you.

“Somehow, though, you’ve become something else. You’ve matured right along with me. And now, I call you Resilience. The marker of where I started, but more importantly — proof of who I’m becoming. In those moments where I once felt shame, I’ll now choose delight. I choose bravery, admiration, and compassion. I choose to become myself, and the way that God wants me to be. I hear Their voice, and I act on it.”

I look down at the pages I hold, grinning.

“And the name by which I will be known is Ash Rowan.”