My father and I found ourselves at Starbucks approximately a year after his Alzheimer’s diagnosis. With a critical gaze, he scanned me up and down before turning to the barista and saying, “This young – ahem – man will have a latte.” His words took me by surprise, as I had always been his daughter up until that point.
Admittedly, I was never a conventional daughter. Throughout my childhood, I embraced a tomboy persona, reminiscent of what Larry David would later term “pre-gay.” My short, messy hair and affinity for my older brother’s hand-me-downs often led people to mistake me for his younger brother.
Even as an adult, I continued to be mistaken for a cisgender man. Being referred to as “sir” on numerous occasions never bothered me. In fact, I took pride in being perceived as male, long before undergoing top surgery and starting a low-dose testosterone regimen.
It became increasingly clear that my father’s reference to me as a young man was no joke. From that point on, he predominantly used “he/him” pronouns when talking about me and even began addressing me and my brother collectively as his sons.
Although his memory loss made him forget who I truly was, there was an element of affirmation in his recognition of my gender. It was as if he saw me with fresh eyes each time, truly understanding and acknowledging my identity. Paradoxically, I felt truly seen.
The truth is, I have always felt seen by my father, Teddy. Family folklore holds that he believed I was a boy from the moment I was born. As he held me, all 10 pounds of me, he immediately thought, “Our little football player!” and proclaimed to everyone in the room, “It’s a boy!” (The doctor quickly corrected him.)
Sure, his assumption that a robust baby must be male may have been a bit outdated, but I like to think he sensed my transmasculine essence from the very beginning.
In my early years, my father and I were inseparable. Like him, and unlike my brother, I was a sports enthusiast. We spent countless hours playing catch in the park, and he would drive me to all my various games. When I decided to join the neighborhood boys’ hockey league at the age of 7, he wholeheartedly supported me. As a judge, he would even adjourn court early to ensure I made it to my game on time.
He never hesitated to buy me “boys’ toys” like Transformers, and he fully embraced my penchant for ripped jeans and T-shirts. While my parents were progressive, it’s worth noting that raising a gender-nonconforming child in the 1980s posed unique challenges. Nonetheless, they did an admirable job of allowing me to embrace my true identity. And while my father initially felt apprehensive when I came out as gay at 19, I always felt supported by him. When I introduced him to my girlfriend, all he asked was, “What’s her name?”
Losing my father to Alzheimer’s during his late 70s and early 80s has been a series of painful episodes. Witnessing him gradually lose his ability to engage in the activities he loved, such as biking, tennis, driving, and traveling with his partner, Barbara, while striving to make sense of a world growing unfamiliar, has been deeply heart-wrenching. Yet amidst the pain, there is one glimmer of hope – his unwavering recognition of me as his son.
Introducing “they/them” pronouns three years ago was an adjustment for some friends and family members, but not for my father. Perhaps we bypassed the complexities of the genderqueer spectrum, but his Alzheimer’s-induced acceptance of my increasingly masculine presence was resolute. He effortlessly adapted to phrases like “He this -” and “He that -,” seemingly unperturbed.
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