The Names My Transgender Child Wasn’t Called

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It was one of those scorching days that hints at summer; the kind that makes you forget what real heat feels like. In a couple of months, I’ll look back and think, Wow, I miss this! Much like a mom of a toddler who wishes for her child to start walking or talking, only to later reminisce about the easier days. It seems there’s always something to navigate.

The sounds of children playing drifted through the air—shouts, laughter, and the occasional shriek, filling our home with energy. It truly felt like summer.

“I am not! Be quiet!”

Then came the silence, followed by laughter that felt sharp and mocking. Instinctively, I knew this wouldn’t end well.

I heard the sound of feet hitting the pavement, the screen door slamming, and then muffled sobs.

“What’s going on?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady and calm.

“He called me fat.” The words landed heavily on the table, echoing the pain that only a 7-year-old can feel.

He called my child fat.

First, fury surged within me. Who does that? How dare they? Don’t they realize that calling someone fat is never okay? Then came the shame; memories flooded back of my own childhood. I remember the taunts—names like “Pammy Pumpkin Poop” and “Fatso.” Those words still linger, leaving scars that have affected my self-image.

I recalled the embarrassment of being chosen last for games, the groans of my peers when they saw me on the field. I could picture my younger self, excited about a Cheez Whiz sandwich, only to discover it was the punchline of a joke. The laughter rang in my ears, and I felt the heat of shame wash over me.

That same rage surged again, fierce and protective. No one should be allowed to make my child feel such shame.

Yet, anger is fleeting for me. I remember the disappointment in a friend’s eyes when I wore something that didn’t fit quite right. That feeling of inadequacy crept back, and now my beautiful, brave child was experiencing it too.

“You are not fat—you must know that,” I assured him, full of conviction. “It’s not right for anyone to say that.” He nodded, still hiding his face, but his sobs had quieted.

Then, unexpectedly, I felt a strange mix of emotions—was it joy? Relief?

He called my son fat. A typical schoolyard insult, akin to calling someone four-eyes or big-nosed. And yet, a thrill of happiness surged through me. This boy, my courageous child, had been called fat, and I felt a sense of gratitude. What was wrong with me?

My son was assigned female at birth and transitioned six months ago. I’ve been hyper-aware of every slight directed at him since. I’ve listened to stories of bullies and have worked tirelessly to prepare teachers and school officials to support him.

I’ve seen other parents pull their kids close when we walk by, fearful of their child asking questions or, worse, discovering they might be transgender too. I live in constant anxiety about being outed or making a mistake that could put my child in danger.

I’ve rushed him to the doctor too many times, only to be told everything was normal. I wanted something concrete, something we could address. I wanted to deal with the typical childhood insults rather than facing the deeper issues that could arise.

Nights have been spent worrying about the names my son might encounter as he grows up. I’ve wept at the thought that one day he won’t be able to run outside, passing as just another boy.

I dread the day when I can’t confront a bully who calls him fat—not because they’ll call him that, but because they’ll use far worse, more hateful words.

The names he wasn’t called filled me with a mix of joy and sorrow. He called my son fat, and that felt like a small victory.

Soon, we’d go outside and seek an apology. He would return to playing, as if nothing had happened. The sun would set, fireflies would dance in the evening light, and the day would end beautifully.

But for now, the names he avoided remained unspoken.